I stare at his hand, its thick, blunt fingers and multitude of scars and nicks. Unable to resist, I slide toward it, wondering what that hand would feel like resting on my shoulder.

“I knew that you would miss me.”

It is only a lifetime of training that keeps me from leaping to my feet at the sound of Beast’s voice. I snort to mask the small noise of surprise that escapes my throat. “I did not miss you. Merely wanted to be sure my effort in getting you here wasn’t wasted.”

“They drugged me,” he says with mild outrage.

“Because you were too stupid to lie still and let your body heal.”

“You didn’t drug me,” he points out.

“Because I had to get your maggoty carcass from one end of the country to the other. Once we arrived, trust me, I would have drugged you too.”

“Humph.” We are both quiet a moment, and then he asks, “What of the duchess?”

“She will no doubt come visit you herself. As will Duval and the entire small council, most like.”

He shifts uneasily and plucks at the covers on his bed. “I do not wish to receive them like this. Trussed up like a babe in swaddling.”

“To them you are a hero, and they wish to thank you for your sacrifice.”

He makes another rude noise.

“Are you certain you are not an ox in disguise?” I ask.

In answer, he just grunts again. “I am surprised they have not sent you off to rescue some other fool knight while I slept.”

“Not yet.”

“If they are not careful, soon they will have men locking themselves in dungeons so that you can rescue them.”

“Then they shall undoubtedly perish, for I would not go through that again.”

“Where is Yannic?”

“Camped just outside the convent walls. Except for patients, no men are allowed inside.” I wait to see what his next question will be, then hear a faint rumble from his chest. He has fallen asleep. I allow myself a tiny smile, for if he is well enough to spar with me, then he is well enough to live. I settle myself more comfortably on the floor and promise I will stay only a few more moments.

I awake some time later from a dreamless sleep. As I blink, I see that the flames in the lamps are sputtering as the oil grows dangerously low. Not quite morning yet. I feel the heavy weight of Beast’s hand still on my shoulder, then slowly inch myself out from under it, not wanting to wake him.

Not wanting him to know precisely where and how I spent the night.

I pause outside the convent and turn toward the city gate. I could leave now. I could simply walk down this street to the city gate, go across the bridge, and be gone from this place forever. No more abbess. No more threats of d’Albret.

But the stark truth is, I have nowhere to go. No home to return to, no kin to offer me shelter, and the convent will no doubt be closed to me now.

I could work as a tavern maid—if they would hire me. In troubled times such as these, people are reluctant to trust strangers.

I could even seek out Erwan and throw my lot in with the charcoal-burners. Or return to Bette and marry one of her sweet, eager sons. I could control either of them well enough.

Except they have sworn to fight at Beast’s side in the coming war.

The grim reality of my situation nearly makes me laugh. I am beautiful and educated and have all manner of useful—and deadly—skills, but all of that together is worth less than a bucket of slops.

I pull my cloak close around me against the chill breeze and continue across the bridge. As I draw near the gatehouse, I quickly rearrange my weapons, making sure that the dagger at my waist is clear and visible and that my wrist sheaths peek out from under my sleeves. Better that they think I was out on an assignment for Mortain than suspect I spent the night curled at the feet of the Beast like a mournful dog.

The guard on duty nods, his eyes taking in my habit and my weapons, and waves me through. The convents of the old saints seem to receive proper respect here in Rennes.

I reach my chambers and am relieved to find them empty. Too tired to remove my gown, I simply loosen the laces, climb into bed, and draw the bed curtains closed to block out the morning light. I pray that no one will have need of me for the next few hours, for I will be useless until I can get some sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Six

A SHORT WHILE LATER, I am awakened by a knock on the door. A little serving maid enters, carrying fresh water for washing and the news that I am expected to attend the duchess’s council meeting.

That summons prods me from my bed and into my clothes like few other requests could, for the truth is, I am sorely anxious to discharge all I know and be rid of it.

When a second knock sounds at the door, I hurry to open it and find both Ismae and Lord Duval waiting outside. I cannot decide whether to be flattered or worried at the nature of this escort, but Ismae gives me a warm greeting, and Duval’s eyes are friendly enough, which eases my mind somewhat.

Duval bows formally to me. “We would like to hear a full report of all that transpired in Nantes, if you can bear to tell it.”

“But of course, my lord,” I say, then step into the hall. Ismae gives me a reassuring wink.

Duval leads us to a more formal chamber than the one I was in last night. The two sentries nod in greeting when they see him, and step forward to open the door.

Even though I have bathed and now wear clean clothes, I still feel dirty in some way I cannot name, as if the taint of being a d’Albret will never leave. The maps have been put away, and instead there are flagons of wine set upon the table, as well as fine silver goblets.

My eyes are drawn immediately to a corner of the room near the head of the council table. Beast is here. They have brought him over on a litter and have rigged some sort of chair and stool for him so he can sit with his leg elevated. He is none too pleased about it and keeps trying to stand up. “I should not be sitting in the presence of the duchess,” he grumbles.

The nun in the blue habit of Saint Brigantia patiently points out that all the other councilors and advisors do.

“But I am a mere knight, not a councilor.”

“Well,” the duchess herself says, putting the matter to rest, “you are now. I appoint you, Sir Benebic Waroch, to my high council so you may advise me on how best to win this war. What say you?”

The look of surprise on his face is near comical. “I humbly accept, Your Grace.” He moves to stand and bow, but the nun pushes him back in the chair.

The duchess turns to me. “I trust you are more comfortable now,” she says kindly.

“Yes, Your Grace. Thank you for your consideration.”

“It is the least I can do for one who has served me so well.” She motions to Duval, who shows me to a chair of my own and hands me a goblet of wine. I take it, glad to have something to hold, and glance uneasily at the others in the rooms, some of whose names I do not even know.

Catching the drift of my thoughts, Duval says, “Perhaps some introductions are in order.” His mouth quirks charmingly. “The abbess and Beast you already know. This is Chancellor Montauban, who fought at my father’s side in many battles. Jean de Chalon, the duchess’s cousin, just recently released from his arrest by the French regent. Captain Dunois, whom I believe you saw carry the duchess to safety on his horse, and the bishop of Rennes, who placed the crown of office on her head with his own hands. The rest, I believe, are known to you. So now we would hear of d’Albret’s plans, my lady.”

I take a deep breath. “D’Albret has not given up his plan to marry the duchess, and will do so by force, if necessary.”

Captain Dunois snorts. “He made that clear when he sprung the trap outside Nantes. He cannot think we are foolish enough to give him a second chance to trick us.”