My own hands have found their way to his chest. Frustrated by the rough woolen tunic that lies between us, I shove my hands beneath it and run them up the hard planes of his stomach. Sweet saints! The ridged muscle is like a washing board, his nipples flat and—his breath hitches—sensitive. I smile against his mouth. As urgent as both our movements are, there is no rushing, only hunger, a hunger to feel this and explore that. When at last he dips his hand inside my breeches and eases them down my hips, I nearly shout with joy.
This, I think, with my last coherent thought. This is what I want. My arms come up around his shoulders and my legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer and closer until we are nearly one, and a rhythm as ancient and sacred as that of the mummer’s dance captures us both.
?Chapter 61
Sybella
he next morning, Father Effram gets word to me that Beast has something to report. When pressed, he does not know if it is good news or ill, but he has arranged for us to meet in the servants’ chapel near midnight.
It has been days since I have seen Beast except across a crowded hall with fourscore of the French court and household attendants between us. Nearly twice as long since the night we last spoke together in private.
I did not think it would be this hard—?to see him, but be unable to speak with him. In retrospect, we were all woefully na?ve and underprepared for how hostile the regent would be to the queen and her interests. How foolish we were. How foolish was I! I know better than to believe in happy endings.
When I am only two corridors away from the chapel, I become aware of another heartbeat, drawing closer. At first I think it is Beast, but it is too light and rapid and not at all familiar. I search for a hiding place, my only choice a thick Flemish tapestry that decorates the wall. I slip behind it, praying the person is in such a hurry that they are not looking at the floor in hopes of discovering feet protruding from unexpected places.
The footsteps are light and graceful—a woman, then. But quiet also, as if she does not wish to be discovered any more than I do. Curious now, I place my finger on the edge of the tapestry and push it aside just enough to peer into the hallway.
She is walking away from me, but all my mornings spent studying the backs of the women’s heads pay off. It is Katerine. Interesting. I let the tapestry fall back into place. She so thoroughly rebuffed my overture in the garden that she has fallen off my list of potential fellow initiates. Perhaps this midnight visit of hers could change that.
I wait a hand span of minutes before continuing down the hall. There are fewer torches here, and the flickering glow from the candles in the chapel beckons me inside, where a familiar heart beats.
Beast kneels near the front, head bowed. His is the only heartbeat in the room. The realization that we are truly alone brings to mind all manner of longings—most of which are twice as sinful if contemplated inside a church.
At the sound of my approach, he stands and turns to face me. “Sybella.”
The chapel is empty, and small, and the gruff whisper feels loud and heavy in the stillness. Heavy with the weight of all the words we are not allowed to share while others are watching.
For one hopeful moment, I think he will draw me into an embrace, but he has too much discipline for that.
Beast nods his head toward the confessional. In the shadows of the chapel, his face looks careworn and tired. I want to take my hand and smooth the furrow from his brow. Instead, I follow him toward the stall. He opens the door and waits for me to enter. My heart gives a beat of joy when he does not enter the priest’s half of the confessional but follows me into the penitent’s side.
It is not meant for two people, especially when one of them is as large as Beast, but the closeness is most welcome. I can even pretend it is an embrace. “Is there word on the ambush?” I ask.
Beast gives a curt shake of his head. “None. But I have heard from Duval.” The faint rumble in his voice tells me this will not be good news.
“And?” I prompt.
“Crunard has escaped.”
I gape at him. “What? How?”
Beast shrugs, further straining our tight quarters. “He does not know. The old fox was simply not there one morning when the guard went to feed him.”
“Which means he must have had inside help. Again.” A thought that has long niggled in the deep recesses of my mind surfaces. “The timing is interesting, is it not, that Crunard tried to escape the day before Rohan arrived in Rennes? Could he have known he was coming and planned to hide until he arrived?”
“That is what Duval thinks.” Beast’s arm twitches, as if he longs to run it over his head, but there is not enough room.
“The question is, was Rohan committed to helping Crunard find his son, or was there some other factor at play?”
Beast shakes his head. “Both have lost sons. Perhaps he feels for the man.”
We are quiet as we try to sort out what hidden game is being played. “Have you any word on Anton?” I ask.
“None.” He smiles grimly. “I did not claim to bear good news. However, the general who was on the field the day he was taken by the French has been recalled from Flanders to attend upon the king. Perhaps he will know something.”
“You would ask him outright?”
“If we have no more answers than we do now, I will have to. Has the queen given any more thought to simply asking the king?”
I bark out a laugh and tell him of the disaster when she asked about Rohan’s appointment. “And she has not seen him since. So not only is she uncertain of his answer, but she must worry that another question will drive him even further away.”
Beast swears, then falls silent again. The small compartment grows thick with our joint frustration. Now, I think. Now that he is contained in a small space and cannot go anywhere.
“Beast,” I murmur, wrapping my arms around him and pressing my cheek against the soft wool of his doublet. “Did Captain Dunois talk with you about . . . about someone you might run into here at the French court?”
Beast pulls away—or tries to, but there simply isn’t room. “No.”
Sweet Jesu. I press my cheek more firmly against Beast’s chest, fair burrowing into him so that he has no choice but to put his arms around me.
“Why? What did he say?” His voice is thick and rough with his grief over Dunois’s loss.
“He wanted you to know that your father”—Beast’s entire body grows rigid —“is still a part of the king’s inner circle. He wanted you to know that you might one day run into him.”
“I have no father.” Beast’s voice is like two rocks rubbing together.
“Captain Dunois was not talking about Lord Waroch, but the man who sired you.” My voice is as gentle as I know how to make it, but a thick wall begins to grow between us. “He meant to tell you himself,” I rush to explain. “But you were out looking for Pierre, and once you returned, it was time to leave for France. He simply ran out of time. But he didn’t want you to run into the man at court and be caught unaware.”
“How could he have been so certain?” Beast’s voice is achingly hollow. “My mother claimed she did not even know his name.”
Such an easy lie to tell a child. “Dunois said the man was not shy about speaking of the ravages of war he had visited upon the lady of the manor. And that there were physical similarities that might stand out.”