Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(6)
D’Albret takes a step closer, his great bulk towering over the man, his gaze sweeping over the group. “Which of you learned of our little surprise greeting and crept out to warn the duchess?”
“None of us knew,” the old man says, and I start to breathe a sigh of relief. But the fool is still riding high on his great loyalty and adds, “But we’d have told her if we did.”
Annoyed, d’Albret looks over at Pierre. “How did we miss this one?”
My brother shrugs. “Even the best traps don’t catch all the rats the first time, my lord.”
Without word or warning, d’Albret hauls back his steel-gauntleted hand and strikes the old man across the face. The servant’s neck snaps back with an audible crack. Julian squeezes my hand—hard—warning me to stay silent and still. And even though I want to fly at d’Albret, I do not move. Just as that last valiant knight held his position, so must I hold mine. As Death’s handmaiden, I must be in place so I may strike when the time comes. Especially now, when d’Albret’s bold treachery has assuredly earned him the very marque I have been waiting to see for six long months.
Besides, the old man is dead; my anger will do him no good. I utter a prayer for his departing soul. It is the least I can do, although it is not nearly enough.
Marshal Rieux steps forward with a look of outrage on his face, but before he can speak, d’Albret roars out, “I spared your miserable lives.” His voice reverberates through the room like thunder, and the other servants finally have the sense to cower in fright. “And this is how you repay me?” There is a ring of steel as he draws his sword. My stomach shrivels into a tight little knot and tries to crawl up my throat, but before I can so much as call out a warning, the sword cuts through the huddled men. Blood splatters over the floor, then a second blow dispatches the rest.
I do not even realize I have taken a step forward until I feel Julian’s arm snake around my waist to hold me in place. “Careful,” he murmurs.
I close my eyes and wait for the roiling in my gut to pass. Julian nudges me, and my eyes snap open, a carefully neutral expression on my face. D’Albret’s shrewd gaze is on us and I curl my lip, as if faintly amused by the carnage he has just wrought. “Fools,” I mutter. It is a good thing that I no longer have a heart, because if I did, it would surely break.
“Julian!” d’Albret calls out, and I feel Julian flinch. He steps away from my side. “Yes, my lord father?”
“See to the cleanup here. And you, daughter.” D’Albret’s flat black eyes zero in on me and I force myself to meet his gaze with naught but amusement on my face. “See to Madame Dinan. I fear she has fainted.”
As I step away from the safety of the stone wall to do as my father bids, I wish again—so very much—that Julian had not found me up on that tower. If our father finds out what I did, he will kill me as easily as he killed those men.
Although perhaps not as quickly.
Chapter Three
I FOLLOW THE FOOTMEN CARRYING Madame Dinan to her room, my thoughts and movements sluggish, as if I am wading through mud. It takes every last crumb of discipline I possess to keep myself together. I do not dare stumble about half-witted now.
When we reach the chamber, I have the footmen put her on the bed, then order them from the room. I stare down at the older woman. We are not allies, Madame Dinan and I; we merely share each other’s secrets, which is an entirely different thing.
She came into our lives only occasionally, when she would escape her duties as governess to the duchess, the very duchess she has so thoroughly betrayed. D’Albret relied on her to oversee his daughters’ upbringing. Much of that oversight was conducted across distances, with letters and go-betweens, except when some tragedy struck—then she would make an effort to come in person and smooth things over.
She looks older in repose, her face missing the false gaiety she wears like a mask. I unlace her bodice to ease her breathing, then remove the heavy, cumbersome headdress she wears. Not because it has contributed to her fainting, but because I know it eats at her vanity that she has white hair like an old woman’s. It is a small enough punishment, but it is one I can afford.
I reach down and slap her cheek—perhaps harder than necessary—to rouse her. Her breath catches in her throat as she startles awake. She blinks twice, orienting herself, then begins to sit up. I push her back down. “Easy now, madame.”
Her eyes widen when she sees who attends her. Her gaze flutters around the room and notes that we are alone. That gaze lands once more on me, then skitters away like a nervous lark. “What happened?” she asks.
Her voice is low and throaty, and I wonder if that is part of what draws d’Albret to her. Some say their union began when she was in the flower of her youth, a full two years younger than I am now. “You fainted.”
Her long skinny fingers pluck at her bodice. “It grew warm in there.”
Her quick and easy lie pricks my temper. I lean down close and put my face next to hers, forcing my voice to be as light and sweet as if we were talking about the latest fashion. “It was not warmth that caused you to faint, but the slaughter of innocents. Do you not remember?”
She closes her eyes again, and her face drains of what little color is left in it. Good. She does remember. “They were simply punished for their disloyalty.”