Forever His (28 page)

The nuns made little exclamations of shock at the question. Celine simply raised her tear-streaked face, looking at her husband. “He told you the truth,” she said softly. “Our marriage has been nothing.” Her voice broke. “Nothing but a mistake.”

Tourelle put his arm around her, tucking her close and turning her away from Gaston. “I would speak with her in private, Varennes,” he said over his shoulder. “To be certain that my ward is not merely saying what you have instructed her to say, out of fear of you.”

“She is no longer your ward,” Gaston said, finally breaking his stony silence. “She is my wife.”

Celine stiffened at the taunting edge in his voice. He wasn’t claiming her as his own; he was getting in a dig at Tourelle.

“
That
,” Tourelle snapped, “is a temporary situation which will soon be remedied.”

“Indeed. Temporary,” Gaston agreed with a humorless laugh.

It tore at what small shreds were left of Celine’s heart.

“Will you allow me to speak with her or nay?”

“By all means,” Gaston replied casually. “Speak to her in private. Visit with her as long as you wish. I am certain the two of you have much to discuss. Your long journey here. The weather. Plans for seduction and murder.”

Tourelle’s arm tightened around Celine. “You are mad, Varennes, if you think this sweet innocent would partake in such treachery. But then, that is what you have always been—a mad barbarian. Completely lacking in honor. As you always shall be.”

Gaston didn’t respond to the gibe. “Etienne, escort them to my solar and post yourself outside the door. Make certain that the good and honorable Duc does not raise a hand against my
wife
. Royce, Marcel, I would speak with you.”

Without so much its one word to her, not one word, he turned and stalked away with his men.

Celine listened to them go, feeling a pall of desolation settle over her as their boot steps rang through the hall. Now she would never be able to convince Gaston she wasn’t plotting with Tourelle. Or that she was from 1993. Or that he must let her go meet with Brynna again. Oh, God help her ... was she ever going to be able to get home?

Or was she going to die here?

She wanted to curl up into a ball and sob out all the shock and hopelessness she felt, but Tourelle had taken a firm grip on her elbow and was leading her off to the solar, following Etienne. A sharp word stopped the nuns when they started to tag along.

As she moved with Tourelle into the small chamber, Celine glanced at Etienne, but he would not meet her gaze, stiffly taking up his post outside. Tourelle nodded politely at the lad, escorted her in, and closed the door behind them.

Once they were alone, he flung her away from him. Any trace of kindness or concern vanished from his face.

“You are far more intelligent than I had given you credit for, my sweet,” he said, carefully keeping his voice low.

Celine stumbled backward, coming up against the stone hearth, startled by the sudden change in him. Beneath his mild words there was something threatening in his tone, something almost ...

Evil.

“I—I suppose it’s useless to tell you that I’ve never seen you before and I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about?”

Tourelle took a step forward and grasped the back of one of the carved chairs that flanked the room’s trestle table, a storm of anger gathering in his face, his voice a harsh whisper. “There is no need to keep pretending, Christiane, though your performance in the hall was most inventive. That madness about not being Christiane is an excellent way to keep Varennes off the scent. I must congratulate you on the cleverness of your scheme. And appearing here so suddenly on the eve of the new year and in his bed was truly inspired. I only wish I had thought of it.
And
that you had informed me of what you were about. You will not be so careless again!”

“I-I didn’t—”

“Nay, do not try to explain it now. It matters naught. What I would know is why you failed. Varennes told me you
fled
when the moment was at hand.” Tourelle’s grip on the chair tightened in white-knuckled fury. The massive piece of furniture shook. “How could you
run
when you had him within your grasp?”

Celine pressed herself back against the hearth, her heart in her throat as she began to understand. “My ... grasp?”

“Cease your playacting!” he hissed. “You have been here more than a month, damn you. Why have you not bedded Varennes? It does me little good to kill him if you have not secured your place as his widow!”

Celine stared at him, wide-eyed. Christiane—her ancestor, her innocent, convent-raised ancestor—
had
been in on some murderous plot with Tourelle! Celine had been wrong about her.

And Gaston had been right in his suspicions all along.

Tourelle shoved the chair aside and stalked around the table. “Tell me the truth, Christiane. Have you used any of the alluring tricks we discussed? Have you at least
attempted
to seduce him?”

Amnesia. That was her only hope. She had to make him believe she really did have amnesia. It might be enough to get a little information out of him.

Precious information that might save Gaston’s life.

“M-milord,” she said shakily, “I truly don’t know what you mean. I have no memory of you, or of any plans.” That should sound believable. It was true.

Tourelle had been advancing toward her, but he suddenly snapped around, fists clenched, every inch of his heavily muscled, six-foot-tall body taut with anger. “Damn you, you impudent girl!” He exhaled through his teeth as if trying to calm down, then turned back, frowning at her. “You have always known better than to defy me this way,” he murmured almost to himself. “Mayhap you truly did suffer a blow to the head.”

“I ... I think that may be it,” she agreed. “I don’t remember. But some ... some of it is starting to come back to me, now that I’ve seen you and the others.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “But it is still ... foggy. Per—mayhap you should explain it all to me.”

She opened her eyes to find Tourelle glaring at her, his arms folded over his broad chest. “You had better start remembering quickly, Christiane. I have no patience for mistakes.” A suspicious gleam came into his blue eyes. “Or disloyalty. You have not started to develop some ill-advised
affection
for Varennes, have you?”

“No. I don’t care about him,” she said blandly. “He hates me.” She tried to keep her voice steady as she said that. “And ... the feeling is mutual. It’s just that I can’t remember what it is I’m supposed to do. Tell me and ... I’ll do it.”

“Your part is simple enough. You are to lure Varennes into your bed so that he consummates your marriage. Since he is the last male heir of the line, when he dies, all he owns will pass into your hands.” He paused, as if relishing the thought. “Our hands.”

“But I don’t think that will work. He’s too suspicious of me. And h-he’s really not attracted to me. Besides, what about the King’s order? If anything happens to Gaston, you’ll have to forfeit everything
you
own. Maybe you should reconsider—”

“I have taken care of that,” Tourelle insisted mysteriously. “Do not worry about the King’s order. You have only to manage your part.”

“But how do you intend to actually kill him?” she prodded carefully. “Are you going to try and make it look like an accident? Even if you—”

“The less you know of that, my sweet, the better for you.” He stepped closer and gave her a hug of reassurance that made Celine feel sick. He obviously wasn’t going to reveal any of the most important details to her.

Setting her away from him, he tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. “Keep your attention on your own task, Christiane. It seems you have made at least some progress already—Varennes’s people have told us how intelligent and kind you are. You have done an excellent job of making them drop their guard and accept you as one of their own. You will not be a suspect.”

Celine’s stomach turned. Her mouth felt dry. He clearly had this all planned out, and she had unwittingly played right into his hands.

“But what if my part ... fails?”

It was one last hope. If she never made love with Gaston, Tourelle would find no profit in killing him.

The Duc smiled, and somehow there was more threat in that smile than if he had fastened his hands around her throat and squeezed.

“Ah, but you will
not
fail, my dear. Or has your memory loss made you forget what I told you before? About the Moorish traders who deal in women? They would pay well for a pale beauty such as you, a virgin fresh from the convent. Do you wish to spend the rest of your days as the amusement of some Saracen desert lord ... or as the wealthy widow of Sir Gaston de Varennes?”

Celine pulled away and turned her back quickly, hoping he couldn’t see the color draining from her cheeks. “I understand.”

That was an understatement. She had judged her ancestor too quickly. A threat like that, used against an innocent, convent-bred girl ... poor Christiane had been forced into this.

“Excellent, my dear.” Tourelle stroked her hair, as if he were caressing a favorite pet. “I shall return home at once, then, and leave you to your task. My chateau is but a few hours’ ride from here—in case you do not remember.” He started for the door. “I will expect to receive a missive from you before a se’nnight is past, Christiane. Send it with one of the nuns. Send word that you have succeeded in bedding your husband.”

***

The cold gray of dawn chilled the air as Gaston stood leaning against one of the trees in his apricot grove, casting blistering mental curses upon whatever cruel trick of fate had thrown Christiane into his lap.

He had spoken to Royce and Marcel, and their report was not heartening. They had not been able to find any proof of Tourelle’s plans. The Duc had apparently been looking for Christiane, exactly as he had claimed. After following him for days, they had finally confronted him and brought him to the chateau.

 They had no proof. No evidence. Which left Gaston exactly where he had started: trapped in this marriage, shackled to one of the most incredibly treacherous women he had ever had the misfortune to meet.

When he thought of the way she had so easily confused him, cloaked herself in lies, planted small clues here and there to mislead him, almost made him believe. Made him
want
to believe. Made him want
her
. God’s blood, she had come so close to succeeding.

But which was better? To mistakenly believe that she was a woman from seven hundred years in the future, intent on leaving him and returning to her own time?

Or to know the truth, that she was in fact Tourelle’s ward, intent on seducing him?

Neither alternative eased the churning pain that knotted his gut.

He looked up through the barren branches that scraped the iron-gray sky. He was not sure what had drawn him out here in the dead of winter. The trees were barely taller than he was. He was probably killing this one just by leaning on it.

He glanced down at the snow, remembering how hard he had laughed when Gerard had ridden up with the cartful of tiny saplings, just after Gaston had taken possession of this castle. What was a knight doing with that collection of sickly-looking sticks? he had chortled.

His elder brother explained that he had brought the apricot trees back from Crusade and wanted to give them to his brother as a gift. Tending an orchard was a true nobleman’s calling, Gerard had said, and Gaston was a true nobleman, now that he finally had a castle of his own.

A true nobleman. The words had cut Gaston’s laughter short, made his throat tighten even now. Gerard had never known exactly
how
he had taken possession of this castle. How he had won it in a tournament, by cheating. With the help of a potion dropped in his opponent’s drinking water. He had unhorsed the poor fool quickly, and claimed this prize.

Stolen it.

Gerard had never questioned. He had simply insisted that his younger brother take the trees, and Gaston had accepted, telling himself they would probably not survive the winter.

But somehow they had. Somehow they still did, every year.

Two years ago, he had given in and started tending them. Not because he felt any noble calling, he had told himself, but because he liked sweets. Dried apricots in the winter were a—

“Gaston?”

The feminine query from behind him cut through his thoughts like a knife. A knife in his back.

He did not turn to look at her. “It is unwise for you to be here with me,
wife.
”

She came closer. “Etienne told me you were out here. I know you may not believe—”

“Aye, there you have the truth of it, Christiane. I may never again believe a word you say. Tell me, what did you and Tourelle decide upon? Poison? That would be easy enough to disguise in one of the odd dishes you cook. Or mayhap you chose a less cowardly method. A quick blade at my throat some night? Nay, too difficult to disguise as an accident. Mayhap a saddle with its cinch loosened just so?”

He spun on his heel, startling her so badly that she stepped back and almost fell.

“But of course,” he continued coldly, “all would be for naught unless you had first lured me to your bed. And that is why it does not matter what method of murder you have chosen. Because your plan will never succeed.”

She stood there staring at him with wide eyes, shivering. She had come outside without a cloak. He set his jaw, cursing himself for noticing her discomfort.

And then she said the last thing he expected.

“Yes, Gaston. That’s exactly what he has ordered me to do. He wants me to seduce you.”

He slanted her a wary glance. “What is it,
wife?
” He said it like an epithet, the way that always made her wince, as if he hated the very word and all it stood for. “Do you come here to tell me you have developed such
affection
for me that you cannot carry out your overlord’s fiendish plans?”

“Yes.”

The answer was so simple, and spoken with such feeling, it struck him dumb.

“Yes, that’s what I’ve come here to say,” she went on, slowly, calmly, as though she had given this some thought while rushing outside without her cloak like a reckless little fool. “I know you’ll never believe me now, but I’m exactly who I told you before, Celine Fontaine from 1993. But because Tourelle believes I’m Christiane, I was able to get him to tell me what he’s planning—”