He looks at me, a faint, pained accusation in his gaze. It is all I can do not to squirm under that look. There is no rule that says I must play fair. In fact, there are not any rules for this situation.
Besides, it will make a most excellent test. If he obeys the rules of today’s game, he will have come just that much closer to proving to me that he is a man of his word. And if he does not, I am well prepared for that.
After a long hesitation in which I hear every word of his silent protest, he slowly raises his arms. I slip the rope from my belt, intending to loop it around his wrists, then stop. “What are those?”
He tries to tug his sleeves back down. “Manacles. I told you they had bound me.”
“Yes, but I thought you’d meant with rope.” Not these thick iron bands that encircle his wrists. Wrists that are rubbed raw and red. My gaze springs back to his face. “Why did you hide them?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t hide them so much as use the sleeves to buffer the chaffing. The darkness of the oubliette did the rest.”
He is right. The one time his wrists were close enough to see clearly, I was distracted by the wooden blade he held at my throat.
“Besides, displaying my manacles did not seem as if it would earn your trust.”
“Well, hiding them hasn’t helped. Where is the chain?”
He waves vaguely toward the oubliette, the iron band slipping down to bump against his hand. “On the floor down there.”
I remember his feral smile when I commented that he was no longer bound. “How did you get it off?”
He runs a hand over his head. Unable to help myself, my gaze follows the manacle. I cannot unsee them. “Where the chain attaches to the cuffs is the weakest link. I used a small piece of stone, or rock, or bone—whatever I could find—and just tapped and hammered and pried until it came loose. There wasn’t much else to do.”
Such determination! What drives a man to such patience and persistence—to eat rats, to exercise his body even as he grows thin from near starvation, to chip away at the impossible?
“I can make you a salve.”
“What?”
Not sure who is more shocked by my offer, I gesture to his wrists. “For the chafed spots. Now,” I say gruffly, “give me your hands.”
I can feel the heaviness of his gaze on me as I tie the rope to the manacles—his wrists are too raw—but I keep my attention on the knot I am tying. “There.” I step back. “Clearly it will not hold you for long, but that is not the point of this endeavor.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “You are the one making up the rules.”
I take a deep breath, savoring the feel of that. “Exactly. Now”—I pull another length of rope from my belt and wrap an end of it around each of my hands—“today we are going to—”
“Strangle me?”
“I like to pretend it is a garrote, but yes, that is the thrust of it. I have not practiced these moves in quite a while and need to refresh myself on them.”
He folds his arms. “And why does a supposed noblewoman need to practice how to garrote a man?”
I widen my eyes. “Why, to defend herself, of course. You know how eager men are to prey on helpless women. What choice have I but to learn to fend off an attack of any sort?”
He lifts a finger. “But the one holding the garrote is usually the one attacking.”
I wave away his point. “Not always. Sometimes in close quarters, a garrote is the easiest weapon to get into place.”
He continues to study me, his fiercely intelligent eyes mulling me over as his mind gnaws on the puzzle I present. He steps away from the wall with a sigh. “What am I to do?”
“Stand facing me as if we are having a conversation.”
“What are we talking about?”
“That doesn’t matter! It is just the position you are to assume.”
“Very well.” He squares his body, feet slightly separated in a well-centered stance.
I nod. “Perfect.” I glance up at his face. “Although, if you wanted to talk about something, you could tell me why the captain of the duchess’s army would know a mercenary’s name.”
As he opens his mouth to respond, I step in close, use my elbows as leverage, and come up behind him with my rope tight against his neck. Yes! This is exactly how we did it in practice at the convent. In the next moment, however, there is a swooping sensation deep in my belly, and before I know it, I am airborne, passing over Maraud’s shoulder toward the floor. The only things that keep me from landing flat on my back and knocking all the air from my lungs are Maraud’s hands.
“Rutting figs.” That is precisely what Sister Thomine did whenever I put too much weight on my front foot. When I open my eyes, I find Maraud peering down at me.
“Captain Dunois made it a point to know the men who fought under his command.”
I ignore his outstretched hand—and his answer that tells me nothing—and spring to my feet. “Let’s try again.”
It takes me three turns at being airborne before I finally manage to center my weight correctly and anchor myself with my back foot. When I get the rope around his neck the fourth time and he is unable to budge me, I crow. “Ha!
He glances over his shoulder at me, slightly out of breath. “You are nothing if not persistent.” He smiles, his face full of good humor and admiration. In that moment, I become exquisitely aware of my arm still around his neck, his heart beating just under my elbow. Damp heat rises from his body. No doubt a similar heat is rising off of mine. Our position is far closer to an embrace than a fight.
I scramble to untangle myself from him, stepping away as quickly as I can—but not so quickly that he will suspect why. “It is time for me to go.”
He says nothing, but raises one eyebrow at me so that I want to smack it clean off his face. “Hurry.” I start to yank on the rope, then bite back a huff of annoyance as I remember the manacles. “I have spent too long down here already, and I will be missed.”
When we reach the oubliette, I untie his wrists so that he may climb down. When he has reached the bottom, he starts to say something, but I slam the grill shut, the loud clang of it drowning out his words.
* * *
My heart beats too fast and not, I think, from exertion. I can still feel the weight of Maraud’s hands on my body, the heat of him through the fabric of my sleeves. Still feel the dampness of our sweat.
Of all the times for lust to rear its vexing head, surely this is the most inconvenient.
I probably smell of him as well. Which means I will need to slip up to my room and wash before I join the others in the solar.
That realization has me quickening my pace, not wishing to be gone any longer than I already have.
Just as I emerge from the dungeons into the antechamber at the base of the stairway, I stop, shocked to see Louise herself halfway down the stairs. Her eyes widen as I emerge from the hallway. “There you are!”