Free Grave Mercy by Robin Lafevers

accusingly.
“No,” he says, then closes the door softly behind him. “I am not, but perhaps I can help you,” he offers.
And indeed, he is not Jean-Paul, nor Baron Lombart. This man is much taller than the baron, and where Lombart had gone to fat, this man is all lithe muscle. His rich brown cloak is clasped in place with the silver oak leaf of Saint Camulos, the patron saint of battle and soldiers. Under that he wears an unadorned black doublet that is elegant in its simplicity. He steps farther into the room, and I begin to feel trapped. Afraid of what his sharp gray eyes will see in my face, I fold my arms so that my breasts rise up enticingly. 
    “As you are not Jean-Paul, I do not think you can help me.” Even as I speak, my eyes search his face, his neck, praying for the marque that will allow me to dispatch him. But there is none. Or none that I can see.
“But I am here and he is not.” The man’s eyes, as dark and shifting as storm clouds, roam over my body, but there is no heat there. His keen gaze dismisses me and moves to the window. I take a step closer to distract him. 
    “Ah, but I do not wish to play Jean-Paul false, my lord, even though your charms are many.” In truth, he is not charming so much as dangerous, and I would have said anything to turn his attention from that window.
Almost as if reading my thoughts, he crosses to it and peers outside. I hold my breath. Sweet Mortain, please let the cart be gone from the courtyard!
The man’s regard flicks back to me, cutting straight to the bone. “You wound me, demoiselle. I am sure I could make you forget all about Jean-Paul.”
Still playing the coquette, I tilt my head to the side, but something is wrong. He is saying the right words, but his eyes do not match his flirtatious tone. A deep note of warning sounds inside me. 
    “B-but I do not want to forget about him,” I say as if insulted.
He takes three giant strides toward me, his entire demeanor changing as he grabs my shoulders. "Enough with the games. Who are you? What are you doing here?”
I let my body go slack, as if I’m weak and frightened. “I might ask the same of you. who are you and what are you doing here?” “Gavriel Duval. And if you are looking for a tryst, I can accommodate you.” 
    He pulls me closer, so that I feel the heat rising off his body, warm and smelling faintly of some spice. “But I do not think that is what you are looking for.”
He knows! I can see it in the depths of his eyes. Somehow he knows what I am and why I am here. I panic and begin to babble. 
    “I am sorry, milord, but I am waiting for Jean-Paul. I will leave you to your moment of quiet and be on my way.” with a nimble twist of my body, I slip from his iron grip. It is artlessly done, but I am free and fleeing for the door.
Once in the hall, I run all the way to the stairs. I take them two at a time, then pause a moment to compose myself. I look over my shoulder, but there is no sign of Gavriel Duval.
I straighten my skirts and square my shoulders, then enter the great hall. Upon seeing me, Crunard extricates himself from his conversation and makes his way through the crowd to my side.
He arches an eyebrow. “Is everything as it should be?” “It will be once we are away from here,” I say.
As he escorts me to the door, I feel a pair of eyes boring into the back of my head. I know if I turn and look, they will be the color of storm clouds.

Chapter Nine
    At the convent, the reverend mother looks at me sharply as she leans forward. “You are certain he said Duval?”
    “Yes, Reverend Mother. That was the name he gave. Although perhaps it was false? He also wore the silver oak leaf of Saint Camulos,” I add, in case that will help in any way.
    The abbess glances at Crunard and he nods reluctantly. “Duval does serve Saint Camulos, as do most knights and soldiers.”
"Even so,” she says. “It would be easy enough to get hold of such a pin to