Whatever this was. It seemed like an enormous amount of trouble over mere salt. Still, both Marguerite and the Bishop thought that it was important, and he had faith that they understood the matter better than he did.
Shane wondered if the White Rat could hear thoughts tangential to prayers. Well, if He could, He had probably heard much worse. He tried to refocus. Let the outcome, whatever it is, be the one that helps the most.
And if nothing else, let us not make things worse.
The door creaked, very softly. Shane’s eyes snapped open, but he knew the soft footsteps that came toward him.
“What do you have for me?” Marguerite whispered. “Anything useful?”
Her hair had slipped mostly loose from her braid, forming a disheveled knot, the ribbon dangling.
He had a sudden intense urge to comb it out with his fingers and braid it back in place, midnight line over midnight line.
Of all the things that we do not have time for…
“Are you all right?” he whispered, because they had time enough for that.
“Fine, fine.” She waved off the question. “What have you found?”
The first time that he’d killed a man, he’d wanted to be sick. The black tide had rolled back and he looked down at the corpse in front of him and his gorge had risen and then Stephen, who was only a little older but had been a soldier for a great deal longer, had grabbed his forearm and hissed,
“Later. You aren’t done yet.”
And he had choked it down and lifted his sword and the tide had rolled over him again and he had cut down more of the enemy. And later on, Stephen had held his hair while Shane puked up everything he’d ever thought of eating.
Marguerite had been a spy for as long as he’d been a warrior. Undoubtedly she knew all about waiting until later. The least he could do was respect her composure. So Shane nodded to her and told her, in whispers, that it was all invitations and that only one drawer was unlocked.
“Good work.” She pulled a thin metal implement from inside her bodice. “Extra boning,” she said, at his glance. “At least, that’s what it feels like on the outside.” Shane went to the door, setting his back against it lest anyone try to enter, and waited.
He thought that he was calm and composed, until he heard Marguerite whisper, “Come on, baby, right there…” and nearly jumped out of his skin.
She was talking to the locked drawer. Of course she was. Certainly not to him. Certainly not those words, right now, when she’d just been pawed over by some titled brute.
“There’s the spot,” she murmured, and popped the lock.
There were two more locked drawers. Shane wasn’t sure he’d survive if she had to talk to those locks, too.
What is wrong with you? How can you even think such a thing right now?
It was terribly wrong. The only thing he should be thinking right now was how to comfort Marguerite after an undoubtedly unpleasant experience and possibly how to murder the baron later.
I really need to figure out what that word for not feeling guilty enough is.
“Money,” Marguerite muttered, sounding slightly disgusted by the concept, and closed the drawer again. She bent forward to work on the next lock and he squeezed his eyes shut, because only an unchivalrous monster would stare at her backside while she worked. “Now, then…come on…there we go…just a little bit more…”
With his eyes closed, it was impossible not to imagine her whispering those words in his ear.
Impossible not to imagine what he might do that would have her saying such things.
She went to another man’s bed to accomplish the mission, and still you’re having these thoughts?
In his defense, they weren’t exactly thoughts. More involuntary images. He risked opening his eyes, and saw with relief that she was sitting up again.
She shuffled quickly through the papers she’d found, eyes scanning over the pages, then stopped.
Read the paper again. Her breath came out in a long sigh. “There,” she said, with clear satisfaction.
“That’s what we needed.”
She slid the papers back into the drawer and locked it. The third lock was almost perfunctory. She was clearly distracted—thank all the gods—because she did not attempt to sweet talk it. Instead, she cracked it open, rifled through the contents without much interest, and closed it up again. “Come on,”
she murmured, rising to her feet. “We got what we came for.”
Shane opened the door to the suite and stood like a wall, shielding her from the curious eyes of the servants. Their card game was still going, it seemed. They looked up, saw Shane, then looked down again.
Not the first time that a woman has left these rooms in silence. Nor the last, I suspect. But at least we got what we came for.
He let the door close behind them and hoped that the price had not been too high.
MARGUERITE TOOK a discreet path through the fortress, rather than a direct one. It was unlikely that anyone cared who warmed Malvertor’s bed, as long as the woman was no one of consequence, but there was a slim chance that someone might be watching her. Davith, for example. He does not entirely trust me, but how much does he know, I wonder? So she took the long way around, using the corridors on the outside walls.
Shane walked beside her, rather than behind. Marguerite glanced up at his profile. She had thought that she had learned to read him a little, but tonight he might have been a carving made of ice.
Embarrassment? Disapproval?
He damn well better not disapprove. I’ve got the information, and all it cost me was about thirty minutes with an unpleasant man who smelled like he was trying to cover up sweat with sandalwood.
Irritation flared in her gut. She knew that it was mostly at Maltrevor, but he wasn’t here and Shane was and the bastard wasn’t even able to look at her. Did he think I was as pure as he is? A virgin or a saint?
Who gave him the right to disapprove of anything I do, anyway? Or who I choose to fuck? He’s my bodyguard, not my chaperone. I could have a different man in my bed every night, and the only thing he has any right to do is check them for weapons at the door.
Chilly air puffed through the arrow slits on the outer wall. She wrapped her arms around herself more tightly. Her current outfit might turn her breasts into one of the wonders of the world but that was about all you could say for it, and the cloak had been chosen for concealment, not warmth. The night breeze cut right through the thin fabric and whipped it around her bare legs. Also, she’d taken off the damn shoes, which meant that her bare feet were becoming intimate with the flagstones.
Shane stopped and turned to face her.
“Marguerite…”
“What?” she asked crossly. “I chose to do this. Don’t start getting cold feet now.” Swear to god, if he decides to read me a lecture about my behavior, I’ll take that sword and give the stick up his ass some company.
“I’m sorry you had to do it,” he said. “I know there was no choice, but I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “It’s just the job. I’ve done it before. It’s all right.”
“It’s not—"
She groaned. She was not in the mood for this. “Shane, have you ever cleaned a privy?”