Dark Triumph - LaFevers Robin (бесплатная регистрация книга .TXT) 📗
As he leans in closer, I do not move—I do not so much as breathe. I watch his lips as they draw nearer to mine, marveling at the shape of them, how there is the tiniest of dimples in the left corner of his mouth, so small you would not see it unless you were close enough to—his lips find mine. Warm, and softer than they’ve any right to be. I am awash in sensations that have nothing to do with relief or fury. I simply want. I want him, his strength, his honor, and his be-damned lightness of heart. I want to drink all those things up like honeyed wine from a goblet and have them fill me.
Unable to resist, I close my eyes and lean into him and let myself imagine that something between us is possible.
But it is not, not with all the secrets that exist between us still.
Slowly, with regret leaking through every pore in my body, I pull away. His eyes open, and they are filled with warmth. “How can you not be angry with me?” I whisper. “I deceived you repeatedly; nearly every word that passed through my lips was a lie.” I am desperate to put some sort of barrier between us or I fear I will throw myself at him like some simpering maid.
He heaves a great sigh, then steps away to lean on a nearby tree and take the weight off his bad leg. “At first, I was. Furious at being deceived and lied to. And by a d’Albret. It seemed as if the gods themselves were mocking me. Intending to stoke that anger, I went over everything you had said, everything you had done. And while your words may have lied, your actions never did. I have seen you in the harshest of circumstances, escorting a wounded man across the countryside while dodging enemy soldiers and hostile scouts with little thought to your own comfort or safety. You gave more thought to the miller’s daughter and the charbonnerie’s plight than your own well-being. And you killed d’Albret’s own men with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.”
I gape at him, unable to speak, as he lays out this new Sybella I hardly recognize.
He runs his hand over his head. “Once I got past being angry, I was outraged that you hadn’t trusted me enough to tell me the truth. But since I reacted precisely as you had feared, clearly I did not warrant that trust.” He grows serious once more. “But Sybella, I have seen you when there are hard choices before you, not these false choices of memory, and every time, you have chosen well. Chosen the path that helps the most people and hurts others the least. And that is why I bear you no grudge.”
Unable to help myself, I put my hand to his cheek, needing to be certain he is real and not some vision my overwrought brain has concocted. His skin is warm, and his whiskers rough beneath my fingers. “How did your heart grow so very big?” I ask.
A flash of something—pain and perhaps a touch of bitterness—shines briefly in his eyes, then is gone. “Because I have had no one to share it with since Alyse left.”
A shout goes up just then, followed by a ring of steel. A woman screams.
Beast pushes away from the tree and hurries back to the clearing as fast as his injured leg will allow. I lift my skirts and follow.
There is a fight brewing near one of the cook fires. Two charbonnerie women stand warily. I recognize Malina, but not the younger one. Erwan, Lazare, and Graelon have planted themselves in front of the women, like a shield. Facing them all are two of Beast’s soldiers, one with a shaved head, cold eyes, and a drawn sword. “God’s teeth,” Beast mutters as he limps forward. “What is going on?”
The soldier with the drawn sword never takes his eyes from the charbonnerie. “These men have insulted us by drawing their knives. I am only urging them to use their weapons.” His chest is thrust forward, like an angry rooster’s.
“We offered insult? It was you who slandered our wives and sisters by trying to drag them off to the bushes to slake your lust.”
The second soldier—Sir de Brosse—gives a lazy shrug. “Thought she was a camp follower. Didn’t mean any harm.”
Beast reaches out and thwacks him across the back of his very thick skull. “Keep your dagger sheathed, you idiot. There are no camp followers here.”
De Brosse’s eyes slide in my direction, and Beast takes a step closer. “That is the Lady Sybella. She serves Mortain, and unless you wish to be gutted like a fish, I suggest you show her—and all the women in this camp—the utmost respect.”
De Brosse grins sheepishly and bows an apology first in my direction, and then toward the charbonnerie women.
“Gaultier!” Beast snaps at the other soldier. “Put your sword away and see to the setting up of the tents.”
The man’s eyes linger on the charbonnerie until Beast grabs him by the scruff of the neck and shakes him. “My apologies. Sir Gaultier is hot-tempered, and Sir de Brosse has a weakness for women. It will not happen again. Not if they wish to remain in my command.”
Once Beast has escorted his errant soldiers away, there is an awkward silence. “Go on,” Erwan shouts to the onlookers. “You all have work to do. Get to it.”
I retreat to one of the trees and sit down at the base of its trunk to think, still unable to decide what I should do: stay, or return to Rennes and make my way to d’Albret.
I cannot help worrying that I have not earned this boon. But I am only human and not sure I can turn away from such a gift. Besides, if it were my destiny to bring down d’Albret, would I not have already done so in those long months in his household? Why should now be any different?
I long ago ceased believing that prayers did any good, but now it feels as if they have been answered. As if the hand of Mortain Himself has reached into my life, plucked me from my nightmares, and placed me where I most wish to be: at Beast’s side.
I decide to accept this gift the gods have offered me.
In the distance, a wolf howls. Let it come, I think. Beast will most likely simply howl back, and the creature will either turn tail and run or fall into line behind him, like the rest of us have.
Chapter Thirty-Six
THE RISING SUN HAS NOT yet shown its face when we get on the road, but at least it is no longer full dark. Even so, we walk the horses until the sun breaks over the horizon, then Beast gives the command to gallop, the urgency of our mission pressing at our backs.
Beast himself rides up and down the line, being sure to greet each man warmly or share some private joke with him. As he does, the men sit up straighter or square their shoulders, their hearts feeding on that encouragement as much as their bodies feed upon bread.
I think of my father, my brothers, and how they command men. They use fear and cruelty to whip them forward and bend them to their will. But Beast leads not only by example but by making the men hungry to see themselves as Beast sees them.
Just as I am hungry to believe I am the person he sees when he looks at me.
I am terrified of whatever is springing up between us.
Of just how badly I want it.
My own feelings for him began well before we reached Rennes, when he first told me he went back for his sister. But my belief that he wouldn’t—couldn’t—care for me in return created a moat of safety around my heart, and I had nothing to fear because the entire situation was impossible.
But now—now I look in his eyes and I see that he believes it is possible. Surely that is only because he does not truly know me. There are still things—momentous things—that I have kept from him. And while Beast is strong and his heart generous, I am not certain he is strong enough to love me and all my secrets.
I cannot decide if I should bury the rest of those secrets so deeply that they will never resurface or throw them in his face like a gauntlet. Better he hate me now rather than later when I have grown used to his love.
