“What?”
“It would be best if you could do it without asking questions.”
She raised one eyebrow. “It would be best if Tassin would quit picking his teeth after he eats, but that doesn’t seem likely.”
Maraud sighed. “I need you to get a message to someone.”
“There’s a reason you can’t go?”
Maraud looked over at the queen’s departing procession. “Because the person is in residence at the palace.”
Valine gave a low whistle. “Good reason. Now for the important question. Who am I to get this message to? Do they have information on Cassel?”
Maraud grabbed on to that. “Yes, I think they do.”
“Okay, then. Who and when?”
Maraud casually looked up as if admiring the cathedral. “Lucinda,” he told the spires that towered above them.
When the quiet stretched out so far he thought she hadn’t heard, he risked glancing back at her. She was smirking. “Jaspar owes me. I knew things weren’t over between you two.”
“You placed a wager?”
She ignored his offended pride. “What makes you think she’s at the palace?”
“I saw her just now. She was riding with the queen’s attendants and courtiers.”
Valine whistled again. “Coming up in the world is our Lucinda. I wonder who she’s planning to poison this time.”
Maraud sighed. “And if you don’t say anything to the others, I’ll pay you twice whatever Jaspar owes you.”
Chapter 41
Genevieve
We do not stay at the royal palace in the old city but cross the river to the Louvre, which sits on the right bank of the Seine. It is the moment I’ve come to hate the most—this arriving at a new place for the night. The long moments of awkwardness strung out like pearls on a chain, each one plump with dread and embarrassment at the last-minute scramble to decide where to put me.
But this time, it seems to all have been decided beforehand, and an understeward escorts me past the queen’s apartments on the ground floor to a chamber on the first floor, where the king’s rooms are. It is a large, well-appointed room, the sort that would be assigned to a court favorite. It is less heavy feeling than most of the palace rooms. Perhaps because the rich curtains and wall hangings are of a softer blue, shot through with yellow. A large canopied bed dominates one wall, and an equally large fireplace the other. The third wall holds an oriel window—a true luxury.
The understeward’s gaze lingers briefly on my necklace before he bows out of the room. I have gotten somewhat used to the opulence of the French court after the last five years, but have never had it lavished on me. Not wishing to dwell on what it might mean, I cross to the window. It looks down into the palace courtyard, the stables and barns to the north, the armory and smithy to the south. The courtyard itself is full of vendor stalls—indeed, it is nearly a small market—set up to take advantage of the arrival of all the nobles with their easy coin. My stomach twists in hunger—not for what they are selling, but for the freedom of being outside wandering in a crowd, unwatched.
At the door I pause, trying to decide the best approach. In the end, I decide to brazen it out. I have not been forbidden to go anywhere. Yet.
I open the door and step into the hallway, smiling brightly at the guards. “I’m going to visit the market stalls,” I say as I begin walking. Gilbert gapes at me, then looks to Roland, unsure what to do. Before they can decide to stop me, I call out over my shoulder, “Well, are you coming?” I flutter my lashes. As always, Gilbert grows flustered and blushes, but it diverts his mind from protesting.
* * *
Outside in the courtyard, rubbing shoulders with pie sellers and ribbon vendors, fruit mongers and wine merchants, my skin pulls less tightly over my bones, and it is easier to breathe.
Gilbert and Roland are uneasy in the crowd. Not for fear of me wandering away, but simply because they are as out of place as a two-headed cat. Ignoring them, I peruse the bright silken ribbons fluttering gaily in the breeze.
A woman examining a length of green cord brushes against my skirts, then murmurs an apology. “I beg pardon, my lady. No offense.”
My hand on the ribbon stills. The voice is familiar and a jolt of recognition flares through me. While she now wears the gown and the headscarf of a serving woman, it is Valine.
As she slowly drifts over to the fruit seller’s stall, a hundred different possibilities run through my head, none of them pleasant.
With a quick glance at my constant shadows, I stroll after her, as if she is a serving woman I am familiar with. When I am close enough, I murmur, “What are you doing here? Is Maraud hurt?”
She shoots me a sideways look before directing her attention back to the fruit. “And why, I wonder, is that your first worry?”
I open my mouth, then realize I have no explanation. “Mercenaries lead dangerous lives, and he is not one to shy away from impossible odds. It is not so strange an assumption.”
She runs her finger along the skin of a golden late-winter pear. “No,” she agrees amiably. “But one could also conclude you had reason to think he might be injured.” Her gaze rakes over me, taking in my gown, my necklace. Her lip curls faintly.
She knows. She knows Maraud was not overcome with wine sickness, but that I had something to do with it. Mayhap he could not be bothered to exact vengeance himself and has sent her in his stead.
I, too, study the pears. “Do not play coy. It does not suit you any more than it suits me. I gave him a draft so he would not follow me and do something foolish. I am not trying to hide it from you.”
She looks up, weighing and assessing my words as surely as her fingers weigh and assess the pear in her hand. She lightly drops it back into the basket. “Now, that does sound like him. And no, he is not dead or injured or even fighting a chill.”
“Then why are you here? And how did you find me?”
“He saw you in the procession this morning. He was most . . . surprised.” The sideways glance she casts confirms my suspicion that that word was not her first choice. “He wishes to speak with you.”
My heart lifts even as my stomach drops, and a dozen different thoughts and possibilities crowd into my head. I resist the urge to check over my shoulders for my guards. “Why?”
An amused smile plays about her lips. As much as I like her, my hand itches to smack it off her face. I pick up an apple instead.
“He wishes to learn about General Cassel before he approaches the court.”
Of course. Understanding is followed closely by an inexplicable disappointment. “It is a wise move. The general is in the deep confidences of the king.”
Valine swears softly. “Which makes this twice a fool’s errand, then.”
“You do not approve of his desire for justice?”
“I highly approve of his desire for justice. It is his belief that he can find it at court that causes me to think he has exchanged his brains for a turnip.”
“It will not be easy,” I agree. “Cassel counsels the king in many things, not simply battle strategy.”
Valine sighs down at the pear, as if it is too poor a quality to purchase. “Well, he will not believe it from my lips—they have said as much a dozen times already. Perhaps he will believe it from yours. He suggested meeting tonight. There is to be a coronation ball, yes?”
“Yes, but—”
“He thinks that will provide the best opportunity for him to get onto the palace grounds and allow you to slip away from your . . . duties. Where shall I tell him to meet you?”
“There is no good place.” Nowhere that is safe from the king and his spies. Or the regent and hers.
“He said you might balk. If you did, I was to remind you that you owe him at least this much.”
“Do I? Even after I saved his life—four times—at Camulos’s Cup?”
She nods her head, conceding the point. “Sometimes anger makes us forget how the scales of justice are weighed.”
What should I tell her? To slip out and meet him risks destroying the fragile trust I am trying to build with the king.
As if that is not already lying shattered at my feet.
The king has not visited me in over two weeks. It is possible that, having punished me, he is done with the matter.
“Although he would gut me if he knew I told you, Maraud thinks of you constantly.” Valine’s voice is soft with the affection she holds for him.
And I him, I want to say, but do not. However, my capacity for hope is larger than my ability to learn from my mistakes. “Very well. Tell him to meet me at—” My mind scrambles, trying to come up with a likely location where we won’t be discovered. “The smithy. And for the love of the saints, tell him to wear a disguise lest he be recognized.”
Valine turns her face to mine, all the amusement and humor gone. “And you, Lucinda? How are you faring?” Her genuine concern unnerves me.
I laugh, pleased that it does not sound forced. I feel Gilbert and Roland look at me. “How can you ask? I am settled in the richest court in the land, with every luxury at my fingertips.”
Her gaze seeks out the silver necklace at my throat. “That is no answer.” Then she disappears into the crowd, and I am left standing there, wondering if I am being given a chance to put things right or will make yet another foolish blunder.
Chapter 42
My guards murmuring, “Your Majesty,” is all the announcement I receive before the king arrives. My heart beats painfully against my ribs as I curtsy. Was I spotted in the courtyard talking to Valine? Surely, that would not be cause for remark.
When he waves me to my feet, I stand. “I am surprised to see you here, sire, but glad.” The entire point of this exercise is to encourage his company.
“I came to see how you find your room. Do you like it?”
I take in the enormous room and rich furnishings. “It is luxury far beyond any I have ever experienced, let alone expected.”
He clasps his hands behind his back. “I chose it myself,” he says with an almost shy pride. He wants me to like it. Cares what I think of his choice. “It is but a few doors down from my own chamber. With the queen and the coming babe, I thought it best if we met somewhere other than my apartments.”
A giddy little beat of hope thumps against my chest. The bond between us has held, in spite of my confession.
“Your discretion is most kind, sire.”
He smiles, then looks away, his gaze landing on the apple I hold in my hand. “Where did you get that?”
I motion to the window. “The courtyard is full of vendors and stalls. It felt good to stretch my legs after so many days of riding.” I hesitate. “I hope that does not displease you, that I visited the courtyard? My guards were with me the entire time.”
He saunters toward the window. “But of course you may have free rein of the palace and its grounds. Just remain within the palace walls.” To his credit, he does not even look at the necklace to warn me of our agreement.
I smile brightly, then follow him to the window. “There.” I point. “That is the woman with these honey sweet apples. And did you see the man with the little monkey in the silk doublet?” I am not flirting with him but trying to extend the moment of simple companionship a little longer. “There is a Flemish wine seller, silk ribbons of all colors, songbirds in little wicker cages, and even a dancing bear!”
He looks at me, glancing from my eyes to my cheeks, which grow pink under his perusal, and I realize I must present the very picture of pastoral, maidenly allure. He smiles wistfully. “I wish I could see it as you do,” he says. “The Princess Marguerite also took great delight in the world around her.”
He still misses her. Mayhap not as a betrothed, but as someone who had been his cheerful companion for nearly eight years.
“You can,” I say gently. “Come.” I tilt my head toward the door. “Let me show you all the simple delights your own courtyard holds.”
He smiles. “I would like that.”
Chapter 43
Sybella
Tonight is a crowning achievement, the queen’s shining face far brighter than any of the hundreds of candles they have brought in to light the grand salon. The king is at her side, polite and attentive. The two of them are surrounded by dignitaries and the highest nobles in France. The regent is not nearly far enough away for my liking, but at least she is not hovering like a macabre crow.
That role is reserved for the bishops and the king’s confessor, whom I do my best to ignore. They will not steal this victory from us, from her, for all that they have tried. The Bishop of Albi looks up just then, his gaze finding me across the room and narrowing in distaste. He whispers something to the confessor.
Refusing to let them dampen my spirits, I ignore them and examine the rest of the crowd, looking for Genevieve. Although I spend a few minutes searching, I see no signs of her. Surely the king has not confined her to her room. Just as I decide I will go check, Father Effram sidles up next to me.
“Lady Sybella.” His bright blue eyes focus on mine with such intensity that I am momentarily nonplussed.
“Good evening, Father. Have you seen Genevieve this evening?”
“Not yet. Perhaps she is in the chapel?”
“Gen? In the chapel?” I nearly laugh.
He shrugs. “I did say ‘perhaps,’ my lady. You have had good fortune finding those you seek there.”
I stare at his lively face a moment before his meaning becomes clear. “Oh!” I say, then hurry out of the room, trying with all my might to not break into a run.
* * *
The chapel is lit by flickering candlelight that reflects off the stained-glass windows and casts everything in jewel-toned shadows. In the front a lone man kneels in prayer, the width of his shoulders leaving little room for anyone else to join him there.
At my arrival, his head lifts, but he does not turn around until I am standing behind him. Slowly, he rises to face me, my heart nearly bursting from my chest at the sight of him. “You’re back,” I whisper, afraid to say it too loudly, lest I wake up and find it a dream.
“And you are well.” Beast’s pale blue eyes glow like the colored glass of the windows as he takes my hand. It fits inside his enormous callused one as neatly as a glove.
“I told you I would be.”
“You did.” His gaze does not leave mine. “But I have learned the world often has other plans for you than the ones you make.”
“I cannot be blamed for that.” I laugh as I draw him away from the nave toward a small room that opens up off the rostrum. I do not think anyone will be visiting this chapel tonight, but there is no reason to be careless.
“I make you laugh, do I?” he growls.
“Always.”
He peers down at me. “You are different. Lighter. As if you’ve clouds inside your skin instead of bones and blood.”
I rise up on my toes. “It is simply my joy that you are back.”
“It is infectious,” he murmurs, capturing my lips, as if he, too, wishes to be filled with clouds.
It is a heady thing, this moment, this kiss. For nearly six weeks, I have longed for this moment, even as I feared it might never come.
He pulls away just enough so that our eyes meet. “You missed me.”
I close the door behind us. “What makes you think that?”
“You did not even ask if the girls were safe.”
I snort and place my hands on his shoulders, savoring the rock-solid feel of him. “That is not because I missed you, but because I knew you wouldn’t be here if they were not.” It is truly a miracle to trust someone so very much. I pull his mouth back toward mine. “You are as dependable as the plague,” I murmur.
His hands move up to cradle my face. I close my eyes, savoring the roughness of his palms against my cheek. Savoring this sense of being cherished, of being precious.
Then his lips are on mine, and I revel in the feel of them, warm and soft, with
hunger lurking just beneath the surface. Hunger that is far more than simply the time apart, but speaks to the danger we have both been in, the desperate need to believe we would be safe until we could be with each other again.
“I love you,” I whisper. “I love the way you kiss and the way you touch me and the way you always, always see me. And accept whatever I am. Whoever I am in that moment. Truly, you are the gods’ greatest gift.”
He looks as if I have taken a poleax to his head. As if he has never expected such words from me. And perhaps he hasn’t. His face grows serious with the weight of his own emotions, his mouth parting slightly in surprise.
Before he has time to respond, I reach out, grab his head with my hands, and bring his lips to mine. He does not resist, his mouth hungry and warm, his wide hands coming around my waist, sliding upward and drawing me closer. My fingers relish the solid, implacable feel of his muscles beneath his linen shirt. Savor the hard planes of his stomach, the faint traces of the myriad scars that he wears as easily as that shirt. And heat. The man is like a smelting furnace. I gently nip his bottom lip and angle my head to deepen the kiss, swallowing the groan that escapes him.
It is like a dam breaking, and all that I have been feeling in the last hours, days, weeks, rushes at me in one giant wave that leaves me lightheaded, dizzy, wanting. Beast has seen me, at my worst and my best, and in those moments when I am both at once.
He not only welcomes those parts of me, but rejoices in them.
He pulls his mouth from mine, his lips working their way to my ear, nibbling and tasting. “Sybella.”
We want to take our time, to enjoy all the kisses we feared we would not have, to slowly welcome each other home—for wherever we both are is home—I know that now. But everything that I feel in that moment is so big and overwhelming that it cannot be contained in one body. I slip my hands around to his back, bringing him closer. He groans, then presses his entire body against mine so that I am engulfed by him, awash in sensation that licks at my skin like flames until I am utterly consumed.
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