I try to be honest with myself, to remember when I first started trusting him. was it before I began to have feelings for him? Or after?
It is clear the chancellor wants me to keep Duval under suspicion, which in and of itself makes me hesitate. I have no good reason for my reluctance and would be hard-pressed to justify this to the reverend mother. The truth is, while I take great pride in serving Mortain and the convent, I do not wish to be a political pawn of the chancellor’s.
The faint snick of the door pulls my thoughts away from the chancellor, and my pulse quickens as Duval slips into the room. “Ismae,” he says, then closes the door behind him. Instead of going to his customary chair, he makes his way toward me. Twin bolts of panic and anticipation shoot through me. Does he think to kiss me again? Pursue something more than a kiss? I hardly dare to breathe, waiting to see his intent.
when he reaches the bed, he looks down at me, his soft expression stealing the breath from my lungs. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” The word comes out in a whisper. I clear my throat. “The stitches hardly pull.”
"Excellent.” He gives a crisp nod, and I wonder if he will ask again to see how the wound is healing, but he does not. Instead, he lowers himself onto the small, thick rug on the floor and leans back against the bed. My whole body stills, and my heart beats even faster. His head is so close that I could reach out and touch his hair. what would it feel like beneath my fingers? I clench my hands into fists. “How was the hunt?” I manage to ask.
He smiles then. “Fruitful. I sent the Holy Roman emperor’s envoy a message late last night, suggesting it would be worth his while to attend the hunt. He did, and we were able to snatch a few moments together and arrange for a more formal meeting. This way, we evaded Gisors’s spies and lackeys.”
"Were none of them on the hunt?”
“I am sure they were, but since I had a few moments of private conversation with any number of men today, my discussion with the emperor’s envoy will not appear overly significant.”
“That is good then.”
“The Privy Council has called another meeting tomorrow. Isabeau has requested you attend on her while Anne and Madame Dinan are in the meeting.”
I study him with narrowed eyes. “Did you put her up to this as a means of having me close by?”
“No. Apparently she’s become fond of you all on her own. It seems you grow on a person,” he says dryly, then changes the subject. “And you? what did you learn today?”
“Nothing good, I’m afraid. Madame Dinan met with d’Albret and spent most of the meeting assuring him that Marshal Rieux would support him when the moment was ripe.”
He sighs. “I fear his duties as marshal are overshadowing his duties as Anne’s guardian. All he can see is d’Albret’s military might.”
“I also ran into the chancellor today. He was most aggrieved with me for wasting my time on d’Albret. He wanted me instead to focus on your mother and brother.”
“And me,” he says.
“And you,” I agree.
“Did you tell him we decided to work together in this?”
“No, I did not. It did not seem . . . wise, although I cannot say why I think so.”
“Your instinct is good. Better we keep our own counsel till we sort out this mess.” He begins to rub his forehead and I am filled with a desire to run my hands through his hair and soothe the pain from his brow. Instead, I tuck them safely beneath the coverlet, away from such temptations.
when he speaks again, there is a hint of amusement in his voice. “You cannot will it away, you know. Pretend it never happened.”
I open my mouth to ask what he means, to indeed pretend it never happened. Instead, I surprise myself by saying, “But I do not know what else to do with it.” My voice sounds small and lost, and I am grateful for the darkness of the room.
“It is not convenient for me either.” His voice is dry and he addresses his words to the fireplace.
“I imagine not,” I concede.
“However, it appears we have both been pricked by St. Arduinna’s arrow.”
St. Arduinna, the patron saint of love. Is that what he thinks is between us? And is the fluttering in my belly panic or joy? I cannot help but think uneasily of the false offering I made to her a few short days ago at St. Lyphard.
"We are both bound by other duties, other saints,” I remind him. “Our hearts are not ours to give.”
He turns his head to look at me then. “Is that what they teach you at the convent? That the gods demand the hearts from our bodies?”
“I fear it is what my convent expects,” I tell him. “They may train us in the arts of love, but in their minds our hearts belong firmly to Mortain.”
“I disagree with your convent,” he says. "Why give us hearts at all then?”