Page 25 of Misadventures with a Duke

If I were here alone, the chaos would indeed be daunting. But as always, Magique De Lys is the sight hole of my armor. The only light upon which I need to, and must, focus. My touchstone and sanity, despite the alluring words that fall from her next.

“I’m not likely to trust myself with you on your back, Desperado.” Her gilt-tinged eyelashes catch the morning light, ensuring my morning oak now matches the thick armrests of this overstuffed furniture. Not an inch of the development escapes her notice. “On that prominent note,” she pointedly says, “Do you mind fastening up all the way? Save me from me. Catch my drift?”

Unbelievably, I am able to nod and mean it—though surely it is me from who she will need ultimate rescue. If her smile inches any higher or her curls turn into a full halo of sunlight, the bedsheets may have some company this morn, after all. But I will let her speak her peace first. Landing an arrow is as much about awaiting the wind as releasing the bow.

“You know I adore every one of your drifts, my little lily.”

She laughs, but it does not result in her wider smile. All too swiftly, the expression twists into a grimace. A look that hooks into my gut like her death stare did.

Like a goodbye.

No.

I twist my grip tighter around her. She does not fight me, which sharpens every barb in my stomach. The brightest light is comprised of constant motion. Every decent soldier knows that. A man who loves a woman like this is well-served to remember it. But her movements are sparse and reserved, even when she lifts her head and once more fixes the twin forests of her gaze on me.

“Okay…that’s kind of the thing here,” she says. “I’m…not exactly your ‘little lily.’ Or your chérie, or your magie…”

As soon as she trails off with a strange shrug, I stiffen. “I do not understand.”

“I know you don’t. What I mean is that I look like this Magique person of yours—I mean, I think I do—but that I’m not her.”

She adjusts our handclasp, flattening my palms together with the determined presses of her beautiful hands.

Her…hands.

Why have I not noticed them before this moment? How did I not marvel about how the strained work lines have disappeared? The dry spots from washing other women’s underthings in boiling water? The callouses from hauling that water through the back halls of Versailles? And after that, a myriad of other physically brutal tasks? A life I am determined to take her away from.

But what about now?

“I still do not understand.” My cold tone comes from instinct. I wish that it were not so, especially as she straightens her own posture. “This ‘person’ of mine? What are you about? You…you are…” I stop as soon as I push a hand up, landing it to the center of her chest. The chemise she wears is pliant, allowing me to trace the line of her valiant scar. “Do you not remember this? How you earned it?”

Her next laugh is as disconcerting as its predecessor. “Earned it? Well, I like that take on things better than most.”

I press harder with my strongest two fingers. Demand of her, my voice still tinged with frost, “Meaning what?”

“That of course I remember how it got there. Mack Deluise wasn’t easy to forget, even before he planted his switchblade in my chest.”

I let up on the pressure. I have no choice. My fingertips are suddenly icebergs. Even Magique reacts with a significant shiver.

Magique?

Dear God.

Can I be truly sure it is her?

Does all this feel so different because she is?

I close my eyes after a few seconds of the supposition. It is my only fight against the agony. A battlefield strategy to get through this mental mire. One piece of information at a time.

“Mack. Deluise.” I purposely give the words their own boxes. “Perhaps you mean Marq De Lys instead?”

I pray that my intonation will jar her memories loose. She left mortality so swiftly, without warning. Perhaps that garbled things for her. Because of that, I deliberately leave out the part about her own brother putting her in this state.

But all too quickly, she shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know anyone named Marq De Lys. I do know Mack Deluise, the schoolyard tyrant who accidentally stabbed me instead of Harker Bowe over half a bag of Funions during morning break. And no, I won’t forget it just because it happened when I was thirteen. Bullies grow up.” She is not so still anymore, twisting her lips and darting her gaze. “And that’s when people need to stand up to them even more.”

Her confession is not one I expect, or even want to, hear. But I comprehend so much of it now, even the parts she does not express in words. I am speared by the horror that takes over her face but am also moved by the aspect of her that overrides it all. The compassion of her spirit. The humanity of her heart.

The things that are so special about her…