Grave Mercy
Page 30

His hand clamps down on my good shoulder. An unwelcome thrill flutters somewhere deep in my belly. “Aye, it is clean, but deep enough that it will need to be stitched. It did not tear the muscle, though, so it should not take long to heal. You are not afraid of a few stitches, are you?”
“Of course not.” His taunt works and I hold myself still.
I welcome the bite of the needle as it jabs my flesh. Pain, at least, is familiar to me. each little prick and burn helps clear away the heady intoxication of Duval’s more gentle touches.
“This is the last one,” he says. I feel an extra tug as he knots the end. He leans in close, his breath warm upon my skin, then bites the thread with his teeth. “There. Done. Raise your arm, but slowly. I want to see if it pulls.”
Still clutching the front of my dress, I lift my arm. The stitches bite and burn, but not unbearably. Just enough to remind me to use caution until it heals.
“It will do,” he says gruffly. “Although I shall refrain from moving on to fancy stitchery anytime soon.”
“And here I imagined you embroidering altar cloths with the duchess and her ladies in the afternoon.”
Duval snorts. “Hardly. But it would be wise for you to do that for a few days while this heals.”
“Methinks not. In case you hadn’t noticed, the schemes and plots around here are beginning to thicken.”
“It has come to my attention, yes,” Duval says dryly.
“May I stand up now?”
“If you wish.”
I rise to my feet, careful to keep the loose bodice clasped firmly in place, then spin around, anxious to remove my n**ed back from his view.
But facing him is worse, I realize, for his expression is soft, unguarded, and there is a tenderness there that I have only seen when he is with the duchess. Our eyes meet, and in that moment everything alters. It is as if he has only just now realized that we are alone in his bedchamber with me barely clothed. The tenderness in his face turns to something else, something that makes me aware of the cold air on my bare back and of my tattered bodice. He takes a step closer, then another, and suddenly we are almost touching. His eyes never leave mine, but his hand comes up and brushes a strand of hair away from my collarbone. without even realizing what I am doing, I lean toward him.
His hand moves up to cup my face. Slowly he draws me closer, lowering his head to meet mine. His touch is careful, as if I am fragile and precious. And then his lips are on mine, firm and warm and impossibly soft.
A fierce heat rises up inside me, as sharp and bright as a blade. I move my lips against his, wanting more, but more of what, I cannot say. He steps closer, until our bodies touch, then his other hand comes up, the warm fingers grasping my waist, pulling me even closer still. I am lost in his kiss, and all my defenses give way before this hot, hungry mystery that lies between us.
And then he pulls away, slowly, as if loath to do so. That is when I hear the rap at the door. I blink, reality crashing in around me. I take three giant steps back until I reach the cold stone wall, my lips still tingling from Duval’s kiss.
“Coming,” Duval calls out, his voice somewhat hoarse. Like a drawbridge being pulled up and slammed into place, he composes himself, and the sure, practical Duval is back. He takes his eyes from me and goes to answer the door. I lean against the wall and try to pretend my entire world has not just tilted in the heavens.
He stands there talking with whoever it is, blocking the view into the room with his body. After a moment he closes the door and returns to where I stand. I cannot meet his gaze.
“That was Beast,” he says. “He found the bodies and removed them. As best as he can tell, they were simply two of Nemours’s guards, one of whom was responsible for the treachery.”
I nod but do not trust my voice just yet, so I say nothing. He is silent for a long moment. I risk glancing at him. He stares sightlessly at the bloodied chemise on his bed, his hand raking through his hair as he thinks.
I clear my throat. “My lord, what would you have me do?”
He pulls himself from his distant thoughts and returns them to our predicament.
“Can we patch my clothing together enough so that I can return to your residence? Perhaps with a cloak thrown over it?”
He glances ruefully at the ruined linen. “I do not think so. But maybe they have begun to move your trunks into the palace. I’ll check. Sit, before you fall down,” he orders.
I lock my knees and press my back against the wall, welcoming the bracing cold of it. “But the servants . . .” I protest.
"Even though I am a bastard born, I am also the son of a duke. It is not my servants’ place to question me or what I ask of them.”
Stung by this rebuke, I simply nod and wave him away. Once he has left the room, I do indeed sit down, although not on the bed. I perch on one of the unopened trunks.
I should do something. Search through his things, or try to escape to my own room, or . . . in truth, my wits have left me, for I cannot think what I ought to do. My back is burning and my heart still races. In the end, I decide to remain seated and try to compose myself. Surely recovering my wits is the highest priority.
Duval returns a short while later, a look of triumph on his face. He carries a wad of clothing in one arm — my clothing, I realize. “One of your trunks has been delivered,” he says. “Let’s get you dressed, then I must go follow up on Nemours’s guards and inform the duchess of this latest development.”
“Surely you do not intend to help me dress, my lord?”
He shrugs. “Neither Agnez nor Louyse is here just now. what do you suggest? who would we risk giving explanations to?”
“I can do it myself.” even as I mutter the words, I know I cannot.
In the end, I have no choice but to let him assist me. The most awkward task is getting into a clean chemise without fully exposing myself to him. I finally order him to lay it on the bed and then turn and face the far corner of the room. even though he cannot see me, I move quickly, not caring if I rip the stitches he has so carefully made. I let go of my bodice, which falls to the floor, step around it, slip my good arm into my chemise, then slither in the rest of the way, grimacing as I wriggle my bad shoulder to get my arm through the sleeve. “Very well,” I say when it is securely in place.
“Here.” His voice and manner are matter-of-fact as he holds out my bodice much as a squire holds out a chest plate. I thrust my arms in, then turn around so he can lace up the back. Next I untie my skirt, let it fall to the ground, and step out of it. He takes the new skirt he has brought, shakes it out, then holds it open for me to step into.
with the bulk of my clothing in place, we become less awkward, and our movements cease fighting each other. The rest of the task goes smoothly until he pulls my last sleeve up my arm and his knuckles brush against my breast. I wrench away at the unexpected touch, tearing the sleeve from his fingers. He sets his teeth, takes up the sleeve again, and ties it in place.
when he is done, he gives a short, formal bow. “I will leave you to compose yourself.” while I am pained by his formality, I also welcome it. “Meet me in my study when you are ready.”
I nod — for I still do not trust my voice — and he departs. I am blessedly alone. even though I am fully dressed, my skin feels raw and exposed. Tender, like the new skin under a blister that has ruptured. even as a giggle threatens to climb up my throat, tears form in my eyes. what madness is this? Something has changed — something dark and alarming now sits between us.
when I am finally calm enough, I leave Duval’s private chamber and go in search of his study. It is not difficult to find as he has been given only a handful of rooms here at the palace. I pause in the doorway. He sits brooding in front of his chess set. “Milord?” I say softly.
His head comes up and his face relaxes somewhat. “There you are.”
I blush and try to pretend it has not taken me the better part of an hour to find my composure. Ill at ease, I pluck at the silver threads embroidered on my skirt as I move to join him at the chessboard. "Where do we stand?” I am anxious to discuss strategies and tactics, troop levels — anything but what has just happened between us.
“That’s what I am trying to discern.”
The white queen sits with but a handful of white pieces around her as she faces a board full of black. “Someone on the council bribed Nemours’s guard or told someone else who did.” Duval’s fingers rest lightly atop the queen. I shiver, remembering the feel of those fingers on my cheek, the weight of his hand on my neck. They are strong, capable fingers, and yet he held my face so gently. Irritated, I shake off this pall that has fallen over me. “Madame Dinan could easily have confided in d’Albret,” I point out.
“True enough, but they are our known enemies. It is the ones we do not know who concern me more. Has France bought someone on the Privy Council, and if so, who?”
"Why would anyone on the council want the French to know?”
“That is the question, is it not? That and what their next move will be.”
"What is our next move?” I ask. "What is the duchess’s second best option, now that Nemours has been removed?”
Duval answers without hesitation. “The Holy Roman emperor.”
“Then perhaps a visit with his envoy is in order,” I suggest.
“Clearly.” Duval thinks for a moment longer. when he lifts his eyes from the board, I see how tired he is. “Beast needs help with the cleanup. I took the liberty of ordering a supper tray to be brought to your room so you wouldn’t have to dine in the great hall with the others tonight.”
“That is most welcome, my lord.”
He gives a brisk nod. “Do you need anything before I go?”
I want you to return my wits, I long to say. Instead, I merely ask if I may use his desk and quills to write the abbess of the most recent events.
“But of course,” he says, then takes his leave.
Once he is gone from the room I can breathe again. In an effort to prove he has no hold over me, I make a cursory search of his chambers, but I find nothing of interest. No secret correspondence, no hidden weapon, nothing to indicate he is anything other than what he claims to be: Anne’s devoted half brother.
when that is done, with a heavy heart, I turn to the letter I must write. There is much I need to tell the abbess, but there is much more I long to ask. Does she have any counsel to give as to who would have assassinated Nemours? Has Duval’s name been cleared of suspicion yet? May I work with him on our duchess’s behalf? And what of love? Is loving someone a sin against our god? Surely not, for according to de Lornay, there was love of a sort between him and someone from the convent.
Or perhaps that was merely lust. I suspect the convent does not mind if we take lovers, for the nuns have spent much time training us in that art and no doubt wish us to practice. But to fall in love? That, I fear, is a grave offense. One heart cannot serve two masters.
Of course, I put none of that in my letter. Instead, I explain all that has happened over the last few days: d’Albret’s announcement that he would force Anne to fulfill her betrothal promise and the Duke of Nemours’s stepping forward with a new offer. Sadly, I must also inform her of Nemours’s subsequent murder and of Mortain’s guiding me to the guard who betrayed him. By the time I am done with it, the letter is weighty and full of grim tidings.
After I finish that letter, and with no pressing duties to attend to, I take the time to write to Annith. The quill flies across the parchment, the questions and concerns pouring out of me. I ask her if she knows of the misericorde and the grace it bestows upon Mortain’s victims. I tell her of the small, green shoot of love that sprang up between the duchess and Nemours, and how cruelly it was struck down. Last, I ask her if she knows if any of the initiates had a special lover outside the convent.
when I am done writing, I am nearly limp with the effort. I fold and seal both letters, then return to my room to wait for Vanth to be brought along with the rest of my things.
The rest of the afternoon and evening drags by and I spend it torn between wanting and not wanting. I do not want Duval to come to my room tonight; I am drained and weary and more confused than I have ever been. And yet . . . and yet I fear that he will not. The truth is, I can no longer imagine my nights without him.
I need not have worried, however, for Duval is as steady and constant as the tides. He even comes early so he can see how I and my wound are faring.
“You’re not asleep,” he says, slipping in silently through the door.
“No.” I start to sit, then wince.
“Do not get up,” he says sharply, and hurries to the side of the bed.
The fire has been built up in my room to keep me warm, and I can see him clearly in the faint orange light from the flames. The stubble on his face is heavy, and I long to touch it, to see what it feels like. I quickly busy my fingers with the rich silk of my coverlet instead.
“Do you need anything? For the pain? To help you sleep?”
“No, milord.”
He is quiet for a moment, and I can feel him looking down at me. “I should check your wound to be sure it isn’t festering.”
That shocks me enough to look up at his face. “No! I could tell if it were. I am sure it is fine.”
He smiles wryly. “I suspected you would say that.” He reaches toward me and I freeze. A lone finger touches my cheek, as soft as a snowflake falling. “I do not think it wise for me to linger.” His voice is full of longing and regret. “Not tonight,” he says, then he takes his leave.
Sleep is a long time coming.
Chapter Thirty-three
In the morning, Duval and most of the other nobles and courtiers are off on another hunt. even though it is Advent and fasting is required for three days each week, the castle supplies are quickly being depleted. The nobles are ill-tempered and tense, and it is hoped a hunt will release some of their pent-up humors as well as fill the larder.