Forever His (29 page)

“And you have come straight here to share it with me,” he scoffed.

She didn’t react to his sarcasm. “It’s exactly like you’ve suspected all along. He wants me to trick you into bed so that our marriage will be final and I’ll inherit everything when ... when you ...” Her voice broke and she suddenly took a step toward him, a flood of emotion glistening in her eyes. “He means to
kill
you, Gaston—”

“What a surprise.”

“Stop being so damned sarcastic! Listen to me. I couldn’t get him to tell me
how
he plans to kill you. He just insisted that he and I wouldn’t be suspects and that he wasn’t worried about the King’s order. You’ve got to get out of here before something terrible happens to you!”

Gaston glared down at her, his heart beating too hard. She looked so earnest, as if she were truly concerned for him, as if she ...

Nay
, he would not be drawn into her web of lies and seduction again. He shook his head, laughing at his own gullibility. “Do you expect me to simply believe all that you say?”

“No. No, I don’t care
what
you believe anymore. Just save yourself. Get away from here. Away from me. Far away. Until he gives up this stupid plan.”

Suddenly there were tears on her cheeks. Gaston went rigid, hating how easily she made him react to her, fighting the urge to hold and comfort and protect that welled up unbidden. He hated as well the suspicion that had taken hold, upon hearing that Tourelle was not worried about the King’s order.

The good and honorable Duc had one clear way to kill him and appear completely innocent, and it was exactly the sort of thing that whoreson would do.

Kill Christiane as well.

Tourelle could hardly be a suspect if his beloved ward died in the same accident as her husband. And with the last male heir of the Varennes line
and
his wife out of the way, Tourelle would have the closest right to the Varennes lands—using both the marriage tie and his ancient claim through his mother’s line.

It all flashed through Gaston’s brain in the span of one rapid heartbeat. He nearly took a step toward his wife, driven by the maddening, deepening need to keep her close and safe. He was not sure how he held himself in check. “Christiane, how did—”

“Celine,” she insisted.

“Christiane,” he repeated just as stubbornly, “how did Tourelle first persuade you into his scheme? Was it loyalty on your part .... or did he force you into this? Has he threatened you in any way?”

She shook her head. “There’s no time to argue about that anymore. None of it matters. He’s planning to kill
you
. You’ve got to leave and I’ve—”

“It does matter,” he said flatly. “You will tell me.”

“If there’s one thing I hate about this century, it’s the way men order women around! Do you have any idea how annoying that is?”

He closed the distance between them in two strides and caught her chin on the edge of his gloved hand. “Do not attempt to change the subject, my lady wife. Is Tourelle threatening you?”

She trembled at the contact and jerked away from his touch, turning her back. “Something about Moorish traders and desert lords,” she muttered in an irritated tone.

A steel edge of fury lanced through him. So that was Tourelle’s threat—to sell her to slave traders. And to think that the Duc called
him
Blackheart, when he was using so savage a tactic against his own ward, a convent-raised innocent.

If
that was truly what—who—she was, this maddening woman he stood staring at. He still could not believe that she had ever set foot in a cloister. But the nuns were certain she was Christiane, and Tourelle as well, and they had known her all her life.

Who was he to dispute their certainty?

Damn him, whoever she was—Christiane or not, liar or not, insane or not—he had to keep her safe. He could not abandon her here, and he could not send her away alone. Not because the King had ordered him to ensure that no harm came to her, or even because he was concerned about Tourelle’s threat of slave traders.

It was because of the concern that he felt for her, that gentle yet unyielding
feeling
that would not be banished. It made leaving her behind impossible.

It also made him resentful.

And furious at his own weakness.

He would not make his brother’s mistake. He would never be softened by a woman. Any woman.

“We will leave on the morrow,” he said abruptly.

“
We?
” She spun around. “But
I
can’t go anywhere! I’ve got to stay here. I need to—”

“To stay near Tourelle?” he finished for her. “Nay, Christiane, I’ll not leave you here to weave further schemes. I mean to put as much distance as possible between you and your overlord.” It was the only explanation he would allow himself to give her.

She looked exasperated. And angry enough to chew steel and spit rust. “It’s too risky to take me with you,” she pointed out. “Aren’t you afraid I’m going to try to lure you into bed? You’ll be better off without me. It makes more
sense
to leave me here.”

Aye, it did
.

But he knew he would ignore all sense, all logic, all reason when it came to keeping her safe.

“We leave on the morrow, as soon as supplies can be readied.” He pinned her with a determined look. “And if you think this will make it easier for you to trick me, you are wrong. You will never again lure me into your lies, Christiane. Or your bed.”

C
eline huddled in the darkness between a sack of rye flour and a cask of wine, and knew all along this was never going to work.

A mad impulse had led her down here, to the
bouteillerie
, a basement beneath the kitchen where wines and staple goods were stored. Gaston had ordered her to be in the bailey, ready to leave, by the time the morning bells rang at six—and that had been well over an hour ago. She had thought if she could just hide, if it took him too long to find her, maybe he would give up out of sheer annoyance.

Ever since Tourelle had declared her to be the one, true, real Christiane yesterday, her husband had done nothing but growl orders and glare at her. Even the nuns, who were staying to rest and gather supplies before beginning their long journey home to Aragon, had kept out of his way. Since he was so furious with her, maybe he would give up and leave her behind.

But as she knelt there, trying not to sneeze on dust and pepper, she realized this impetuous tactic was useless.

He would find her. He might hate her, but he also didn’t trust her one bit, and he wasn’t going to leave her here to “scheme” with Tourelle, as he had put it. She had tried reasoning with him all day yesterday, but he hadn’t listened. He had remained adamant about taking her with him.

Even though they both knew it was a mistake.

Stubborn, pigheaded, tyrannical male! Why couldn’t he see that he had a much better chance of staying
alive
if the two of them separated and kept as far apart as possible?

Celine huddled deeper into her cloak, shivering in the clammy, musty air. She had to remain here. Not just to save him, but for her own reasons as well. She had to stay near that window upstairs. Had to find some way to get home when the next eclipse took place in three months.

And if she didn’t have that long ...

Either way, it made no sense for them to stay together, to risk the desire that ignited so easily between them.

To risk making a mistake that might cost Gaston his life.

Suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

Oh, no.
She tried to take a deep mouthful of air, but ended up choking on dust. Her breath started coming in short, shallow gasps.
Oh, God.
Panic seized her with an iron grip. She jerked to her feet, sending the pile of sacks she had hidden behind tumbling. Closing her eyes, she tried to calm down, too late. Her heart was already racing. The familiar, uncomfortable chills chased down the back of her neck and over her shoulders.

No, no, no.
Reaching out in the darkness, she grasped the top of the nearest wine barrel, something solid to hold on to. All she had to do was breathe deeply. All she had to do was ...

Telling herself that did no good. Terror had already taken hold. She knew this was stupid. Knew there was no reason to panic. Knew this was the worst possible time for another anxiety attack. And knowing that did no good.

She was shaking badly. Gripped by mindless, all-consuming fear.
Run.
That was all she could think of. She had to run. Run, run,
run
.

She stumbled forward, shoving past the wine barrel she had huddled next to, but it was impossible to find her way in the dark. She had purposely chosen the least-used corner of the
bouteillerie
—and now she couldn’t remember the way out. Right or left? She whirled, blind. She couldn’t see the stairs. Right? There was no way out. Left? She couldn’t breathe. Her heart was pumping. Her muscles tensed painfully. She had to run. But it was impossible to see. Panic and indecision held her paralyzed.

Then she heard footsteps on the stairs. Boots. She tried to cry out. Not even a sob would pass her constricted throat. She could only stand frozen in the middle of the room in the darkness, light-headed with stark, unreasoning fear, wishing for ... wanting ...

“God’s blood, woman! Where are you?”

Yes!

No!
She didn’t want him to find her. Yet that deep, furious, familiar voice sounded as sweet as anything she had ever heard in her life.

A moment later she saw the glow from his torch, flickering along the stairwell as he descended from the kitchen. Then his boots came into view. Then all of him, clad in black. With an equally dark expression on his face.

He stopped on the bottom step. Glowering at her. “God’s breath, but you defy all belief, wife. What new ruse is this?”

All she could utter from her dry throat was a wordless croak. Then, to her utter mortification, she started to cry. It seemed to be all she did in his presence anymore. Cry like a helpless little fool. And this was a particularly humiliating sort of sobbing—tiny, panicky gasps of air and tears.

He shoved his torch into an iron wall sconce and came to her. “What has happened? Are you hurt?” He almost looked like he was going to touch her, but checked the motion even as it began.

Celine could only shake her head. “I ... I ... c-c ...”

She began hyperventilating.

“You cannot breathe?” He looked down at her in puzzlement. “Is this some strange seizure that comes over you—or another trick?”

Her heart was beating too hard, filling her throat, making it impossible for her to speak, or to do anything but stand there in tears, shaking. She looked at the floor. She didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want him to see her like this. And she couldn’t bear the cold mistrust in his eyes.

And then he took her in his arms.

Oh, God.

“Have you forgotten what I taught you before?” he asked a bit more gently. “Breathe.” Slowly, almost reluctantly, he started to rub her back. “You know that you can do it. Calm yourself.”

Celine stiffened at the first touch, trembling with more than panic now. She shouldn’t let him do this. Not here. Not now, when they were alone in the torchlit darkness. This wasn’t what she had intended at all! He was supposed to be leaving without her—not comforting her, helping her.

But he held her tighter, and after a moment’s resistance she let herself be wrapped in his embrace, in his warmth and strength and confidence.

“Shhh. You are safe,
ma dame
. Breathe in. With me.” He started counting for her, as he had before. This time the exercise began to work almost from the start. In to four and out to eight ... in to eight and out to sixteen ...

The rhythm was familiar now, and comforting, and bit by bit she began to feel in control of herself again.

She pulled out of his arms the instant she was feeling even a little better. “Th-thank you.”

He let her go, turned away stiffly, retrieved his torch. “These attacks seem to come over you whenever you try to run from me. Mayhap it would be better if you stayed close.” It sounded like he was trying to be sarcastic but it didn’t quite come out that way. His voice lost its bite as he said the word “close.”

“I—I can’t. I shouldn’t. You know I shouldn’t.”

“I will not begin that discussion again. Not after enduring it yesterday from dawn until dark.” He glanced around the small chamber as if he had developed an intense interest in his wine collection, looking everywhere but at her. “What exactly did you think you were doing down here?”

She dropped her gaze to the dirt floor, feeling foolish. “Trying to hide.” The idea sounded even more ridiculous spoken aloud, but she was not going to lie to him anymore, even to save her pride. “I thought maybe you would ... leave me behind.”

“And now that you realize your mistake, wife, it is time to go. You have caused your measure of trouble for the day.” He motioned for her to proceed him up the steps. “And you have cost us a good deal of daylight.”

With an exasperated sigh, she walked past him and started ascending the spiral stair. If she kept fighting him, he would no doubt haul her out of here like one of the sacks of grain. “You haven’t even told me where we’re going,” she complained.

“To the chateau that belonged to my father, in the north.”

Celine stopped and turned. “But that’s not safe for you! Tourelle will guess where you are before too long.”

“I am not running from him, Christiane—I am getting
you
away from him. The fact that you hid from me makes you look all the more suspicious,
ma dame
,” he said ominously. “Do you truly wish to remain here so badly? To stay near him and plan further treachery?”

Celine just stared at him, mute with chagrin. He wouldn’t believe the truth. He had already jumped to the wrong conclusion and found her guilty.

“If Tourelle comes seeking a fight,” Gaston continued in that same tone, “he will get it. Chateau de Varennes is much larger than this keep, and far better defended. And it is more than a month distant from here and his murderous schemes.”