Page 56 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

Henri moves close and forms a hand over one of my shoulders. His mien is openly paternal. My gratitude for it is deep. “There is no account of them remaining at the château after the mob invaded that day,” he says. “Nor are there any records of their deaths.”

“At all?” I swing up my head. Narrow my scrutiny. “Even after the Revolution?”

“Even then.” He ends it with a regretful exhalation. “Which could mean a number of things. They could have fled the country, resettled in Germany or England. Or they could have remained and changed their names to keep their heads. Or…”

“Or what?” I demand when he purposely stalls.

Henri steps away. He visibly fortifies himself before issuing his answer. “Or they could have taken hope from what Kavia’s dark arts did for you and tried the same thing for themselves.”

“Dark arts.” I all but spit the words. While I understand his reasoning behind the term, it sears like an insult nonetheless. “So mayhap she was called out as a witch for them and then murdered without the honor of keeping her name.”

Henri is still, stiff, and silent. His agreement with my words is inherent in every inch of his stance.

“She saved my life,” I finally snarl and drag a hand through my hair. “She saved my life. And I swear to you, Henri, on every drop of blood in my body, there was nothing dark about her noble deed. She sent me here, even knowing I might have limited time to get things right but knowing that it was light that called me, not darkness.”

The man remains quiet and contemplative. “Limited time,” he finally echoes, his syllables equally cautious. “What does that mean?”

“Exactly what it implies.” I pause, needing the strength of a new inhalation to speak the rest. “Less than a month, if what she said was true. But everything she did to get me here was right, so I have no reason not to believe her.”

“And what all was that?” There’s genuine interest in Henri’s new query. He is a true De Leon, his mind open and inquisitive. “What she did…to get you here?”

I pull in another breath. “She told me it was nothing she did,” I relay, shaking my head with bemusement. “She said that it was the power inside of me. That it was the force of soul-matched love.”

And there it is.

My own admission, out loud, of what has happened to me. Of the mighty force that has brought me here.

A confession that will likely halt Henri’s trust in my testament. He is a man in and of this cynical century. To pledge his figurative sword to me now would mean a renunciation of the world he knows and believes in.

Yet Henri rises from the bed with a full, proud smile on his lips. I smile too, obeying the surge of warmth through my chest. Perhaps humankind is desperate for magic again. Maybe that is what Henri wants to tell me.

But he does not get his chance.

“Holy mother of all the bullshit in the world.”

Because suddenly, cynicism is back—in the form of the woman now standing in the doorway. A frustrated frown enflames her stunning face. She is tapping one lovely, lush, bare foot. Merely glancing at her bright-pink toenails sends a rush of heat to the hardness between my thighs.

That is before I fully absorb the magnificence of the new ensemble into which she has changed.

Dear. Sweet. Jesu.

In her tight black breeches and dark-red shift, she convulses my breath. Jolts my cock. Enraptures my spirit. Every inch of her is radiant with the energy that originally brought me to her, whether she chooses to believe it or not.

And at this moment, Alessandra clearly does not.

ALLIE

Henri De Leon isn’t the smooth boss of socializing anymore. Not that I expected him to be once Pasca told me how he returned from the hardware store to find Max and the pony-dog rolling around together on the library floor. Apparently Henri had reacted just like she had, except instead of toppling a tea tray, he’d spilled a toolbox.

The guy’s face still looks stunned, though he’s managed to get Max into some normal clothes at last. Yessss. Good old-fashioned sweats and a tee.

But it hasn’t toned down his hotness factor one bit. Honest to God, since when can a man turn a Belgian beer T-shirt and a pair of sweats into a sight that belongs on the Hunks in Unexpected Places Instagram page?

And just like that, my libido’s doing the thinking for me again. I’ve allowed that slip too damn often the last twenty-four hours, but it’s happening all over again. Like it always does when I step foot into the same room as Maximillian De Leon.

Maximillian De Leon.

Dear God.