Page 33 of Ashen Torment

I run my thumb along the edge of my glove, trying to dull the spark of irritation rising in my throat.

“Brutality does not suit you.”

He turns toward me. “Did you not come here to hunt?”

He hands the rifle to his servant naturally. “Reload.”

Laurence slips between the two of us, hands behind his back and a sharp look in his eyes.

“What do you say, Viscount... and you, my lord?”

He points first to him, then to me. “I could keep track of your prey, to declare which of the two shows more mastery by the end of the hunt.”

Laurence, you are enjoying this too much.

“This is not the time,” I utter, curtly.

But at the same moment, the Viscount answers.

“Why shouldn’t we?”

Our voices fall over each other. Laurence barely holds back a smile, his valet coughs.

“Do you think you can do better than me?” I ask, my voice steady but my lip curling into a smile.

He walks beside me, eyes fixed ahead as if I weren’t even there.

“I know these lands better than you.”

His tone so disinterested it irritates me even more.

He stops for a moment, without turning.

“Besides... I’ve already caught one.”

Sighing in turn, I bring my fingers to the bridge of my nose, tilting my head slightly, as Laurence moves in silently, almost creeping among the trees, and whispers in my ear: “Now I understand why you wanted to participate, my lord.”

The woods thicken around us. The Viscount has already brought down three pheasants, while my count stands at five. As I pull the trigger on the last one, a puff of smoke escapes the barrel, stinging my nostrils with that acrid scent.

“Another point for you, my lord,” Laurence declares with a satisfied smile.

“You see, Viscount, perhaps you should have declined my valet’s proposal.”

He glares at me, eyebrows arched. “Were you not an artist?”

I cannot hide a tremor. He remembers what Richard said days ago.

The realization stings.

“My lord dabs in the art of sculpture, Viscount,” Laurence adds. “You should see his work. I am certain you would like it.”

“Really?”

“Pray, tell me,” I say, “why is it so difficult to believe I possess such an inclination?”

He fixes his eyes on my hands with such intensity that I feel my blood boil in my veins.

Damn.