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Un malheur ne vient jamais seul. Misfortune never arrives alone. —French proverb
I sighed ruefully at the memory. He had the most beautiful amber skin. And such a tight little ass.
“Why are you dressed like a man?” “Have you ever worn a corset?”
I knew what came next. I recognized the faint brush of energy against my skin, the familiar thrumming in my ears. Magic. Then came the screams.
Her face lit with recognition when she saw me, and she lifted her good hand to her forehead in mock salute. I stared at her, dumbfounded. She’d actually saluted.
“If this woman is to be my wife,” he said, swallowing hard, “you will not touch her again.”
“This right here—this exact moment—it just might be worth marrying you, Chass. I’m going to cherish it forever.”
Like it or not, this heathen would become my wife.
“You tried to kill me.” He looked down his nose at her. “Believe me, child, if I had wanted to kill you, you would be dead.” Her eyes blazed. “Likewise.” Jean Luc choked on a laugh.
My husband dipped his head stiffly. “This is my wife, Louise.” I stared at him, amazed the words had managed to escape through his clenched teeth. As usual, he ignored me.
My husband must’ve been the most insipid person ever born.
“It’s Lou.” He twitched visibly at the name. “Is my name offensive to you?” “Everything about you is offensive to me.” He pulled the chair from the desk and sat down, heaving a great sigh. “You’re a criminal.”
“You’re my wife now, whether we like it or not. No man will ever touch you that way again.”
Our lips were only a hair’s breadth apart. “But you should know,” I breathed, “that if a man touches me in any way without my permission, I’ll cut him open.” I paused for effect, dragging the knife from his throat to his navel and beyond. He swallowed hard. “Even if that man is my husband.”
“When you weren’t in bed, I thought maybe—maybe you’d—” “Left?” I said shrewdly. “It’s still on the agenda.”
“We can’t trust you.” His voice rose over mine. “You’re a criminal. You’re impulsive. God forbid you even open your mouth outside this room—” “Shit! Damn! Fu—” “Stop it!”
“You’re my husband now, dear. What sort of wife would I be if I couldn’t speak your language?” “My language?” “Silence. You’re well versed in it.”
“So you really are a whore.” Too far. “Don’t,” I growled, voice low, “call my wife a whore.”
she dared to goad me. To humiliate me. My wife. No—Lou. I could no longer deny the name suited her. A man’s name. Short. Strong. Ridiculous.
I paused despite myself, ignoring my brothers’ furious mutters. “Please.” A truly frightening grin split her face.
“Perhaps I’ll give him his first kiss,” I mused. “No, I’ll do him one better—I’ll give him his first fuck.” My articulate husband choked on the rest of his words, eyes boggling. “Wh—what did you just say?”
It took every drop of my willpower not to roll my eyes. Whoever had taught these men about women had been heinously out of touch with reality. It was almost as if they’d never met a woman. A real woman—not a ludicrous pipe dream like Célie. I had a duty to this poor boy.
“Can you put something on?” He waved a hand in my direction, the other firmly pressed against his eyes. “I can’t talk to you when you’re sitting there—sitting there—” “Naked?” His teeth clamped together with an audible snap. “Yes.”
“You really think I could knock two fully grown men unconscious?” My husband’s reply came instantaneously. “Yes.”
I looked around at the worshippers once more—the men and women who pleaded for mercy and cried for my blood on the same breath. How could both be in their hearts?
Our lives reflect our hearts. They might’ve all been hypocrites, but I was the biggest one of all.
“Well, this is unexpected. La Vie Éphémère . . .” She looked up from the cover, lips pursed. “The Fleeting Life. What’s it about?” “It’s . . . a love story.”
“And . . . it does have a love scene.” She cackled, flipping through the pages eagerly. I couldn’t help it. I smiled too.
Lou glared at him. “I like you, Ansel, but this had better be something good. Emilie and Alexandre just had a moment, and I swear if they don’t kiss soon, I will literally die.”
“There’s a show at Soleil et Lune tonight. Maybe we could go?” “What show is it?” “La Vie Éphémère.” Of course it was.
It doesn’t end in death. It ends in hope.
“Don’t pretend to know me.” “I know if you aren’t swearing or singing about well-endowed barmaids, something is wrong.”
I resisted the urge to smile, envisioning the picture we made striding up the theater steps. He’d matched our outfits.
My husband flushed scarlet. “I’ll thank you to take your hand from my wife, monsieur.”
“We both deserve the stake for what we did to her.”
With my death, the king’s line also would’ve died. All his heirs, legitimate and bastard, would’ve ceased breathing with me. One life to end a hundred years’ worth of persecution. One life to end the Lyons’ reign of tyranny.
He chuckled. “Is there something I can do to help?” “You can braid it.” The chuckle died abruptly. “You want me to—to what?” “Braid it. Please.” He stared at me. I stared back. “I can teach you. It’s easy.” “I highly doubt that.”
“Your hair is thicker than a horse’s tail.” “Hmm.” I yawned again. “Is that a compliment, Chass?”
Every aspect of Reid was precise, certain, every color in its proper place. Undiluted by indecision, he saw the world in black and white, suffering none of the messy, charcoal colors in between. The colors of ash and smoke. Of fear and doubt. The colors of me.
“I’d like to spend the day with Reid, not the Chasseur.” Reid. I still hadn’t grown used to her saying my name. Every time she did, an absurd little thrill shot through me.
My little heathen.
“Please behave.” “Fine.” She reached up to brush the snowflakes from my hair, smoothing the furrow between my brows as she went. “I will refrain from using the word ass. Happy?” “Lou!”
Do you love her? No. But I think—I think maybe I could—
He took my hand. “You look beautiful.”
Lou, I—I want this to work. I want to be your husband. I know I can’t force you to want the same, but—” “I do want the same,” I whispered. His eyes widened, and he took a tentative step closer. “You do?” “Yes.”
“Célie was right. I don’t deserve you. I made a real mess of your life when I came into it.” His other hand came down on top of mine. Warm and steady. To my surprise, he smiled. “I’m glad you did.”
Reid eyed me incredulously. “You drink like a man.” “Maybe men can learn a thing or two from women.”
“Reid, if you don’t dance with me, I’ll go and find someone who will.” His grip tightened on my hips. “No, you won’t.” “Then the way forward is clear. We dance.” He blew out a breath and closed his eyes. “Fine.”
“Relax,” I murmured against her hair. “I don’t bite . . . much.” Quiet laughter rumbled through my chest. If possible, she stiffened even more. She needn’t have worried. Surely she heard the thundering of my heart and realized her advantage. “Was that a joke, Chass?”
“You don’t have to be nervous, Lou.” I stroked her back, forcing myself to remain still as she wriggled against me. “I’m not going to try anything.” A noise of protest escaped her. “Why not?”
