Embarrassment? Disapproval?
He damn well better not disapprove. I’ve got the information, and all it cost me was about thirty minutes with an unpleasant man who smelled like he was trying to cover up sweat with sandalwood.
Irritation flared in her gut. She knew that it was mostly at Maltrevor, but he wasn’t here and Shane was and the bastard wasn’t even able to look at her. Did he think I was as pure as he is? A virgin or a saint?
Who gave him the right to disapprove of anything I do, anyway? Or who I choose to fuck? He’s my bodyguard, not my chaperone. I could have a different man in my bed every night, and the only thing he has any right to do is check them for weapons at the door.
Chilly air puffed through the arrow slits on the outer wall. She wrapped her arms around herself more tightly. Her current outfit might turn her breasts into one of the wonders of the world but that was about all you could say for it, and the cloak had been chosen for concealment, not warmth. The night breeze cut right through the thin fabric and whipped it around her bare legs. Also, she’d taken off the damn shoes, which meant that her bare feet were becoming intimate with the flagstones.
Shane stopped and turned to face her.
“Marguerite…”
“What?” she asked crossly. “I chose to do this. Don’t start getting cold feet now.” Swear to god, if he decides to read me a lecture about my behavior, I’ll take that sword and give the stick up his ass some company.
“I’m sorry you had to do it,” he said. “I know there was no choice, but I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “It’s just the job. I’ve done it before. It’s all right.”
“It’s not—"
She groaned. She was not in the mood for this. “Shane, have you ever cleaned a privy?”
“Err…I’ve dug a latrine trench?”
“Close enough. Was it a horrible traumatic experience from which you will never recover?”
He blinked at her. “I can’t say it was, no?”
“Was it a boring physical job that you didn’t particularly enjoy but it had to get done?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, so is what I just did. A little soap and hot water and then I’m probably never going to think about it again.”
Shane considered this. “A lot of people wouldn’t feel that way about it,” he said cautiously.
“Then they shouldn’t go into my line of work.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Shane, I understand you’re trying to be delicate with my feelings, I realize that a lot of people would be horrified and conflicted and would need that, but frankly, my only feeling right now is that my
goddamn feet hurt, okay?”
Shane nodded once, sharply. “I see.” He pulled the heavy wool cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around her. She blinked up at him, surprised, and then he bent down, slid his arm behind her knees and picked her up.
Wait, what?
Shane’s chest was warm against her back and his cloak covered her completely. He smelled like ginger and spices, and she suddenly remembered Grace complaining that Stephen always smelled like gingerbread.
He looked down at her, and if there had been pity in his gaze, she would have punched him in the throat. But she saw something else instead, something she almost recognized. Then he lifted his head and it slipped away. “You did the job. Now I’ll take you home.”
It was the voice. He was using the voice and she could feel it everywhere she was pressed against him. Marguerite didn’t know what to say. Part of her still wanted to snap at him, but another part wanted to curl up and bask in that voice as if it were the sun.
Shane carried her away from the cold windows and down a flight of steps. Marguerite felt his weight shift and put her arms around his neck for balance. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
I’ve got you. The words rang inside her as if she were a bell. They promised safety. She knew that it was only the voice, some trick handed down by an absent god, and yet she wanted desperately to believe in that promise. She had not felt safe for years. Not since the day that she learned there was a price on her head, because someone had come to collect.
Marguerite leaned her forehead against his shoulder, wishing that he would keep talking. It’s Shane. You’re lucky he’s not grunting at you again. “Say something.”
“What should I say?”
Tell me I’m safe. Make me believe it, just for a little while. “Anything. Tell me something about you. Something unimportant.”
His breath hitched in something that was almost a chuckle. “Something unimportant? Hmm…”
They passed the entrance to the bathing area, the smell of steam and mineral salts billowing out to meet them. Marguerite would have liked a bath, but that meant that Shane would put her down and she was not quite ready for this to end.
Several older women emerged, clearly having come from the baths. Shane nodded to them politely, ignoring their wide-eyed looks.
“Damn,” one muttered appreciatively. He made it a dozen paces before muffled feminine laughter broke out behind them. Marguerite felt rather smug, even though she knew that the night was going to end with nothing more exciting than a debriefing about an artificer.
“Should I put you down?” asked Shane.
“Only if your arms are tired.”
“Not at all.”
“Then tell me something unimportant.”
He went up the final flight of stairs. “I like cats. My favorite color is purple.”
“I’m not sure those are unimportant enough.”
“When I was eleven, I memorized the Tragedy of Sir Pollux.”
“Why?”
“There was a tapestry in the temple. He had a very handsome horse.”
Marguerite frowned. “Didn’t he die horribly?”
“Extremely.” He reached the door to their chambers and his grip on her shifted as he reached out to rap on it. “Pierced by a hundred arrows/Stabb’d through by a hundred swords.”
“You’d think everything after the first dozen would be overkill.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?”
The door opened. Wren looked up at them, wide-eyed, and stepped back. “Oh. Uh. Hello.”
“Get the door,” said Shane, carrying Marguerite past her. To her surprise, he went to her bedroom before setting her down on her feet, just inside. She felt his lips brush her forehead, then he stepped back, over the threshold, putting a small but important space between them.
“Rest,” he said. “Tomorrow will be soon enough to go over what you learned.”
“Thank you,” she said. The adrenaline from breaking into the Baron’s desk was wearing off and Marguerite could feel the crash coming on. She lifted a hand and turned away, closing the door behind her.
SHANE LEANED his forehead against the doorframe and let his breath out in a long, long sigh.
“Is everything okay?” asked Wren. “Is Marguerite…？”
He straightened. “She says she’s fine.” Almost certainly she is, too. She’s a professional and you’re a fool.
Wren nodded. He had a brief, mad urge to drop to his knees and beg his fellow paladin to hear his confession, but the idea of pouring out his guilt and frustrated lust to Wren, of all people, was not to be borne. He’d die with his soul unshriven first. The gods would understand.