Beast stares at the confessional wall. “He cannot be uglier than me.”
“Dunois did not say that he was. Only that you were of the same height and build, and that some of your features were similar.”
A low growl erupts from Beast. He tries to pull away, but our small quarters give him no room. The ugliness of what he is feeling seeps into the air around us. I can sense his withdrawing from me, like an animal wishing to be alone to tend his wounds, but I grab him and hold fast.
I open my mouth, but before I can speak, he brings his hand up between us, angling it toward the votives that light the confessional. “Do you see this scar?” He indicates the large, shiny red patch on the back of his wrist. “I gave it to myself the day my mother marched me to the paddock and forced me to watch a stallion covering a mare in heat. ‘That,’ she whispered with her sour breath, ‘is what your father did to me.’?”
I want to place my hand over his mouth, to halt the words that I know are causing him pain, but I do not. “Your mother was a vile woman.”
“She was gravely wounded—and it festered. That was the day I vowed to cut all traces of my father from me, like mold from a cheese.”
Unable to help myself, I run my finger along the shiny red patch. It looks like a burn.
“It turns out one’s lineage is harder to remove than a cheese rind. My sister found me and stayed my hand.”
I close my eyes and say a silent prayer of thanks to Alyse. Just one of many I owe her. I take Beast’s face between my hands and force him to meet my eyes. “Dunois told me all this so that I would be ready should you try to distance yourself from me. I will not let that happen.” His be-damned honor is so great, it would be just like him to do such a thing from some misbegotten sense of nobility or desire to protect me. “If you even try something so dumb-witted, I will have to stab you to prove that however monstrous you think your past might be, mine is every bit as much so.”
Tension radiates for a moment longer, then, like a thunderhead blown away by the wind, recedes. As he places his forehead on mine, a realization hits me with all the force of one of Arduinna’s arrows. It takes far more courage to love than it does to hate. And even more courage than that to have faith in that love. “If you are allowed to love a monster,” I whisper, “then so am I.”
* * *
On my way back to my room, I come face-to-face with the king himself. I do not know who is more surprised. I’d thought the heartbeat I sensed was Katerine’s again, but I was wrong. “Your Majesty.” I fall into a deep curtsy.
“My Lady . . . ?” His face is relaxed, pleasant even, and his manner friendly.
“Sybella, Your Majesty. I am Lady Sybella.”
“Ah, and what are you doing roaming the halls at so odd an hour?” He sounds more curious than suspicious.
“I fear I am a restless sleeper, made worse when cooped up too long. I walk the halls late at night to avoid driving my fellow ladies in waiting to distraction.”
The smile he gives me is bland, but his eyes speculative. “We have been poor hosts indeed if we are forcing ladies to wander the halls looking for sport.” I cannot tell if he is flirting or even aware of all the possible meanings his words have, but if so, it does not show on his face.
“I bid you pleasant walking, Lady Sybella.” And with that, he bows and moves past me, leaving the faint scent of lilacs and musk trailing in his wake.
?Chapter 62
Genevieve
sleep so deeply that when I open my eyes the next morning, I am disoriented. A moment later I jolt fully awake when the memory of the previous night falls on me like a hammer.
Lust was not a part of my plan. It is a decidedly bad idea. Even worse, this morning I feel as if a thin, complex web now connects the two of us more firmly than before. As if what we shared mattered.
My heart skitters in my chest. It cannot matter. I do not want to be connected to him any more than a farmer wishes to be connected to the sheep he is leading to market. Unwilling to face him until I have my wits and armor firmly in place, I glance over to see if he is still asleep.
His space is empty and panic spurts through me. Was it all a ruse? A way to lull me into lowering my guard? With frantic hands I reach for the pack that holds the antidote, relief pouring through me as my hand closes around the vial. He won’t have gone far. Not without the antidote.
Around me, the hall is still littered with sleeping bodies. A few industrious souls wander among them, nudging them awake. Ignoring the others, I rise and begin to dress. Just as I am pulling on my boots, a tall figure slips in from outside, moving purposefully toward my corner.
It is not until the man is a dozen paces away that I realize it is Maraud, and his beard is gone. When he sees me, he gives a rueful grin and reaches up to stroke his newly shaved cheek. “It itched.”
His hair, too, is wet. He must have risen early and found a bath house or barber. When I realize I am staring, I give an uninterested shrug. “That is too bad. It worked so well with your costume.”
“The wolf’s head covers most of my face, and what is not covered is cast in shadow.”
It does not matter that he is right. The bearded Maraud was rough and unkempt, a convenient reminder that he was—is—a prisoner. This beardless Maraud looks leaner, sharper, the fierce intelligence on his face even more plain. His rich brown eyes are even more commanding without the dark beard to distract from them.
The man has never been easy to ignore—not from the moment I first felt his heart beating in the dungeon—and this . . . this will not help matters. Surely the gods are testing me. Or punishing me. Or simply finding amusement at my expense.
I grit my teeth and reach for the vial of antidote. “Before you wander off again,” I say too sharply. “Let’s not forget this.”
His expression never changes, except perhaps for the left corner of his mouth, which twitches faintly, in amusement or disappointment, I cannot say. Surely if there were any connection between us, I would be able to tell such a thing.
* * *
We are a quiet group when we set out for the city of Angoulême. For one thing, the dark clouds have returned, and the day’s journey will be longer. But mostly, everyone has had too little sleep and too much wine.
Everyone except the children, both those who belong to the mummers and those from Jarnac who are tagging along for the first portion of our day’s travel. They leap and frolic and chase one another. It would be amusing if they were not so very loud and energetic.
Maraud handles the children good-naturedly. He is just approachable enough that they are able to work up the courage to try to tweak his wolf tail, but not so friendly as to rob them of the thrill of terror they derive from doing so.