Crimson Bound
Page 35
Worse: she couldn’t stop seeing him.
She was supposed to watch him. But now she kept noticing every detail: his embroidered cuffs shifting against his silver wrists. The sliver of pale throat visible above his collar. The peculiar way he planted himself when he stood, as if bracing for a heavy wind. Even sitting on a horse, his shoulders had the same stubborn set.
He still smiled at the lords and ladies who talked to him, but now she noticed there was something wry to the expression. Sometimes he would draw out a word a little longer or clip it off a little shorter than she had expected, as if a bit of his thoughts had bled through. As if his thoughts were something separate and lonely that had no place in the role he was playing.
At noon, there were pavilions and baskets of food and jugs of wine. The day had grown hot, so it was a relief to sit down in the shade; Rachelle overheard several ladies complaining about the heat and then giggling as they loudly wished that there really would be an Endless Night.
La Fontaine drew Armand away to sit with her and the King, and Rachelle would have followed, but somebody grabbed her shoulder.
There was an instant where she nearly drew her sword. Then she turned, and there was Vincent Angevin.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I just wanted to meet you. Won’t you sit down with me?”
Everyone was sitting down around them. Rachelle supposed that the next hour was going to be horrible no matter what, so she sat down next to him on one of the rugs that the servants had thrown down.
“Tell me, is it very boring to guard my cousin all day long?” he asked.
“Not as boring as I’d like,” she said. “Especially with the assassins that keep attacking.”
Vincent didn’t seem the slightest bit disturbed by her remark. “Poor Armand.” He sighed. “Nobody ever liked him much. Except Raoul, who never could stop feeling sorry for the oddest people.”
“I don’t like you much,” said Rachelle, and instantly regretted being so blunt.
Vincent grinned. “You’re so pretty when you’re resentful,” he said, and pinched her cheek.
Nobody had pinched her cheek since she was ten. For one moment, she couldn’t believe it had happened, until the pair of ladies sitting nearby started giggling. Vincent’s eyes were crinkled up with laughter.
“If you could see your face,” he said, in a genial voice that invited all the world to laugh with him.
Rachelle gave him her most balefully blank look. “I’m a murderer. Do you really think you ought to upset me?”
“But that’s what makes it so exciting. Will she kiss me or will she kill me—I think every man secretly wants to play that game.”
But she couldn’t kill him, any more than she could have refused to accompany Armand on the hunt. She had to keep pretending she was a part of this court. She had to keep playing their game, and there was only one role for her.
The nearby ladies were giggling again, no doubt delighted that they got to watch Vincent Angevin make a conquest of a bloodbound.
Her face burned. She thought: You murdered your own aunt. Do you really deserve dignity?
Then one of his hands dropped to rest on her thigh.
“Excuse me,” said Armand, “but I need Mademoiselle Brinon right now.”
“You’ll have to wait your turn,” Vincent started, but Armand was already sitting down beside Rachelle.
“The sunlight has given me a terrible headache,” he said. “May I rest my head in your lap?”
It was such a bizarre request, it took Rachelle a moment to believe he had really said it. “Yes,” she said.
“Thank you,” said Armand, and in one fluid movement, he lowered his head into her lap and closed his eyes, as calmly as if there weren’t people staring and whispering.
Rachelle was caught in a kind of stupefied surprise, like the smudged colors that would hang in her vision after staring at a fire.
Vincent laughed nervously. “Of all the strange—” He reached toward her, but now Rachelle had an excuse to take action. She caught his wrist in a grip so tight he gasped.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you disturb him,” she said blandly. “Maybe we can talk later.”
“Of course,” said Vincent, sounding rather strangled. She released him and he scrambled to his feet and stalked away.
“Is he gone?” Armand asked softly.
“Yes,” Rachelle muttered. “I didn’t need you to save me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. But some of the ladies wouldn’t stop talking about my marvelous virtue. I got tired of it.”
“So you needed a little defilement?” she asked.
“I needed,” he said flatly, “to be left alone.”
“You didn’t seem to mind their adoration before.”
He sighed, and his breath stirred against her face. “I suppose the heat is getting to me.”
“Do you need to take your hands off?” she asked, remembering the audience.
“No,” he said.
And then they were silent. Rachelle dared a look around; a few people were still staring, but most were chatting with each other now. La Fontaine leaned against the King and fed him grapes; a quartet of musicians played violins. Erec lounged against a nearby tree; when their eyes met, he raised his eyebrows. Her face burned, and she looked away.
She couldn’t look at Armand. But she couldn’t ignore his warm weight in her lap. She felt him shifting slightly as he breathed; it was as unnervingly comforting as when Amélie painted cosmetics on her face.
The song ended, and there was a smattering of polite applause. Then the King said to Erec, “You look bored, d’Anjou.”
“Do I, sire?” Erec asked languidly.
Armand sighed and sat up. He pushed a lock of hair out of his face, and Rachelle’s fingers twitched with the impulse to smooth it back for him.
“I confess I’m bored as well. Propose an amusement for us.” The King leaned his chin on his hand and surveyed the glittering crowd that waited on his every move.
Rachelle vaguely remembered Erec having once told her about the King’s penchant for demanding a courtier to decide on his next amusement. It was supposed to be a test of elegance and taste. At the time, she’d just been grateful that, unlike Erec, she’d never have to attend court herself.
“A duel,” Erec said promptly, and Rachelle’s stomach lurched.
“I have heard that I outlawed dueling,” said the King.
She was supposed to watch him. But now she kept noticing every detail: his embroidered cuffs shifting against his silver wrists. The sliver of pale throat visible above his collar. The peculiar way he planted himself when he stood, as if bracing for a heavy wind. Even sitting on a horse, his shoulders had the same stubborn set.
He still smiled at the lords and ladies who talked to him, but now she noticed there was something wry to the expression. Sometimes he would draw out a word a little longer or clip it off a little shorter than she had expected, as if a bit of his thoughts had bled through. As if his thoughts were something separate and lonely that had no place in the role he was playing.
At noon, there were pavilions and baskets of food and jugs of wine. The day had grown hot, so it was a relief to sit down in the shade; Rachelle overheard several ladies complaining about the heat and then giggling as they loudly wished that there really would be an Endless Night.
La Fontaine drew Armand away to sit with her and the King, and Rachelle would have followed, but somebody grabbed her shoulder.
There was an instant where she nearly drew her sword. Then she turned, and there was Vincent Angevin.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I just wanted to meet you. Won’t you sit down with me?”
Everyone was sitting down around them. Rachelle supposed that the next hour was going to be horrible no matter what, so she sat down next to him on one of the rugs that the servants had thrown down.
“Tell me, is it very boring to guard my cousin all day long?” he asked.
“Not as boring as I’d like,” she said. “Especially with the assassins that keep attacking.”
Vincent didn’t seem the slightest bit disturbed by her remark. “Poor Armand.” He sighed. “Nobody ever liked him much. Except Raoul, who never could stop feeling sorry for the oddest people.”
“I don’t like you much,” said Rachelle, and instantly regretted being so blunt.
Vincent grinned. “You’re so pretty when you’re resentful,” he said, and pinched her cheek.
Nobody had pinched her cheek since she was ten. For one moment, she couldn’t believe it had happened, until the pair of ladies sitting nearby started giggling. Vincent’s eyes were crinkled up with laughter.
“If you could see your face,” he said, in a genial voice that invited all the world to laugh with him.
Rachelle gave him her most balefully blank look. “I’m a murderer. Do you really think you ought to upset me?”
“But that’s what makes it so exciting. Will she kiss me or will she kill me—I think every man secretly wants to play that game.”
But she couldn’t kill him, any more than she could have refused to accompany Armand on the hunt. She had to keep pretending she was a part of this court. She had to keep playing their game, and there was only one role for her.
The nearby ladies were giggling again, no doubt delighted that they got to watch Vincent Angevin make a conquest of a bloodbound.
Her face burned. She thought: You murdered your own aunt. Do you really deserve dignity?
Then one of his hands dropped to rest on her thigh.
“Excuse me,” said Armand, “but I need Mademoiselle Brinon right now.”
“You’ll have to wait your turn,” Vincent started, but Armand was already sitting down beside Rachelle.
“The sunlight has given me a terrible headache,” he said. “May I rest my head in your lap?”
It was such a bizarre request, it took Rachelle a moment to believe he had really said it. “Yes,” she said.
“Thank you,” said Armand, and in one fluid movement, he lowered his head into her lap and closed his eyes, as calmly as if there weren’t people staring and whispering.
Rachelle was caught in a kind of stupefied surprise, like the smudged colors that would hang in her vision after staring at a fire.
Vincent laughed nervously. “Of all the strange—” He reached toward her, but now Rachelle had an excuse to take action. She caught his wrist in a grip so tight he gasped.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you disturb him,” she said blandly. “Maybe we can talk later.”
“Of course,” said Vincent, sounding rather strangled. She released him and he scrambled to his feet and stalked away.
“Is he gone?” Armand asked softly.
“Yes,” Rachelle muttered. “I didn’t need you to save me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. But some of the ladies wouldn’t stop talking about my marvelous virtue. I got tired of it.”
“So you needed a little defilement?” she asked.
“I needed,” he said flatly, “to be left alone.”
“You didn’t seem to mind their adoration before.”
He sighed, and his breath stirred against her face. “I suppose the heat is getting to me.”
“Do you need to take your hands off?” she asked, remembering the audience.
“No,” he said.
And then they were silent. Rachelle dared a look around; a few people were still staring, but most were chatting with each other now. La Fontaine leaned against the King and fed him grapes; a quartet of musicians played violins. Erec lounged against a nearby tree; when their eyes met, he raised his eyebrows. Her face burned, and she looked away.
She couldn’t look at Armand. But she couldn’t ignore his warm weight in her lap. She felt him shifting slightly as he breathed; it was as unnervingly comforting as when Amélie painted cosmetics on her face.
The song ended, and there was a smattering of polite applause. Then the King said to Erec, “You look bored, d’Anjou.”
“Do I, sire?” Erec asked languidly.
Armand sighed and sat up. He pushed a lock of hair out of his face, and Rachelle’s fingers twitched with the impulse to smooth it back for him.
“I confess I’m bored as well. Propose an amusement for us.” The King leaned his chin on his hand and surveyed the glittering crowd that waited on his every move.
Rachelle vaguely remembered Erec having once told her about the King’s penchant for demanding a courtier to decide on his next amusement. It was supposed to be a test of elegance and taste. At the time, she’d just been grateful that, unlike Erec, she’d never have to attend court herself.
“A duel,” Erec said promptly, and Rachelle’s stomach lurched.
“I have heard that I outlawed dueling,” said the King.
