Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)

Pulling my knives from my sleeves, I rush forward, panic pounding in my breast. when I round the final corner, I see the duchess backed against the wall and d’Albret looming over her. One of his hands is braced on the wall, trapping her. The other grabs at her skirts as she furiously tries to bat him away.

At the sight of his filthy hands on her, fury explodes in my heart, and a red mist rises up before me. I must make a sound, because d’Albret jerks his head up and swears. He snatches his hands away from Anne as if he’s been burned. The duchess sags in relief against the wall, her face pale as death.

D’Albret’s eyes widen at the sight of my daggers, and he holds his arms out wide, far away from his sword. “Do all Duval’s mistresses walk about armed to the teeth?”

My eyes never leave his face. “Surely it does not surprise you that Duval does not cavort with simpering maids.”

His tone turns cajoling. “Now, demoiselle, my betrothed and I were merely having a private moment. It is not so very unusual as all that. There is no need to overreact.”

“I am not your betrothed,” Anne tells him coldly. Her face is pale, but her voice is strong and steady, and I have never been more proud of her. “I have no memory of signing that agreement, and I have written to both the pope and the ecclesiastical council asking that it be nullified.”

D’Albret whips his head back to Anne. Something frightening glitters in his eyes. “Be careful, little duchess, for I will not give you many more chances to spurn me.”

“I will never marry you.” Her voice is low and furious.

I take a step closer. “You heard Her Grace. She has given you her answer. Now move away.”

with one last furious glance at Anne, d’Albret turns his attention back to me. “You are making a grave mistake.”

“Am I?” I draw even closer, my eyes searching desperately for the marque of Mortain. Surely assaulting the ruler of our duchy counts as treason. But there is no marque on his forehead, nor on his neck above his fur-lined collar. Perhaps that is not where his deathblow will be. Perhaps Mortain intends for him to be gutted like a fish.

Before I have fully thought it through, I reach out and slash at him. His scarlet doublet parts like a wound, exposing his fat white gut. It is pallid and covered in coarse black hair, but there is no marque. A thin red line wells up where the tip of my knife has scored his flesh.

Disbelief and rage clouds his face, and his eyes burn with something that looks like madness. He reaches for his sword, but I bring my dagger down on his hand. “I do not think so.”

His eyes narrow, and the rage in them nearly flays the skin from my bones. “You will pay dearly for this.” The cold flatness of his voice is somehow more terrifying than his fury.

Footsteps sound behind us and d’Albret looks up. Fearing some trick, I do not remove my gaze from his face, but my shoulders itch in warning.

“Madame Dinan!” Anne calls out, her voice hitching in relief.

The governess ignores Anne and hurries toward d’Albret. "What have you done, you stupid girl?” she asks me.

“I have kept our duchess safe. what have you done, madame?” Our eyes meet and she knows that I see just how heinous a betrayal this has been. The duchess catches the accusation in my voice and takes a step back from her governess, her features stark with disbelief.

I am unable to act against either of these two traitors, and my temper flares. “Get out.” I gesture with my knives. “Both of you.” I make no effort to hide the contempt I feel for them.

“But the duchess . . .” Madame Dinan starts to say, then trails off.

In that moment, the balance of power shifts. I have caught her in an act of rank betrayal, and she knows I can use this against her. “I will tend to the duchess. You, my lady, have lost that privilege.”

Dinan’s nostrils flare. She raises her chin and glares down at her charge. “If you had but listened to your advisors, Your Grace, and not acted like a stubborn child, all of this could have been avoided.”

“And if you had but honored the sacred trust placed in you by the duke,” I point out, “this could have been avoided.” I wave my knives as if I am about to lose my patience, which in truth I am. “Go.”

D’Albret pulls his tunic over his belly and holds it in place with his arm. “You have just made the biggest mistake of your short life,” he says. “Both of you.” He turns and storms down the hallway. with one last reproachful glance at the duchess, Dinan follows the count, fluttering nervously behind him.

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