As I utter these words, I can feel Mathurin’s desire begin to shrivel, so I quickly change the subject to distract him. “We do not have much time before my attendants come looking for me.”
This spurs him to action, and he unlaces his doublet, then his fine linen shirt below. When I see a dark shadow covering his chest, my heart soars. He is marqued! That makes everything so much simpler. I smile then, the first true smile that has touched my lips all day, and step closer, backing him up to the wall so I will not have to take the full weight of his body when I kill him.
But before I can do more than remove the knife hidden in my sleeve, he gasps, a puzzled, almost hurt look crossing his face.
“What? What is wrong?” I murmur, not wishing to break the mood.
He does not answer; instead, he reaches up to his chest as if it pains him, then blood appears on his lips. Sweet Mortain! Is he having a fit of some sort?
Like a hanged man cut down from a gibbet, he collapses, all his weight slumping onto me so that I nearly topple backwards. A great, dark flapping thing rises from him.
It is the part I hate most about killing, having to endure the forced intimacy of the victim’s soul touching mine as it leaves their body. It is just as shocking and unwanted as my first kiss. I steel myself and allow the rush of images to wash over me: D’Albret’s thick arm around the baron’s shoulders, lulling him into a misplaced sense of security. A feeling of smugness, that I had chosen him rather than Julliers or Vienne. And hidden deepest of all, a twinge of conscience at having betrayed the young duchess, well buried under false assurances that d’Albret would make her a good husband.
Suddenly, the baron’s lifeless body is thrust aside, and I come face to face with a tall, dark figure holding a sword that still drips with blood.
“Julian!” I whisper, shocked to my core.
He steps forward, his mouth set in hard lines, his face cast in shadow. “Have you forgotten, sister? You are mine.”
His words chill me to the bone, and I fold my arms across my middle and grip my elbows to keep my hands from shaking.
“Only mine,” he says softly, as if whispering a lover’s endearment. “No one shall put his slobbering mouth or groping hands upon you.” He looks down at the body and nudges it with his boot. “And certainly not this craven creature.”
Now I understand the look he sent me at dinner. It was a promise of reprisal.
I step quickly and easily into the role I must play. Indeed, I am as skilled as any alchemist, but instead of turning lead into gold, I turn my fear into daring, and assuredly that is a far greater trick. The smile I give him is brittle with annoyance, and I toss my hair for full effect. “Is that what you thought was happening, Julian? Can you truly know me as well as you claim?”
The banked fury inside him cools somewhat. “Then why are you here?”
Has he not heard? I tilt my head. “Our father assigned me to use my feminine wiles to ascertain if Mathurin planned to betray him to the French.”
A muscle in his jaw clenches. “And would you have gone through with it?”
In answer, I raise the knife that I hold in my hand.
His eyes burn intently into mine, as if he can scorch the truth from their depths. “Truly?”
I laugh. I cannot help it. “You think I wished to dally with that soft, thick goose? Julian, have a little faith. In my taste if not in me.”
He drops his sword on the floor, steps over the body, and grabs my shoulders. My heart slams against my ribs as he spins me around and backs me against the wall. He leans in close. “Do you swear it?”
My heart beats too fast—he must not smell that fear. I take that fear and use it to stoke the fires of my anger. I push him—hard. “You are acting the fool. I swear it on God and all nine of His saints. Now let go, you’re hurting me.”
Like quicksilver, his mood shifts. He snatches my free hand and brings it to his mouth. “I should not have doubted you.” His breath warm against my skin, he turns my hand over and presses his mouth to my wrist.
“No, you should not have.” I tug at my hand, relieved when he lets it go. To be certain he does not grab it again, I begin re-coiling my hair into place. “How will I explain this to Father?”
Julian shifts his gaze to the dead Mathurin. “We shall say he was guilty, just as Father suspected, and you caught him in the act. You had no choice but to kill him before he got another message to the duchess.”
“Another message?”
Julian’s eyes are unreadable. “Of course—for you learned that it was he who warned the duchess of our failed trap.”
Reluctantly, I admire how nimbly Julian has used this to our advantage. To my advantage, for once again, he has found a way to protect me from d’Albret’s wrath. But this presents a new danger as well, for I must now assume Julian suspects it was I who issued that warning.
“I will take care of the body,” he adds.
I arch a brow at him and sniff. “It is the least you owe me for your lack of faith in me.”
He grabs my hands. “A kiss,” he begs, “to prove that you are not angry with me.”
I consider refusing, but I am a coward and dare not, not when he may know so many of my most dangerous secrets. Dread hammers through my veins as he leans down and places his mouth on mine. I allow my mind to drift away from my body, much like Mathurin’s soul left his. It is the only way I can bear Julian’s touch.
He is not my brother, he is not my brother.
That is another reason I cling so fiercely to my tattered belief in Mortain. If He is indeed my father, then Julian and I do not share so much as a drop of blood.
Julian sends me back to my room while he stays to clean up his mess. I move stiffly, like a puppet on a string, feeling as hollow and gutted as the fish we had for supper.
When I finally reach my chamber, it is empty except for a scullery maid, who is building up the fire for the night. She sees me and scurries away, afraid one glance from me will turn her into a toad, or that I will strike her for daring to breathe the same air as I.
Servants of my father have been punished for less.
I go immediately to the comfort of the bright yellow flames and stand as close to their warmth as I dare. My hands are trembling, my very bones shivering, and every fiber of my being is screaming for me to flee.
I think of the rush of Mathurin’s soul as it left his body. I want—crave—that release for myself with a longing so deep, and sharp, it cuts like a blade. I remember standing atop the battlements and feeling a heady sense of freedom as the wind promised to carry me far, far away. Is that what souls feel when they are released from their earthly bodies?
Tephanie comes in just then, her big awkward feet shuffling along the floor. She curtsies hurriedly, then rushes to my side. “My lady! I am so sorry to have left you alone. I thought you were . . .” She waves her hand inelegantly.
I am too weary and heartsick to even pretend to snap at her. “See that it does not happen again,” I say tiredly.
Her brow creases with worry. “Yes, my lady,” she says. “Are you ill?”
“No, just tired.”
“But you are shivering! Here, let me fetch you something hot to drink.”
I allow her to fuss over me, and once she has handed me a goblet, she goes to turn down the coverlet on the bed and warm the sheets.
As she shuffles quietly about the room, I stand near the fireplace and gulp my wine, waiting for the trembling to pass. I wish, desperately, to take a bath, but it is far too late and would call too much attention to myself. Even so, between Mathurin’s blood and Julian’s kiss, I feel tainted beyond bearing.