Chapter Sixteen
A flash of steel, quick as a cobra’s strike . . . she tried to spin away but her own movements seemed pitifully slow. The blade bit into her flesh, the pain of it hot and pulsing . . .
Valencia awoke with a small cry, her limbs twisted in the bedsheets, her heart thudding hard against her ribs. Sweat dampened her hair and her nightrail was tangled around her knees.
“It’s alright.” A hand, cool and calming, touched her brow. “You were having a bad dream.”
She struggled to sit up. Damn. The dream didn’t usually lie. No matter how many times she refought the Frenchman, she always ended up lying in a spreading pool of her own blood, the piercing pain in her leg so fierce that it brought tears to her eyes.
Even though a warrior never wept.
The ache, however, was worse than normal tonight. The scar throbbed as she groped for the sheet twisted around her limb. She must have been thrashing in her sleep, hoping against all hope that this time a knight in shining armor might ride to her rescue?—
“Here, let me help you.” The deep, familiar voice cut through the haze of hurt. Lynsley gently unwound the knotted linen. “Feeling better?”
He was sitting in a chair by her bed, his chiseled features softened by the night shadows.
Caught by surprise, Valencia wasn’t quick enough to hide behind her usual sarcastic anger. Her resolve was weak, her body bruised. Fight back, Valkyrie! The long-ago exhortation of the Academy fencing master rang in her ears. No matter how badly you are injured, never show an opponent that you are hurting .
But as she shifted and tried to regroup, every bone in her body screamed in protest. It felt as if she had been trampled by a regiment of Marshall Soult’s cavalry.
A sound must have slipped from her lips, for Lynsley edged his chair closer and reached for her hand. His fingers curled with hers.
She stiffened at first touch, then slowly relaxed.
They sat for a few minutes, twined in a companionable silence.
“You have a goodly number of calluses for a fine gentleman,” she said softly, aware of the pressure of his palm.
“Idle hands make for idle minds,” he quipped. “As you have witnessed, it takes someone of my advanced years constant effort to keep in shape for the job.” He cracked a small smile. “Besides, I should be bored to flinders lifting nothing more weighty than an eyebrow. Even if it means that my hands are more those of a ploughman than a patrician.”
There was nothing roughshod about the way Lynsley smoothed the covers and retucked the sheet around her legs. “Lean back a little,” he added. “The collar of your nightrail is twisted.”
Valencia found herself suddenly seized by a longing to cling to his strong, capable hand. To take comfort from his closeness, to share his strength.
Lord, she had spent all her life standing on her own, never allowing a moment of weakness. Oh, how she wanted one now. He had stripped off his coat and his shoulders looks so solid and reassuring. A place of refuge, just a hair’s breadth away.
Drawing away, she fell back against the pillows.
“A sip of laudanum?” he offered.
She shook her head.
“There’s no shame in seeking relief from pain, Valencia. Fighting it only saps your strength.”
Another oblique warning?
“I’m not trying to be a martyr, Thomas.” Strange how easily his name came to her lips now. “I merely want to keep a clear head for the morrow. I know from past experience that opium affects me badly. My head remains muzzy for days.”
“Then take another draught of willowbark. It will dull the edge, without any side effects.” Lynsley mixed a bit of powder in a glass of water. “As for the morrow, you aren’t going anywhere. And that’s an order.”
She drank the mixture without comment, then looked up to find him studying her face. It had started to rain, and the pelter of drops against the windowpanes echoed the erratic beat of her heart. Though the mizzle of moonlight had died away, the single candle caught the odd sparks in his gaze.
He cleared his throat with a cough. “I have been thinking about what you said earlier. You were pushed? By Rochambert?”
“I cannot say for sure,” she answered. “Gillemot and Hillaire were close as well.”
“Neither of them would have any reason to wish you harm. As for Rochambert . . .” His lips thinned to a grim line. “I wonder what his motivations would be at this point.”
“He remarked that he was curious as to what our feeling were for each other.” Valencia hesitated before adding, ‘Perhaps he merely wanted to see your reaction.”
“Bloody bastard,” muttered the marquess under his breath.
The vehemence took her by surprise.
“That’s not exactly a revelation,” she said dryly.
“No.” His mouthed quirked. “I suppose not.
“Sorry I slipped up.”
“Don’t say that.” His voice sharpened. “You’ve done well. Exceedingly well. Indeed, I confess that without you along on this mission, I should be hardpressed to find a way to get close to Rochambert.”
Praise from Lynsley? Had the marquess added some other potent drug to her drink? All at once, Valencia was aware of a strange syrupy warmth spreading through her limbs. The aches ebbed from her muscles, the knots of tension unwound.
“Mmmmm.” It must be the medicine kicking in, she decided. As she relaxed into a drowsy state of half sleep, her tongue loosened as well. Words she would never have dared say aloud seemed to have a mind of their own. “I—I always wanted your approval.” She closed her eyes. “Mayhap that why I misbehaved so often. To get your attention, even if it was only to hear your scoldings.”
Lynsley’s chuckle was soft, soothing. “Was I such an ogre?”
“Ogre?” A sigh slipped from her lips. “Surely you were aware that all the girls were in love with you.”
A dull flush crept over his face. He covered his embarrassment with a cough. It was rather endearing to see him so nonplussed.
“But we were, of course, under no illusions on that score,” went on Valencia. “We, of all people, knew the realities of the world.” Her mouth scrunched, recalling those long-ago days. “Still, even Merlins have girlish dreams.”
He was silent for moment. “What of you, Valencia? What were your dreams?”
“Me?” She lifted her shoulders a fraction. “I never gave much thought to being aught but a Merlin.” A draft from the rainswept breeze rattled the window casement. “I should have, of course. Even if I hadn’t been injured, it is not a job one can do forever. One day I should have been forced to retire.”
“As will I.”
“You are hardly shuffling into your dotage,” she remarked, cocking her head as she studied the planes of his face. “And it seems you haven’t exhausted your formidable talents just yet.” She hesitated before adding, “We all knew you were quite a daring operative before the Academy. The Madras mission is the stuff of legend.”
He frowned and leaned back in his chair. “How do you know about Madras?”
“We added brandy to the Christmas punch one year and got Mrs. Merlin a bit in her cups. She told us some very interesting stories before the spirits wore off.”
“That was an underhanded trick.”
Valencia grinned. “Just practicing our lessons in devious deceptions.”
“Hmmph.” His attempt at sounding stern ended in a smothered chuckle. “Be that as it may, I’ve settled down considerably since then.”
“I doubt most people would consider this foray to Paris a holiday excursion.” She paused, feeling her mind turn even more muzzy as the painkiller spread through her limbs. Whether it was the drug or the darkness, her tongue loosened enough to venture a personal question “As for settling down, I can’t help asking once again. . . why haven’t you married?”
He stiffened. “Once again, you are being impertinent.”
“No, I am merely being curious. But it is clear you would rather not talk about it.”
The silence stretched for some time. She thought he meant to ignore the question.
But strangely enough, after shifting in his chair, he replied, “I still have some years left in my dish. There is still time yet.”
“That’s another unfair advantage men have—you can breed well into old age.”
He chuckled. “Please, not another lecture on biology. I am conversant with the mechanics of making an heir.”
“So why haven’t you?” she persisted. “In your world, a gentleman of wealth and title is expected to follow tradition.”
“I rarely feel the need to bow to outside pressure.” Lynsley crossed his legs and regarded the tip of his boot. “I suppose I haven’t yet found the right lady.”
Surprised by his candor, Valencia needed a moment to frame a reply. “Ah. You mean to say you are a romantic at heart?”
“Quite the opposite,” he said gruffly. “ I am a realist, not a romantic. Given my present profession, it would be highly unfair to ask a lady to wed. She would be expecting a very different sort of life than the one I lead.” His expression turned meditative. “Gaiety. Glitter. Glamour. She would want all the trappings of prestige and privilege. And rightfully so. Not a husband who must be secretive about his life, often leaving without word of where is he off to, or when he might return.”
“How noble.” Valencia yawned. “But if she loved you, she wouldn’t care about such superficial things.”
His chair scraped over the carpet. “I should you sleep.”
She kept hold of his hand, loathe to let the camaraderie slip away. “Might you stay for just a bit longer. Just talking is . . . nice.”
Lynsley sat back down. “Very well.”
Their gazes met and Valencia wondered whether she was simply imagining the strange swirl of blue. Light and dark, like the sea in storm.
“What’s good for the gander is good for the goose,” he said after a moment’s of silence. “What of you, Valencia. Why have you never taken a husband?”
Her breath expelled in a sardonic sigh. “Like you, I’m a bit of a misfit in my world. Can you imagine me wed to a fisherman or a farmer?”
He didn’t answer.
“Most men, no matter their station in life, want a wife who will manage their household and bear their children. The skills of a trained assassin are not high on the list.” Not wanting to sound too bitter, she quickly tempered her tone with a light laugh. “I’m a bit too strong-willed to make any man a good wife. And a bit too old to change my ways. The Academy trained us to be self-reliant. I am quite happy as I am—free as a bird.”
“Free as a bird,” he repeated softly. “Are you happy, Valencia? Or have I been terribly selfish in thinking there is a honorable purpose in taking young girls and training them for a life of violence.”
Valencia had never heard Lynsley sound uncertain. Her fingers tightened around his. “We did not exactly come from a world of sweetness and light, Thomas. Trust me, the stews are a far more vicious than any opponent you’ve ever asked a Merlin to face.”
“That’s too easy an excuse.”
“Throughout our training, we are constantly given a choice. And many take advantage of the skills you give us to work in less demanding jobs. Those of us who go on to earn our wings do so because we believe in the same things you do.”
Lynsley stared out at the fogged windowpanes. “At times, that is cold comfort.”
Seeking to keep him from withdrawing into the darkness of Lord Lynsley’s lair, she quickly asked, “Tell me more about the founding of the Academy.”
“You know the story,” he murmured. “A book I read early on inspired the idea.”
“So you have said.” Valencia mulled it over. “And yet, your commitment seems far more personal, far more . . . passionate than a mere story.”
He seemed to flinch. “Now it is you who are being romantic, Valencia. I was merely being pragmatic in trying to think of a way to counter the threat to our freedoms. Nothing more.”
She didn’t believe it, but much as she wished to press him further, her eyes slowly fluttered shut.
Lynsley sat back, watching the play of moonlight on her face as Valencia drifted off to sleep. She looked so achingly young with her hair loose and curling over the delicate lace of her nightrail. In repose, her expression was unguarded, a girlish smile curving her lips.
His throat tightened in regret and recrimination. She, and so many orphans like her, had never had a real youth. They had been robbed of their innocence early on. With no one to shield them from harm, they had been forced to confront the sordid realities of life. No child should experience that nightmare.
Had he been wrong to take them and given them a way to fight back against injustice and tyranny? Perhaps, like the street pimps and bawdy house matrons, he was just using them.
Despite all his high-minded principles, maybe he was no more than a pompous prig.
What a dirty, depressing thought.
It was not the first time he had brooded over such things. But Valencia’s face—her courage and her heart shaping every curve and shadow—forced him to confront his own mixed feelings in a far more visceral way than his usual cerebral debates.
The marquess felt a twisting tension course through him. Oh yes, it was physical, this fight between conscience and duty. Right and wrong. Need and necessity.
Far too physical. Strange, it had been a long time since he felt such a simmering in his blood. He was no longer an impetuous youth. He had learned to keep desire under control.
What did he want?
Lynsley didn’t dare admit it.
He rose, hands fisted at his sides. Reason told him to return to his own rooms, but some perverse power held him place. He reached out, his hand hovering a hair’s breadth above her cheek. The candle flickered, its fading light playing over her features. He couldn’t help himself—leaning closer Lynsley let his fingertip traced the thin scar just above her brow.
A memento of an Academy test of fencing skills. The day was still sharp in his memory. Her opponent’s foil had lost its button during the bout and drawn blood. A good deal of blood, as he recalled. But Valencia, a rapier thin girl of fifteen at the time, had shrugged it off with a laugh.
A badge of honor, she had called it. Like the members of the Prussian dueling societies, who prided themselves on meeting any challenge with unflinching resolve, she had picked up her sword and insisted on continuing the match.
How many other nicks and cuts lay hidden beneath her lace?
Likely too many to count, he thought with a pang of regret. A sigh, soft as a zephyr, stirred the air as he brushed his lips to her hair. He would give an arm and leg to make her whole again. But he was no Merlin, no modern-day magical wizard with extraordinary powers.
He was just a man, with all too many human flaws.
His mouth hardened. Despite his own damnable weaknesses, he vowed that he would come up with a way to keep her from further harm. Already an idea was taking form in his head . . .
“Sweet dreams, Valkyrie,” he whispered.
But as he turned for his own bed, Lynsley knew that for him, sleep would be a long time coming.