Igniting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 5)

“I think less of me for it,” he mumbles.

“That is because you are a turnip brain. Besides, you cannot tell me the d’Albret blood holds no influence over me, yet also claim your father’s blood holds sway over you.”

He moves swiftly, rising up on his elbow and towering over me. “Have you forgotten the battle lust? The savageness that comes over me?”

“How can I forget that which has saved countless lives, yours and mine included, countless times?”

He closes his eyes, as if steeling himself against the comfort I offer. “It is just as savage as he is.”

“No. It is a gift—however much a cursed one—from your saint. His is born of his own brutality and crudeness. Yours is something that comes over you when your saint bids you act. They are entirely different things, Beast.”

His arms tighten almost painfully around me, sending a faint whoosh of air from my lungs. He eases his hold, but does not let go of me.

Chapter 44

Genevieve

It is easy enough to slip away. Even with three hundred nobles, church officers, and foreign dignitaries standing between me and the door that leads out of the grand salon where the coronation ball is being held. When I am certain both the king and regent cannot see me, I allow the ebb and flow of the crowd to carry me toward the exit, no different than a small boat bobbing on a turbulent sea.

Along with granting me his permission to roam the palace grounds, the king bid me to enjoy tonight’s ball as well. While he has made my meeting with Maraud easier by granting such freedoms, I am certain that was not his intent. If he learns of it, it could set everything back.

So I will make certain he does not learn of it.

The sentries at the door barely notice me. They are not posted to keep anyone inside, nor out, for that matter. They are merely part of the pomp of the occasion.

The hallways and galleries are lit only by torches, which provide enough shadows for me to cling to in order to disguise my passage through the sparsely populated galleries and corridors. When I reach the ground floor, I clutch the shadows more firmly, then step outside into the night.

I hurry past the armory to the blacksmith’s shop on the far side of it, every nerve in my body ajumble. I am both hot and cold, excited and terrified. I do not allow myself to think of how my carefully built trust with the king will crumble if he learns of our meeting, and focus instead on the debt I owe Maraud.

But of course, that debt is not the only reason.

I wish to see him with my own eyes. To know that he is unharmed. That he is the same as when I left him. And I am hungry to know why he thinks of me often.

I know why he should think of me often—to curse my name to the heavens. But the nature of Valine’s words did not suggest that was the case.

Hope wriggles in my chest, a frail young chick trying to break free of its egg.

We danced well together, whether in a mummer’s parade, a daring escape, a lover’s embrace, or a sparring match. Looking back, without my fears clawing at my throat, I cannot help but wonder how things might be different at court if I had allowed him to help me.

If I had allowed myself to trust him. My hand reaches up to ensure the dangling silver chain of my necklace is completely concealed in the back of my gown. Of a certainty, it would have been better than the current mess I’ve made of everything.

Chapter 45

Maraud

Maraud had no trouble slipping into the palace grounds. All of Paris was out tonight celebrating the new queen, and crowds of people milled everywhere. There were even a few stalls—wine sellers mostly—set up, calling out their wares. Now, that would have made a fine disguise, he thought, tugging his leather jerkin into place. He’d come dressed as a tradesman—a stonemason—carrying the chain from his old mummer’s costume on his belt as an excuse to visit the smithy. And if that didn’t work, one of the heavy hammers or sharp chisels in his belt would.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a brief flicker in the shadows, then the flash of a jewel-toned gown before it disappeared into the smithy. Something lurking near his heart unclenched. She came.

The smithy was deserted, the fire banked low for the night. At first look, it appeared empty, until he stepped fully inside. She was there, toward the back.

He’d thought, once he saw her again, that he’d want to wrap his hands around her lovely neck and wring it until she felt just how angry he’d been. How betrayed he felt. How much frustration had consumed him.

He must have made some noise, for she whirled around, and their eyes met, and all he wanted to do was to touch her. To cup her cheek in his hand and rub his fingers on the skin that he knew was as delicate as a flower petal.

She looked away first, down at the chain in his hands. Her eyes widened, and her mouth twisted. “Well, you’ve not strangled me with it, so I guess that’s something.”

She’d grown thinner, he realized, the line of her jaw sharper, her eyes larger. She was also dressed in the fine silks and elaborate jewelry befitting a lady of the royal household. A deep spike of loss jabbed at him. He missed the rough-and-tumble, earthy Lucinda. Her eyes had seemed more alive, her face more vibrant then.

“Considering you haven’t gone for your poisoned needles, I feel safe keeping my weapon sheathed.”

Her cheeks pinkened slightly at his unintended double entendre, and oh-so-briefly, it was the old Lucinda standing before him.

“I’ve missed that about you.” Her dark honey voice was exactly how he’d remembered it. “Your ability to turn everything into a jest.”

His looby of a heart wanted to soar out of his chest. She’d missed him. “And here I thought it was one of my most annoying habits.”

She frowned slightly, as if puzzled. “It was.”

He wanted to place his thumb right there—on the faint crease between her brows—and smooth it away. He wanted to touch her so badly that he clenched his hands to tamp down the urge.

Her eyes darted briefly to his hands, then back to his face. “You are angry still,” she said softly.

“No.” Was he ever angry? At her? Or simply himself? “You’ve grown thin.”

She gave an impatient shake of her head. “It is only the shadows.” But he’d seen her in the bright light of full day, and she still looked thin. He should look away, it was probably rude staring at her so, but he could not get his fill. Before he could stop himself, he closed the distance between them. “Lucinda.” It came out as a whisper.

She looked up at him, her eyes shining with what he would swear were tears. His hands clenched again with the need to touch her. To wipe away the sadness on her face.

“My name is Genevieve.” It was nothing. A name. But it was everything. She was trusting him with her name.

He shouldn’t touch her. It would be wrong to answer that trust by touching her, but his body didn’t care about such rules of engagement. He placed one finger on her full lower lip, felt the faint trembling. When she did not pull away, he brought his other hand up and gently brushed a stray hair from her cheek. Smooth and flawless, just as he’d remembered. She drew in a ragged breath. Or maybe it was his own ragged breath. “Genevieve.”

Her gaze grew dark, and she drew another trembling breath before leaning—ever so lightly—into his touch.

Inside him, need tried to claw its way out, but he ignored it. Instead, he cupped her face, relishing the shape of her jaw against his palm, the feather-light touch of her cheeks against his fingertips.

“It is not too late,” he whispered. “If

something is wrong, I can still help.”

Her eyes flew open, wide with wonder and disbelief, and for a moment, he feared she would unravel before him.

Chapter 46

Genevieve

With the force of an ax coming down on a rope, I am undone. My remorse is like a boulder barreling downhill, flattening everything in its path. Every twig gives way in resistance, every blade of grass is crushed beneath the onslaught. He is, once again that voice in the dark, wholly understanding, withholding all judgment. It is too much. It is far more than I have earned, and yet I am helpless before it. I want to lean into the comfort he is offering. To accept the grace he is extending. And even though a small part of my heart knows he could be setting some ghastly trap for revenge, I decide I do not care. Not if—for these few moments—I am able to believe that he is so large-hearted.

And so I let myself believe his words. Believe him. And if they or him are false, it is no more than the debt he is owed.

“I’m sorry I did not trust you before,” I tell him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job of earning your trust.”

I shake my head. “You did, though. All the times you could have overpowered me and didn’t.”

“But the time I did overpower you overshadowed that. You didn’t know me. I had given you only the barest scraps of the truth you had asked for. Saints! You had only my word that I was not imprisoned for the wanton murder of innocent people.

“You were alone, venturing into a dungeon cell, with few weapons at hand. Which”—he gives my shoulders a little shake—“you should never do again. Why should you have trusted me?”