“Trying,” said Davith. “Lady Sancha doesn’t quite believe my claims of undying affection.”
“Very wise of her.”
“Probably. But she’s also the jealous sort, so you might have done me a good turn showing up like that.”
“Well, then that’s two favors you owe me.”
“Ah.” His voice was still superficially light, but she saw the sudden watchfulness in his gaze, a coiling of intent. “Are you planning on calling that favor in, then?”
“I might have need of some of your skills. One never knows.”
“Interesting.” He smiled, although she doubted he meant it. “I don’t suppose it’s my skill in bed that you’d like to test out?”
She gave him a wry look. “I can’t say that’s particularly interesting at the moment.”
“You wound me to the quick, my dear.”
“Yes, you look extremely wounded.”
He chuckled. “I’m glad you’re here, Marguerite.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. One gets so tired of not having someone else to really talk to, when one is charming silly women out of their secrets.”
“And their money?”
“Tsk, tsk. The occasional expensive love-gift. They go away well satisfied and I go away with my pockets a little heavier.”
“As long as you go away.” Marguerite hooked her arm through his to let him know she was joking.
They meandered along the refreshment table. “It’s not the love-gifts I’m interested in, Davith.”
“Ah. Playing the game, are we, my dear?”
“As always. Am I correct in assuming that you’re working for someone?”
“You make it sound so commercial.” He clucked his tongue. “I suppose it’s possible that there’s someone somewhere who might be interested in what I happen to turn up.” He disentangled from her and picked a plate up from the table. “No different from you. In fact, I imagine we’re on the same side.”
“Always a pleasure to be on the same side.” She eyed him thoughtfully. Time to roll the dice…
“Would you care to pool our resources?”
Davith turned away, carefully selecting tidbits for the plate. “I suspect that something could be
arranged,” he said, neatly arranging strawberries alongside a candied snail. “My patron’s love-gifts are quite generous, after all.” He handed her the plate. Marguerite took it, noting that it contained all her favorites. Which is not surprising. Davith is very, very good at his job. He probably also knows your favorite flower and what herbs you brush your teeth with.
“I don’t suppose there’s any salt to be had…？” she murmured, her fingers brushing his.
Davith stilled. Only another spy would have caught the flicker of an eyelid, the infinitesimal catch of breath. Marguerite cursed internally. The mention of salt had startled him. He knew what it meant, but he hadn’t expected her to be looking for it.
The Sail must have told him that he was the only operative sent for this one. Damn and blast.
Now I’ve put his back up, and he has to decide if I’m an enemy or a loyalty test.
He laughed. To any on-looker, they would look like two old friends sharing a joke. Only Marguerite could see that his eyes were deadly serious. “On second thought, my dear, I fear that some widows are far more jealous than others. It would be my balls in a vise should they catch me with someone else.”
Marguerite laughed as well. “I’ve no desire to see you run afoul of such a widow.”
“Nor I you. For I cannot imagine they would like being jilted.”
“Perish the thought.” She took a bite of canape. “Ah, well. A woman can dream.”
“Indeed. I’m glad we understand each other, my dear.” He gave her a small salute with one finger.
“And now, I must go and smooth over Lady Sancha’s ruffled feathers. Do you mind being an inconvenient lover from my past who simply cannot let go?”
This time Marguerite’s laugh was genuine. “Not at all. Was I very tiresome?”
“Dreadfully tiresome. You wanted us to dress in matching outfits. I think…puce.”
“You wound me. Scarlet, if you please.”
“Scarlet it is.” He winked at her and strolled away. Marguerite watched him go and sighed. He cut a very handsome figure and she quite liked him. It was a damn shame that he was working for the enemy.
FIFTEEN
BEING a bodyguard at the Court of Smoke, Shane realized, involved a lot of leaning against the wall.
Marguerite had explained it all on the long journey to the court, of course. If everyone kept their personal guard with them, the rooms would be far too crowded for anyone to walk. Nobles would try to show their importance by commanding larger and larger armed retinues, and it would have all become quite unwieldy. Every merchant with a formal invitation to the court was therefore allowed one attendant, and every noble was allowed two.
As a result, there were fewer bodyguards than he expected. Shane picked out a half-dozen, all with their weapons peacebonded, all of whom looked as if the peacebond would trouble them for less than four seconds if push came to shove. Some of them probably doubled as duelists, if their employers were prone to picking fights or to having fights picked for them. Formal dueling was allowed at the Court, brawling was most certainly not. They varied wildly in age, appearance, and attire, but they all wore the same look. Shane expected that he wore it himself.
While there weren’t many bodyguards, there were certainly a great many chaperones. His post on the wall was flanked by chairs full of old women, all of whom were watching their charges with much the same expression as the bodyguards.
You watched your charge as she moved through the crowd, until she stopped. Every few seconds, your eyes flicked away and you did a sweep of the area, looking for threats. Then you found your charge again, determined that she was still alive and not on the move, assessed her expression for distress, then did another sweep.
It was the same job that he had done for Bishop Beartongue, and it was usually exceptionally tedious. Shane generally amused himself by watching the small dramas playing out all around him, but in a room this large, he was afraid to take his eyes off Marguerite for too long.
Fortunately, watching Marguerite was anything but tedious. Unfortunately, watching Marguerite made him feel things that he had no right to feel.
When she laughed with the too-handsome man that she had pointed out earlier, he felt a stab of…
something. Not jealousy, certainly. I have no right to be jealous. I am her bodyguard, nothing more.
Call it envy, then, that Davith could make her laugh and he could not. An envy that only deepened
when she slid her arm through his, and they moved together like old friends or old lovers.
Shane entertained a brief fantasy of wandering over and looming over Davith. He wasn’t any taller than the other man, but he was definitely a good deal broader. Plus he had a very large sword on his back, which tended to make looming more effective. Davith was wearing velvet and hose, not armor. You could cut through that with a butter knife. Well, the hose, anyway. Loose cloth was excellent at tangling up a blade, although there wasn’t anything loose about the man’s attire. His clothes looked as if he were sewn into them. Women and no small number of men threw appreciative looks after him as he passed.