But all he wanted to do was stay here with Barl.

Breathing softly, he kissed her forehead. Knew that if he kissed her lips, tasted her again, he might not leave the attic for a week. Her golden hair was tousled, her innocent, exciting hands pillowed under her cheek. The faintest of shadows tinted the skin beneath her closed eyes. The lips he didn’t dare kiss were bruised with last night’s passion. But then, so were his bruised. For all he was the one with experience, they had fallen asleep as equals.

Abruptly, almost painfully, he wanted her again.

Holding his breath, he slid out from beneath the feather quilt. Barl murmured a little protest but didn’t wake. His clothes were unwearable, so he gathered them up and went downstairs to his privy apartments. Cold water from the ewer doused passion and chased away the lingering remnants of sleep. Sober and heavy-eyed, he stared at his reflection in the mirror above the basin.

Lord Danfey is dead. Long live Lord Danfey.

He dressed in black silk brocade and went downstairs to the silent third floor. Stood outside his father’s privy apartments, fingers resting on the door handle, and waited for the courage that would let him go in.

It didn’t come. Perhaps if Barl was with him, then he could face—

Without warning the doors opened, revealing a grimly pale Rumm.

“Sir! I mean—” Rumm swallowed. “My lord.”

My lord. Shuddering, Morgan stared at him. “What are you doing?”

Instead of answering, Rumm stepped aside and held the door open. “My lord.”

So now he had no choice. He had to go in.

Vaguely aware of Rumm following him, he crossed the hushed, empty sitting room and entered his father’s bedchamber. Braced himself, as the door swung open on its oiled hinges, for the sight and stink of his father as he’d left him, bloodied and twisted and fouled in the final indignities of death.

“Rumm?” He turned. “What is this?”

The master servant moved past him to stand at the foot of the neatly made bed, on which lay the bathed, dressed and peaceful body of Greve Danfey. The chamber’s air was sweet again, scented with fresh flowers.

“This is the last service I could perform for your father, my lord.”

What could he say? He lacked the words. And even if he’d had them, he lacked a voice with which to speak.

Rumm’s eyes were full of grief. “My lord, I am so sorry.”

He nodded. Stood in silence for a time, looking at his father, feeling Rumm’s sorrow like the touch of a friendly hand. Then he looked up.

“Do you intend to stay, now his lordship is dead?”

“What?” Rumm said, startled. “Forgive me, my lord. I mean, yes. Of course. Unless…”