Nim landed solidly on the wooden floor with a grunt. The panic had not subsided, but when she shot to her feet, he was still standing opposite her across the desk, his hands folded casually behind his back, his expression grave.
Her finger rose like a dagger to keep him back. “You,” she said. “You’re one of them.” She felt the spike of his surprise wash over her and realized she’d been sensing intimations from him all along. She’d just been too distracted to realize. It was too unreasonable to believe from the man who carried out the law. Not him.
His brow shifted the slightest amount, but his voice was steady and too calm. “How can you be certain of that, my lady?”
She glanced toward the door—locked—then the arched windows and their narrow panes of glass. She knew because she could feel the magic crawling over her like… but no, it was not the same. Another reason she’d not realized. When she sensed intentions from Calum or the sentries, it was as if serpents slithered over her skin. From this man, it was something else, a rising warmth that did nothing to urge her away. And it was the absolute last thing she’d expected.
He was an agent of the king. A mark of the Trust. There was no way it could be possible. And yet it was.
“You can sense it.”
Nim felt something strange from him, something that might have been disbelief or distrust, but it was quickly driven into resolve. Whatever he thought of her, however rare it was that she had been touched by magic, that she could feel both the power and intimations, he saw that it was true.
“And because you can, you know well that I speak the truth. You can feel that my vow is yours.” He stepped back then settled into his chair. As his gaze met hers again, he said, “That is how you know you can trust me, Nimona Weston. Because my intentions are nothing like theirs.”
Chapter 7
Nimona’s fear was like a knife blade shearing her in half. Not only was he one of them, but he knew her name. A curse superior to the one he’d called vulgar slipped from her lips.
The seneschal smirked. “Come now. Don’t tell me you aren’t familiar with my name as well.”
Of course she was, because he was her mark. The thought sent a shiver of unease through her, and all the suppositions her mind had been sorting into answers reshuffled. “You knew I was coming.”
He reached for a decanter then poured a finger of amber liquid into a glass. “I did. Though not tonight.” He ran a hand over the trim of a small side table, pressing his thumb against the wood to reveal a hidden drawer. Nimona tried not to gape as he drew a letter free, its shade horribly familiar and its vermilion seal cracked. It read the name of a lord in Nim’s precise hand, a lord she’d written in her inquiries into the seneschal of Inara. He opened it carefully, as if glancing over the paper to remind himself of her words. “You see”—his eyes met hers—“your letter was intercepted and handed over to me by a trusted agent. And it seemed it was not the only inquiry that was made. I was intrigued that someone of your station seemed so desperate for details of the castle schedule, so I looked into your history.”
Ice shot through Nim.
The seneschal, Lord Warrick, took a slow slip from his glass. “There was surprisingly little information available for a lady residing in Hearst Manor, but, as you might imagine, that only intrigued me more.”
Nimona did imagine. She imagined he’d heard right away about the gentleman Hearst’s unexpected and extended departure from society. She felt the urge to back away again, but there was nothing to edge toward, aside from a sealed window and a locked door. “I didn’t kill him,” she heard herself say.
Warrick chuckled darkly. “I am glad to hear it.” A silence followed, in which Nimona considered whether the man had actually been killed. She might not have believed it before, but Warrick’s suggestion that the Trust was covering her deeds with fire and flood was worming its way through her recollection of the recent past. The servants’ quarters at the castle, the lady’s maid near the river… each of those tasks had been followed swiftly and severely by disastrous events. She’d known the Trust was involved but hadn’t suspected any of it was to cover her tracks. And yet, every time she’d stolen back an artifact that had belonged to the Trust, her mark had disappeared. There was no way to be certain they were only being held in a cell.
His finger tapped the side of the glass. “I had you followed.”
Nim felt her face pale. They would have seen her go to Margery and would have known about the messenger her friend had sent with information on the king. Nim’s mouth came open, but the words lodged in her throat.
Warrick’s head tilted to the side as he examined her. Her lip quivered, but she bit hard into the inside of her cheek and forced her distress into a locked box deep inside her. Margery had only tried to help. She’d never been involved in the seedy, sordid things Nim had done.
“I’m not—she isn’t who you might think she is. She doesn’t know what I—” Nim drew a steadying breath. “She doesn’t know about my ties to the Trust.” She didn’t know that Nim was involved or that her life was bound by contract.
Warrick’s tapping finger stilled on the glass. “The lady Margery? You care about her.”
Nim couldn’t hide it. The emotion had been plain on her face.
The idea did not seem to please the seneschal. “I’ll ensure she’s protected.”
A strange fluttering beat through Nim’s chest. He wasn’t lying. She could feel the truth from him. Margery would be safe. “I’ll do it.”
Warrick’s distracted gaze snapped back to hers.
“Your dreadful bargain. I’ll do it. If you can protect Margery and keep her safe from the Trust, I’ll be your spy.”
“Agent,” he corrected. “And it’s hardly dreadful.” Nim stared at him, and he added, “given the alternative.”
He stood and crossed to her, the long line of his body lit by moonlight that dipped into shadow on his opposite side, splitting him into two. Graceful was not the word that came to mind. Predatory. Wolfish. Those were the words her friend should have used. Nim wondered what she looked like to him, standing in that same light, torn between her agreement with him and a contract held by the Trust.
Warrick reached out a hand. “So we have an understanding.”
Nim’s eyes rose to his. She swallowed her first response then placed her palm against his. Something strange swelled through her, a feeling from him that she could not unravel, as his warmth spread through the bare touch of their hands. Her voice was breathy, not her own. “Yes. It’s agreed.”
His mouth shifted as if it could not decide whether it meant to form a smile or a frown then settled into a stern line. “It’s done, then.” He withdrew his hand from hers. “I’ll send a messenger with instructions.”
The abruptness in his change of tone startled Nim from her shock. “How can I—what madness do you have planned? They obviously watch me. They will know that I’m plotting against them with the king.”
“No,” he snapped through the quiet room. “You are not plotting with the king. You are plotting with the king’s seneschal.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “And should you be caught, I will deny any knowledge of you or our agreement.”