tromping footfall, the dancing aromas of chamomile and roses. It was at her written request that he’d agreed to converge under the cover of dusk, unbeknownst to the sleepy kingdom beyond.
The unlikely pair met at the edge of a hillside glade overlooking a coniferous expanse of green—the sprawling High Forest, the western half of Brocéliande. Behind them, beyond the moors, a blood-red sun spilled duly into the Celtic Sea.
Laurent ran his tongue smoothly over his teeth, careful to keep his distance as the woman began to speak. She’d made no waste of time; his face fell as he listened to her ludicrous proposal, shifting in the shadows to avoid even the faintest rays of dwindling sunset. When she was finished, he could only stare.
“Well?” The woman glowered at him with tight-lipped fury.
“What are you asking me to do?” Thick vulcan brows knitted together above his deep-set eyes. His attempted whisper did little to mute the disbelief fraying his voice. He’d simply misheard her the first time.
He had to have.
“Don’t play stupid with me, Darkling,” she said, eyeing him in disdain. “You heard me.”
A twig crunched suddenly beneath Laurent’s footfall, and he startled.
“My goodness, relax,” she chuckled. “As promised, I’ve come alone.”
Her reassurance only hastened the painful adrenaline pulsing through his dead veins, like carp swimming upstream. As the crisp forest air exited and refilled his lungs in rising panic, he knew she was telling the truth. There was no one around for leagues, no guards concealed in the brush—nobody to come to her rescue, had things gone awry.
To what avail?
In the letter requesting Laurent’s company, Vivien Le Tallec had never revealed what it was she needed to discuss—only that their meeting was urgent. Laurent didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this, and it certainly wasn’t her. It was a stout, angry human woman he’d had in mind; the one standing before him was statuesque and terrifyingly unafraid. Her too-prominent nose made her resemble an irate swan.
Still, he wasn’t accustomed to feeling so ill-at-ease around humans, and this bothered him deeply. She was duchess after all—privilege-toting wife of the esteemed duke. Her prominence was probably why she dared come alone, the result of typical mortal foolishness Laurent knew well and plain. Social status accounted for nothing in the woods; he was still twice as strong as ten of her husband’s soldiers, and thrice as quick as their steeds. Still, Laurent couldn’t shake the vague feeling that something was… off.
And beneath platinum blonde locks, her neck—her neck, he couldn’t help but notice upon further inspection—was slender and elegant as the rest of her. Laurent absently licked his lips and ignored his growling belly.
Vivien sauntered towards him, daintily lifting the hem of her scarlet lace gown and shrinking the space between them to an arm’s length. Her teardrop earrings glimmered in the evening haze, their crystals casting rainbow freckles onto her plunging neckline
Laurent forced himself to blink twice. “Madame Le Tallec,” he replied warily.
Her eyes narrowed into slits as she leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. “All I am asking, is that you do what you do best. It shouldn’t be difficult, given the likes of you.”
Laurent shut his eyes to focus on the trickle of the nearby stream as he processed the sheer absurdity of her request. First of all, her sudden proximity was dangerously overwhelming. And second, it was true what everyone said—like her bellicose husband, the woman was mad.
“Don’t be daft! If I have to spell it out for you, by all means.” Her shrill cry shattered his thoughts, and a moment later she lunged forward to grip his cowhide vest. She jostled him, ice-blue eyes bulging. “Kill the princess. Drown her in the river, make it look like an accident. Lord knows you’re good at covering your tracks, and I will make sure you’re never caught. You have my word, Darkling. I don’t care how you make it happen, but make. Her. Disappear.”
Gently as possible, Laurent pried the woman’s fingers from his clothing. It was obvious she was unaware just with whom she was dealing. Fists clenched, he took a long step back. “I can’t do that.”
Vivien’s cold glare broke—but not for long. “Then get one of your kind who can,” she offered, smoothing her expression.
His jaw tightened. It was one thing for a Breton noble to ask a Darkling to kill a low-class harlot; though rare, it did happen from time to time, usually after a wayside mistress was discovered. He had many associates