Page 25 of The Duchess Curse

Her red-gold lashes quivered briefly on the curve of her cheek before her eyes flashed open, and she swept his hand away with a bit of linen she worked across the smudge. “You do not wear gloves?”

“Sometimes. Does it really matter what I wear beneath the glamour?”

“I suppose not.” Her gaze darted downward. “You aren’t entirely without clothing, are you?”

“Would you like to know?”

She rolled her eyes and cleaned the space where she’d been working, scrubbed a brush beneath her nails, and slipped on her own gloves.

He popped a hip against the edge of the table. “The someone you know who fought well in the shadows… It’s Bran, isn’t it.”

“You know about him, too? Of course you do.” Her brittle little laugh was like a pot dropped to the marble floor, breaking in two, spilling its contents. “It is no matter. I should like to see your shadow work.”

She had seen. Countless times when he’d been himself. He had to be careful about showing her now. If she saw him gather shadows and wield them like weapons, she might come to a few realizations he’d rather she not.

“Where are we going first?” he asked.

“Clever of you to know there is a first.”

“My only question is whether there will be a third, fourth, or fifth as well.”

She chuckled, took off her apron and grabbed her reticule and bonnet. She also grabbed her walking stick. He’d given her that blade. It was fashioned of a cherry handle he had carved himself into a raven mid flight. And the hidden sword inside the cane was made from the same alchemist metal as his sword. It grew or shrank to do a man’s bidding. A woman’s too.

He followed her outside into the cold, gray day, placing his hand over his own sword strapped to his outer right thigh. He wouldn’t use it unless absolutely necessary. If she saw the sword, he’d raise her suspicions. At the very least, she’d realize that Bran, like Braxton, was a Second Shadow. Then she’d have questions, and hell, things were already too complicated.

So he allowed her to march ahead of him while he kept watch from behind.

Soon they were standing in front of Apollo‘s plant shop.

Bran stopped Guin on the threshold. “Be careful.”

She brushed right past him, and he was forced to follow despite the sounds only just covered by the susurrations of whispering leaves. And he wasn’t at all surprised when they found the shop’s owner and the owner’s wife. Guin was. She gave a little gasp and hung onto his arm to steady herself.

Sybil sat on the counter at the back of the shop, and Apollo stood between her legs. Her skirts were bunched up, and his hands were flat on the counter, bracketing his wife’s hips, and he was kissing her leisurely.

“Erm. You have company,” Bran said.

“What do you want?” Apollo said against his wife’s lips.

“To understand how you retain any business. Doing that during shop hours.”

Guin nodded. “You could at least lock the door.

Apollo’s head dropped backward on a sigh. “You again.” He looked over his shoulder, brow raised. “With Lady G. Now this is interesting.”

“Lady G!” Sybil wiggled out of her husband’s grasp and came to her feet. “Oh, it is you! Apologies for the—erm—state you find us in.”

“I do not apologize,” Apollo said.

Sybil punched his arm, gained a wicked, adoring grin. “We quite lose sense of time. And place.” She was petite and blonde and easy to underestimate. Seemed like she’d be more at home at a garden party than a forge, but she was the Royal Alchemist’s sister, and his apprentice, and was stronger than she looked. “What brings you here?”

“My wife needs plants,” Bran said.

“Naturally,” Apollo drawled.

“Let me find them!” Sybil tore toward Guin. “I’ve been learning, and it would be good to test myself with someone who won’t scold me too terribly if I get it wrong.” She hooked her arm through Guin’s, and they disappeared into the plants.

Bran stepped closer to Apollo, then after a final look into the foliage to make sure they were alone, whispered, “Have you thought about what we talked about? The last time I was here?”