“Talking to the crows, my lady?”
Bertrand de Lur’s deep voice nearly causes me to jump. Instead, I use the startled movement to swing gracefully around and face him.
“That will earn you a reputation of witchcraft,” he says.
I tilt my head and smile mockingly at him. “Do they not say that already?”
He inclines his head, conceding the point. “Even so, it is not safe for you to be out here alone, my lady.” While his voice is rich and cultivated, there is something about the way he says my lady that makes the words feel like a slur. Or perhaps it just seems that way because his lust is so thick it reaches out and enfolds me like a mantle. How long has he felt this way?
“Where are your attendants?” he asks, his voice hard.
Even though I do not care for Jamette, I cannot surrender her to the threat I see lurking in his eyes. “I ordered them from my side. I have a headache and wanted fresh air.”
He glances around at the secluded section of garden, his eyes missing nothing. “I would think my lady’s beauty would attract a nightingale or a linnet, not a bedraggled crow.” He steps closer then, and for the first time I grow wary. Does he think me such damaged goods that he can take liberties without fear of reprisal from my father?
“It is not safe to be alone out here, not with all the men-at-arms we have posted. Any one of them might come upon you and be moved to take advantage of your unattended solitude.” He takes another step toward me.
Because I want to back away from him, I force myself to move forward until there is but a handbreadth between us. I gaze steadily into eyes. “Do you really think any of the men would be so foolish as to risk my father’s wrath in such a way? Surely they would not wish to see their guts strung up from the castle walls?”
There is a long moment of silence, then finally he nods. “Your point is well taken, my lady. Come, I am to escort you to your lord father.”
A cold trickle of fear slides into my belly. “Did my lord father say what he wished of me?” I hate myself for asking, for it shows my weakness, but I cannot help it. It is never wise to wander into d’Albret’s lair unprepared.
“He did not share his purpose with me, no.”
But he knows. I can see that knowledge in his eyes, and he looks for all the world as if he is gloating. I remember the convent’s order concealed in my sheath and permit myself a small secret smile as he takes my arm and we begin walking back to the palace.
The trip to d’Albret’s chambers lasts forever and puts me in mind of how a man approaching the gallows must feel. How long was de Lur watching me before he made his presence known? Did it appear to him as if I was just shooing away a crow, or feeding it, mayhap? Or did he see me take the message from the creature’s leg?
And what of d’Albret? Has he found some reason to tie me to the duchess’s escape? I was so careful. So very, very careful. I must continue to do everything in my power to assure him that I am committed to his cause so that he does not have his guard up when I am at last able to act. To force my mind away from its ceaseless worry, I anticipate all the ways I could kill d’Albret. It would be so satisfying to choke the life from him with a garrote around his fat neck. Or fillet his big white belly like a fish. But there is danger in those methods, for they require I get close to him, and he has uncanny strength and could possibly overpower me. Poison or a crossbow would be safest.
Too soon, we reach our destination, and Captain de Lur announces my arrival. Holding my head high and willing my heart to stop its wild, erratic beating, I step into the room.
Chapter Six
SUCH IS THE FORCE OF d’Albret’s presence that he’s managed to taint even the rich opulence of Duke Francis’s elegant palace. Everything, from the frescoes on the walls to the carved stag heads bursting from the overmantels, looks morbid and faintly threatening.
I sink into a deep curtsy. “My lord father, how may I serve you?” Because showing too much humility and blind obedience would ring false, I raise my eyes and allow them to fill with just a hint of mockery as they meet his cold, flat gaze.
“My prodigal daughter has deigned to pay me a visit. Where was she?” d’Albret asks the captain, his eyes never leaving mine.
“In the garden, talking to a crow.”
D’Albret arches one heavy black eyebrow, and I shrug as if mildly embarrassed. “My time at the convent of Saint Brigantia has given me an appreciation for wild things, my lord.” For that is the lie the abbess and I concocted to explain my long absence from d’Albret’s household: that I had retreated to the sisters of Brigantia for healing and training.
D’Albret snorts in disgust. “They have made you soft.” He turns to one of the guards at the door. “Go see if you can find this crow and catch it. Perhaps I will feed it to her for her supper.” A faint flutter of dismay moves in my breast, but hopefully the foolish bird will be long gone by now. If I am forced to eat my crow, of a surety I will spew it back up, and I will be certain to do so on d’Albret’s fine cordwain boots. The thought of that gives me some small measure of courage, and I am able to meet his gaze with true amusement in my own.
The guard bows once, then departs. “Search her,” d’Albret orders de Lur.
The captain glances uncertainly at d’Albret. At the count’s nod, de Lur slowly smiles, then moves to stand in front of me. The smirking pig puts his hands on my shoulders and then draws them down my arms, feeling every inch of my skin beneath the fabric of my sleeves.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of shuddering at his touch. Instead, I amuse myself by wondering if de Lur will try to stop me from fulfilling the convent’s order to kill d’Albret. If he does, I may have to kill him as well.
When his hand connects with the sheath strapped to my left wrist, his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “What is this?”
“’Tis but my knife, my lord. You would not expect a d’Albret to wander about unarmed?”
He starts to peel back my sleeve. “Careful,” I warn him. “The edge is most sharp.”
That gives him a moment’s pause. While he is still trying to decide if I have threatened him, I reach for my knife. As my fingers close around the handle, I carefully slip the tiny, rolled note against my palm before unsheathing the blade.
He glances warily at the sharp edge, then stuffs two fingers into the leather sheath at my wrist and begins poking around. I cast an annoyed look at d’Albret. “Is it seemly for him to enjoy it this much?”