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idiot. I’ll just—” He lost track of what he was saying in a wave of dizziness. His breath turned to shallow panting. He sagged against the wall.
    “Stay here. I’ll go find a candle and have a look at that wound—”
    “No! I don’t need anything,” he growled.
    “Sit down, at least.” She held on to his arm, steadying him needlessly as he sank down onto the step.
    How humiliating, he thought.
    “Oh, I wish I could see you. It’s so dark in here,” she said, fussing over him. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
    He merely laughed at her, lowering his head toward his knees to fight the nausea.
    “Were you stabbed, or is it an incise wound?” she asked in a patient tone.
    “Bastard gave me a good slice over the shoulder,” he mumbled, chastened, for the girl sounded genuinely concerned.
    “The front?”
    “Front and back, I think.”
    “Any tingling in your fingers? Numbness?”
    “I don’t know,” he sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned against the wall. “I’m just so damned tired.” He hadn’t meant to say it. Not so earnestly, so quietly.
    In the dark, her soft hand came to rest on his cheek, caressing him. “I know you are, poor creature. You never stop, do you? You never give yourself time to heal.”
    Her touch was heaven. He rested against her hand for a moment, then pulled away abruptly, appalled that she should say such a thing, appalled he had admitted to such weakness.
    “I’m fine. Just not as young as I used to be,” he muttered. With one hand, he loosened his cravat. It helped marginally. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. “All right. Sorry. Let’s go.”
    “Sorry?” she echoed.
    He forced himself to stand.
    The way she took his elbow now annoyed him. He shook her off. “For God’s sake, I’m not an invalid. It’s just a little scratch.”
    “All right, Darius. It’s all right,” she said soothingly, backing off, but still near.
    He growled at her placating tone.
    By the time they came out into the dimly lit servant hall on the third floor of the royal block, he was feeling steadier and had regained his arrogance. He swept a hand before her, presenting the way with sardonic gallantry. “After you, Your Highness.”
    Her skeptical glance flicked over him, her violet eyes a little too shrewd for his comfort, then she turned and walked ahead. As they went down the hall, she stared at the brooms and brushes neatly arranged on the walls, the shelves of crisp linens. Cynically, he realized she had probably never seen the palace before from the servants’ side.
    Little did she know her servants were his main source of information, he mused, for no matter where his missions took him, he followed her every move from afar. Lately, he knew, she had been more outrageous than ever—the suitors, the parties, the tantrums, the shopping. She always turned reckless when she was nervous or afraid, and it was not difficult to surmise the source of all her latest brushes with scandal—the swift approach of her wedding day.
    As if I’d ever really let that vainglorious brute get his hands on her, he thought, bristling with carefully contained ferocity. He wished he could have told her right then, to put her mind at ease, but he could not jeopardize the mission. When it was over, she would know the gift he had given her.
    A short way down the corridor, they came to an innocent-looking panel on the wall between two cases of utility shelving. Darius paused in front of it, ran his hand down the seam, pressed firmly, and stood back as it popped open.
    He glanced over at Serafina as the panel whispered back into the wall, opening into her darkened bedchamber.
    He watched her violet eyes widen. Then her gaze slid downward, and she paled slightly.
    He waited for her to throw a maidenly fit of outrage to realize he had this secret access to her inner sanctum, but she kept her jaw stubbornly clamped.
    “Saint-Laurent’s associates are still at large,” he said by way of