Broken Dove (Fantasyland #4)(39)

On my feet, I had on low-heeled but high-rising (to the mid-thigh) buff-colored suede boots lined in cream fur. My cape had a high collar, the hide on the outside a fawn color, the fur on the inside thick luscious cream. I’d taken my cape off, too, but I’d been more careful placing it beside Apollo’s on the chair.

It must be said, of all my clothes in this world, the ones for Lunwyn were the best.

But as we silently drank our wine and ate our food, me avoiding Apollo’s eyes, him, I didn’t know since I wasn’t looking at him, I noticed that here, the attention we were getting wasn’t the fact that we were of the obviously-rare-in-these-parts upper-crust.

No.

As I surreptitiously glanced around, I realized it was something else.

When I caught eyes on me, before they looked away, I saw surprise in some faces. Extreme curiosity in others. Unease in a few.

And I knew.

We were a day away from her home, but I had a not-vague feeling that they knew who Apollo was, and worse, they’d seen him with the other Ilsa. An Ilsa who was supposed to be dead.

An Ilsa who looked exactly like me.

I had not noticed this on the way into Lunwyn. Then again, the men kept me sheltered and there were so many of them about, all of them big, it would have been difficult to note looks like this.

Or maybe I was so engaged with them, I just didn’t notice.

But with both Apollo and I giving each other the silent treatment, I had nothing to do but notice.

My meal finished, I saw his hand raise the wine bottle to my glass and he poured.

I took in a deep breath, and with it calm and control. Only then did I lift my eyes to Apollo.

He was also done with his food. As I watched, he refreshed his glass and set the bottle down. Then he twisted his chair a bit from the table and sat back. After that, he stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed his feet at the ankle. He nabbed his wineglass, held it before him in both hands and tipped his chin down.

Then he settled.

He appeared to be contemplating his boots.

And it appeared this contemplation was brooding.

Hmm.

He must have felt my eyes because, before I could look away, he turned his head to me.

“The men, they call you Maddie,” he announced.

I briefly considered ignoring him, but for reasons unknown to me, I didn’t.

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“I explained the story we’re telling about you being here,” he stated and I fought looking around to see if anyone was close enough to hear as I nodded. “Obviously, you’ll need a name that’s not Ilsa. Is this what you wish to be called?”

Instantly and strangely, his question lightened something in my chest. It was as if my lungs were twisted but I’d lived with it so long, I didn’t even notice it was making it hard for me to breathe.

And just as instantly as that relief settled through my chest, it occurred to me why.

Right there, in that restaurant and for the foreseeable future, I was back where I started, depending on and thus controlled by a handsome, wealthy, powerful man.

But that didn’t mean my life wasn’t new.

I’d never given much thought to my name, after, of course, I grew up. It was unusual and growing up with an unusual name, kids sometimes being mean, well, it sucked.

After that, it was just a name. A name my parents gave to me and after I screwed up royally and married Pol, it was the only thing I had left of them.

But I’d screwed up royally. And when it finally dawned on me that I was in a very bad situation and it was getting worse, I’d left Pol.

And my father had told me not to come crying back to him when I figured it out.

Of course, when I figured it out and needed safe haven, I went crying back to him.

Literally.

He shut the door in my face.

Twice.

And he, and Mom, had hung up on me. And they’d done it so many times, I’d lost count.

Who did that to their daughter?

I’d f**ked up, definitely.

But to shut me out forever just because I fell in love with the wrong man and made a stupid, headstrong decision at the age of twenty-three?

“Ilsa?” Apollo prompted and I jumped, coming out of my thoughts and looking to him.

“Do you have the name Madeleine in this world?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Then that’s who I’ll be. Madeleine. Maddie,” I declared, and his brows drew slightly together and his gaze grew more intense as I did it.

I knew why.

It was a declaration. Firm. Definite. Inflexible.

It didn’t exactly need to be that strong a declaration.

But it absolutely was.

Once I’d made it, I wanted to cheer. To get up and dance. For some reason, it felt like I’d slithered out of old tired worn-out skin and been born anew and I had so much energy and excitement bubbling inside me, it was hard to keep my seat.

“Madeleine,” he murmured, again capturing my attention, and his rich deep voice smoothing over that beautiful name sent a shiver sliding up my back.

Crap.

Maybe I should have picked Agnes.

On that thought, he surprised me by remarking, “You’ve noted they knew her here.”

I rolled my lips together and nodded.

“She was here often. I’ve also been to this village more than once over the years,” he continued and that confused me.