Page 20 of The Agent and the Outlaw
She’d loosened her hair from beneath her cap, and it cascaded down her back in thick, glossy waves. The nightdress that the tavern lady had provided her was worn to threadbare softness, affording me glimpses of dusky nipples and that sinful dark triangle at the apex of her thighs. One sleeve slipped down her shoulder as she sat down before the table of food. She tore a chunk of bread from the loaf and set it into the steaming bowl of stew. Her easy movements and the tranquil domesticity of the scene filled me with a hunger far beyond food. How many times had I waded through the mud and blood of the battlefield, longing for something so simple—sopastoral?
She realized I was staring—she’d probably known all along, really—and raised a brow at me.
“Are you just going to stand there dripping on the floor while your food gets cold? If so, I’ll eat your share. This stew isdelicious,and the bread is warm from the oven. The ale is subpar, and frankly, I’d prefer wine, but it’ll do.”
She dipped the bread in the stew and raised it to her lips, licking the drips from her fingers. My mouth went bone dry. Frustration pulled my nerves taut, and I hastily started shucking my own clothes. Under different circumstances, I would’ve slept in them or gone nude, but they were filthy and wet from the rain, and I was damned tired of being cold. I turned around again and tugged my shirt off, tossing it into a pile with my coat, cloak, and hose. I reached for the innkeeper’s proffered nightshirt when I heard a coughing, choking sound behind me.
Charlotte’s wide eyes were watering, and her cheeks were pink, but she waved away my concern when I made to help her.
“No, no, I’m fine, Antoine. Really fine. Some ale went down the wrong way. Just give me a sex—second—and I’ll be all right again,” she spluttered. Her cheeks reddened even more, and I grinned.Well, at least I’m not the only one overset.That realization was quickly chased by another more damning one—if we both felt physical stirrings, it was a short road to ruin for us, and I couldn’t allow that. Partly because I didn’t trust her, partly because I needed to protect her, and honestly, partly because I needed to protect myself.
I pulled off my breeches and donned the nightshirt. It was just long enough to be decent but was far too tight across my chest. I stretched my arms out to the sides and felt the seams along the sides split a little.Ah, well. The innkeeper will have to forgive me.
I crossed the room and sat opposite Charlotte. She offered me the other half of the bread and a full bowl of stew. I raised my mug of ale to her and dove in.
Already, I felt worlds better. She’d been right—the stew and bread were delicious, but the ale was inferior. Still, it swept through my veins and loosened my tight muscles. It had been some time since I’d been able to relax a little. I thought back to Charlotte’s earlier questions and swallowed a mouthful of stew.
“Have you siblings?” I asked.
She smiled and swiped a hunk of bread in some butter. “No,” she replied. “But my cousin Daphne is just like a sister to me.”
“What of your parents?”
A look of melancholy passed over her face. “Mine died shortly after I married. A wave of illness took them both—not the blood plague, before you ask. Daphne’s also passed on, as did her older brother. It was a difficult time for both of us. We clung together like wreckage in the storm. We’d been close as children, but grief has a way of hardening things—not just people, you understand, but relationships, too. With loss, love can become fiercer, just as hate can become more vitriolic. Our playful childhood bond cemented us together like drying mortar.”
I was speechless for a moment, astonished by her ability to put into words something I’d so often felt myself. Marie and I had been cemented by my mother’s passing and my father’s cruelty, which was partly why her absence still felt so painful.
I swallowed hard. “Sisters are one of life’s greatest joys—and miseries.”
She laughed. “To be sure. I take it you have one?”
The bread turned to sand in my mouth. “I did, yes. Marie. She passed away a little less than a year ago. We were very close.”
Charlotte reached forward and laid a hand on my arm. Heat bloomed beneath her touch.
“Antoine, I’m so sorry. How awful for you,” she said, her face a study in sincerity. “It wasn’t the blood plague, was it?”
“No,” I said. I didn’t want to go into details tonight. My mood turned black.
She sensed the change and withdrew her hand. She was quiet for a moment, searching for something to say, perhaps.
“My husband—Philippe—well, I don’t actually know if he’s alive or dead. The last time I saw him was as he boarded a boat for the Château d'If. He committedterriblecrimes, Antoine, and was punished brutally for them. Rightly so, of course. But he was my husband, and I was devoted to him. He had been there when my parents died. Not in a supportive way, really, but he had been there. I’ve only recently learned to separate the truth of our marriage from my perception of what it was at the time. When I think back on it, I believe I grieved for him long before he went away, but that doesn’t make it easier. It is a hard thing to lose someone. Their absences linger like nothing else in this life.”
She drained the rest of her ale and popped the last chunk of bread in her mouth.
“What were his crimes?”
She sighed, a world weary, deeply sorrowful sound. “Antoine, you probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me,” I challenged.
She arched a brow. “I don’t think that would be a good idea for either of us, do you?” She’d deliberately mistaken my meaning to avoid answering the question, a tactic I knew well enough, but for some reason, I found myself blushing beneath her heated gaze.
“Did you love him?” I asked, then immediately wished to take the words back. It wasn’t my business whether she cared for him—he was her husband, after all. We were mere strangers. Still, I railed against the spark of jealousy that burned in my chest.
Charlotte tilted her head, thinking. “You know, I thought I did. But perhaps I just loved the idea of us. He was rich, titled, powerful, and not unattractive. He was a catch by the standards of thetonne.My parents were delighted at his offer. Alas, he fooled us all with his well-guarded villainy.”
“Some people are masters of deception. They delight in hiding their true nature from the eyes of the world,” I growled. My voice sounded rougher than I’d intended, but I was irritated by her memories of marriage and reminded again of my father’s treachery. His betrayal felt as fresh now as it had been when I’d first discovered it.
