Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)

by Robin LaFevers

  I smile as if his words have pleased me greatly. D’Albret waves for him to step back. “You will be happy to know I have found a use for you at last, daughter.”

  My heart gives one slow beat of dread, for I know d’Albret believes women have but two purposes: to bear him sons and to slake his lust. With his own daughters, he begrudgingly allows a third: to be used as a bargaining piece in marriages that will increase his wealth and power.

  It is the note from the convent that gives me the courage to lift my chin and smile sweetly at him. “I can think of nothing that would bring me greater pleasure, my lord, than to be of service to you.”

  “I have yet to discover who betrayed our plans to the duchess and gave her warning. I wish to watch the Nantes barons more closely. Perhaps one of them pretends loyalty to me and then reports all my plans to her. With this suspicion in mind, you will become intimately acquainted with Baron Mathurin.”

  I keep my face perfectly still. This is a new low, even for him—whoring his own daughter out for political gain. “The fat one with the double chins? I am not certain that we must become intimate in order for me to coax his secrets from him,” I say lightly.

  D’Albret leans forward, his black beard bristling. “You are refusing?”

  “Of course not.” My heart beats faster now, for I am well aware of what happens to those who refuse him.

  D’Albret cocks his head to the side. “Do not tell me you have maidenly qualms, for we all know what a lie that is.”

  His words are like a slap to my face and send me reeling down a long, painful corridor of memories. Memories so terrifying that my vision darkens before my mind scrambles away from them. “I am merely pointing out that there are many methods available to extract the information you wish to have.”

  Satisfied with my answer, he leans back in his chair. “You will sit next to him at dinner.”

  Before he can give me further instructions, his steward arrives, escorting a road-weary and travel-stained courier. D’Albret waves his hand at the captain and me. “Leave us,” he orders, and Captain de Lur escorts me from the room.

  Despair and frustration threaten to rise up inside me, but I tamp them down. Even though d’Albret is all but announcing to his men and vassals that I am so sullied that I do not warrant his protection, I need not panic just yet. I place my hand over my wrist sheath, drawing comfort from what hides there, and hurry to my rooms.

  I arrive at my chamber, where Tephanie and Jamette fuss and cluck and are horribly relieved to see me. Irrationally, I blame them for what has befallen me this afternoon. “Draw a bath, at once,” I order curtly.

  As they begin that task, I slip into the garderobe and remove the note from its hiding place. My hand trembles as I unroll the message, careful to hold it over the privy hole so that no traces of black wax can be found and used as evidence against me. I hope that these are the instructions I have longed for. Of course the note is in cipher. Holding back my impatience, I quickly count out the necessary sequence, but I have no ink or parchment, so it takes me far too long to decipher the message.

  “My lady? Your bath is ready. Are you ill?”

  “I am fine,” I snap at Tephanie’s worried question. “Except I cannot find privacy.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lady,” she says meekly, and I turn back to the note.

  Dearest daughter,

  We believe that Lord d’Albret has taken Baron de Waroch prisoner. The duchess has great need of the Beast of Waroch if she is to have any hope of raising an army against d’Albret or the French. We thereby order you to determine if he is indeed alive and, if so, to find a way to secure his release and see that he is brought to Rennes immediately.

  Abbess Etienne de Froissard

  Disbelief roils inside me, and my entire body turns hot, then cold, then hot again. I turn the note over, hoping I have missed something, then rework the code one more time. The message is the same. And it is not an order to kill d’Albret.

  Anger rises up, so great it sears the breath from my lungs. She promised that I would be an instrument of divine vengeance—that d’Albret’s retribution would be delivered at the hand of his own daughter.

  That very promise kept me from laughing in the abbess’s face when she told me of her intentions to send me back to his household. That promise had me redoubling my efforts to learn as many death skills as I could in my last weeks of training before I left the convent.

  But more than that, her promise had given meaning to all that I have suffered and endured. Without that divine purpose to shape my life, I am nothing but a hapless victim. The anger inside surges through me once more, so dark and overwhelming I fear I will suffocate under its weight.

  I will quit the convent. She cannot force me to stay here. Tucked far away on her little island, she will not even know I have left.

  But d’Albret will.

  And no place is safe from him, for his arm is long and he could snatch me up from anywhere in Brittany or France. No place is safe, except perhaps behind the walls of Rennes, and not even there if d’Albret decides to move on the city.

  And so I must sit like a brainless coney. My future stretches out before me, grim and endless. I have been fooled by the convent and am now to be whored out by d’Albret as he weaves his malevolent snares for his enemies.

  No. I clench my fists, crumpling the note and then casting it into the privy. No.

  When I emerge from the garderobe, I ignore my attendants’ worried glances and yank off my clothes before they can assist me. I spend the next hour scrubbing my father’s and the abbess’s filthy schemes from my skin.

  I do not know how I will make it through dinner. I cannot help but wonder how many know of the role d’Albret has given me. Nor can I help but wonder whom he will assign me to next. That fool Marshal Rieux? The quiet and serious Rogier Blaine?

  As soon as I step into the dining hall, d’Albret’s gaze is upon me—as cold and dead as the meat on his plate. I keep my head held high and chatter inanely with Tephanie as I approach the dais, then curtsy. My smile is as brittle as glass—and as fragile. But lost in his own dark mood, he waves me toward Baron Mathurin.

  As I make my way to the table, I wonder: How does one kill a monster such as d’Albret, someone with nearly inhuman strength and cunning? Can it even be done if the god of Death Himself does not will it?

  How could I get near him? Get him to lower his guard? Especially when I cannot—will not—use seduction, one of my most effective weapons.

  As I take my seat beside the baron, his eyes light up. “Fortune smiles upon me, demoiselle. To what do I owe the honor of your fair company?”

  I want to shake him and warn him that it is not an honor but a deathwatch. Instead, I smile coyly at him. “It is I who am fortunate, my lord,” I tell him, then lift my wine goblet and drain half of it. Hopefully his attention will remain so focused on my breasts that he will not notice I must drink myself under the table to endure his company.

  “Have you recovered from today’s hunt?” he asks.

  The question nearly causes me to sputter. “Recovered, my lord?” It takes all my willpower to keep the scorn from my voice. “A hunt is not so very taxing as all that.”

  He shrugs. “It was for Barons Vienne and Julliers. They have excused themselves from dinner tonight and taken to their beds.”

  “Well, I am not as soft as they.”

  “Nor I,” he says. “Indeed, the afternoon has got my blood stirred,” he adds, and there is no mistaking his meaning. Well and good—I will not even have to try very hard to snare this dumb goose.

  A trill of laughter pulls my attention to the other side of the table, where Jamette hangs on Julian like a flea on a hound. Feeling my gaze on him, Julian looks up, and our eyes meet. He gives me a mocking smile and lifts his goblet to me. Does he know? I wonder. Does he know what our father has asked me to do? He must suspect something, for he knows I have no love for puffed-up buffoons or jackanapes such as Mathurin.


  Jamette notices he is no longer paying attention to her and follows his gaze. Her eyes narrow and it is then that I see she is wearing a new brooch, a gold sunburst with a ruby in its center, and I wonder which secret of mine she has shared to earn it.

  Chapter Seven

  I HAVE DECIDED I WILL keep my rendezvous with Mathurin. I will even play the part I have been given—up to a point. Then, when I’ve learned all that I can, I will put a stop to it. If he protests overmuch or thinks to force me to continue, so much the better, for then I can kill him in self-defense. I am in desperate need of killing something.

  When I reach the appointed chamber, I stop long enough to tug the bodice of my gown lower and loosen my hair. The overly eager Baron Mathurin is already inside, his pulse beating so heavily with lust I can scarce hear myself think. “Did anyone see you?” he asks when I step inside the room.

  “No,” I assure him, then move closer, shaking my loose hair over my shoulder. He reaches out to capture one of the curls. “Like ebony-colored silk,” he murmurs, rubbing it between his fingers.

  His desire is a heady perfume, for I know precisely what to do with desire. I run a finger lightly along the front of his doublet, and his mouth parts, his breath hitching in his throat. Then I wrap my arms around him and begin playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I bet you say that to all your conquests.”

  He blinks in surprise, as if no one has ever accused him of having a string of conquests before. I lean up and begin nuzzling his great white jowl. “Do you know what put my lord father in such a foul mood tonight?” I ask. “He was in high spirits when I saw him this afternoon.”

  And even though the baron and I are alone, his eyes dart around the room before he answers. He is not quite as dumb as he appears. “He received word that the duchess was crowned today in Rennes.”

  Although this is good news for the duchess, I fear the crown will not save her from d’Albret’s aggression. The only thing that will do that is a strong husband with an army of thousands to defend his claim. I wonder if the courier who brought this report yet lives, for my lord father does not believe in sparing the messenger. “Do you trust d’Albret to rule Brittany?” I ask, then shudder. “For he frightens me well enough with the power he has. I cannot imagine him in charge of the entire duchy.”

  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 w
hile 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.