Page 48 of The Devil in Her Bed
“A few people,” he answered honestly. “Most of them foreign. A German officer, for example, Klein Heinzlein, or an Italian count… one who is acquainted with a certain scarred duke of ancient Redmayne heritage.”
She gasped, and for once was completely speechless for longer than the space of time it took to fill her lungs. “Count Armediano?” she whispered.
“Al tuo servizio, signora.”
“Holy mother of Minerva, I can’t believe I’ve met you so many times and never suspected a thing…” She lowered her gun, but only a few inches, her features shining with an admiration that stole years from her countenance. “You’re incredible.”
His lip twitched with the genuine threat of a smile.Her unabashed compliment meant more to him, somehow, than a slew of official commendations he’d received over the years. “Those are just the personas I maintain with paperwork, residences, and societal contacts.” He was in danger of bragging, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.
Why did he want to impress her? Did this mean he was beginning to believe?
“I’d be mad to believe you,” she said with an incredulous shake of her head. “And don’t think it’s escaped my notice that you still haven’t told me who you really are.”
“You knew me once,” he murmured. His heart ceased to beat as he contemplated his next move. What if she failed his test?
What if she succeeded?
She frowned, her eyes shifting away suspiciously. “You told me we’d met in my childhood, but I’m sorry, I still can’t recall you.”
Chandler wished his fingers were steadier as he held them out to her, palm up.
“What about now?”
CHAPTERTWELVE
Francesca stared down at his hand for what felt like the space of a blink but could have been an eternity. Her vision narrowed, tunneled. Dimly, she heard her name being called. Felt her arm drop to her side and the hammer release from her pistol.
Her limbs went numb, then disappeared. Little tingles of sensation crawled over her face, her scalp, and rose gooseflesh over her entire body.
You knew me once.
Long ago, Declan Chandler and Ferdinand had snuck out of the house to romp in the woods in the dark. Young Francesca had been afraid to go.
But Pippa, she’d yearned to be invited with all her little-girl being. They’d promised to take her, but ultimately left without her. They’d played at being werewolves and bayed at the moon. They’d sliced the fleshof their palms and comingled their blood, solidifying a blood-brotherhood.
Pippa had been incensed upon waking the next morning—nay, she’d been livid. She’d cut her palm to match them, but had accidentally done the left hand instead of the right. She’d demanded that the entire clan do it again, but they refused her. She’d demanded to know why she’d been left out. They’d told her she was too young and loud and would have revealed them to the entire household. That she was a girl and not welcome into their brotherhood. Ferdinand had said she needed to learn to be a better lady. That she needed to change if she wanted anyone to like her.
Declan hadn’t agreed, but he hadn’t said anything against the young heir to Mont Claire, either.
That day had been the first time she realized that who she was as a person might cost her something as intrinsic as love. That she’d have to choose between her nature and what others desired her to be. Because girls, ladies, didn’t act like her. Didn’t have her ambitions, her proclivities, nor her curiosity.
At least, they weren’t supposed to.
It had been the worst day of her young life.
Up until the massacre.
To fill her astonished silence, he said, “Do you remember when Ferdinand and I did this, you were so dismayed. Disgusted. You dressed us down as you dressed the wounds.”
Not her. Francesca.Francescahad been disgusted.
Pippa had been enchanted and jealous.
“Declan?” Holy God, how many times had she saidthat name to the dark, aching, praying,yearningfor an answer. “It’s… not. How could it be? You were shot in the back.”
It took her a humiliatingly long time to realize that her eyes kept blurring because of tears. She blinked them away angrily, wishing they would stop stealing away the precious sight of the tiny scar on his palm. A scar no less than biblical to her.
She closed her fist around the matching one on her hand.
