The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(83)

“Do you take me for a fool?” she retorted.

He said nothing in response.

“If the Court of the Lions isn’t responsible for killing Anabel and William, then who is?” Celine demanded in a harsh whisper. “And how do we stop him?”

The sound of a twig snapped around the bend, crackling with warning.

Before Celine could blink, Bastien shoved her into the corner, covering her with his body, the waxen leaves at her back prickling against the bare skin along her arms. All the air left her chest, the blood flooding her veins in a heated rush. For a ridiculous instant, Celine thought Bastien was going to kiss her, like the heroes in the penny dreadfuls she often purloined from her friend Josephine.

His arms encircled her as he assumed a wide stance, shielding her from view. To anyone looking closely, it would appear as though they were paramours lost in the evening revelry. It did not escape Celine’s notice that Bastien failed to take a defensive position.

Which meant he thought only to protect.

Footsteps emanated from behind him, a cluster of indistinct figures shifting into view. With every second, they drew closer, their identities concealed under cover of night.

Unmistakable menace rolled off Bastien’s body. From every sleek muscle beneath his black waistcoat to every stretched tendon in his arms. Celine’s breath lodged in her throat, her pulse trilling in her ears. Again reminding her why so many people granted Bastien such a wide berth.

Standing before Celine was a young man capable of spilling blood without a moment’s hesitation. A ruthless fiend who could slay an armed dragoon and attend Mass the next morning.

The intruders moved closer, as if they were searching for something in the hedgerow, their words slurring together, their bodies stumbling through the darkness. Bastien’s right arm snaked around Celine’s waist to place the handle of a small dagger in her palm, his left hand shifting toward the revolver tucked in his shoulder holster.

He shook his head once. Celine nodded in understanding.

They would say nothing. They would wait like coiled asps, ready to strike.

A slender form—that of a young woman—tripped into view just beyond Bastien’s shoulder. “Didn’t you say you saw Sébastien Saint Germain go into the maze, chasing after a young lady?” she said to the companion at her back, her words slurring from drink.

“I could have sworn I did,” another feminine voice rang out from behind her.

The first girl groaned. “Which lucky mouse managed to snag herself a lion?”

“She can have him,” her friend replied with an audible shudder. “He and every member of the Court frighten me. I don’t care how much money or influence they peddle.”

“How can you say that? He’s a prize in all respects. Have you seen the way he looks when he smiles?” She sighed. “It’s a face that would set a girl’s drawers aflame.”

A cold light settled in Bastien’s gaze as they spoke. The ice of a moonless night, high in the Himalayas.

“Well, he isn’t here,” the second girl said. “And Maman would be furious if she knew we’d wandered into the maze. Everyone knows what happens here after midnight.”

“Blast it all,” the first girl said through her teeth. “I was hoping to leave the party with at least one good story.”

“Let’s be grateful we’re leaving at all, given the recent murders.” Her sensible friend tugged the first girl away, forcing them to retrace their steps, their words melting into nothingness a moment later.

Even after they’d wandered beyond earshot, Bastien did not shift back. He stared down at Celine, his lips pursed, his features calculating.

Celine looked up, meeting his study, measure for measure. She inhaled, taking in the spice of the bergamot in his cologne mixed with the scent of supple leather. “It appears your reputation precedes you,” she said, her words soundless. Traitorous. With each passing instant, the charge in the air began to shift, the danger reshaping itself into something warmer, headier.

But no less deadly.

“At least one young woman here is wise enough to fear me,” he replied, his meaning plain.

“Is that what you think?” Her brow furrowed. “That I’m nothing more than a fool in silken skirts?”

“You’re nothing like them. They’re leeches. You’re a lion.”

Pleasure riffled through her at the compliment. “And what do leeches want with lions?”

“The chance to drink from our ice-cold veins.” He drew closer, his cool breath washing across her skin.

Celine considered his face, focusing on the way his mouth shaped words. The way its perfect furrow dipped in its center. How easy it would be to stand on her toes and do what she’d been wanting to do since the moment she first laid eyes on him.

She wasn’t alone in her desire. Even in the blue moonlight, the naked wanting on Bastien’s face unmoored Celine, setting her adrift in a stormy sea.

It was the kind of wanting that hurt.

“Celine.” He pronounced her name like a prayer. “What do you want?”

“I want . . .” She saw herself mirrored in his liquid gaze.

Bastien brushed his forehead across hers. “Put an end to our miseries, mon coeur,” he whispered. “Please.”

Celine rose on the tips of her toes, crowding his space as he’d crowded hers. She gripped him by his pristine lapels, his knife still entwined between her fingers, the blade gleaming white beneath the stars. The front of her basque pressed to the hardened planes of his body, Bastien’s heart racing against hers. He looked down, then steadied himself.