Forever His (19 page)

“I won’t forget.”

“And do not worry about the wolves. Fiara said she spoke to them for you.”

“Oh ... good.” The comment would seem bizarre in any normal situation, but this was not normal, and it made perfect sense. “Thank you.”

Brynna smiled warmly, her face full of hope. “Godspeed, milady.”

With a farewell hug, Celine hurried off into the darkness.

It was a bit less cloudy than it had been the previous night, so the moonlit path was a little brighter and Celine’s progress faster. She stuck to the middle of the tree-lined path, ignoring the tingles down the back of her neck when she heard the occasional wolf cry somewhere deep in the forest.

It required all her concentration just to put one foot in front of the other. After having hiked miles through the snow and having been awake for almost twenty-four hours, she kept herself going only by the excitement of her plans to return home. She was not at all eager to face Gaston when she got back to the castle. He was going to be a regular Tasmanian devil by the time she showed up.

The strange thing was, now that leaving was within her grasp, now that she had an actual date and a plan in place, she felt ... odd at the thought of never seeing Gaston again.

She chastised herself for being foolish. She had to go home, and there was no way he was coming with her—besides, he was a thoughtless, skirt-chasing jerk. Exactly the kind of man she didn’t want or need.

Okay, well, maybe “jerk” was a little strong.

And “thoughtless” wasn’t entirely accurate, either. He had demonstrated more than once that he
did
have a heart. Surprising her with that hot bath. Letting her have her kitten. And then there was the fact that he had given away a huge portion of his own winter supplies to the local peasantry. Not the act of a self-interested cad.

He might keep it well hidden beneath that tough-as-nails exterior ... but now and then, glints of a softer side shone through. Glimmers of compassion and nobility. Kindness and warmth. He came across all brawny and formidable at first, but there was more to him than that. Maybe a lot more. Given a little time—

She squashed that thought. Time was the one thing she had in extremely short supply.

And who was she trying to kid, anyway? All the time in the world wouldn’t change Gaston de Varennes. He didn’t want to change. Certainly not the skirt-chasing part. He was perfectly happy with his tomcat ways; that was one part of his legendary reputation he definitely lived up to. One woman would never be enough to satisfy him.

Except perhaps the wealthy, aristocratic Lady Rosalind.

Lady R.

The woman he would love so much, he would one day carve her initial above every door in his castle.

Celine’s vision blurred suddenly. She had to leave, and Gaston would be much happier without her. Married to his Lady R. That was the way things were
meant
to be. The rest of this was nothing but a mistake that would soon be corrected—

She stopped in her tracks, realizing that she hadn’t been paying attention to where she was going for some time. Had she passed the fork in the road yet?

She turned to look behind her. The woods and the snow and the twisting trail all looked the same to her; there were no landmarks. The map in her hand indicated the fork, but unfortunately, there was no “You Are Here” sticker.

She
had
passed it, hadn’t she? And chosen the left fork?

Or had she?

“Oh,
damn
.” She started to backtrack. “A nice fluorescent road sign or two would be a big help right about now,” she said miserably.

She ignored the cold uneasiness that trickled through her. If she was lost, she might never find her way out of these woods. Sacajawea she was not. She was used to depending on well-marked concrete highways and savvy cabdrivers to get her where she was going.

Squaring her shoulders, she kept walking. All she had to do was find the fork—

An animal made a noise, somewhere off to the right, behind her.

Celine stopped. That wasn’t a howl. It wasn’t wolflike at all. More like a snuffly, wet, breathing sound. Made by something very
large
. She had never heard anything like it in her life.

Whatever made it went silent a second later. She stood there, frozen, not even breathing. Maybe it was a bear.

Had Fiara thought to clear her with the local bear population?

She picked up her pace, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest, painfully hard. She couldn’t breathe. Just taking a single mouthful of air was impossible. She felt like her lungs were being squeezed by a giant hand.

Oh, God, not now.
She kept walking. Briskly. Almost running.
Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t ...

It was too late. The familiar crisis hit her before she could even begin to ward it off. A full-blown panic attack. The first one she had had since she got here. At the worst possible time.

Then she heard a branch break. On the path, directly behind her.

Someone—some
thing
—was following her.

Celine froze, turned, heart pumping wildly. She could sense a presence, something large and dangerous and intently interested in her.

“H-hello?” she called out, peering into the gloom. “Brynna? Fiara? Is that you?”

But there was no reply.

***

By nails and blood, had she seen him?

Gaston went still, standing beside his destrier, one hand holding the reins, the other over the animal’s nose to try to stop its blowing. Pharaon was growing restless at the slow pace; the stallion was better suited to battle than to stealth.

Since morning, he had been on Christiane’s trail, certain she meant to meet with Tourelle—though her stop at the mystic woman’s hut made little sense. Could the woman and her daughter somehow be connected to Tourelle’s plot? Why was the child not returning to the castle? And what was the point of Christiane’s meandering path now? She was either incredibly crafty ... or completely lost.

He was dressed all in black. She shouldn’t be able to see him. Through the shifting forest shadows he could barely make out her slender form a few yards ahead, illuminated by a sprinkling of moonlight. She was trembling like a leaf in a gale, and her breathing sounded odd—short, sharp gasps, unnaturally loud in the stillness.

“Is ... is anyone there?” she asked.

Gaston remained silent. He wasn’t going to give himself away. Not after spending so many patient hours tracking her. He cursed himself for following too close. He should have kept his distance, but every wolf’s howl had drawn him nearer to her, ready to protect her if need be. The woman had to be daft or desperate, wandering the forest at night, alone and unarmed.

She peered into the darkness, looking directly at him. His jaw clenched. The game was up.

But after a moment she turned and kept moving, faster now.

Allowing the distance between them to widen, he followed. Mayhap she had realized long ago that he was behind her on the path. Mayhap she was purposely trying to lead him astray in order to protect her overlord. Tourelle could be anywhere out here, waiting.

Indeed, this would be a perfect opportunity for Christiane to have some “accident” befall her new husband.

Gaston glanced around through the gloom, one hand drifting to the hilt of his sword. He could be walking straight into a trap. Why hadn’t he thought of that before setting out after her alone?

He scowled. He
knew
why, and it wasn’t merely because he had been furious when he found her missing. It was because he had been concerned for her safety when he discovered her tracks at the edge of the wood. He had not stopped to think. Had paused only long enough to grab his sword and mount his horse before going after her.

Because he had been concerned for her safety.

Concerned for
her
.

That was such a disturbing thought it stopped him in his tracks. He stared at her through the moonlit shadows, watching her hurry down the path away from him.

He had once again allowed
feelings
to overwhelm his reason. Feelings for a woman.
This
woman. His enemy’s ward. It was a witless mistake, one that might cost him his life. Which would be a just reward, he thought with a grimace, for tossing all logic aside. Galloping off alone like some reckless, inexperienced squire—

Pharaon suddenly tossed his head, taking another huge, snuffling breath. The noise rent the silent woods.

Christiane gave a terrified shriek and broke into a run.

“Saints’ blood.” Gaston dropped the reins, torn between caution and chasing after her. Was this part of her act? Was she leading him into an ambush? Tourelle’s armed men could be waiting in the darkness to cut him down.

Swearing, he drew his sword and ran after her.

She screamed again at the sound of his pursuit. Without warning, she left the road, plunging into the impenetrable darkness of the trees.

The little fool!
She would break her neck! “Christiane, stop!”

She couldn’t seem to hear him. His shout only made her go faster until she was crashing heedlessly through the undergrowth.

This was no act. She was clearly terrified. Lost and alone and terrified, and she had no idea who was chasing her.

“Christiane, it is Gaston!” He sheathed his sword, breaking through the brush, running faster as she darted away ahead of him. “Christiane!” He was only a few paces behind her now. “Good Christ, woman, stop before you kill yourself!”

She kept fleeing in a wild panic, sobbing with terror, not paying the least attention to him or where she was going. Her slim form was a blur. It was only a miracle that she avoided the low branches and huge oak trunks and gnarled roots that loomed suddenly out of the blackness.

But the trees stopped abruptly a few feet ahead. He saw the danger before she did: the edge of a knoll that dropped away sharply.

“Nay!”
With a burst of speed, he grabbed for her cloak. Her name tore from his throat as he missed her by a hairsbreadth. His hand closed on air.

She ran straight off the edge, tumbling into darkness, her scream of sheer terror shattering the forest night.

A sickening thud below cut short her cry.

For one horrible instant, Gaston stood frozen at the top of the knoll, hand still outstretched, unable to move a muscle, his heart pounding wildly. She was dead. Sweet Jesus, the sound of that impact—

Before he could take a breath, he was plunging down the hill, scrambling for purchase as the forest floor fell away beneath him, a steep drop littered with sharp rocks and branches, slick with snow and ice. Only the saplings and evergreens tearing at his garments slowed his descent.

At the bottom, he found himself in a chasm. An ice-frosted river snaked through its center, gleaming silver white in the moonlight. He could see marks in the snow where his wife had landed and tumbled down the hillside as he had. But she was nowhere to be seen.

Then he saw the jagged hole cracked in the thin crust of ice.
She had fallen through.

“God’s breath!” He plunged into the thigh-deep water without pausing to think, driven only by the numbing thought that she must already be dead. He tore at the jagged ice with his gloved hands. “Christiane!”

He found her in the darkness almost before her name had passed his lips. She was conscious, clawing at the slippery rocks, fighting the sluggish current as the weight of her clothes tried to drag her under. He pulled her free, hauling her from the water and lifting her in his arms. He staggered to the riverbank, his wet boots slippery on the snow.

“By sweet holy Christ, woman, if you
ever
attempt such foolishness again ...” He could not say more. He was shaking with fury at the way she had so recklessly endangered her life.

Coughing, sobbing, she clung to him weakly, shuddering with bone-deep cold. He sank to his knees, still holding her in his arms, barely noticing the icy water that soaked his tunic, just holding her, willing his heart to slow down, his breath a white fog in the darkness above her head.

“Are you hurt?” He could hear an odd, unfamiliar edge to his voice. Slowly, carefully, he set her away from him, but she was shaking so badly she couldn’t even kneel without his assistance. He kept one arm around her waist while he quickly ran his free hand over her. She winced when he touched her right side. It must have been there that she had struck the snowy hillside. Fortunately, he could detect no broken ribs.

Other than painful bruises, her worst problem seemed to be that she was not breathing right. She kept coughing up mouthfuls of water, exhaling more air than she was inhaling.

Gaston began massaging her between the shoulder blades. “Breathe, Christiane. You are all right, but you have to breathe.”

She lifted her head, staring up at him with fear-glazed eyes, almost as if she did not recognize him. She looked as if she might faint from pure panic.

“You are safe,” he said firmly, taking her face between his hands. “You are all right now, Christiane.
Breathe
.”

She did not respond, only stared at him with that wide, blank gaze, taking in naught but the tiniest gasps of breath. Her skin was unnaturally pale.

“You have naught to fear, Christiane.” He gentled his tone, stroking her cheeks. “Calm down.”

“I ...” She shook her head. “I ...”

He tried rubbing her back again. “If you do not breathe, you will faint. Take a deep breath and relax.”

“Ca ...ca ... can’t,” she choked out.

Gaston began to realize that her fear came from much more than her fall into the river. She was caught in the grip of a strange, unreasoning panic, an all-consuming terror that left her helpless. And having him see her in such a vulnerable state only seemed to be upsetting her more.

He drew her close again, rubbing her back in a firm, gentle rhythm, up and down. He could feel her heartbeat thrumming wildly. “Christiane, you are all right. You are with me. Naught will harm you. Take a deep breath, just one. I will do it with you.”

“
Can’t.
”

It seemed all she was capable of saying.