Forever His (25 page)

And he knew she felt it, too. Her response to his merest touch was proof enough of that.

Why could she not admit it?

She
would
admit it. She had to. Because their marriage was about to end, within a se’nnight, mayhap less.

He strode around the bed and took off his tunic, forcing himself to prepare for sleep, though he knew it would not come. He had charged his men not only with finding Tourelle, but also with spying on him.

They had orders not to return until they had some evidence of Tourelle’s treacherous plans. That was why they had been gone so long, he knew. As soon as they returned, he would be able to go before the King, present real proof of his enemy’s scheme, and obtain the annulment that would rid him of his unwanted bride.

Unwanted?

Untrue.

Sitting on the mattress, he nudged off his boots. Christiane was most definitely wanted. Not as his wife—but definitely wanted. He could not keep his body from stirring at the merest thought of her. Earlier tonight in the kitchens, he had not allowed himself to take one step toward her or linger longer than a moment, because he knew it could end in only one way: with him taking her into his arms and off to his bed.

He should not have allowed himself near her at all, but he had been walking through the great hall when he caught the rare, sparkling sound of Christiane’s laughter, and it had drawn him like a thirsting man to a sweet, clear waterfall.

He snuffed the candle beside his bed and let himself fall backward onto the mattress, remembering.

The look of her had captivated him as much as her girlish giggling: her tousled hair, that shining gaze, one of her many hats half tumbled, the ruined gown reflecting the sheer joy she found in cooking. The scene made him smile even now.

It had all been so errantly unladylike ... and so irresistibly charming. For one moment, before she realized he was there, she had truly looked
happy
.

And what would become of her, this flour-dusted, high-spirited, redheaded little minx of his, when his men returned and their marriage ended?

His smile vanished. He ran a hand through his hair, thinking for the first time of Christiane’s possible fate after all of this was over. More than thinking of it,
worrying
about it.

It should not matter to him what happened to his enemy’s ward, but he could not deny that it did. At first, he had cared only about getting her out of his life, but now he ...

Now he was ...

Concerned. That was the word. Concerned for her wellbeing. Naught more.

Yet it was a peculiar sort of concern, one he had not felt before, forceful and yet gentle at the same time, and so much a part of him that he could only yield to it.

And it made him question what would become of Christiane. Would Tourelle send her back to the convent in distant Aragon? Gaston did not like to imagine her condemned to that fate. It was hard to believe that Christiane had ever set
foot
in a convent, much less been raised in one. She bore as much resemblance to a novice nun as he did to a monk.

He could not believe that a woman like her, a passionate woman of such strong will and fierce independence, would willingly return to the quiet, restrictive, celibate life of the cloister.

Which raised a second possibility. Tourelle might marry her to another man.

That thought sent a savage rush of denial through Gaston. He thrust himself off the bed and started pacing, as if he could escape the image he had conjured. The idea of another man touching Christiane, taking her to his bed, claiming her sweet feminine secrets as his own—
nay!

But even as that loathsome image hit him like a fist in the gut, another, still worse possibility presented itself.

Tourelle would be furious that she had failed to carry out his plans. Furious enough to punish her. The whoreson might beat her. Or do far worse.

Gaston’s jaw clenched. He would
never
let that happen.

There was but one answer. She might not be willing to accept the idea yet, but it truly would be best—safest—for her to remain here with him. He would protect her.

Eventually, she would come to see that her naive ideas about men and women and love were naught but imaginings, learned from listening to too many troubadours’ tales. She would leave behind such girlish fancies anon. He had given her the first taste of her true, womanly passions, and she would not be able to resist them for long, any more than he could. And once he was married to Lady Rosalind, there would be no reason for him and Christiane to resist.

She had to stay.

 Every fiber of his being resonated with that thought. The sooner she accepted it, the better for them both.

Crossing the chamber in two strides, he yanked open the door and went to inform her of his decision.

***

Nothing was happening.

The feeling of the floor slipping out from beneath her feet lasted less than a second.

Celine opened her eyes, trembling with the beginnings of fear.

She hadn’t moved one inch, much less seven centuries. Clammy fingers of stark terror closed around her throat.

Why had it suddenly stopped working?
What was going wrong?

Her heart started pumping wildly. What was she doing wrong? The dazzling moonlight still bathed her, the eclipse was clear, the time was right, her clothes, her thoughts. Why had the feeling of movement stopped?

This had to work! It was her only chance to get home. Her only chance before the bullet fragment in her back ...

“Oh, please,” she cried, reaching out to touch the glass, staring up into the blinding white light. “Oh, God, please!”

The window remained as solid as the rush-strewn stone floor beneath her. She grasped the stone sill with both hands, pleading with every ounce of her heart and soul for this to work. Whispering a prayer, she squeezed her eyes shut, desperately hoping she would open them to find herself in 1993.

But she didn’t. When she opened her eyes, she remained solidly, undeniably, in 1300.

A dizzy rush of nausea swept over her. She felt like she was going to be sick, or faint, or burst into tears. She refused to let herself slump to the floor. She couldn’t panic. She could not panic! She clung to the sill and to one fact: she
would
have another chance, in three months.

Three months.

And what if her medical condition worsened by then? What about that ache she had felt in her back for several days? What if the bullet fragment was shifting even now? What if she didn’t have three months?
What if she died before the next eclipse?

A sobbing, wordless cry of denial and doubt and fear tore out of her. She leaned against the cold glass, fighting tears.

No.
Shaking, she summoned every bit of courage she possessed, refusing to give in to mindless terror. She had to hold herself together. Figure out what had gone wrong. Consult with Brynna again. Find a way to get
home
.

She heard a sound in the doorway behind her and spun around with a jerky, startled movement.

At first she couldn’t tell who it was, could only blink into the darkness, her eyes still dazzled from the moon’s brilliance. Then the wavering silhouette resolved itself into a tall, muscular, unmistakable form.

Gaston.

Her heart skipped a beat, then started pounding harder. She was still here, still in his time ...

Still his wife.

The tears she had managed to hold back suddenly started flowing down her cheeks—because in the smallest, deepest, most secret reaches of her heart, some part of her was glad.
Glad that she had failed.

A small sob of confusion and fear and despair escaped her, and she almost took a step toward him. It didn’t make any sense: she wanted nothing in that moment as badly as she wanted his strength and comfort, to lose herself in the safe fortress of his arms. But the fact that she could not read his expression kept her frozen.

He stepped toward her. She could see that he held a piece of parchment crumpled in his fist—the note she had left for Yolande.

“What in the name of God are you doing?” he asked in a tone that might have been simmering outrage or complete disbelief. “What is this?” He held up the note. “What do you mean by saying, ‘I am going home and will never see any of you again’?”

Celine moved. Sideways, out of the light. “I—I
was
trying to go home.” Her pulse was roaring in her ears. Words came tumbling out in a rush. “I was trying to get back to my time just like I told you and it should have worked only it didn’t work and I—”

“I cannot believe that you would try this again.” He stared at her teddy as he moved into the shaft of moonlight.. “Did you
expect
me to come seeking you tonight? Did you think to trick me into consummating our vows when that
garment
failed you before?”

He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Or boots. He wasn’t wearing anything except a pair of form-fitting leggings. And she could see his expression now.

And it made her tremble.

His dark features were etched with a hard-edged mixture of desire and disbelief. His gaze swept her body in a single swift stroke that she
felt
like a physical touch.

“Th-his didn’t have anything to
do
with you,” she cried, her voice a shuddery sob. “
I was trying to go home!
I’ve been telling you the truth all along and—”

“If you expect me to believe that,” he said roughly, his voice deep, “you are even more naive than I thought.”

Celine slumped against the wall, covering her eyes with her hands, her head falling forward. It was one blow too many to find suspicion and lust and anger where she so desperately wanted understanding and compassion and comfort.

“P-please just leave me alone,” she said shakily, not looking at him, not wanting to cry in front of him. “You’ll never believe me. You’ll never believe anything I say. Just leave me alone.”

He moved so silently that she never even heard him.

Not away, but toward her.

She gasped when his hands closed around her wrists and he trapped her against the wall, between the cold stone and his bare chest, raising her arms and pinning her hands on either side of her head with slow, inexorable strength.

“What I believe,
ma dame
, is that you should be more careful in spinning your web.”

His eyes glowed nearly black in the silvery light, desire overpowering all the other feelings she had seen there.

Her heart and her breath seemed to stop. “Let me go! You can’t—I know you won’t consummate our—”

“Nay, Christiane, but I am an accomplished lover, and there are ways I could take my pleasure of you that would leave you a virgin.” He leaned into her, his body hot with arousal, his breath coming harsh and heavy. “I have lain awake nights wanting you, wife, and I will endure no longer.”

C
eline’s captive hands clenched into fists. “Wanting
me?
” She struggled against his grip, but that only pressed her breasts more firmly against his bare chest, leaving her shaking and breathless at the stunning contact. She lifted her chin, wishing she could wipe the too-obvious tears from her cheeks. “Why would you want
me?
I’d think you’d be more than satisfied after
playing tables
with girls like Isabeau night after night!”

His dark eyes burned into hers before he dropped his head to take her mouth in a hungry kiss. “It is but a game,” he said against her lips, “and it satisfies me not.”

Celine desperately tried to keep her senses from spinning out of control. That single kiss sent a shock wave through her body, but his cold, casual comment struck at her heart like a knife. “That’s all it
is
to you, isn’t it? A
game
. And one partner is the same as any other.”

“Partner?” he muttered, nuzzling her cheek, nibbling a quick, searing path to her earlobe, her neck, lower. “ ‘Tis more an opponent.”

An opponent!
Celine made a low sound of frustration and hopelessness and tried again to push him away, but he held her still and kept kissing her, tracing a damp trail along her throat, over her collarbone, across her shoulder.

She burned with resentment at what he was doing to her, at the melting heat that began between her thighs, at the feel of his bare, hot skin against hers. She resented the delicious friction of the crisp hair covering his chest against the wisps of silk and lace barely covering her breasts. Resented the fact that she noticed the lean, muscular feel of him and the tangy spice of his scent—
and reveled in them
.

Oh, God help her, but she wanted him, needed him, wanted and needed this.

Because she cared for him, more deeply than she had dared allow herself to admit. And
that
she resented more than anything. Because he viewed her in exactly the same way he viewed all women, as nothing but—

“
An opponent?
” she finally managed to choke out, though it was almost impossible to get her brain and her tongue to work together and form words. He was kissing his way to her breast, his lips and tongue and teeth blazing a trail of sweet torment. She tried to stay still, tried not to respond, because every small movement she made only brought another part of her into contact with another part of him. “That’s ... that’s how you see women? All women? Opponents? Conquests? Not as friends or partners or—”

“You make too much of it, Christiane.” He kept her hands trapped against the wall, kissing and nuzzling every part of her as if he meant to enjoy her one inch at a time. Nudging her teddy out of the way to expose her nipple, he licked her, long and slow.

A ragged breath escaped her and she arched against him helplessly, feeling herself swirling down into the pool of sensual fire he kindled between them. He stole away fear, anger, breath, voice, and left only longing in their place.

“ ‘Tis merely a game,” he continued in that chiding tone, kissing her tender skin softly. “A pleasant amusement that engages both luck and strategy. Why do you wish to discuss it now?”