Igniting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 5)

Valine turns her face to mine, all the amusement and humor gone. “And you, Lucinda? How are you faring?” Her genuine concern unnerves me.

I laugh, pleased that it does not sound forced. I feel Gilbert and Roland look at me. “How can you ask? I am settled in the richest court in the land, with every luxury at my fingertips.”

Her gaze seeks out the silver necklace at my throat. “That is no answer.” Then she disappears into the crowd, and I am left standing there, wondering if I am being given a chance to put things right or will make yet another foolish blunder.

Chapter 42

My guards murmuring, “Your Majesty,” is all the announcement I receive before the king arrives. My heart beats painfully against my ribs as I curtsy. Was I spotted in the courtyard talking to Valine? Surely, that would not be cause for remark.

When he waves me to my feet, I stand. “I am surprised to see you here, sire, but glad.” The entire point of this exercise is to encourage his company.

“I came to see how you find your room. Do you like it?”

I take in the enormous room and rich furnishings. “It is luxury far beyond any I have ever experienced, let alone expected.”

He clasps his hands behind his back. “I chose it myself,” he says with an almost shy pride. He wants me to like it. Cares what I think of his choice. “It is but a few doors down from my own chamber. With the queen and the coming babe, I thought it best if we met somewhere other than my apartments.”

A giddy little beat of hope thumps against my chest. The bond between us has held, in spite of my confession.

“Your discretion is most kind, sire.”

He smiles, then looks away, his gaze landing on the apple I hold in my hand. “Where did you get that?”

I motion to the window. “The courtyard is full of vendors and stalls. It felt good to stretch my legs after so many days of riding.” I hesitate. “I hope that does not displease you, that I visited the courtyard? My guards were with me the entire time.”

He saunters toward the window. “But of course you may have free rein of the palace and its grounds. Just remain within the palace walls.” To his credit, he does not even look at the necklace to warn me of our agreement.

I smile brightly, then follow him to the window. “There.” I point. “That is the woman with these honey sweet apples. And did you see the man with the little monkey in the silk doublet?” I am not flirting with him but trying to extend the moment of simple companionship a little longer. “There is a Flemish wine seller, silk ribbons of all colors, songbirds in little wicker cages, and even a dancing bear!”

He looks at me, glancing from my eyes to my cheeks, which grow pink under his perusal, and I realize I must present the very picture of pastoral, maidenly allure. He smiles wistfully. “I wish I could see it as you do,” he says. “The Princess Marguerite also took great delight in the world around her.”

He still misses her. Mayhap not as a betrothed, but as someone who had been his cheerful companion for nearly eight years.

“You can,” I say gently. “Come.” I tilt my head toward the door. “Let me show you all the simple delights your own courtyard holds.”

He smiles. “I would like that.”

Chapter 43

Sybella

Tonight is a crowning achievement, the queen’s shining face far brighter than any of the hundreds of candles they have brought in to light the grand salon. The king is at her side, polite and attentive. The two of them are surrounded by dignitaries and the highest nobles in France. The regent is not nearly far enough away for my liking, but at least she is not hovering like a macabre crow.

That role is reserved for the bishops and the king’s confessor, whom I do my best to ignore. They will not steal this victory from us, from her, for all that they have tried. The Bishop of Albi looks up just then, his gaze finding me across the room and narrowing in distaste. He whispers something to the confessor.

Refusing to let them dampen my spirits, I ignore them and examine the rest of the crowd, looking for Genevieve. Although I spend a few minutes searching, I see no signs of her. Surely the king has not confined her to her room. Just as I decide I will go check, Father Effram sidles up next to me.

“Lady Sybella.” His bright blue eyes focus on mine with such intensity that I am momentarily nonplussed.

“Good evening, Father. Have you seen Genevieve this evening?”

“Not yet. Perhaps she is in the chapel?”

“Gen? In the chapel?” I nearly laugh.

He shrugs. “I did say ‘perhaps,’ my lady. You have had good fortune finding those you seek there.”

I stare at his lively face a moment before his meaning becomes clear. “Oh!” I say, then hurry out of the room, trying with all my might to not break into a run.

* * *

The chapel is lit by flickering candlelight that reflects off the stained-glass windows and casts everything in jewel-toned shadows. In the front a lone man kneels in prayer, the width of his shoulders leaving little room for anyone else to join him there.

At my arrival, his head lifts, but he does not turn around until I am standing behind him. Slowly, he rises to face me, my heart nearly bursting from my chest at the sight of him. “You’re back,” I whisper, afraid to say it too loudly, lest I wake up and find it a dream.

“And you are well.” Beast’s pale blue eyes glow like the colored glass of the windows as he takes my hand. It fits inside his enormous callused one as neatly as a glove.

“I told you I would be.”

“You did.” His gaze does not leave mine. “But I have learned the world often has other plans for you than the ones you make.”

“I cannot be blamed for that.” I laugh as I draw him away from the nave toward a small room that opens up off the rostrum. I do not think anyone will be visiting this chapel tonight, but there is no reason to be careless.

“I make you laugh, do I?” he growls.

“Always.”

He peers down at me. “You are different. Lighter. As if you’ve clouds inside your skin instead of bones and blood.”

I rise up on my toes. “It is simply my joy that you are back.”

“It is infectious,” he murmurs, capturing my lips, as if he, too, wishes to be filled with clouds.

It is a heady thing, this moment, this kiss. For nearly six weeks, I have longed for this moment, even as I feared it might never come.

He pulls away just enough so that our eyes meet. “You missed me.”

I close the door behind us. “What makes you think that?”

“You did not even ask if the girls were safe.”

I snort and place my hands on his shoulders, savoring the rock-solid feel of him. “That is not because I missed you, but because I knew you wouldn’t be here if they were not.” It is truly a miracle to trust someone so very much. I pull his mouth back toward mine. “You are as dependable as the plague,” I murmur.

His hands move up to cradle my face. I close my eyes, savoring the roughness of his palms against my cheek. Savoring this sense of being cherished, of being precious.

Then his lips are on mine, and I revel in the feel of them, warm and soft, with

hunger lurking just beneath the surface. Hunger that is far more than simply the time apart, but speaks to the danger we have both been in, the desperate need to believe we would be safe until we could be with each other again.

“I love you,” I whisper. “I love the way you kiss and the way you touch me and the way you always, always see me. And accept whatever I am. Whoever I am in that moment. Truly, you are the gods’ greatest gift.”

He looks as if I have taken a poleax to his head. As if he has never expected such words from me. And perhaps he hasn’t. His face grows serious with the weight of his own emotions, his mouth parting slightly in surprise.

Before he has time to respond, I reach out, grab his head with my hands, and bring his lips to mine. He does not resist, his mouth hungry and warm, his wide hands coming around my waist, sliding upward and drawing me closer. My fingers relish the solid, implacable feel of his muscles beneath his linen shirt. Savor the hard planes of his stomach, the faint traces of the myriad scars that he wears as easily as that shirt. And heat. The man is like a smelting furnace. I gently nip his bottom lip and angle my head to deepen the kiss, swallowing the groan that escapes him.

It is like a dam breaking, and all that I have been feeling in the last hours, days, weeks, rushes at me in one giant wave that leaves me lightheaded, dizzy, wanting. Beast has seen me, at my worst and my best, and in those moments when I am both at once.

He not only welcomes those parts of me, but rejoices in them.

He pulls his mouth from mine, his lips working their way to my ear, nibbling and tasting. “Sybella.”

We want to take our time, to enjoy all the kisses we feared we would not have, to slowly welcome each other home—for wherever we both are is home—I know that now. But everything that I feel in that moment is so big and overwhelming that it cannot be contained in one body. I slip my hands around to his back, bringing him closer. He groans, then presses his entire body against mine so that I am engulfed by him, awash in sensation that licks at my skin like flames until I am utterly consumed.