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“I’ve told you that jealousy is not a good look on you, Your Grace,” she said and then frowned. “Why do you even care what the gentleman wants with me? I do not care what you do with your time and whom you spend it with. We’re both free to do as we like. Neither of us has any claim on the other.”
Except the rather obvious one that made her body so stupidly, acutely aware of him. It obviously hadn’t gotten the message that the duke was off-limits because her nipples were beaded in her bodice, her throat was inexplicably dry, and her lower half felt as though it was immersed in deliciously warm bathwater. It was a wonder she could string any words together that weren’tI’m yours forever, sir.
The duke’s mouth went flat. “By all accounts, the marquis is a rogue who can barely keep his trousers fastened from bed to bed.”
Bronwyn laughed. He wasn’t wrong about that. Tremblay was an unapologetic libertine. “He very well might be, but his company pleases me and that’s all that matters. Why don’t you scamper along and find someone to entertain you as well?”
He was deeply annoyed, as evidenced by the muscle only she could seem to get to beat in that stubble-covered cheek. It never seemed to appear for anyone else. Scrutinizing it, she blinked. Normally he was clean-shaven, but she quite liked this scruffy, unkempt side of him as well. Looking like a racy pirate only increased his allure.
How would that stubble feel on her skin? Over her cheeks? Between the much softer skin of her thighs? Suddenly burning hot, she shifted to put some space between them.
“Lady Bronwyn, you are—”
But whatever the duke was about to say was cut short by a boom and the smashing of panes in the bay window near her head where she’d been standing a second before. She barely had time to let out a yelp as a huge body barreled hers out of the way and shielded her from the shattered glass that crunched beneath his booted feet. He dragged them into a side alley, keeping her wildly trembling form behind him. People were screaming and running in every direction. Had that been a gunshot? Where was Aunt Esther? Cora? Panic flew through her.
“Your Grace.” She attempted to push past him, but one immovable arm kept her in place. “My aunt. Valentine, I must see if she’s well. And Cora!”
“They’re safe. Rawley has them,” he said. “You, however, are not, so stop fighting me. I’m not letting you out there, not until I know you’re not in danger.”
She stopped grappling. “What do you mean?”
“That bullet was meant for you, Bronwyn.”
***
Every inch of him felt numb.Hell, she’d almost gotten shot right in front of him.
Thanks to Lisbeth, a team of operatives working with the French government and the national police forces had been following up on his hunch that someone had been on their tail since their journey back from Philadelphia. And the attempt on her life had just proven it. Either some kind of bounty had been placed on Bronwyn’s back or someone had a personal vendetta. It didn’t matter that she was a highborn lady or the sister of a duke, someone wanted her dead and had come all this way to finish the job.
And they’d very nearly succeeded. If she hadn’t moved a fraction away from him, there would be a sea of red mixed in with that shattered glass littering the whitewashed cobblestones. His chest squeezed at that terrifying image. Valentine didn’t want to begin to dissect what that meant. Of course he cared what happened to her—she was his best mate’s sister.
She’s more than that.
Scowling, he shrugged off that voice, peeking around the corner to see if the French police had arrived or if the assailant would show his face and make another attempt. Not wanting to take any chances, he drew his pistol from the holster beneath his coat and cocked it. He reached down for the second smaller gun tucked into his boot and handed it to her. “Take this, just in case.”
She stared at it. “I’m not familiar with that kind of gun, only Ravenna’s.”
He narrowed his gaze. “You shot that man in Philadelphia. A brilliant shot.”
“I was trying to save your life, and I was familiar with that weapon.”
“I’m very grateful for it. This is a bigger gun so the recoil will be harder. Hold with both hands and brace. Finger over the trigger when you’re ready to use it. If anyone you don’t recognize comes at you, fire first and ask questions later.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To find your shooter.”
He hated to leave her, but she would be hidden enough in the alleyway. Valentine had to make sure she’d be in no more danger. He eased from their cramped hiding spot, peeking past the wall to see that the streets were clear, though people were crouched behind walls and stalled omnibuses. When Valentine caught Rawley’s eye from where he stood on the other side of the storefront, the large man pointed to his eyes and then to a building a few yards down the boulevard.
It wasn’t coincidence that Rawley was there. He had been scouting ahead when the shot had been fired. Though his vigilance hadn’t stopped some cleverly hidden renegade from planning an attack. With some relief, Valentine noticed that both the Comtesse de Valois and the maid were safe. There had only been the one shot, but that didn’t meant the shooter wasn’t armed with more guns or didn’t have accomplices.
Pistol in hand, Valentine eased from his position and rose gingerly. The cream-colored limestone exploded to the right of his head when another shot ricocheted as he ducked for cover, body sprawling flat on the sharp rocks. The answering roar of Rawley’s gun discharged from across the boulevard, and then Valentine was on his feet and running toward where Rawley had indicated. On the roofline of the newly built apartments, five stories up, movement caught his eye, reflecting from a pane of glass that had been smashed on the steeply angled mansard roofline, presumably where the person had been firing from.
Valentine took off in pursuit, running along the front of the building and knowing the man might still be inside. He would try to escape from the back. Older Paris was a warren of side streets, but Valentine was not as familiar with these new arrondissements that had been annexed a handful of years earlier. Once the man was out, however, he could vanish quite easily. The rapid sounds of snapping shoes on cobblestones behind him made him slow and look over his shoulder. He expected to see Rawley, whom he could direct to cut the man off, and frowned when striped skirts filled his vision.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, panting and slowing. “Go back!”
“No.” Bronwyn’s eyes shone with fury as she kept up with him. “I’m not very well going to cower in a corner while you chase a man who was shooting at me!”
