By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  She covered her mouth, glanced at him and away again, and blushed. Those golden-tan cheeks of hers reddened beautifully. Because of him. He grinned.

  “Could we go back to Claudine’s?” She flattened the halo of wispy hair at all angles from her braid.

  Back to Claudine’s? It was as though she’d spoken his mind. “Of course,” he replied. “When?”

  She stood and smoothed her rumpled clothes, her gaze landing on a spot on the floor across from the bed. Where the king had stood.

  “As soon as possible.” She crossed the bedchamber to the washbasin. “I don’t want to be here another minute more than I have to. We should’ve left last night, but I…” She splashed her face.

  He sat up and left the bed. “We’ll go.” He approached her and rested a palm on the small of her back while she dried her face with a towel. She gazed up at him. “Why don’t you wash up and change, and I’ll tell my household to prepare our horses? We’ll eat, and we’ll leave.”

  A warm smile spread on her lips, then she nodded and embraced him. Drawing his eyebrows together, he wrapped his arms around her, too, rested his chin atop her head, buried his nose in her hair, inhaled the intoxicating smell of her.

  “You’ve been unbelievable, Brennan,” she whispered.

  Unbelievable? He fought a smile.

  “You’ve done nothing but help me, fight for me, protect me, support me. You’ve asked me for nothing, demanded nothing,” she said softly into his chest. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You’ve set aside your entire life these past few months. And I’m grateful.”

  Life. What had his life been before these past few months? Managing Tregarde and Calterre, a whirlwind of court functions, seducing the most promising of each year’s debutantes, casting them aside when he tired of them, tranquilizing himself with upscale brothels and mundane games of intrigue, victories that didn’t truly satisfy. Running the nights away in the forests when the Wolf grew restless. Visiting Maerleth Tainn, Mother and his sisters, training in Faris and the rapier.

  Aside from spending time with his family, had that even been much of a life? After the past few months—fighting across Emaurria, the Kezan Isles, Sonbahar; defeating bandits and mercenaries who’d want to destroy the kingdom, pirates and slavers, hisaad; coming to Rielle’s aid, becoming her friend, and… more. Spending his days and nights with her. Sailing across the Bay of Amar. Waking up with her in his arms—

  This was life. Everything before had merely been passing the time.

  And now, he could imagine this every day. Having her close, loving her. Living in the same home, sharing the same bed, the same life. A marriage. Children. Joy. And the curse broken.

  Just a year ago, it had seemed so impossible a dream that he’d convinced himself he didn’t want it. Her. Any of it.

  But he could smell the sweet truth. See its happy sheen. Hear its quiet breathing. Feel its softness beneath his hands.

  “You don’t have to thank me,” he whispered. “I haven’t done anything I didn’t choose to do.”

  She pulled away, licking her lips, and smiled warmly. “Still.”

  Her smiles and embraces were gratitude—gratitude that he didn’t care to think about when her body was against his, when her smiling face filled him with warmth. But she desired him, loved him, at least in some small way, and she hid those feelings beneath thanks.

  Perhaps she knew it; perhaps she didn’t. Someday, she would have to unearth her love and desire.

  But he wouldn’t push her. He had waited a decade for her, and if she needed his patience, he would wait until she was ready.

  His hands slid slowly to her hips, then he let her go. “All right. I’ll notify my household. There are fresh clothes in the armoire.”

  She nodded. “I’ll freshen up and meet you in the parlor.”

  He left her to it and yanked the bell pull by the bed. When Gerard arrived, he told him to have the horses saddled and ready for departure within the hour, then the man left.

  Brennan headed into the parlor. Among the full spread of breakfast, the kettle was still hot, so he poured himself and Rielle some black tea, adding two sugars to hers just as she liked.

  He drank his tea and listened to the sounds of her getting ready in the bedchamber—the splashing of water, the shuffle of steps, the soft creak of the armoire door, the swish of fabric and rustling as she changed, the quick strokes of her hair brush.

  A morning song, one he’d gladly hear every day of his life.

  He set down the teacup and stared out the window. Another gray day, dreary and cold. But it didn’t matter; things were looking up.

  She soon exited the bedchamber, fresh faced and impeccably dressed in her usual attire of shirt, vest, trousers, and boots, her hair braided anew, and it was his turn to get ready.

  Within the hour, they’d eaten and were riding back toward the docks, cloaked to hide their identities as best they could. He scanned their surroundings and listened for anything out of the ordinary, but there was no sign of the bitch that had taken her. In a city as dense as Courdeval, tracking her would be difficult.

  But there was a lot of talk and activity. Azalée’s usual bustle had exploded—the words on everyone’s lips today being Veris ball.

  He glanced at Rielle, who urged her horse through the crowds, on occasion using her earthsight, without sparing any attention to the idle chatter or business. These things didn’t often interest her—she’d shunned court for years—but she ignored all around her with a willfulness that suggested more than disinterest.

  Reluctance.

  He faced forward once more, carving a route through the dense streets. Was she going to the ball? Had the king invited her?

  She wasn’t pleased with the king, that much was clear, but there was something else.

  No doubt an invitation already awaited him at Victoire, if he deigned to go. Which, if she was going, so would he. No Master of Ceremonies in his right mind would snub the heir to Maerleth Tainn.

  At last, they made it to Claudine’s. After stabling their horses, Rielle stopped at the front desk and retrieved—

  Mail.

  She glanced at him and cocked her head toward the stairs. Together, they proceeded to the room they both shared. After tearing open the seal—the king’s seal—she read the letter and plopped onto the bed, spreading out like a lily pad on the covers.

  She waved the letter and held it out to him.

  I’ve made arrangements with my household to ensure our plans unfold as we discussed. Proceed to Couronne, and send word. Every eye in Azalée will see our preparations for the ball, and every tongue will move on the subject.

  Yours,

  J.

  The short length of the note and plain phrasing was almost cold, but it wasn’t on the king’s end. No, he very carefully used our, we, and that closing.

  The brevity and plainness was for her benefit. Her comfort.

  Their plans… What did they entail?

  Brennan read the note again and returned it to her. She folded it up and shoved it into her vest.

  “You’re going to the ball with him.”

  She faced him with a frown. “No.” She blinked. “Well, yes. But not for the reasons you think. We want to lure Shadow out at a time and place of our choosing. I’m going to let it be known I’ve returned, and he’s going to find every opportunity to bring the subject to everyone’s lips. He’s announced a very public midnight walk in the Trèstellan gardens after the evening’s dancing. Open, dark. She’ll know I’m back. And she won’t be able to resist trying to kill him with me right there.”

  The plan had merit, at least the lure. “So you’re the bait, but what ensures she won’t kill him… and you?”

  She grinned, broadly, deviously, like a she-wolf ready to devour her prey. “Sonbahar wasn’t entirely a waste of my time. I learned about sangremancy wards there… And I’m going to set a trap.”

  “I should be there.”

  The hungry grin fad
ed. “You’re welcome to come. I won’t turn away your help, if offered.”

  He sat next to her. “To you, my help is always on offer.”

  She smiled. “Anything in particular?”

  He shrugged. No, that wasn’t his best answer. “I could… keep watch from afar until she attacks, and then help take her out. And… if she’s smart, she’ll scout the grounds and perhaps even the palace for vulnerabilities. I could do a sweep of the gardens, the great hall, and… the king’s quarters, to make sure she hasn’t set any traps herself.” Trying way too hard to remain relevant. He suppressed a grimace.

  “Good thinking. I’ll let Jon know, so you have the proper permissions in Trèstellan.” She rummaged through her packs, pulled out parchment, a quill, and an inkwell.

  “Now?”

  “Yes.” She spread out her supplies on the nightstand. “And I’m going to let Davina know I’ve returned.”

  Davina, Couronne’s chamberlain and acting steward. The letter would give the villa’s household some time to prepare for their lady’s arrival.

  She scribbled two notes, heated the wax with a fiery palm, and stamped them with her signet ring—on a long chain around her neck. Newly reacquired…

  From the king. Next to it on the chain was the familiar Sodalis ring the king had claimed her with at Melain. So he’d made a gift of it to her.

  But she didn’t wear it on her hand. She rejected his claiming.

  He suppressed a smile. “When do we leave?”

  She sprang up and opened the hallway door, looking this way and that before calling a maid. Once the girl took the letters, she shut the door. “We don’t.”

  He grimaced. “Rielle—”

  “It can’t look like a trap.” She took his hand. “Jon is supposed to be courting me, winning me over, showering me with gifts. We’re supposed to be lovers going to the ball together.”

  He clenched his teeth but maintained a facade of calm.

  “And how would it look if you’re staying there? Everyone knows you’re my fiancé. My fiancé and my lover spending the night at my villa will look—”

  He grinned despite himself. Many a tale he’d read—the dirty sort—had started with a similar line.

  She swatted his arm and pursed her lips. “I can’t afford to give Shadow any reason to suspect the trap.”

  Heaving a sigh, he shook his head. “If she’s as clever as she’s been so far, she’ll suspect anyway. You’re courting danger.” But Shadow wasn’t the only threat. “And the king will only use his proximity to you to try to regain your affections while you’re alone, vulnerable. Do you really want that?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Being alone does not mean being vulnerable.”

  He grunted. “You know what I meant.”

  She huffed a breath. “Yes, I know. I’ve considered it, too. But the reasons he and I aren’t together are many. One night of acting at Couronne isn’t going to change any of them. And it’s our best bet to root out Shadow, both for my safety and his. Do you really think it would be better to wait for her to strike when we least expect it?”

  He rolled his eyes and turned away. Of course not.

  And he didn’t have any better ideas. He gathered some of his clothes and stuffed them into a pack. “But I’m still taking you there. If she’s on the road, waiting for you, then I’m not letting her get her chance.”

  She raised her eyebrows but blinked her objections away. They made quick work of packing their things, and after she asked that their packs be sent to Couronne, they headed to the stable.

  She saddled her horse while he saddled his.

  To draw Shadow out, she and the king would have to appear the reunited couple—happy. Irritatingly happy. And Rielle returning to Couronne with her fiancé and openly staying there together would fly in the face of that appearance.

  He understood it, but he didn’t have to like it.

  He gave her a leg up into the saddle, and she pulled up the hood of her cloak. “I’ll see you to Couronne, then I’ll go to Victoire and see you at the Veris Ball in a few days. If you need me, just pull on the bond, and I will come to you.”

  “Thank you, Brennan.”

  He nodded and urged his horse from the stable and out onto the cobblestone avenue, pulling up the hood on his own cloak. No sign of the bitch. A part of him prayed she was waiting to ambush them on the road. At least then he’d rip her throat out and save Rielle the trouble of playing pretend with the king.

  Rielle followed after him. For nearly four days, he wouldn’t see her—the longest time apart since he’d found her in Xir.

  But if it meant capturing Shadow, it would be worth the sacrifice. If fortune smiled on the bitch, Rielle would be the one to kill her.

  If not… Shadow would wish she’d never been born. A rictus grin split his mouth. Oh, yes, the bitch would suffer. Greatly.

  Chapter 53

  Throwing off her hood, Rielle dismounted her horse and headed toward Couronne. It had been over a year since she’d stayed. Although the rain had turned the beautiful greenery to mud, the grounds were still well kept. The villa’s steeply pitched roof, its highest peak at the center, overlooked the streets of Azalée.

  Sided with white stucco, the villa’s blackwood half-timbering contrasted beautifully, so much like Laurentine’s barns and silos, which used white pines. A jettied first floor, abundant with mullioned windows, hung over an ample, pillared front porch.

  She removed the Laurentine signet ring from her chain and placed it on her finger.

  Two grooms hurried through the mud to her and took her horse when she’d traversed half the way to the villa.

  Couronne’s blackwood front doors opened, and Davina burst out. Her curly gray-streaked sable tresses wrapped in a tight bun, she glided across the grounds, her petite form quicker than she looked. “A sight for sore eyes! Welcome home, my lady!”

  Davina hugged her. They’d always been thick as thieves, and Davina was almost as motherly as Mama had been.

  “Davina,” she said warmly. “How have you been?”

  Davina pulled away but held her, looking her over. “I’ve been worried sick! Since the Battle for Courdeval, rumors have abounded, and I’ve inquired as to your whereabouts everywhere—”

  Rielle smiled. “I’m fine.”

  “—and now you write me saying, ‘I’m coming to Couronne shortly, and the king will be visiting.’ The king!” Davina shook her head. “All the preparations to be done—when is he coming?”

  Rielle shrugged. “Today?”

  “Today!” Davina’s eyes bulged, then she turned to the grooms, who stood by gawking. She swatted at them. “You two! What are you doing dawdling about? The king is coming here. The king!”

  They exchanged glances and shrugs. “Will he be visiting the stable?”

  “Probably not,” the other offered. “Why’s the king coming?”

  Davina smacked his arm. “Don’t ask why! Just go make sure everything is in perfect order!”

  They bowed, tugged the stallion’s bridle, and made for the stable.

  Davina laced her arm through Rielle’s. “Now, tell me all about His Majesty…”

  She let Davina lead her into the villa and answered her myriad questions about Jon—his habits, his preferences, his disposition, his personality, acquaintances, everything. So much—she knew so much about him, more than she’d even thought she’d known.

  And just when she’d thought the questioning over, Davina only instructed her maids and footmen to make preparations, then resumed with questions of the past year as she drew a bath and laid out fresh clothes. Appropriate clothes. Davina had kept the wardrobe up to date and fashionable.

  Rielle answered what questions she could without divulging Brennan’s secret, Liam’s survival, her plan with Jon, or her own tragedies. For her part, Davina didn’t pry and instead focused on brighter moments.

  “It’s all true, then?” Davina hesitated, but Rielle didn’t stop her. “The rumors abo
ut Melain, the king’s fondness for you, the…?”

  “Affair?” Rielle supplied, and Davina drew in a slow, deep breath. Word had spread of her mission and its many details, then. “Yes.”

  “It is said that the king fell in love with the Rose of Laurentine, and that she left him—left him with naught but grief.”

  Rose of Laurentine? She resisted the urge to gag. As if she were some flower waiting to be plucked.

  And without the whole truth of the past four months, the ill-informed rendition had colored her relationship with Jon a much different shade than reality.

  “Something like that,” Rielle whispered.

  “My lady, do you… love him?” Davina asked softly.

  “Yes.” Unfortunately. But what had her love meant to him if he’d believed the false declaration of her death, if he’d so quickly turned to another woman to forget her? How special could she have been, to be replaced so easily?

  And the way he’d manipulated her last night… He had to know how hurt she was, even if she was still in love with him. How could he have used that love to try to force closeness? The divide between them couldn’t be bridged with kisses, embraces, and lovemaking. She needed to give him the truth of what had happened in Sonbahar—all of it—just as his truth of taking a lover had been bared to her.

  Then, once they saw each other clearly, maybe it would be as Olivia had said: the wounds would fade with time.

  Could their love be salvaged? If so, she had to try, had to see where it led. If they could forgive each other, overcome the pain, then she could always accept Jon’s offer to break the betrothal with Brennan.

  And if not… If not…

  “Do you think he’ll ask for your hand, my lady?” Davina washed Rielle’s hair in the tub. The rose scent filled the chamber.

  He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Just as the Houses needed his approval for their marriages, so, too, did he need Parliament’s approval for his own. And with the land in turmoil, no marital alliance from the previous generation, her disastrous reputation, the Marcels’ prior claim to her hand, and Jon’s status as a bastard—albeit legitimized—there was no way they’d approve. There was no reason for them to approve. She could offer nothing—no alliance, no armies, no power—but trouble.