Dark Triumph - LaFevers Robin (бесплатная регистрация книга .TXT) 📗

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, his face growing serious. “Sybella, with all that you have endured at the hands of men, you do not have to do this. You do not have to give your body to earn my love. It is already yours.”

“I know,” I whisper. “But I would go to my death having truly loved at least once.”

He rises to his feet and crosses the short distance between us. I always forget how much he towers over me. Most likely because I never look upon him with fear. His hand comes up to smooth the hair back from my face, as if he would see it—me—more clearly. That simple gesture makes me feel more exposed than standing here in naught but my shift.

“I want you to be with me for the right reasons. Not because you feel you must or because you fear we will die, but because you want it with your heart and your body.”

I stare into his eyes—eyes that are only part human, just as I feel only partly human. If ever there was a man who could understand—and accept—the darkness in me, it is Beast. “Who better to entrust both to than the mighty Beast of Waroch?”

He pulls me closer, his gaze drifting down to my lips. I am surrounded by the heat from his body, can feel his heart thundering in his chest. He lowers his head until our lips are almost touching. When he hesitates, I rise up on my toes to close the distance between us and press my lips to his. Our kiss is sweet and raw and full of hunger. My hunger. His hunger. A hunger born of two lifetimes.

It is also full of rightness. Such blessed rightness. No dark ribbon of shame unfurls inside me. No voice screams No inside my head. I do not have to close my eyes and pretend I am a hundred leagues away.

His hand moves downward, his fingers trailing along my neck, and I savor the rough feel of his callused hand, marvel that a hand that has such a capacity for killing can also be so gentle. His other hand encircles my waist, then slowly skims up my ribs, stopping just before he reaches my breast. He rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard. “Are you certain?” he whispers.

That is when I hear it, the faint note of disbelief in his voice. “I have rarely been more certain than I am in this moment,” I say.

Then his mouth is back on mine and the carefully banked heat that has smoldered between us for so long erupts. Still, no darkness threatens to claim me. Instead, true desire, as uncertain and ungainly as a newborn colt, awakens in my body. My own limbs become unfamiliar, my movements uncertain. I, who have only ever been practiced and skilled. But I do not care, for all that has come before is but a distant memory. All that matters is us. Only us. This moment. His hand on my body. The mingling of our breath. Our hearts that are so close they now beat as one.

With a dizzying swoop, he picks me up and cradles me in his arms, surprising a laugh out of me. “What are you doing?”

He grins. “I’ve always wanted to carry a fair maid away and ravish her.”

“Methinks you should reconsider who is ravishing whom,” I murmur, surprised at how much I enjoy the sensation of his arms around me, of being carried.

When we reach the bed, he gently lays me down, his eyes drinking me in. And even though it is his trick, to see into my soul, in this moment I see into his—his doubts and uncertainties—and see that I want this. That I want him. I reach up and take his hand, pulling him down beside me. “If you do not know how to ravish, I will gladly teach you.”

He laughs then, and once again I place my mouth on his, letting his laughter fill all the dark places inside me.

And then the laughter fades, and for a brief moment, I am reminded of the charbonnerie’s stories and feel certain that it is not Amourna, or even Arduinna, who blesses our night together, but the Dark Mother Herself, with Her gift for new beginnings.

I awake in the morning with Beast’s thick arm wrapped tightly around me. It reminds me for a moment of one of the roots of the great trees in the forest that anchor them to the earth.

I know I should wake him, that we have an urgent, impossible task before us, but I am hungry for one more moment, wanting to savor the magic that has taken place between us. Oh, it is not the magic that the poets speak of in their love poems, but a different, far stronger magic.

I stare down at his face. It has not grown more beautiful since I first found him, festering in the dungeon, and yet it is more dear to me than my own.

His eyes open just then, and he catches me studying him. “What?” His early-morning voice is gruff, like two rocks being rubbed together.

“I was wondering, since I have kissed you three times now, if you might turn into a handsome prince.”

At the sight of his quick, easy grin, I feel my heart dance in my chest.

“Alas, you are still stuck with a toad, my lady.”

“Ah, but it turns out I am quite fond of toads.” I lean down and kiss his nose, surely one of the silliest things I have ever done, but I do not care. “Even toads who sleep the entire day away.” I plant one more kiss upon his face, then force myself from the bed.

I do not even mind that he watches me dress.

When I reach the kitchen, Lazare looks up from the knife he is sharpening, his keen eyes missing nothing, so that I feel almost naked before him.

“Someone is happy this morning,” he smirks.

“Someone is eager to feel the kiss of cold steel before he’s even broken his fast.”

His smile widens, for the fact that I have not already pulled my knife on him only serves to prove him right.

“Don’t you have a cart to fetch or something?” I ask.

He nods toward the window. “It’s here already. Some of us didn’t laze about all morning.”

I look outside and see three other charbonnerie and a cart full of charcoal. Our means to gain access to the city has arrived. “Well then. Let’s get going.”

The strategy that worked so well when we traveled to Rennes serves us equally well here. In no time at all, I have tucked my hair up under a coif and smeared a thin film of coal dust over my face and hands. My altered appearance will render me nearly invisible, for guards pay little attention to lowly peasants and even less attention to the shunned charbonnerie.

But Beast’s huge stature is far too recognizable. This time he is laid in the cart, covered with rough hempen cloth, then buried under a layer of charcoal. Lazare fashions some sort of vent through which he can breathe.

We pass through the city gates and receive nary a second glance, and Lazare steers us directly to a blacksmith he knows, a fellow, he assures us, who will be most happy to give us aid. Even though he is not closely allied with the charbonnerie, he certainly does not bear any love for d’Albret or his occupation of the city.

With the first part of our plan successfully behind us, it is time for me to get cleaned up so I may pay a visit to the convent of Saint Brigantia that sits just across from the palace.

Chapter Forty-Seven

I AM SHOWN IMMEDIATELY TO the abbess’s chamber, where she waits for me at her desk. She is a large woman, nearly as tall as a man, with a high, intelligent brow and heavy-lidded eyes. I am shown in, and she motions for the novitiate to close the door on her way out, then leans back in her chair and studies me.

“What does one of Mortain’s own daughters want from those who serve Brigantia?”

“I do not come on official business, Reverend Mother, but to ask for your aid in rescuing two young girls. They have been taken by Count d’Albret and I fear for their welfare.”

“As well you should,” she mutters.

“In order to get them to safety, I must gain access to the castle. A Brigantian habit would provide a most excellent disguise and allow me to enter the palace without scrutiny.”