Page 50 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

“Oh, my goodness.” Raegan kneels, rights the big platter, and starts reloading its contents. “Madame? Can you move your toes?”

Drue snorts. “Her toes?”

“This is all sterling silver.”

“Oh, yikes. You’re right.” Drue grabs the woman by the shoulders. “Pasca. Talk to us. Are you in pain?”

The woman doesn’t acknowledge them. At all. Instead, with hands still raised and splayed, she continues gawking at the sight that caused her freak-out in the first place.

Max.

“Mon Dieu,” she finally chokes out. “Mon Dieu. Ça ne peut pas être.”

“What cannot be?” I state it with as much authority as I can, now that Max’s expression has become a weirder dichotomy. He looks like the emperor with no clothes but is just fine with everyone in the kingdom eyeballing his junk. The aura isn’t totally off. The man has impressive junk.

But before I can press Pasca—or anyone—for a tangible answer, there’s a new disruption, courtesy of the small pony now bounding up the main staircase. Okay, so the wolfhound isn’t a pony—but could play one on TV. Effectively. Holy shit, the dog is huge.

I’m about to exclaim that aloud, but Max cuts me off with his own eruption. His shout is part sob, part victory cry.

“Chevalier?” He grabs the post at the top of the stairs, whipping around it to propel himself forward. “Chev! Mon cher ami!”

When they meet in the middle, he falls to his knees to accept the dog’s affection. The heartiest laugh I’ve ever heard from the man spills out, along with more French endearments.

“Whoa.” It’s all I can think to blurt, especially when noticing the reunion’s effect on Pascaline. She’s noticeably agitated, literally wringing her hands.

Rae, attempting to thin out the tension, lifts a game smile. “Ah, well, look at that. Someone certainly loves his dog?”

“Though who came up with the name?” Drue comments. “Chevalier? Is it a classic movie reference, maybe? A shout-out to Maurice? But that’s seriously going way back—”

“That is not the dog’s name.”

Before any of us can seek clarification about Pascaline’s meaning, she’s done an about-face and started beelining across the sitting room behind her. The move is like catnip for Raegan. She gives instant chase, her hair a blazing cloud behind her, leaving Drue and me to pick up the rest of the tea service mess—as well as the blown fragments of our comprehensions.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Drue mutters.

“That you brought all this on with the crazy is as crazy does bullshit?”

“Or that you brought it all on by bonking the lord of the manner?”

“You asking for details, wench?”

“You offering them?”

Our soft giggles are interrupted by Raegan’s reappearance. Correction: Raegan’s stressed-out, bug-eyed, NASA-worthy splashdown of a reentry. “You guys need to come here. Right now.”

At the far end of the sitting room, there’s another door. It was closed last night, and we were too eyeballs-deep in chocolate and Crémant to go exploring. Now, we rush to follow Rae through the open portal. We step foot into an impressive portrait gallery.

“Oh, yaaay,” Drue deadpans. “Because we haven’t seen enough paintings of dead guys today.”

“Hush.” Rae’s rebuke is a new piece of strange. She’s never the chastiser of our trio. As soon as Drue and I trade nonplussed glances, we hook elbows and walk deeper in. This display isn’t as extensive as the hall at Chambord, but fewer paintings doesn’t mean the works are less opulent. Not that I care, once my stare takes in the painting Pasca and Rae are standing in front of.

It’s…Max.

Every beautiful, throat-drying, crotch-soaking detail of him. His shoulders, broad and masculine, filling out his cobalt satin jacket. His jawline, jutting and defined, pushing at his frilled white stock. His stance, fierce and noble, with one hand resting atop the head of his pony-dog. His hair, the exact same shade of sun-kissed cinnamon, tumbling into his opulent golden eyes.

But most of all…

His scar.