with me.”
“I meant no offense, monsieur, of course.” The oily man shot me a regretful glance as I sidled away from him. “Though you are a lucky man indeed.”
My husband glowered, effectively silencing the man for the rest of the evening.
The lights dimmed, and I finally pushed back my hood. “You’re a bit territorial, aren’t you?” I whispered, grinning again. He was such a brute. A somewhat adorable, pompous-assed brute.
He wouldn’t look at me. “Performance is starting.”
The symphony began playing, and men and women flitted onto the stage. I recognized Hook-Nose immediately, chuckling at the memory of how she’d humiliated the Archbishop in front of his doting admirers. Ingenious. And to cast such an enchantment right under the noses of my husband and the Archbishop . . .
Hook-Nose was a fearless Dame Blanche.
Though she played only a minor role in the chorus, I eagerly watched her dance along with the actors playing Emilie and Alexandre.
My enthusiasm quickly dimmed, however, as the song progressed. There was something familiar about the way she held herself—something I hadn’t noticed upon first meeting her. Unease gradually settled in my stomach as she twirled and danced, disappearing behind the curtain.
When the second song started, my husband leaned closer. His breath tickled the skin of my neck. “Jean Luc said you were looking for me this morning.”
“It’s rude to talk during a performance.”
He narrowed his eyes, undeterred. “What did you want?”
I turned my attention back toward the stage. Hook-Nose had just swept back into view, her corn-silk hair rippling across her shoulders. The movement stirred a memory, but when I tried to grasp it fully, it slipped away again, like water between my fingers.
“Lou?” He tentatively touched my hand. His was warm, large, and calloused, and I couldn’t bring myself to pull away.
“A knife,” I admitted, eyes never leaving the stage.
He sucked in a breath. “What?”
“I wanted a knife.”
“You can’t be serious.”
I glanced at him. “I’m deadly serious. You saw Madame Labelle yesterday. I need protection.”
He gripped my hand tighter. “She won’t touch you.” The oily man beside us coughed pointedly, but we ignored him. “She won’t be allowed inside Chasseur Tower again. The Archbishop gave his word.”
I scowled. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
His expression hardened, and his jaw clenched tight. “It should. The Archbishop is a powerful man, and he’s vowed to protect you.”
“His word means nothing to me.”
“What of my word, then? I vowed to protect you as well.”
It was laughable, really, his dedication to protecting a witch. He would’ve had kittens if he knew the truth.
I arched a wry brow. “Just as I promised to obey you?”
He skewered me with a black look, but the oily man wasn’t the only one openly glaring now. I settled back in my seat with a smug toss of my hair. He was far too prim to argue in front of an audience.
“This conversation isn’t over,” he muttered, but he too sat back, staring moodily at the performers. To my surprise—and grudging delight—he kept my hand fixed beneath his. After several long moments, he casually brushed his thumb along my fingers. I wriggled in my seat. He ignored me, gazing steadily at the stage as the performance wore on. But his thumb continued moving, drawing small patterns on the back of my hand, circling my knuckles, tracing the tips of my nails.
I struggled to concentrate on the performance. Delicious tingles spread across my skin with each sweep of his thumb . . . until slowly, gradually, his touch trailed upward, and his fingers grazed the veins of my wrist, the inside my elbow. He stroked my scar there, and I shivered, pressing back in my seat and trying to focus on the performance. My cloak slipped down my shoulders.
The first act ended too soon, and intermission began. We both remained seated, silently touching—hardly breathing—as the audience milled around us. When the candles dimmed again, I turned to look at him, heat rising from my belly to my cheeks.
“Reid,” I breathed.
He stared back at me, his own flushed, panicked expression mirroring my own. I leaned closer, gaze falling to his parted lips. His tongue flicked out to moisten them, and my belly contracted.
“Yes?”
“I—”
In my periphery, Hook-Nose spun in a pirouette, her hair flying wild. Something clicked in my memory at the movement. A solstice celebration. Corn-silk hair braided with flowers. The maypole.
Shit.
Estelle. Her name was Estelle, and I’d known her once—in my childhood at Chateau le Blanc. She obviously hadn’t recognized me before with my