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.