“My pleasure, milord,” I say. He nuzzles my ear to seal our agreement. while pretending to play with the hair at the nape of his neck, I slip the bracelet from my wrist. Just as his nuzzling starts to move dangerously low, I yank the hidden wire from the bracelet. Before he can guess what is happening, I loop it around his neck, spin out of his embrace, step around to his back, and pull tight, a move I have practiced with Annith a hundred times.
His hands scrabble at his neck, tearing at the silver wire. The sounds he makes are ugly and desperate and fill me with uncertainty. Then I remember that this man is betraying my country, my duchess, and I pull tighter, praying to Mortain for strength.
He grants it. After a short but spirited struggle, Martel sags against me. Before he is completely gone, I lean in and put my lips to his ear. "We punish those who betray our country.” My words are as soft and tender as a lover’s caress, and Martel shudders as death claims him.
Just as I relax my grip, a thick warmth rises up from his body and rubs against me, like a cat rubbing its owner’s leg. Images fill my mind: a fleet of ships, a sealed letter, a heavy gold signet ring, my own breasts. The warmth swirls briefly within me, then dissipates with a sudden whoosh, leaving me chilled and shaken.
What in Mortain’s name was that?
His soul.
The words come unbidden. Almost as if someone else — the god, perhaps? — has spoken them.
Why has no one at the convent warned me of this? Is this one of the glories of Mortain that Sister Vereda spoke of? Or something else? For I cannot decide if I have just been violated in some way or granted a sacred trust.
But I have no time for reflections. I shove my questions aside and brace myself against the man’s body, trying to balance his weight as I unwrap the garrote from his neck. I wipe it clean on his doublet, then retract the wire into the bracelet. with both hands free, I prop the body up against the window and peer down to the courtyard, praying that the cart Chancellor Crunard promised is there.
It is.
I grasp the traitor by his collar and begin the difficult task of shoving his body through the window.
For a small man, he is surprisingly heavy. I struggle with his dead weight, trying to maneuver it onto the casement. After a final heave that leaves me breathing hard, the lifeless body tumbles from the window. There is a moment of silence, then a thud as the body hits the waiting cart. I peer out in time to see the
driver lift the reins and urge the horses forward.
I do not know where he will take the body or what he will do to keep it concealed, but that is not my task.
Flushed and shaky after my brush with Martel’s soul, I long to sit down in one of the chairs and compose myself. Or fall to my knees and pray for understanding. But I must get back to Crunard so we may take our leave.
I push away from the wall and move toward the door, then hear a footstep in the corridor outside. Too late! Someone is coming. Baron Lombart, perhaps? Hoping to meet with Martel? I try to think. Should I seduce him or kill him? Of course I would prefer to kill him, but I cannot — not unless he tries to kill me or I see the marque.
The latch on the door lifts and I step back a few paces, gripping my arms and hunching my shoulders, already slipping into the role I must play. Once again, anticipation burbles through me. Or perhaps it is panic.
When the door opens I cry out, “JeanPaul? what took you so long? I’d almost given up on — oh. You are not JeanPaul,” I say accusingly.
“No,” he says, then closes the door softly behind him. “I am not, but perhaps I can help you,” he offers.
And indeed, he is not JeanPaul, nor Baron Lombart. This man is much taller than the baron, and where Lombart had gone to fat, this man is all lithe muscle. His rich brown cloak is clasped in place with the silver oak leaf of Saint Camulos, the patron saint of battle and soldiers. Under that he wears an unadorned black doublet that is elegant in its simplicity. He steps farther into the room, and I begin to feel trapped. Afraid of what his sharp gray eyes will see in my face, I fold my arms so that my breasts rise up enticingly.
“As you are not JeanPaul, I do not think you can help me.” Even as I speak, my eyes search his face, his neck, praying for the marque that will allow me to dispatch him. But there is none. Or none that I can see.
“But I am here and he is not.” The man’s eyes, as dark and shifting as storm clouds, roam over my body, but there is no heat there. His keen gaze dismisses me and moves to the window. I take a step closer to distract him.
“Ah, but I do not wish to play JeanPaul false, my lord, even though your charms are many.” In truth, he is not charming so much as dangerous, and I would have said anything to turn his attention from that window.
Almost as if reading my thoughts, he crosses to it and peers outside. I hold my breath. Sweet Mortain, please let the cart be gone from the courtyard!
The man’s regard flicks back to me, cutting straight to the bone. “You wound me, demoiselle. I am sure I could make you forget all about JeanPaul.”
Still playing the coquette, I tilt my head to the side, but something is wrong. He is saying the right words, but his eyes do not match his flirtatious tone. A deep note of warning sounds inside me.