Fabien knew the second Sophie awakened. He'd detected the change in her breathing, had accurately judged the slow sigh that signalled the dawn of wakefulness. He'd also heard the faint gasp she'd elicited upon discovering him beside her. Interested to know what she'd do, he'd remained still, thinking she'd most likely attempt to get as far from him as possible. What he had not anticipated was finding her staring at him with an open, innocent curiosity, the likes of which no one of sound mind had ever directed towards him. Most certainly not someone of Sophie's ilk; her kind usually ran from him, with good reason.
There were generally two types of women who sought his company – those who thought that getting close to him would procure the king's favour, and those who wanted the thrill of a dalliance with a man everyone considered dangerous and perhaps even a little unhinged. The former he dismissed and the latter he indulged only for as long as it suited his purposes.
He was well aware that none of those women truly wanted him, and only coveted that which they thought he represented. In truth, it did not bother him. If he had any desire for female companionship, he chose a discrete widow away from court whom he knew wanted nothing from him other than the coin he left with her when their liaison was at an end. He'd unwisely started an affair with Beatrice de Clermont because he'd allowed himself to be taken in by her charms, to be wooed by her cunning and beauty. And he'd almost paid the price.
So when he'd opened his eyes and realised that Sophie was keenly observing him, his first reaction had been a surge of triumph, his suspicion of her motives finally paying dividends. But before he could confront her, he'd paused and noted the way she'd been taking his measure - as though she were cataloguing his every feature and stowing it in some forbidden place for later retrieval. To his utter wonder she exhibited no outward fear, no hostility, not even a tentative lick of unease. There was only the gentle whisper of her gaze as it wandered over him, somehow light and piercing all at once. Fabien understood the anxiety he induced in people. He counted on it, lived for it. But she'd seemed perfectly content. All he'd sensed was an inexplicable curiosity and something else, something more alarming and disturbing and affecting. Something dangerous.
He might not want to acknowledge any attraction to her, but his body had no such compulsion. Looking soft and irresistibly tousled from sleep, her cheeks were as pink as two ripe plums and equally as inviting. Worse was where her chemise had slipped down while she'd slept, one bare creamy shoulder exposed, taunting him, teasing him, daring him to continue feigning indifference. Steeped in the golden glow of the hearth's dying embers, Sophie de Clermont was temptation incarnate.
"Seen enough?" he rasped, trying to best his baser male instincts.
Her eyes flew to his, embarrassment making her cheeks grow rosier, her mouth parting in horror. "I-I…was not expecting to see you…here."
"Clearly."
The room was still as they stared. They were enemies, forced together out of necessity. They disliked, distrusted and disapproved of one another entirely and yet there was something else there, some deep, palpable energy that swirled between them, rearing its head and begging to be acknowledged at the most inopportune moments. He felt it, clawing its way inside of him like a tree grasping for purchase as its roots sank deeper into the earth.
It was that feeling of suffocation, of his chest closing in on itself that prompted him to move before he did something rash. Tearing his gaze from hers, he rolled away to sit on the edge of the bed. Grabbing his boots, he shoved his feet into them, then stood to pull them up to his thighs.
Behind him, he could hear the bed linens rustling as Sophie moved. Walking over to the washstand, he splashed his face with the remnants of water he'd not used in his toilette the night before. The first dowsing was chilled but refreshing as the droplets raced down his face and neck. Grabbing a towel, he dabbed the excess off while making his way towards the window.
"Will we reach Calais today?" Sophie asked.
"After nightfall, if the weather holds," he replied, chancing a look at the bed.
She was sitting upright against the headboard, holding the covers to her shoulders while she watched him warily. Her hair was loose and drawn forward across one shoulder, the dark strands a striking contrast against her pale, peachy skin. His body stirred once more.
Vexed by the surge of unwanted attraction, he drew the drapes aside with more vigour than was strictly necessary. Squinting through the haze of fog he was disappointed to discover that it would most likely be another day of disagreeable weather. He was about to turn away, when a loud boom sounded, its thunderous echo shattering the serenity of dawn.
"What was that?" Sophie gasped, slipping off the bed and rushing towards the window.
"A pistol," Fabien replied grimly. The sound appeared to have come from below, but from his vantage point, he could not see anything. Needing to investigate, he strode across the room and reached for his doublet, shrugging into it without bothering to tie the buttons. "Get dressed and do not leave this room until I come for you."
Sophie whirled around. "Why would someone be firing their weapon in an inn?"
Fabien did not respond, trying instead to put the puzzle pieces together. He did not believe in coincidence. The chances of a shooting occurring in the very place they chose to spend the night en-route to uncovering the Duc de Cassel's treachery was highly suspicious. Had they been followed? And if so, by whom? He needed answers.
He'd donned his cloak and had just wrenched the door open when he felt a hand on his arm. He glanced over his shoulder to find Sophie behind him, her eyes wide with worry. For a moment his heart jarred uncomfortably.
"Be careful."
His brow shot up. "You do not wish me maimed?"
She frowned. "I do not wish anyone maimed. Except perhaps the duc."
He searched her face and registered her concern. For him. He was not quite certain what to make of that and nor did he have the time to dissect its significance.
Without conscience thought he reached down to his waist, removing a sheathed silver dagger before shoving it into her hands. "Always aim for exposed, vulnerable patches of skin." She blanched, staring at the object in her hands. "Lock the door," he continued, "and do not open it for anyone other than myself. Is that understood?" He waited until she nodded before he exited, closing the door firmly behind him. Almost immediately he heard the scrape of the key in the lock. Satisfied he hastened along the corridor and down the stairs. He heard the scream of a woman, possibly a maid, and followed the sound. He traversed the foyer and moved towards the back of the establishment, through the dining area and out of the back door into the courtyard. There, he saw a small cluster of inn staff staring down in horror at a prone figure.
"Move!" he commanded. Not one of them knew him, but the thread of authority in his voice had them scurrying back.
"Are you familiar with the gentleman, monsieur?" a trembling voice asked.
Fabien knelt beside the body, assessing the crimson-soaked mess before him. Blood pooled from a hole directly above the heart, a sign that death had at least been quick and painless. The beady, lifeless eyes of Henri stared unseeing into Fabien's as fury swelled within him, even as he resisted succumbing to the useless emotion. Reaching out a gloved hand he closed Henri's eyes, feeling a moment's pity for the man he'd known for years – a trusted soldier, if not a friend. There was nothing anyone could do for him now.
Standing, he ignored the questions and the tearful wailing and clinically surveyed the area. The square was awash in shadow, the prevailing fog masking all manner of sins; an ominous sign. Around him he could see the brick façade of the inn, looming two stories high in the shape of a horse shoe. Other than the door through which he'd exited moments before, there was no other entrance directly into the inn. The open-ended section of the square led straight to the stables – where at present he could hear loud voices raised in ire.
"Find the innkeeper and tell him to remove the body," he told a young man standing off to the side. He recognised him as the manservant who'd lit the fire in their bedchamber the night before.
The servant nodded and hurried away without further instruction.
Fabien overlooked the two remaining hysterical women and headed in the direction of the stables. His feet light on the cobblestones, he rounded the corner and observed a gathering of grooms gesturing and pointing down the road. Many spoke in a clash of heated words, but the tale was the same - a tall man had come running into the stables and bolted out seconds later on the back of a black stallion. Another fellow had followed closely behind. The logical conclusion was that after he'd slain Henri, his murderer had taken off on horseback and Pierre had pursued.
Avoiding the onlookers, he drew abreast of the stables, a long stone building with shuttered windows and a pigeon loft running just below the roofline. The door slightly ajar, he slipped inside easily and looked around, allowing his eyes time to adjust to the diffused lighting. The cavernous interior smelled of hay and horse. There were at least a dozen stalls on either side of him, divided by a wide corridor. Walking down the centre, he peered into each stall, looking for and finding the mare he and Sophie had arrived on the night before. Silently he made his way all the way to the end, noting that the second horse Henri had ridden, was missing. Their carriage, the wheel now fixed, was stationed in a dusky corner.
Who had killed Henri and why? Had they been followed all the way from Versailles in the hope of striking when the opportunity presented itself? Fabien was certain that no one save the King and Bontemps had known of his mission. He trusted Henri and Pierre implicitly and knew they would not betray him. Sophie? He paused, pondering the possibility that his young ingénue could somehow be involved in a plot of bring about his demise. His mind flashed to the concern etched upon her face moments before. Either he was a bigger fool than he thought, or she was truly innocent. It frustrated him that he could not decide which.
Halfway back the way he'd came, he reached two large arched entranceways that led to the outside. He could still hear the grooms conferring some ways off. Drowning out their voices for the moment, Fabien stepped carefully around the rain-soaked sand across the threshold of the stable arches and examined the damp mix of grit and hay. As expected, there were many horse prints leading in and out, but because of the bout of overnight rain, the most recent tracks were quite distinct.
Predictably, he identified the tracks of two horses leaving the stables – Pierre and Henri's attacker. But what intrigued him more were the tracks leading inside. Grabbing a lantern from a nearby post, he crouched down to scrutinise the hoof prints in greater detail, realising that two sets were fresh. Peering closer, a frisson of alarm slithered up his spine when he noted that the hoof pattern of one of the sets exiting was the exact same as one of the sets entering. Assuming the distinct print belonged to the horse of Henri's murderer, that meant he had not arrived alone. He had a companion. But if only two horses left, one of them carrying Pierre, then that meant the other fellow was still about.
"Sophie," he whispered, standing quickly. If they had been followed, then their pursuers knew he was not alone. And if they were picking their way up the chain of command, Sophie would be an easy target – assuming she was not involved, he thought grimly. Despite all he thought he knew about her, the notion of her potential betrayal left a sour taste in his mouth.
Anticipating the need for a hasty retreat, he planned ahead. Selecting two horses, he saddled them quickly and led them outside by means of the rear stable exit. Knowing the grooms were still distracted, he walked the horses along the back lane until he came upon a street urchin begging for coin. Understanding the ways of the underworld better than most, Fabien drew the boy aside and negotiated. Once certain he'd secured the boy's allegiance, at least for the moment, he went back for Sophie.
"What happened?" Sophie demanded the second Monsieur Marchal pushed inside their bedchamber. It felt like hours since he'd left. To busy herself she'd hurriedly dressed and packed her meagre belongings before pacing the room worriedly.
"Henri is dead and Pierre took off after the assassin," he stated bluntly, stalking around the room as though he was searching for something.
Her eyes widened. "Who would do such a thing?"
"Who indeed," he murmured, his unsettling gaze coming to rest on her.
A tremor of apprehension shot through her. "Why are you looking at me like that?" He said nothing, watching her closely. Something in his stare made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. "Surely you do not suspect me?" she breathed, hating the thread of hurt in her tone.
He remained stubbornly silent, his eyes narrowing.
Her lips pressed together. "You truly think that I would stoop to conspiring to kill a man I did not know? To what end?"
"No one knew we were taking this journey."
Her jaw dropped, stunned that his opinion of her was even lower than she'd imagined. "I did not tell a soul, I swear it!"
His eyes flickered. "I trust my men—"
"—and you do not trust me. Yes, I am well aware," she interjected, suddenly weary. She'd just spent countless minutes fretting over this man's safety, only to discover that he suspected her of being the one who'd placed him in peril. "I must have been out of my mind to assume that this arrangement would ever work. Any type of alliance between us is futile if you cannot trust me."
"You have yet to prove yourself—"
"That is all I have been doing!" she denied hotly. "From the very start of our acquaintance my every waking moment has been consumed with trying to earn your respect. Not that it matters at all! No matter what I do, to you I will always be my mother's daughter!" Incensed, she stepped around him and grabbed her cloak, throwing it across her shoulders.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
"Getting away from you!" she declared, searching through the folds in the bedlinens until she found her beaded purse. "I would rather take my chances with a band of thieves and reprobates than deal with a man as perverse as you!"
Her vehemence seemed to stun him. A small victory considering they both knew he would not let her go. Regardless, her resentment and hurt made her a little reckless. As she shoved past him he grasped her elbow. "It is not safe out there."
"I would venture to say it is not much safer in here," she shot back.
His jaw worked as though he were praying for patience. "Whoever killed Henri was not alone. Someone remained behind."
"You mean one of the men I hired?" she retorted. His announcement that that they were still potentially at risk had a sobering effect, dousing some of her anger. While he was certainly aggravating and unreasonable, he did not lie. If he suspected there was danger afoot, then there most likely was.
"We must leave," he expressed clearly, ignoring her taunt.
Slightly calmer, she shook his hand free. "Why not just try to find him?"
"I would, under different circumstances."
Meaning if she were not there. At least he cared enough to keep her alive, she thought, still bristling from his suspicions.
From somewhere below there was a feminine screech and Sophie jumped. Monsieur Marchal moved towards the window. "They are relocating the body. We do not have much time." He strode across the room and collected two leather saddle bags, handing one to her. "Pack only what you need. Be quick."
Sophie gaped. "I have only the bare essentials."
"Then I suggest you prioritise," he deadpanned.
Gritting her teeth she took his offering as he moved to hold vigil at the bedchamber door. Opening her single travel trunk that someone must have brought up while she was asleep, she emptied the contents and made a few rapid choices. She opted for a change of undergarments and the lightest of the three gowns she'd brought along – a simple pale yellow frock that was at least six months behind the latest trends. She discarded the extra pair of slippers she'd packed in favour of the boots she currently wore and cast-off her second corset. Lastly, she stuffed in the soap and towel she'd been given the night before as well as her hairbrush and a few extra ribbons. Other than her pearl earrings, she'd thankfully brought no additional jewellery. With regret she looked at her residual belongings strewn across the bed. She already had so little. Now she'd have even less.
Monsieur Marchal took the bag and slung it across one shoulder. "Remain close. We must get to the stables and onto the road with haste."
Clutching her purse, she fell into step behind him. He moved with the practiced stealth of someone who knew exactly how to remain invisible. She had no idea how he'd managed to discover the less travelled routes around the inn in so short a time, but she asked no questions. Apart from a few harried looking servants clearly distressed by the recent on-goings, they encountered no one of importance and within no time at all, they exited the inn and made the short journey around the back, past the stables.
Startled, she asked, "Are we not getting the carriage?"
"No," he clipped, striding purposefully down the cobbled alleyway behind the inn. Of course. It was just the two of them. The carriage would not be needed.
They entered a narrow lane with high walls on one side and the crumpled remains of an abandoned plot of land on the other. Though the heavy mist prevented her from seeing too many of its features, she could discern the outline of the derelict stone fortifications that must once have been a rather grand structure. Stifling a chill, she was not sure whether to be grateful for the current weather conditions as its protective cover sheltered their escape, or wary because it filled her with a growing sense of trepidation. Drawing her cloak around her, she raced to keep up with Monsieur Marchal's lengthier stride.
Up ahead, she saw a boy holding the reigns of two horses. He appeared to be no more than six or seven, his face covered in black soot and his body in filthy rags. Monsieur Marchal spoke to the child in hushed tones, then discreetly handed him some coins. His eyes shone as he stared into his greasy palms, hastily pocketing the currency before scurrying off down the lane.
Securing the saddle bags across the rear of the horses, Monsieur Marchal looked tall and imposing with his coat billowing behind him, appearing every inch as formidable as his reputation suggested. But like Sophie, he seemed tense and on high alert as he surveyed their unfamiliar surroundings.
"Come."
With a firm hand he guided her towards a chestnut gelding and was about to assist her into the saddle when a shot rang out, the zip of a musket ball sailing inches past Sophie's ear. She shrieked, turning towards Monsieur Marchal just as he pushed her to the ground and to safety. They landed with a violent thud, his body half on top of hers, acting as a shield. He moved quickly, rolling them both to the side of the road and behind the shelter of a crumbling wall. Her breathing laboured and her heart nearly beating out of her chest, Sophie wondered if she was about to die.
Arms still securely around her, Monsieur Marchal leaned away and peered around the wall. "He is advancing." He scanned their immediate vicinity and spotted their horses some distance behind them.
Resolute, he pulled her to her knees and grasped her shoulders, his eyes hard as flint as they bore into hers. "I will create a distraction while you make for the horses. Mount whichever is closest and ride as hard and as fast as you can towards Abbeville. I will find you there."
Sophie's eyes bulged. "What? No! I cannot—"
He shook her slightly. "You must." He turned her to face the horses. "Go!"
Still she hesitated, her gaze clinging to his. "You will follow?"
Something in his eyes flared for a brief moment, before he nodded, nudging her sharply. "Now!"
As she moved, he stood and aimed his pistol in the direction of their pursuer and fired. The moment allowed her the opportunity to sprint to the nearest horse, grasping its reigns and hauling herself upward and onto its back. Digging her heels into its flanks, she set off flying, her last glance of Monsieur Marchal was as he aimed a second weapon and squeezed the trigger once more.
The loud roar of the pistol followed her down the lane and into the road beyond. Within seconds she was carried away from the chaos and into an almost unbearable silence. Pulling back on the horse's reigns, the animal came to a grinding halt. Anxiously she glanced back. Was he following? She could not see a thing beyond a few feet. Cursing the oppressive fog, she rubbed a soothing hand along the neck of her horse. The animal seemed as unsettled as she was.
Monsieur Marchal had practically forced her to leave him behind and in doing so, possibly saved her life. For a man who despised her, he'd acted remarkably noble. And not for the first time. She could not just leave him, could she? What if he was injured, or worse, killed? The thought sent a sickening jolt through her. Sophie chewed on her bottom lip, undecided. She should probably follow his instructions and go, hoping that he made it out alive. He probably would - after all, quelling rebellious fools out for blood was something he could do in his sleep. And if he failed, well, she would gain her freedom. Surely that was a prize worth having?
She shook her head. She could not celebrate the acquisition of her liberty at the expense of his life. Not when she could help him. Despite the discord between them, she would regret it for the rest of her life if she did not attempt to see him to safety. And if it so happened that her assistance was not required, then at least she would have appeased her conscience.
Before her resolve deserted her, Sophie turned around and headed back the way she'd come. The clip clop of the horse's hooves on the flagstone roared in her ears, rivalled only by the frantic pounding of her heart. As close as she dared go on horseback, she dismounted and tied her gelding to a post in front of a shuttered building, dismayed when she saw Monsieur Marchal's mount deserted in the middle of the lane. Tethering the second horse to the post, she snuck closer to where she'd left the two men. Standing on the very tips of her toes, she peeped over the top of a stone wall, gasping out loud.
Dressed all in black from top to toe, a towering, muscular man sparred with Monsieur Marchal. Partly fascinated and partly appalled, Sophie stared as the two men traded blows. They clashed with a power that was frightening, their expertise surprisingly well matched. Where Monsieur Marchal fought with a ruthless precision that could only have been honed from decades of self-preservation, his opponent had an almost classical skill, as though he'd been tutored to fight rather than mastering the ability through his own personal struggles. Holding nothing back, they attacked each other with a single-minded ferocity that would surely end in disaster. Unsure of what to do, Sophie was petrified the wrong man would emerge victorious.
While watching in horror, Monsieur Marchal was knocked to his knees and flung backward. Pinned down by the black-clad brute, his legs bucked furiously in an attempt to lever his rival off him. Sensing victory was within his grasp, the man wrapped his hands around Monsieur Marchal's throat and squeezed.
With a resolve she did not know she possessed, Sophie bolted into action. Instinct had her reaching for the dagger Monsieur Marchal had given her not an hour before. Unsheathing the weapon, she gripped it tightly in her fist as she crept towards the fighting men, not questioning the strength of her impetus. Coming up behind the attacker, she spied a flash of skin at the back of his neck – the exposed expanse where his dark hair met the starched linen collar of his shirt - the perfect place to sink her blade. A blow that would execute him, surely. Nausea rolled through her at the thought. Could she take a life? Perhaps if she wounded him sufficiently, she might not have to. Making a swift decision, she raised her arm and brought the dagger down as hard as she could, sinking the weapon into the back of his thigh.
The man howled, letting go of Monsieur Marchal and turning towards her. The sneer on his ruddy face had her staggering backward, terrified. The distraction was all Monsieur Marchal needed. Within moments he'd gained the upper hand and smashed his fist into the side of his assailant's face. The man went limp, collapsing to the ground.
Concerned, she raised tentative fingers to touch the side of his bloody cheek. "Are you alright?"
He snatched her hand. "I told you to leave."
"If I had you might now have been dead," she reminded him, confused by his anger.
"Never disobey me again," he snapped, turning from her to crouch down beside their foe, searching his body. He withdrew a bag of coins and an unsealed, coded letter, both of which he pocketed.
Flabbergasted by his ingratitude, but knowing it was neither the time nor the place to challenge him, she bit her tongue and asked instead, "Is he dead?"
He stood and searched the ground for his weapon. "Not yet."
"No!" Sophie exclaimed, when he bent to retrieve his pistol. He swung those dark orbs in her direction. "Please. No more killing." He watched her for what felt like an eternity before he tucked the pistol into his belt. Relieved, she probed, "Do you know him?"
He shook his head, glancing around. It would not be long before they had an audience. "Where are the horses?" She pointed behind a row of tiny houses. "Wait for me there. I need to move him."
She nodded, quietly observing as he grasped the thin faced, bearded man under the arms and dragged him in the direction of the abandoned stone-faced property – no small feat considering how large the fiend was. Hopefully it would be a while before anyone found him there, if at all.
Sophie waited anxiously beside their horses, exhaling slowly when she saw Monsieur Marchal emerge from the fog. Obliged for the lingering shadows as the sun battled over the horizon, they were able to evade the few townsfolk brave enough to investigate the source of the uproar. Quickly leaving Amiens behind, they headed towards the coast and the next town, Abbeville. However, to avoid any unwanted inquiries, they kept off the main roads and instead travelled on a less populated route. This meant they could travel faster and with less scrutiny, but also made them vulnerable to potential swindlers and mischief-makers.
They rode long and hard, trying to put as much distance between themselves and Amiens as they could. While Sophie was no stranger to the saddle, she rode mainly for pleasure and not to outrun a murderous cutthroat. It would be a miracle if she could stand by the time they reached Calais.
Monsieur Marchal, she noted resentfully, was clearly an accomplished horseman. He controlled the animal with skill and confidence. It was clear from watching them who was the master of whom, though there were no outward displays of dominance. It was not necessary. The horse deferred to the man riding him and seemed only too willing to do his bidding. It pleased her that he was not cruel to animals. Only to people then, she sighed.
Perhaps Claudine was right and he was not completely without feeling.
When at last he slowed his steed to a trot, Sophie followed suit, her horse drawing abreast of his. They were travelling through a densely forested area, the ground underfoot muddy and littered with trampled foliage. The trees were shedding rapidly in the breeze, the leaves raining down upon their heads like plumes of confetti. "Do you suppose we have outrun him?"
He glanced at her askance. "For now. But he will follow once he regains his wits."
She detected the undercurrent of judgement in his tone. "You think me foolish for not wanting him dead."
"You saved the life of a man who will most likely kill again – possibly even you or I." His gaze met hers briefly. "Remember your decision when next we encounter him."
She shifted, discomfited. "I am not accustomed to killing."
He appeared to consider her words carefully, then replied, "Then you are of the lucky few."
Surprised by his admission, Sophie glanced up at him, hoping he would say more. But with his gaze locked determinedly ahead it was clear he would not and she knew better than to pry. He made no further observations and she kept her thoughts to herself, still piqued by his earlier incivility. She'd saved his life. The least he could do was thank her.
Soon they came across a shallow stream directly in their path, its invigorating gurgle reminding her of her need for refreshment. As though reading her thoughts, he said, "We should rest the horses for a while before we continue."
They stopped beside a tree with low-hanging branches where the horses could feed and drink at leisure. Monsieur Marchal dismounted first and then much to her astonishment, came to her aid. As she placed her hands on his shoulders, he raised her up and over, setting her safely on the ground. It was at that moment that she noticed his grimace and then the bloody stain in the crook of his elbow.
"You are bleeding!"
He glanced down and shrugged. "A scratch."
Sophie scowled. "Let me have a look."
He slid a harassed look her way, but she remained steadfast. "I did not save your life just so you could perish from a festering wound."
He snorted, muttering something about interfering women. She ignored him, leading the way down the short sandy path to the stream where she waited for him to hunker down beside her. At her behest, he removed his cloak and doublet so she could see his wound better. Peeling back the bloody linen of his shirt from his upper arm, she winced. A musket ball had grazed his flesh, tearing the skin, but thankfully did not appear to have disturbed the bone. Trying to remain as detached as possible, she nonetheless failed to prevent her traitorous gaze from lingering on the corded muscles in his forearm which tensed and released with his every move – a testament to his impressive physical strength. The overlying skin was taunt and warm, lightly dusted with an intriguing sprinkling of dark hair.
Mentally shaking herself free from her inappropriate thoughts, she reached into the pocket of her cloak and removed her satin handkerchief. Without thought she wet it thoroughly, then wrung it out before proceeding to wipe the dried blood from around the wound. It did not appear to be very deep.
"Why did you disobey my instruction?" he asked abruptly. Sophie could feel his gaze roaming over her as she worked, making her feel clumsy and awkward. "With me dead you would have been free."
He was right, of course. She could have let that miscreant murder him. In fact, she could have run away and left the two of them to murder each other. But that was not who she was. It was not who she wanted to be. She'd given him her word and her loyalty – to what end, she did not know. But her promise meant something to her, even if it meant nothing to him.
She realised that she had not responded to his question when she felt his fingertips at her chin, tilting it upwards until her gaze met his. He appeared to be slightly bewildered, watching her with an intensity that stripped her of her defences, leaving her open, and vulnerable and exposed to him in a way that felt more than merely personal. It felt frightfully intimate. His fingers, far gentler than she'd ever imagined him capable of, swept slowly across her cheek.
Unexpected heat lanced through her, her pulse leaping at his touch.
"Why did you save my life?" he asked, his deep voice skittering across her skin, blanketing it in goose bumps.
She swallowed, trying to understand the perplexing effect he seemed to have on her, before uttering only response that mattered. "Because despite what you may think of me, I am not my mother."
