Her eyes flash open and she turns to look at me, surprised. She smiles. “You are the first to agree with me,” she confides. “I knew we would get along.” She turns back around so I may finish her hair. “His name was Louis, Louis d’Orléans, and he came to my father’s court when I was but five years old. He was so charming and gallant, but mostly kind, kind and gentle with the child I was then. And of course, I had heard plenty of stories of how bravely he fought beside my father as they tried to restrain France’s encroachment on her surrounding duchies.”

My mind scrambles to the tapestry back at the convent, but Louis d’Orléans was a French noble, not a Breton one, so I knew little about him other than that he is a cousin of Charles VIII, and that he fought in the Mad War beside the duchess’s father.

“Why did your father not betroth you to him? Surely it would have been a good match.”

The duchess sighs in sorrow. “Louis was forced to marry Joan, the daughter of the late king, when he was only fourteen years old. It was especially hard because his wife’s physical infirmities left her sterile, so he would have no hope of producing an heir.”

“And thus there would be no threat to the French crown,” I murmur.

“Precisely. There was talk, during that visit, of having his marriage annulled so that we could marry, but the plan was vehemently blocked by France, which held much sway with the pope.

“And then he was captured last year and has been kept as a prisoner ever since.” There are tears in her eyes. Whether because he is imprisoned or due to her lost dreams, I cannot tell.

Chapter Forty-Two

IT IS LATE, FAR TOO close to dawn. I should grab a few hours’ sleep before morning, but I am filled with a need to see Balthazaar, even as an unwelcome sense of shyness and uncertainty settles over me at the memory of the things we did together four nights ago. I wonder if that is all he will think of now when he sees me.

I wonder if he will want to do it again.

And how soon.

When I reach the ramparts, I step quietly onto the catwalk. The sentries are so familiar with my habit of haunting their domain that they barely acknowledge my presence except to stand a little more alertly and shake themselves awake. I turn and walk in the opposite direction. Usually by the time I reach the far corner, Balthazaar is there waiting for me. But tonight as I peer into the shadows and whisper his name, I can see that they are empty.

My heart twists uncomfortably in my chest, then I scold myself for being foolish. He does have other things to do—hellequin duties he must attend to. It is unreasonable to expect him always to be here when I need him. And yet, he is, and I do.

I whisper his name again, then wait a few moments. I lean on the battlements so that if the sentries should look my way, they will think me pensive or in prayer.

The minutes drag into a quarter of an hour and still he does not come. A most disturbing thought fills me. Does he feel he has gotten what he wanted and so sees no reason to return? He is a hunter, after all, and I his prey. Now that I have been duly lured into his trap, has his interest faded? My hands grip the stone wall in front of me. No. Our connection is more than simple lust, although that is part of it, no question. But it wasn’t only my body he was after.

I glance at the sky. Nearly an hour has passed and I have run out of arguments and justifications as to why he is not here. I put my hand on my chest, over the tender place there, and tell myself it is not pain I am feeling. As I turn to leave, I detect movement in the shadows. “Balthazaar?”

After a moment’s hesitation, he steps forward.

“How long have you been there?” I ask.

“Not long. It is late. Surely you should be sleeping.”

“I will, but I wished to see you.”

“Why?”

I frown. “Because I am daft, clearly.”

He sighs, then steps over to the battlements, puts his hands on the wall, and leans out, staring at the city below, careful to keep a goodly distance between us. “Do they not miss you when you come up here?” His voice is gruff, guarded, and he does not look at me.

“I am careful not to come that often.” I do not slip away nearly as often as I would like.

“You should not come here anymore.”

I hold very still, trying to study his face, but he keeps it turned toward the city. “What are you saying?” I keep my voice very low. “Are you rejecting me?” Outrage mingles with mortification.

“No.” The word is harsh. He turns to face me, and I recoil at the intensity of the emotions in his eyes. He takes a step closer, looming over me. “I am not rejecting you—I am trying to save you. To save you from being pulled any further into my bleak existence.”

“It is not I who need saving, but you.”

He blinks in surprise, his mouth parting slightly, but no words emerge and I realize I have hit the mark far more accurately than I dreamed.

He turns to look back over the city. “Do not be ridiculous.” His voice is ripe with scorn and mockery. “It is others, including you, who must find safety from me.”

“Truly?” I take a step closer to him and he cringes. It is a mere tightening of muscle and skin, but I see it and suddenly I know he is not cringing in revulsion or rejection but because he is fighting a fierce battle with his own desires and his own heart. “What must I fear from you?” My voice is as soft and gentle as the caress I long to give him. “That you will touch me?”

I reach out and put my hand on his neck, feel his flesh twitch and flutter beneath my fingers. I draw even nearer, pressing myself close against his unyielding side. “That you would do this?” I put my fingers in his hair and force him to look at me. The anguish and conflict in his eyes nearly break my heart anew. If ever anyone needed saving, it is this tortured man. “Or this?” I rise up on my toes and softly place my lips against his. He resists at first, and then it is as if a floodgate opens and all his need pours out.

He turns from the battlements and pulls me into his arms as if he could pull me into his very chest so I might reside against his heart. His manner shifts, changing from resistant to possessive, and he cups my head in his hands and devours my mouth as if he would pull all that I am into him. Breathless, he stops and rests his forehead against mine, our hearts beating in a joint frantic rhythm.

“How can you expect me to walk away from this?” I whisper.

“But there is no freedom for me, only death.”

“Even now? After all that you have done and all the years you have ridden with the hunt?”

He shrugs, a sharp frustrated jerk of the shoulders. “It is the nature of my existence. And what I wish to save you from—giving your heart to someone who cannot be with you in the way you deserve. Who cannot be the man you deserve.”

But his warning comes far too late. My heart is already his.

I do not sleep much that night, not with thoughts of Balthazaar rolling around in my head like an uneven cart wheel. When I am not thinking about him, I worry about the duchess and the corner the French have backed her into. And when my thoughts finally turn from that, then it is young Isabeau who comes to mind, and I wonder just how much longer she will live and how the duchess will bear it when she dies.

But when morning comes, I am determined to do something, anything. And that is when I remember Crunard, languishing in the dungeon, a traitor who once had the ear of the French crown and who may well still be in contact with the regent.

I find Crunard in his cell, stretched out on the small pallet there. When he hears my footsteps, he sits up. Seeing it is me, he quickly runs a hand over his hair and straightens his shirt. I cannot decide if I find his gesture humorous or touching. He nods in greeting. I say nothing but simply stare at him, giving the whirlwind of emotions I feel every time I look at him a chance to subside.

“What do you know of Marshal Rieux and his alliance with d’Albret?”

“It was too much to hope for a pleasant father-and-daughter chat, wasn’t it?”

“It was. What do you know of their alliance?”

He leans back against the stone wall and shrugs. “That Rieux believed allying with d’Albret would be our best chance to gain enough force to repel France’s aggression.”

“Did he not know of the rumors surrounding d’Albret’s earlier marriages, or did he simply not care?” For that, far more than the political betrayal, is what rankles me.

“We had all heard rumors, but Rieux believed them to be just that, rumors that followed a brutish leader who was not loved by his people. I think he also believed that the duchess’s position would keep her safe, for it is one thing to have so many accidents befall one’s wives, when they are far from their homes and the people who would avenge them, but a far different thing to openly attack the beloved ruler of a nation.”

“And you?”

He meets my gaze steadily. “I feared them more than simply rumors. Whatever other treachery I may have committed, I was not willing to consign the duchess to d’Albret’s tender care.”

“Duly noted.” I fold my arms across my chest and begin to pace in front of his door. “The question is, can the duchess trust Rieux’s offer to become her loyal subject once more?”

“I do not see that she has any choice. Rieux is a brilliant military tactician, and he brings many troops with him, troops the duchess will no doubt need.”

“But how can she be certain he will not betray her again?”

“She cannot. But she can be certain he will not betray her with d’Albret again, and can take precautions in case his loyalty shifts with the winds of opportunity.” He rises to his feet and comes to stand nearer the door. “You have to understand, for years the French crown has bribed many in the Breton court to report all the duchy’s activity and options and counsel. A person was of little importance if the French did not try to recruit him. Most took the money. Some gave them useful information in exchange. Others gave them meaningless crumbs.

“Madame Hivern, François, Madame Dinan, Marshal Rieux, fully half the nobles of Brittany took bribes or payments of some kind.”

“And you.”

He glances sharply at me. “No. I never took the bribes. Not until the duke lay dead and the promised payment was my last remaining son.”

I shake my head. “No wonder the poor duke could never win a damned war,” I mutter.

“Precisely. Oddly, some of his most loyal men were actually French—Captain Dunois, Louis d’Orléans.”

That is the second time I have heard that name mentioned. “How many sons did you have, all told?” I ask softly, for we are speaking of my brothers.

“Four.”

“What were their names?”

“Phillipe was the eldest, then Rogier, followed by Ives, then Anton.”

“And Anton was the one the French held captive?”

“Yes. He and Duval were great friends. They grew up together, trained together.”

“And how would he feel about your betrayal of Brittany?”

That arrow strikes home. Crunard’s nostrils flare in irritation and he looks away, but not before I see a brief twinge of shame. “He would not understand because he is young and full of noble ideals and has no idea what it is like to watch your children crumple before you like so many trampled weeds.”

I do not know what to say to that, for part of me agrees. How can any of us know the heartache such a loss would create? How can any of us know how we would live—or try to live—with such pain?

But I am unwilling to stay here and sympathize with him. I lift my skirts and turn to leave, but one last thought occurs to me. “Would any of the duchess’s suitors have helped her stave off the French invasion?”

“Does it matter? She is now married to the Holy Roman emperor.”