Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin 3)

“No.” He sounds vaguely outraged. “I had business nearby.”

I cannot decide if my heart quickens with joy or apprehension. “You followed me.”

“I do not follow; I hunt.”

The sound of his voice is closer, but as I listen for the rustle of his boots upon the forest floor or the crunch of a twig under his boot heel, there is nothing. The man moves as quietly as a wraith, with no clank of weapon or creak of armor to help me pinpoint his location.

It is hard to pretend to keep my eyes focused on him when he moves so quietly, but I do not wish him to know that I am blind. I feel foolish and silly and would rather keep this secret from him. “I do not understand you. Sometimes I cannot tell if you hate me or wish to devour me.”

“Both,” he whispers, and I can feel the heat of him draw closer.

I open my mouth to tell him he is standing too close, but instead I find myself saying, “I am glad you are here.”

He grasps my arms with his hands—hard—and pulls me even closer so that our bodies touch and I can feel the swish of my skirts as they tangle around his legs.

“What spell have you cast over me that I have no choice but to gallop after you across the countryside like some lovesick hound?”

My heart tumbles excitedly at his words. “I thought you said you were not hunting me?”

“Hunting. Following.” Disgust at himself is thick in his voice. “Either way, I will have none of it.” He gives me a little shake with each word, as if he can throw off the hold he claims that I have over him. And then, without any warning at all, he presses his lips against mine.

As his mouth covers my own, I find myself reeling, as if I have been tipped backward and am falling, falling, so that even the stars in the sky are spinning. His lips are warm and soft, the unrelenting pull of his desire for me as strong as the pull of the waves against the sand.

It is not like practicing with Ismae, or even Sybella. It is not like any of the first kisses I have imagined over the years. It is far, far better and more wondrous, and yet terrifying as well, like one of the raging storms that pound against the convent walls in the winter, threatening to breach its defenses. So too does this kiss threaten something deep within me that I cannot even name.

Then, just as suddenly, he sets me away from him, leaving the entire front of my body cold and bereft and wanting more. There is a faint rustle of his cloak as he steps back from me. I long to put my fingers to my lips. To see if they feel as different on the outside as I do on the inside. Then I remember who—and what—he is. “Will you pay for that?” I ask, recalling the hellequin and their talk of the price of temptation.

“You would charge me for a kiss?”

I long to reach out and smack him—but I would have to be able to see him first. Instead, I turn toward the faint heat of the dying fire and hold my hands out over it. “No, you dolt. I was worried that giving in to temptation would extend your penance.”

There is a moment of silence before he finally speaks. “I follow you for twelve leagues, accost you in the dead of night, and you are worried about my penance?”

I sniff. “You did not accost me; I let you kiss me, make no mistake.”

For some reason, I feel certain that he smiles, although I cannot hear such a thing. I wonder briefly if it is quick and sharp or slow and easy. “Thank you for that clarification, my lady.”

His eyes linger on me—I can feel it just as surely as I could his touch mere moments ago—and I wish to hide myself from them. But any move I make would give away my situation.

“What is wrong with you?” he asks softly.

“Nothing.” I turn my back to him then, not caring how childish it might seem.

“But there is. Come here.” He reaches out and snags my chin with his fingers, and he gently pulls my face back around. I look up at where I desperately hope his eyes are.

“You are blind.”

It is all I can do to keep from reaching up and feeling my face. “How can you tell? Are my eyes scarred?” I ask, dreading the answer.

“No, they are fine.” The warmth and softness in his voice sends a shiver down my spine.

He leans in and I expect a kiss, but instead, he sniffs. Then sniffs again. Just when I think he will sniff a third time, he leans down and captures my lips again in an all too brief kiss. “Tell me.”

And so I do. Leaving out the part about the Tears being stolen.

As I tell my tale, I realize he listens to me in a way that few others do. I can feel him listening, and I fear he hears things I do not even know I am saying.

When I am done, he does not speak for a long while. The night is so quiet I imagine I can hear the stars passing across the sky. “Were you so very hungry to experience the world as Mortain does?” he finally asks.

And even though I fear it will hurt him, I cannot lie. “Yes.”

There is the whisper of thick wool as he shifts, and I feel his hand take mine, the cool leather of his glove smooth against my palm. “Most in your situation would simply give up, turn back.” He tugs gently on my hand, and there is a faint rustle of leaves as he sits down on the forest floor.

Since he will not release my hand, I lower myself to the ground. “I have always been willful and stubborn. It is one of my greatest sins.”

“But is it a sin? If it allows you to survive? Endure? Prevail?”

I am absurdly warmed by his words. So he will not see this, I snort derisively. “I do not know that this”—I gesture to my blind self sitting in my camp in the middle of nowhere—“qualifies as prevailing.”

He kisses my brow, and for some reason it makes me want to weep.

“For now, tonight, it is prevailing. We do not know what tomorrow will bring, but that is always the case, is it not?” He puts his arm around me and draws me against his chest.

I hold very still. “Are you going to seduce me?” I ask, although in truth, it would not be much of a seduction, as I need little convincing.

He leans in and rubs his cheek against my hair. “Would you like me to?”

Yes, I think, but do not—quite—manage to say.

He plants a kiss behind my ear, then sighs. “Alas, no.” I hear the smile in his voice. “Not when you must spend the entire day tomorrow on horseback. I am not that selfish. Not quite.”

When the full meaning of his words sink in, I blush so furiously I give off more heat than the fire, and Balthazaar laughs. Because it is only the second time I have ever heard him do so, I do not even mind—much—that it was at my expense.

“Sleep,” he whispers softly. “I will watch over you till morning, and then we can decide what to do.”

We. Not you, but we. I know I should resent that he presumes so much, but instead, I hold it close, like a promise.

“Be safe, my love,” a voice murmurs. Then I feel the press of cool lips upon my eyelids.

At the shock of his touch, I wrench my eyes open. The sun is just beginning to shine through the trees, and I swear that I can still feel the hellequin’s body against my own, the bite of the chain mail he wears sharp against my back. But when I turn to look at him, he is gone.

That is when I realize I can see. Relief surges through me, so overpowering that I am nearly dizzy with it.

In the distance, I hear the sound of galloping hooves. When I look up, I see that he has left. Confusion and hurt swell up inside, tightening my throat.

No. I will not feel any of those things for him. I will not let myself get waylaid by emotions. Not for him or for the abbess. My god’s will is my sole purpose right now. And I’m embarrassed that Balthazaar could make me forget that. I have an assignment. An assignment my very future hangs on, and I will not let Balthazaar cloud my mind.

It occurs to me that he too could have been a test, sent by Mortain. I reach down and begin collecting my bedroll. If he was, then I am getting heartily sick of these tests. If Mortain does not understand my dedication by now, then surely there is nothing more I can do t

hat will prove it to Him.

Chapter Thirty-Three

ALONE, I APPROACH THE GATE to Guérande, the looming height of the two towers on either side of it making me feel small and insignificant. The guard manning the gate eyes me as I pass, and I take a coin from my purse and toss it to him. “Which is the best inn for the night?” I ask.

“The Hammer and Cross, if they’re not full up.”

I glance around to the nearly empty streets. “Would they be?”

He shakes his head. “Few enough travelers right now. There should be rooms available.”