‘You lied to your uncle to protect me,’ he said.
Six feet of tapestried carpet lay between them. He didn’t mean it the way it sounded. Or maybe he did. Laurent’s eyes narrowed.
‘Have I once again offended your high-minded principles? Perhaps you can suggest a more wholesome détente. I seem to recall telling you not to wander off.’
Damen could hear, distantly, the shock in his own voice. ‘I don’t understand why you would do that to help me, when telling the truth would have served you far better.’
‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ve heard enough said about my character for one night, or am I to go twelve rounds with you too? I will.’
‘No, I—didn’t mean—’ What did he mean? He knew what he was supposed to say: gratitude from the rescued slave. It wasn’t how he felt. He’d been so close. The only reason he’d been discovered at all was because of Govart, who would not be his enemy if not for Laurent. Thank you, meant thank you for being dragged back to be shackled and tied up inside this cage of a palace. Again.
Yet, unequivocally, Laurent had saved his life. Laurent and his uncle were close to being a match when it came to bloodless verbal brutality. Damen had felt exhausted just listening to it. He wondered exactly how long Laurent had stood his ground before he had been brought in.
I can’t protect you as I am now, Laurent had said. Damen hadn’t thought about what protection might entail, but he would never have imagined that Laurent would step into the ring on his behalf. And stay in it.
‘I meant—that I am gratef—’
Laurent cut him off. ‘There is nothing further between us, certainly not thanks. Expect no future niceties from me. Our debt is clear.’
But the slight frown with which Laurent regarded Damen was not wholly one of hostility; it accompanied a long, searching look. After a moment:
‘I meant it when I said I disliked feeling indebted to you.’ And then: ‘You had far less reason to help me than I did to help you.’
‘That’s certainly true.’
‘You don’t prettify what you think, do you?’ said Laurent, still frowning. ‘A more artful man would. An artful man would have stayed put, and won advantage by fostering the sense of obligation and guilt in his master.’
‘I didn’t realise you had a sense of guilt,’ said Damen, bluntly.
An apostrophe appeared at one corner of Laurent’s lips. He moved a few steps away from Damen, touching the worked armrest of the throne with his fingertips. And then, in a sprawling, relaxed posture, he sat down on it. ‘Well, take heart. I am riding to Delfeur, and we will be rid of each other.’
‘Why does the idea of border duty bother you so much?’
‘I’m a coward, remember?’
Damen thought about that. ‘Are you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you shy away from a fight. More like the opposite.’
The apostrophe deepened. ‘True.’
‘Then—’
Laurent said, ‘It doesn’t concern you.’
Another pause. Laurent’s relaxed sprawl on the throne had a boneless quality, and Damen wondered, as Laurent continued to gaze at him, whether the drug still lingered in his veins. When Laurent spoke, the tone was conversational.
‘How far did you get?’
‘Not far. A brothel somewhere in the southern quarter.’
‘Had it really been that long since Ancel?’
The gaze had taken on a lazy quality. Damen flushed.
‘I wasn’t there for pleasure. I did have one or two other things on my mind.’
‘Pity,’ said Laurent, in an indulgent tone. ‘You should have taken your pleasure while you had the chance. I am going to lock you up so tightly you won’t be able to breathe, let alone inconvenience me like this again.’
‘Of course,’ said Damen, in a different voice.