Lord at First Sight (The Montevor Royals Saga #8)

Chapter 43

LAURA

I wake up to a dazzling brightness. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The soft sheets and the faint scent of lavender disorient me until I catch another smell—Antoine sleeping. His arm, warm and heavy, is wrapped around my midsection as he spoons me. This happy awareness of him is followed by another, equally satisfying, awareness of a thickness pressing into the small of my back.

Skin against naked skin. Rock-hard and desirable beyond mere words.

Should I tend to it?

In a moment. First, I’d like to figure out where I am.

Over the last month, Antoine and I have traveled quite a bit, especially after I resigned from the bank. We’ve stayed at lovely hotels in the various counties of Mount Evor. We spent a weekend in Dordogne with Henri and Gigi, and another at Chateau de Bellay overlooking the picturesque mountain Lake émosson. It hard to believe that a strip along the French Swiss border, between Lake Geneva and Mont Blanc, has been occupied since 986 by a principality hidden from the general public!

That weekend I met Antoine’s parents. Agathe and Thibault de Bellay weren’t happy that he chose me over Celeste. But Antoine was so adamant that I’m the one for him that they began to soften by Sunday evening. They’ve also taken to slipping in “Antoine’s Key to the Key” every time they introduce me to someone. I suspect it’s their way of rationalizing Antoine’s mésalliance. The poor darling did everything he could—broke up with me and dated Celeste—but ultimately the prophecy won out.

I crack one eye open. My gaze travels from the grand canopy over the bed to the elegant wallpaper to the antique wardrobe in the corner. I’m in Antoine’s bedroom at Chateau de Bellay.

I turn over on my other side, so that I’m facing Antoine. Half awake, he puts his hand back where it was. I watch the rise and fall of his chest, his muscular arms with the tattoos I made him keep, his perfect jawline, his lips, his eyelashes dark against his cheek… His grip tightens.

Reaching for his wrist, I trace the bracelet I made for him. “You really never take it off, do you?”

“Never,” he mumbles.

“As an exception, can I display it tonight with my other pieces?”

The reminder of today’s busy program—first the Wine Harvest Festival in the village, then the reception and, finally, the arts and crafts exhibit at the chateau—jolts him awake.

“You can show it off on my wrist,” he offers.

“Antoine, come on! Will it kill you to take it off?”

“It’s my lucky charm,” he argues. “That, and I like the look of mild obsession it brings to your eyes every time you see me wearing it.”

I scoff. “It’s all in your head.”

It’s not, and we both know it.

“You know, I didn’t think you’d actually wear it,” I say. “It’s a hippie accessory, not something associated with high-flying blue bloods.”

“You want to know the real reason I never take it off?”

“Tell me.”

“Two reasons.” He holds up his index and middle fingers. “It’s a homage to the late lamented Antoine the Tattoo Artist, and a symbol of my fealty to you.”

I laugh, picturing Antoine on his knees swearing eternal loyalty to me, Queen Laura Yang of Belleville.

“Speaking of things people never take off,” he says. “How do you explain this?”

He traces my magnificent diamond-studded gold pendant. It hasn’t left me since the day he closed the clasp at the back of my neck.

Our fingers brush as I touch it, too. “It goes with everything.”

“True. Although I think it looks best when you’re in the nude.”

“Is that how you want me to dress for today’s function?”

He tucks his free arm under his head. “I do hope Princess Felicia or Prince Richard, whoever is cutting the ribbon this year, brings good news.”

“Let it go, my love. It really doesn’t matter.”

He frowns. “It does to me. They should officially recognize your contribution, Laura. You should be Lady of the Brassiere.”

“I don’t care about titles.”

“How about fairness?” He arches an eyebrow. “I was knighted, although I didn’t risk my life either.”

I wink. “It’s not your fault that Kurt was too busy licking his wounds to give our quest his undivided attention.”

“Agreed. So, why should you miss out?”

“Because I don’t care,” I repeat. “And neither should you.”

Even as I speak, my hand slips under the sheets to his crotch to check if he’s still hard. To my delight, he is.

My fingers wrap around his warm, velvety length. “This, however, is something I care about.”

“How deeply?”

I level my eyes with his. “To the hilt.”

The lawn is alive with excited chatter. The smell of freshly poured wine blends perfectly with the fragrant September air. Servers in crisp uniforms glide between clusters of guests, balancing trays of canapés and sparkling glasses. Antoine, Gigi, Henri and I form one such cluster. Gigi’s baby bump is starting to show, which means our conversation gets constantly interrupted by someone congratulating her and Henri.

After another congratulator walks away, I turn to her. “Do you think Princess Felicia will stay long enough to see the art exhibit?”

I know she will, and frankly, Gigi’s heartfelt approval of my work means more to me than her mother’s. But empty talk distracts me from worrying about what the Evorian elite will think of my work when they see it later tonight.

“She will,” Gigi says, scanning the crowd. “It’s tradition. Mother loves tradition almost as much as she loves charcuterie boards and gossip.”

Before I can reply, a man bursts onto the lawn. His face is pale and his voice is shaking as he calls for Princess Eugénie and the Duchess of Rohinn. Gigi blanches. Henri grabs her hand and starts pushing through the crowd toward the man. Confusion, tinged with panic, sets in.

The man’s words fall like a hammer, “There has been an attempt on Princess Felicia’s life.”

A horrified gasp ripples through the crowd. My glass wobbles in my hand.

Antoine takes it from me and puts it down on the nearest table, whispering, “He said ‘an attempt.’ She should be alive.”

“What happened?” multiple voices ask.

The messenger gulps for air like he’s just run a marathon. “Her car was ambushed on the way here, close to the tunnel… Sniper fire. She’s been hit.”

I freeze. My brain scrambles to make sense of the words. Princess Felicia—shot?

“Kurt,” Antoine grits through his teeth.

“Isn’t he supposed to be recovering from a heart attack at some clinic?”

Antoine’s lips press into a bitter line. “It seems he recovered enough to plan an attack like this. On our soil!”

“Mount Evor is only two keys away from victory.” I search his eyes. “Is that why he resorted to such desperate measures?”

Antoine nods. “He went for the oracle. No oracle, no prophecies, no more keys.”

Oh, dear.

Gigi yells at the messenger, “Where is she now? Where’s Mother?”

“When I left, Princess Felicia was being transferred to Saint Teresa in Pombrio, along with her chauffeur.” He turns to Gigi, who’s now at his side. “They were both alive ten minutes ago when I rushed here, but…”

He hesitates.

“What?” Henri demands.

“The bullet went through her skull. It didn’t look good.”

Poor Gigi!

A graceful woman in her mid-thirties bursts from the crowd toward the messenger. “I’m the Duchess of Rohinn. You called for me. Why?”

“Your Grace.” He takes a small step back. “The sniper also shot Princess Felicia’s chauffeur, probably to make sure she didn’t survive. The chauffeur lost control of the vehicle and rammed into your husband’s car, which went over the cliff.”

The duchess’s hand flies to her mouth. “What?”

“I’m so sorry, Your Grace.”

“What about the people in the car?” Her voice trembles. “My husband? My stepson?”

Silently, the man shakes his head.

Her knees start to buckle, but she steadies herself. “Are you sure? Did you see the bodies?”

“I saw the car down in the ravine,” he replies. “No one could survive that.”

The crowd opens and a teenage girl rushes forward.

She comes to the Duchess, crying. “Is Father…? And Julian?”

The Duchess hugs her and strokes her hair, not daring to say yes.

Oh, God.

The messenger speaks again, his voice cracking with compassion. “I was instructed to call you and Princess Eugénie, but I drove here instead to tell you in person.”

No one speaks for a moment. I notice Henri and Gigi making their way through the stunned crowd to their car. Pombrio is a little more than an hour from here. Unless the messenger exaggerated how bad Princess Felicia’s condition is, which he had no reason to, it’s uncertain if Gigi will see her mother alive.

The Duchess straightens up, wipes away her daughter’s tears, takes her hand and hurries toward the chateau.

Antoine puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer. Neither of us speaks. My thoughts swirl in my head too fast for words. His grip is firm, solid—an anchor in the unfolding chaos.

I lean into him, and we stay like that for a moment.

It’s breaking my heart that his brave little nation has been struck by another tragedy. I feel for Antoine, for Gigi, for the Duchess of Rohinn and all their fellow countrymen. I pray silently that Princess Felicia will pull through, and that the unique story of Mount Evor can still have a happy ending.

That’s when I realize it’s my story, too.

I’m now part of this world.