“What?” I rejoin, warming to her resplendent repartee. The quick and sexy wit that first attracted me to her identical version, not so long ago. And yet, forever ago. Back at that wondrous day at Versailles, at the beginning of our journey.
Of this journey?
How I want to believe it is true. How I do not dare to.
“So what, exactly, would you do to me, ma magnifique? Or…with me?”
My gaze borrows the weight of the innuendo, dipping to peruse her lips—especially when my words cause those sweet pillows to part a little. My feet keep miraculous time as my mind takes imaginary hold of my own mouth, envisioning it could drop to claim her there. Pushing in to taste her. Conquering her with commanding sweeps of my tongue…
A strangled sound spills from her throat. I edge up a slow smirk. It feels good to be the one in charge again. Knowing that I am affecting her in so many ways again. And exactly how.
The only thing that would make it even better…
“Bastien.”
Starts with her pleading my name like that.
“Oui, ma chérie?”
My senses fill with an equal petition. Needing more of these ties to her spirit. Craving more of this fervor from her deepest nature…this bond with her deepest soul. Most of all, seeing that she yearns for it too…
“Je veux faire…tout.”
No. Not just the yearning. So much more than that.
So far beyond what I hoped…
But entirely beyond what she has planned.
You want to do…how much of everything? With how much of me? With how much of you? In how many ways?
Her fear, so apparent and instant, has me shackling all questions. Instead, I concentrate on gently guiding her to the side of the dance floor.
When we are clear of the throng in that area, I tug her fully back into my arms. If it is indecorous, even in this crowd, I do not care. This is no longer about flirty physicality. It is about exposed vulnerability. Hers and mine. Raegan’s, because of the presence that keeps intruding on her self-control. Mine, because I can no longer hide what I keep hoping here. What my heart deeply longs for.
That somehow, in some amazing way, heaven has gifted me with two souls to cherish in one incredible form…
Damn it.
It is the thought so good to be true, I violate too many boundaries by letting it take full bloom in my brain—and across my face. Raegan does not miss a nuance of it.
And at once shoves away to be free from it.
“Raegan!”
And now lifts her skirts, stumbling to be free from me.
“Rayonnement!”
We are approaching the far side of the cavernous room, closer to the stand with the barkeep who is not as busy as his friends. He eyes us with interest. To his view, we are a pair of squabbling lovers. But we are also potential patrons. If Raegan keeps fleeing me, the tapster might get what he wants.
As soon as I get close enough to reach for her again, I do—this time, without a word of warning. I manage a decent grab around her elbow. She hurls back a not-so-proper glower. Her irises are green fire. Her breaths emerge as furious hisses.
“How do you even dare?”
Bizarrely, my pulse does not jump to the same temperature. Oh, she still has my heart racing and my cock pulsing, but her virulence is already my much-needed spigot, turning on instincts that have been honed from years of subduing outlaws.
“I might ask how you dare, sweet one.” I crank my grip tighter. “’Tis not a wise move to turn your back on a trained operative of His Majesty’s royal army, let alone a—”
She wrenches her arm. I hold on fast—until the clever thing writhes in such a way that the shawl around her elbows, light as the dust from its infused stars, is now the only thing left in my hand.
“If you pull the fucking duke card right now, I’ll scream at the top of my lungs until every uniform in this place is salivating to arrest you.”
Her language is not as sparkling as those stars.
And God help me, I am doubly hard about it.
“That is Monsieur le Duke De Leon to you, girl.”
She spurts a sharp laugh. “Ahhh, of course it is. Well, profuse apologies, your grace. Mon dieu. My complete bad!”
In another time and place, the airs and the attitude would have resulted in her backside over my knee and her flesh under my palm. But in this exact moment, she is spared by my sudden wonderment.
And, if I am observing accurately, hers as well.
She has spoken that before.
Not fully. And maybe not exactly. But enough that I am swept away from this place, my eyes no longer beholding the grandeur of the huge hall around us. I am in a low-vaulted room on the top floor of an Orléans inn, naked in bed with her. And she is apologizing—but this time, there is not so much sass in it.
Sass that, in just a few days, I have come to…anticipate. And savor. And adore. And celebrate.
Sass that I long for again…even now, in this bittersweet memory…
But is it? A memory?
But if not, then what…
“Monsieur…le Duke…”
Her voice, as soft as the wrap in my hand but filled with the same confusion in my mind, has me blinking hard. I am back at the New York party. Fully dressed and clean-shaven. The ale slinger is still intently eyeing me—but his inspection is a trifle when squared off with Raegan’s.
Raegan—who stares as if I have still been transported far away.
“Monsieur…le Duke,” she blurts again. “Le Duke De Leon. Because…because…”
“Rayonnement?”
I do not cloak my concern about it. No. My alarm. Where are the gorgeous glints in her eyes? The fresh color in her cheeks? What has suddenly unlatched her from me like this?
“Because what, Raegan?”
Dieu, I would be happy to accept the lash of her fury again, instead of this bizarre distance. The strange haze that continues to cover her face, as if she has figuratively reclaimed her sheer shawl from me, only to wrap it around her head.
“Because of the scroll,” she finally states. “The decree…that Louis signed for you.” She gasps, and I am too damn sure it is not because of the shock taking over my own countenance. “The scroll that you left on the night table…before Marquette came in and…and…”
“Raegan?” It is a raw demand from the depths of my throat, coinciding with the horrified gasp from the pit of hers. “Raegan?”
She releases another harsh breath, verging on a sob. “Oh, Bastien,” she rasps. “Oh…no…”
Before she is done, I have enough time to toss aside her shawl and brace myself—to stop her plummet from an all-consuming faint.
Her head lolls against the crook of my arm. All the strength in my body funnels toward her. All the air in my lungs is stolen and frozen.
Which means the stunned what the hell on the air is not hers. Nor mine.
Through nothing short of a miracle, I manage to swing my head around. “Drue,” I dimly croak. “Thank Christ.”
“Holy shit.” She yanks the peacock-blue fichu from her bosom, at once using its satin surface to dab at Raegan’s forehead. The crinolines of her blue-bows-everywhere gown are a mass of urgent rustles. “What happened?”
“Eh?”
“Holy shit. Okay, scratch that and oxygen in your lungs. I need you to pick her up because I can’t in all…this.”