Saw Matthew shove Melisande over the edge of the parapet.
Jasper fired the second pistol, and Matthew’s head jerked violently£erkf t back. Then Jasper was scrambling on the slippery tiles, a scream filling his head. He shoved Matthew’s corpse to the side and looked over the parapet, expecting to see Melisande’s body broken below. Instead, he saw her face, three feet down, looking back up at him.
He gasped and the screaming stopped. Only then did he realize that the sound had been real and that he’d been the one making it. He stretched his hand down. She was grasping an ornamental ridge of stone.
“Take my hand,” he rasped, his throat raw.
She blinked, looking dazed. He remembered that day, so long ago, in front of Lady Eddings’s town house just before they were married. She’d refused his hand to help her down from his carriage.
He leaned farther out. “Melisande. Trust me. Take my hand now.”
She gasped, her precious lips parting, and let go of the ledge with one hand. He lunged and grasped her wrist. Then he leaned backward and used his weight to haul her up and to safety.
She came over the parapet and fell limply into his arms. He wrapped his body about hers and held her. Simply held her, inhaling the scent of oranges in her hair, feeling her breath on his cheek. It was a while before he realized that he was shaking.
Finally, she stirred. “I thought you hated guns.”
He pulled back and looked at her face. She had a bruise on one cheek, and there was gore splattered in her hair, but she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
He had to clear his throat before he spoke. “I do hate guns. I loathe them desperately.”
Her lovely brows knit. “Then how . . . ?”
“I love you,” he said. “Don’t you know that? I would crawl through the flames of hell on my knees for you. Firing a goddamn gun is nothing compared to you, my dearest wife.”
He brushed her face, watching her eyes widen, and he bent to kiss her, repeating as he did, “I love you, Melisande.”
Chapter Twenty
So the little kitchen boy was brought trembling before the king. It wasn’t long before he confessed. Three times, Jack, the princess’s fool, had paid him to have a turn at stirring the pot of soup—the last time this very night. Well! The courtiers gasped, Princess Surcease looked thoughtful, and the king roared with rage. The guards dragged Jack to kneel before the king, and one placed a sword against the fool’s throat.
“Speak!” cried the king. “Speak and tell us from whom you stole the rings!” For naturally no one believed the short, twisted fool could’ve won the rings himself. “Speak! Or I will have your head cut from your body!” . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
One month later . . .
Sally Suchlike hesitated outside her mistress’s bedroom. It was late morning, but still one never knew, and she’d hate to go in if her mistress was not alone. She twisted her hands and stared at the little statue of the nasty goat man and the naked lady while she tried to decide, but of course the statue made her mind drift. The goat man did look so like Mr. Pynch and she wondered, as always, if his rather gigantic—
A man cleared his throat directly behind her.
Sally shrieked and whirled around. Mr. Pynch was standing so close she could feel the heat of his chest.
The valet raised one eyebrow slowly, which made him look more like the goat man than ever. “What are you doing, loitering in the hallway, Miss Suchlike?”
She tossed her head. “I was thinking on whether I should go into the mistress’s room or not.”
“And why wouldn’t you?”
She pretended shock. “She might not be alone, that’s why not.”
Mr. Pynch lifted his upper lip in a faint sneer. “I find that hard to believe. Lord Vale always sleeps alone.”
“Is that so?” Sally put her hands on her hips, feeling excitement heat her lower belly. “Well, why don’t you just go and see if your master is in his bed alone, because I wager he’s not in his room at all.”
The valet didn’t deign to reply. He just gave her a glance that swept her from head to toe and entered Lord Vale’s bedroom.
Sally blew out a breath and fanned her cheeks, trying to cool down as she waited.
She didn’t have long. Mr. Pynch reemerged from the master’s bedroom and closed the door quietly behind him. He stalked to where she stood and loomed over her until Sally backed against the wall.
Then Mr. Pynch lowered his head to breathe into her ear, “The room is empty. Do you accept the usual forfeit?”
Sally gulped, because her stays seemed a mite too tight. “Y-yes.”
Mr. Pynch swooped down and captured her lips with his own.
The silence in the hallway was broken only by Mr. Pynch’s deepened breathing and Sally’s sigh.
Then Mr. Pynch lifted his head. “Why do you find that statue so fascinating? Every time I catch you in the hall, you’re staring at it.”
Sally blushed because Mr. Pynch was nibbling along her neck. “I think it looks like you. The little goat man.”
Mr. Pynch raised his head and glanced over his shoulder. Then he looked back at Sally, one brow raised regally. “Indeed.”
“Mmm,” Sally said. “And I’ve been wondering . . .”
“Yes?”
He nibbled at her shoulder, which made it rather hard to concentrate.
Sally tried valiantly anyway. “I’ve been wondering if you’re like the little goat man all over.”
Mr. Pynch stilled against her shoulder, and for a moment, Sally thought that perhaps she’d been too impertinent.
Then he raised his head, and she saw the gleam in his eye. “Why, Miss Suchlike, I’d be happy to help answer your questions, but I think there is one thing we must do first.”
“And what’s that?” she asked breathlessly.
His face lost all trace of teasing. He suddenly became quite serious, his blue eyes gazing down at her almost hesitantly.
He cleared his throat. “I believe you must marry me, Miss Suchlike, in order for us to continue this discussion.”