I dip a quick nod before securing Raegan and most of her dress into my hold. At least five times, my frustration echoes what Drue has just expressed. I yearn to rip out the ridiculous crinolines and toss them into the shadows. But the last thing we need right now is undue attention—exactly what Drue is attempting to steer us clear from.
“Come on,” she directs, rushing beneath a sign that says Main Concourse. We round another corner before entering a small room with doors that slide shut after we enter. I am too absorbed with watching Raegan to wonder why the little room seems to be rattling and then slowly descending.
Less than a minute later, we leave the room and again turn to the left. Drue leads the way toward a flight of stairs heralded by another sign.
The Campbell Apartment
“This is out of the way,” Drue explains before I can ask exactly who Campbell is or why he wants the whole world to know where his apartment is. “And, from the scoopage I overheard around the party, it’s also been clammed for the night because of the hoo ra-ra over the gala.”
Only half a dozen of her words make sense, but I latch on to the main points like they’re my new air. Hopefully, we are headed away from prying eyes and suspicious curiosities, most notably belonging to anyone who knows Detective Liam Logan.
At the top of the stairs, we confront a locked door. Drue unlatches the jeweled pin from her bodice and uses the long point to release the lock, mumbling something fervent about not having to find her way around “digital fuckery.”
I am equally thankful the digits and their fuckery have stayed away, especially as we enter a room of sweeping grandeur. If I had moments to waste on being fully impressed with the space, I would indulge them. The wall sconces are made of sleek stained glass. The high hand-painted ceiling leads my gaze down the long room. At the end, on the other side of a bar topped with polished stone, there are plush chairs and couches. Across from the bar, there is a grand storage cabinet fronted by five carved doors.
I rush Raegan to one of the black leather chairs in front of that huge chest. My muscles strain as I take care not to jostle her. She moans now, fluttering her eyes as if struggling to focus.
“Rayonnement?” I lean in after grunting in gratitude to Drue for bringing over a damp cloth. I dab it along Raegan’s face, but she flaps and shoves at me. “Sweet girl,” I urge. “Please—”
But she thwacks at me again, which has me darting a scowl toward Drue.
“She’s not totally conscious yet,” the woman says. “What the hell happened?”
I shake my head. Trying to give her the answer would take hours we do not have. “Do you think we should summon a physician?” I demand instead. “I care not if Logan finds out. If she is unwell in some way—”
“Okay, slow up. Right now, that might be the password before the log-in.”
“You want to bring in a log? All the way up here?”
Drue opens her mouth. Closes it. Clamps the front of her head as if talking herself out of saying something but speaks anyway. “I’m just saying first things first, all right? Let me go find your brother and Allie. All hell’s going to bust loose, with or without logs, if those two look around the party and don’t find us. Plus, if we really do need a doctor, maybe Allie can pull some strings and find one who’s willing to slide in on the DL.”
That ensures she has my fast and fervent nod. “Most excellent plan, then. Go.”
The woman turns, requiring no more treatises or encouragement. Once more I acknowledge how valuable an asset Drue Kidman would be on a clandestine mission or on a battlefield. If she had been but born two hundred and fifty years ago…and as a man…
It is all the thought I have of that subject. Or any others. No considerations are of matter, in any form, other than the freshly moaning woman at my side. But while her burst is full of new strength, her countenance is not. She is still writhing in a dream world, crying out at her own apparitions…
Though all of her invisible ghosts now bear a name I cannot ignore.
Mine.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RAEGAN
“Bastien!” I cry, and then again, though the sound is so far away. So raspy and weak. “Bastien…”
Why isn’t he answering?
What is going on here?
Am I dead? About to be dead?
Mom and Dad, in the name of peace, love, and magic crystals, always held to the view of letting me try any “natural substance” anytime I wanted. None of those wild trips from my youth compared to this. All of this. The threads of my sanity, slowly unspooling over the last two days and nights, tugged much harder with these episodes I keep trying to explain away…
But not now.
There’s no excuse for this. Not the tidal wave of crazy that pours in now.
The waves of recall, making my head spin with their detail. Big things, like the size of the night sky—where did all these stars come from?—to the enormity of Versailles’ stench in the summertime. But there is no time to process a grimace because I am dancing with Bastien again. A waltz—where did all these spins come from?—during which we are flirting in too many ways. With each other. With danger. With the idea of a union that can never be because Louis has now made him a duke.
A duke.
Never will I ever be accepted as the wife of a duke.
What?
I force myself to blurt it aloud, no matter how much it feels like a gong against the inside of my skull. I’m worth ten dukes, damn it! Twenty!
Too late, I realize I’ve let all that spew out too. The gong is now a hammer. A huge one. But as I grimace and fight it, equally mighty arms hold me close and tight.
It’s all okay. I’m safe. Supported. Better than that, I’m alive.
I…think.
Because Bastien is still here. Closer than ever before. Caressing my forehead with his lips, which recite a nonstop litany of French. His voice is earnest and rough. Too rough. Filled with too much…of what?
I can’t figure that out right now. Where would I even start? Weirder still, why is he thanking saints I’ve never heard of—and even some of his dead ancestors? At least that’s what I think he’s saying.
No. That is what he’s saying. I understand it. Every single word of it. But I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t.
“Bastien.”
I’m not sure if it’s a plea for him to stop or continue. But when he halts, I hate the silence. A world without his gruff baritone and adorable archaisms…it’s terrible. Terrifying.
“Bastien?”
“Here,” he assures, but it’s not enough. I have to see him. But that means compelling my eyes to open. It’s painful, but I thank myself for it at once. “See? I am right here, ma magnifique.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Oh yes. Hi there, gorgeous.”
Every syllable carries my heart-deep worship. He’s never been more beautiful, with his eyes a pair of blazes past the tumbled disarray of his hair. New stubble has returned to his jaw, shadowing the formidable angles in unbelievably alluring ways. As soon as I run a hand along the spiked plains, the rest of my body wakes up too. All too quickly. All too awesomely.