The man huffs as if I have shit in his mouth instead. “Over my dead and rotted body.”
Is he truly wishing for that? I almost spew the question aloud. Marquette must know that even a newly ennobled duke is shielded by all the protections of his title and that if word gets out that he and Lonzo have attacked me like this…
Unless…
All the whispers are true.
All the fears and predictions are coming to pass.
Reform. Revolt. Retribution.
Revolution.
But even if that is the case…
“You do not mean that.” I give them a sign I can be trusted by displaying my own faith in them. Yet as soon as I slacken my hold on Lonzo, he flips the pressure and twists one of my elbows behind my back. “Damn it, Marq. Listen to your sister. Listen to your soul. You know that if I rise, you do as well. You know that I support strengthening the Third Estate. That I will be there when the Estates General is reconvened, to support—”
The two of them burst into laughs. My blood runs cold. Looking over to Magique is my strength but my curse. As always, her proud stance and lush face are what saves the center of my soul—until I take in the harsh quiver of her chin.
My lovely lily. Please do not cry. Your tears should be happy ones right now…
“Hmm. Perhaps you will be here indeed,” Marquette murmurs. “Just not in the way you anticipate, sir.”
My veins become sluices of ice. But that is not what I hate most about this moment. That comes when Magique jumps to the floor in front of her brother. Her eyes are vehement, her posture is shaking, and I already know what is about to happen next.
And dread it.
Smack.
Her palm connects with her brother’s cheek in a louder blow than my imagination has ever created.
“Branleur,” she spits. “You ungrateful idiot! Whatever they have fed your mind about this folly—”
“No.” Lonzo declares it with frightening zeal, intensified by the extra torque he delivers to my arm. “Not ‘folly’ any longer, my dear. We are a movement now. We have intent, we have motivation, and we have numbers.” A new twist from him, and I can no longer subdue a pained grunt. “And now, it seems we have an appropriate symbol.”
The color drains from Magique’s face. “Wh-What do you mean?”
“What do you think?” My captor leans around, using his free hand to squeeze my chin. “Everyone will enjoy watching this head take a roll in the street, oui?”
And that does it.
The man has clearly forgotten that I still have a free arm too—now motivated by their disgusting barking. It is a simple matter to spear my elbow into his ribs. From there, even simpler to step free and reach for my woman’s shoulder. Admittedly, at this point, the action is more for me than her. I need to know she is still here and whole. My lily. My strength.
“Get dressed, my love. Quickly. We shall ride within the hour. I can hasten the marriage banns in Loire easier than here.”
“She will do nothing of the sort.” Marquette slams a hand to the middle of my chest. “She will depart this building only with me. And you will be doing so in the back of a wagon.”
“No!” she shrieks. “Marquette!”
“Marquette.” I school my iteration to something calmer. “S’il vous plait, my friend. You want to reconsi—unhhh!”
The man curls his fingers until my chest hairs are also caught in his grip. “I am sick from my considerations, sir. We all are. And I am not your friend.”
His emphasis comes with a virulent shove. I am sent stumbling back until caught by someone else. No. Not just a someone. Several men are at my back now. A flurry of rapid glances reveals them all to me. Chevis, Alain, and Gilles have all been such good friends that they tried matchmaking me with their sisters through the years. But clearly I am no longer their trusted camarade. I have become the convenient symbol for every crooked nobleman who cheated and mistreated them.
I am the reason they send up a rousing cheer as soon as Marquette snatches the long parchment from the table and then tosses it into the fire.
“No!” Magique screams. She runs to the hearth until Marq grabs her by an elbow.
“Stand back, sister! I am ordering you!”
“Damn you.” She scratches his face deep enough to leave nasty marks. “Damn you to h—”
“Shut up.” He hurls her hard toward the bed. Too hard. Her skull collides with one of the posts, making her cry out in pain. There does not seem to be any blood, but I see red nonetheless.
And I am throwing off every man that holds me down. And heaving toward Marquette like a bull on the rampage. And stretching out my arms with one intent only. To strangle the man within half a breath of his life. Perhaps not even that.
His murderous look does not stop me. Nor am I deterred by the wicked dagger that he yanks from a hidden scabbard.
But the next moment, I do stop.
With a shallow choke. With my bare feet skidding beneath me. With my knees, now the texture of lagoon scum, collapsing in their wake.
I crumple completely as Magique falls into my arms.
As I again behold her brother’s dagger—buried in the center of her chest.
“Dieu. Dieu!” But God is not listening. Not to my disbelieving rasps, nor the horrified rasps with which I underline them. Not as my volume increases when recognition flares in her glassy green gaze. “Magique. Hold on, my little bloom. This is not your time. Do you hear me? This is not your time!”
She rolls her head until it leans against my bicep. “Time.” Her plush mouth twitches at one end. “Not enough. Not ever enough…with you…”
“But there will be.” I press an urgent kiss into her forehead, fighting to ignore my horror as a bright-red stain seeps across the sheet in which she’s wrapped. “There will be, my beauty. But you must believe it. You must hold on!”
The words throb in my ears, drowning Marquette’s sharp order for a physician. I do not concern myself with the bastard now. I cannot. Nothing matters but the precious lily in my arms. The woman who stepped into a dagger thrust for me.
“Hold,” she mumbles. “I…hold you, Bastien. For better or for worse…”
I brush my lips across her temple once more. Her skin tastes like my tears. “No. Magique…please…no!”
“In sickness,” she stammers on anyway, “and in health. Until death…but beyond.”
“No!”
“Until the end of time, my love. Until…”
But no more words emerge. In their place, a long and shallow wheeze. A sparse echo of breath.
And then the new limpness of her limbs. The unblinking forests of her gaze.
Wildernesses to match the emptiness of my soul.
Until it is flooded by a tempest of fury. A storm so blinding, I really do see naught but crimson now. My senses are filled by no other sound than my primitive roar. In my tastebuds, there is only bile and blood.
But not enough blood.
Not until I can gouge open Marquette De Lys’s chest. Until I am able to tear his heart apart, vein by worthless vein.
But when I emerge from my desperate red fog, only Magique and I are in the room. Shouts jostle each other on the streets below. The police are blowing horns and banging drums. They are answered by breaking glass and stampeding horses. Part of my mind orders me to move—I am covered in Magique’s fluids, and it may not matter anymore that I am a duke—but I cannot let her go. I hold her tighter, promising everything I own if the Almighty will honor the force of my love and bring her back.