Forever His (35 page)

He squeezed his eyes shut, loathing every heathen impulse in his black soul. He had wanted her and he had taken her. In a stupor so deep that he barely remembered the act itself. He had brought her here to rest—and instead had ravished her. With no thought for her and all for himself. He should have known better. Should have known that he could not be trusted near her without a score of attendants to hold him at bay.

God’s breath,
had he hurt her?
The sounds tangling in his muddled memory were only cries that might have been pain or pleasure.

He heard a rustling of the bedclothes, a small yawn that became a sigh. He forced himself to straighten, to face her, to look at her, despite the bright, painful glare of day. She rolled over, blinking sleepily.

Then her eyes widened when she saw him.

She did not speak. And he was unable to summon even one syllable. He searched her eyes for some sign that he had not made her loathe him—and then another scrap of memory snapped into place.

I love you.

She had said that to him, even as he had been doing the unthinkable.
I love you.
She had welcomed him into her bed and her body because of her feelings for him.

Damn him to Hell and back again, he wished he did not remember that.

He stared at her and she at him until the chamber felt very small and far too hot, although the fire on the hearth had burned almost to embers. When he could stand the silence no more, he finally asked the question, dragging the words from his parched throat in a dry rasp.

“Did I hurt you?”

Her stormy blue-gray gaze still on his, she shook her head. “No.” She repeated it, firmly. “No.”

Her assurance was small solace as the greedy maw of what he had done opened wider to swallow him whole. For no sooner was he relieved of that first concern than a second struck and nearly sent him to his knees.

He had broken his vow. Broken his word. Again. Tossed aside any good intentions for a moment’s pleasure. Exactly as he had done all his life—but this time would cost him dearly.

He had played directly into Tourelle’s hand.

There would be no annulment. No marriage to Lady Rosalind. No way to reclaim his stolen family lands. No justice for his murdered father and brother. It was not enough that he had failed them in life; now he had failed them in death as well. And endangered his own life in so doing.

And his wife’s.

Something inside him twisted and tore asunder. Tourelle was no doubt hard on their trail already ... and if he found out that the vows had been consummated, he would be rabid for blood. Their lives would not be worth one sou.

Gaston had betrayed them all. His father. Gerard. His wife. Betrayed them as only he could.

The sunlight glimmered around him, around her, bright, cleansing sunlight, and its purity showed all the more clearly the thoughtless act he had committed. The dark stain on the coverlet marked mayhap the most unforgivable sin in his entire unholy life.

And he had done it here, in his noble brother’s chateau.

Some of his horror must have shown in his face, because she hurried to console him, sitting up, trying to cover herself, apparently not noticing the mark on the coverlet as she drew it in front of her.

“Gaston, don’t look at me that way. You didn’t hurt me. It was ... you were ...”

“Drunk and witless,” he finished sharply, his gaze on the splotch of red.

“Caring and gentle,” she corrected, then blushed crimson. “Well, not ... not all of it was gentle, but it was still ... I mean it was—”

“Whatever it was, it is over.” He clenched his jaw, ignoring the pain the motion brought. Then he stalked to the side of the bed, snatched up his garments, and started yanking them on. “It is over and Tourelle has what he wanted.”

“I am
not
plotting with Tourelle!” she said defensively. “And I have no intention of trying to kill you, so don’t you dare try to accuse me of seducing you. I wasn’t the one who jumped onto your terrace!”

“It matters naught. Whoever you are, I am shackled to you now—till death do us part. All because I allowed wine and desire to overwhelm my reason and render me witless.”

“Shackled?” she repeated breathlessly, as if he had struck her. “But last night, you ... you said ...” She closed her eyes. “Don’t you remember any of it?”

He jerked on his boots. “Do not remind me of aught that I may have said last night,
ma dame
. I would have told you anything to have you hot and willing in my bed.”

She inhaled a sharp, pained gasp, still trying to cover herself with that damnable blanket. “I told you that you would feel this way,” she accused softly. “I warned you that you would hate me.”

He turned away from her with a low sound of frustration, the pain in his head redoubling at the sharp movement. Hate her? By nails and blood, that was as far from the truth as the moon and stars above the world. Hate did not number among the multitude of
feelings
he had for her.

Guilt, he felt. And regret. Need and desire, more fierce than ever before. And above all else, that soft, unfamiliar, unwanted concern that tightened around his chest, making his heart beat unsteadily. It was almost like ...

Nay, he would not call it caring.

“May I have my dress, please?” she asked tonelessly when he did not deny her accusation. “It’s ... it’s out on the terrace.”

Not looking at her, he stalked to the far side of the room and thrust open the terrace door, wincing in the full, bright daylight that slashed his eyes. He snatched up the gown from where it lay, a pool of lush fabric on the cool tile. Seeing it there cleared more of the haze from his mind, brought another torrent of memories—the way he had slid it off her shoulders, nuzzled her breasts, pinned her against the wall. Given her no choice as he swept her into his arms.

He crushed the velvet in his fist. Blackheart. Never had he earned that name more than last night.

He walked back to the bed and handed her the gown. “Get up.”

“There’s no need to be surly,” she said hotly. “I’m not—”

 “Get off the bed.”

She scrambled up, releasing the blanket and holding her gown in front of her. He yanked the wool coverlet from atop the rest and carried it to the hearth.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “You can’t burn Avril’s—”

“It is mine to do with as I wish.” He stuffed it into the huge hearth and stoked the embers. When the sparks became flame, he straightened and turned to look at her. “Mine to keep ... or to destroy.”

His emphasis on that last word made her flinch. “Gaston, don’t. Avril was
wrong
when she said destruction is what you’re best at. You proved that to me last night. You proved that you can be ... more gentle and caring than you know.”

He did not reply, nor did he allow himself to stay one moment longer. Anger and self-disgust and something more drove him to the door.

It was fear. Fear of the words that even now choked up in the back of his throat and threatened to spill forth. He had given in to unguarded words and sweet passions last night—and the result had been disastrous.

Only when he had closed the door solidly behind him did he allow himself to go still, leaning against it in the cool darkness of the corridor, his pulse rushing and his head throbbing, his breath coming sharp and shallow.

He could ill afford to be weakened by feminine words like “caring,” and that other one which he did not even allow to take form in his thoughts. Especially now. They had to leave here, and quickly. If it was the last thing he did, he meant to save her from Tourelle. Her and Avril both, for if the bastard learned that Gerard’s widow was with child—another Varennes heir—he would not hesitate to take her life as well.

Gaston forced himself to walk away from his wife’s door. He had failed those who had counted on him in the past; he would not fail again. He had too many lives depending on him. Too much to protect. Too much to lose.

Never again would he take advantage of the naive feelings his wife had for him. He could not be both lover and warrior. Not now and not ever.

***

For once, Celine didn’t argue when a servant came with husbandly orders from on high. She had barely finished getting dressed, only minutes after Gaston left, when he sent word that he wanted her to gather her things and be ready to leave within the hour. No explanation. No word of why it was imperative for them to leave so suddenly. Just do it. Typical.

But she didn’t complain. She simply thanked the servant and sent him on his way, then found her slippers where she had kicked them off the night before. That was all the “readying” of her things she needed to do. All the rest was still packed, since they had arrived only yesterday.

Then she sat on the bed and waited for the servant to come back. She had no emotional energy left for arguing with Gaston’s orders.

When she had wakened this morning to find his warmth no longer beside her, she had felt disappointment, only to have it instantly replaced by hope and uncertainty when she saw him. He had not run from her room at the first opportunity. She dared think that what they had shared might have affected him, as strongly as it had affected her. That it might have unlocked something inside him.

But when she had blurted her fears, any flicker of optimism she might have felt had been ground out.
I warned you that you would hate me.
God, some vulnerable, naive part of her had actually thought he would deny it. But his leaden silence had said far more than words ever could.

And all she had been able to do was sit there going numb, thinking,
I love you
.

Did he even remember that she had said that last night? If he did, it obviously didn’t matter. For a man of so few words when it came to emotions, he had expressed himself quite clearly. He thought himself trapped. How had he put it?
Shackled.

He didn’t feel anything about what they had shared last night. Except regret. So much regret that he had burned the evidence. The fire still blazed and crackled in the hearth, turning their passion to ashes.

She sat on the bed, blinking, still dazed by her own stupidity. How could she have deluded herself into thinking that he cared for her? That he had had any other goal last night than pure male lust?

He had been right about her. She
was
naive and foolish. And he didn’t care anything more for her than he did for the countless other women he had taken to bed. The awful truth of it brought an actual, painful ache to her chest. She choked on a humorless laugh. That was all he had left her with: an ache, and a throbbing awareness of him, in that soft place between her thighs where his hard body had briefly become part of her.

Someone knocked at the door, but the sound barely registered. She didn’t respond until the knock was repeated twice.

“Come in.”

She expected the servant, coming to help take her things below.

Instead it was Gaston.

She inhaled sharply, her gaze fastened on his, her fists crumpling the bedclothes on either side of her. She hastily erected an iron gate around her heart; she wasn’t going to keep hurting herself by declaring her feelings for him. Not when he didn’t return them in the least.

His eyes were glazed with an odd look. She thought it must be the effect of his hangover.

 “The servants ... they are—are arrived,” he stuttered.

“Fine. I’m ready to go. Why didn’t you just send one of them up to fetch me?”

“Nay, not Avril’s servants. Our—
my
servants.” He lifted his hand. She finally tore her gaze from his face long enough to look at what he had carried in with him.

She stopped breathing.

“They arrived at ... Chateau de Varennes some days ago,” he continued in that stumbling, disbelieving tone, “and when they did not find us there, Yolande and Gabrielle rushed here, to give me this. They arrived this morn. They ... thought it might be important ...”

Celine barely heard what he was saying. There was a ringing in her head that blocked out all other sound. She could only stare at the bright pink object he held, something so out of place in his hand, in this time, that it took a dizzying moment for her to identify it.

And then she was up off the bed, running forward. “My purse. My
purse!
Where—how—my God, have they been
hiding
it all this time?” she asked incredulously.

He let her take it. “Nay, they found it while moving furnishings. In a trunk.” He exhaled a harsh sound, as if he were having trouble breathing. “A locked trunk. In the room where—”

“Where I appeared in your bed on New Year’s Eve!” Celine said breathlessly, clasping it to her. “But how did it ...” Her mind raced back to the moment she had tumbled through time. “I was standing in front of the window. Looking for an aspirin. And I had my purse in my hand. But then the moonlight hit me and I
dropped
it ...”

As the pieces started fitting together, her heart soared.

“But I dropped it
after
the light hit me! I was falling backward, and it fell from my hand—and it must have come back in time with me. I ended up in the bed and this ended up in that trunk!” She spun around, clutching the purse like a priceless treasure. “That stupid, wonderful trunk!”

She felt like dancing. Relief and joy and hope all whirled inside her, so overwhelming that she didn’t give Gaston a chance to get a word in edgewise.

“This is
it!
” she cried. “This has to be why the eclipse a few weeks ago didn’t work! I pushed that trunk out of the way so I could stand in front of the window—oh, God, if only I had left it where it was!” She turned to him, waving the purse. “I didn’t have this before, so I couldn’t go back through time. But I’ve got it now. Don’t you understand? This is the key that’ll open the door! I can go
home!
”

Not waiting for a reply, she ran to the bed, unzipping her purse and spilling the contents. “You’ll have to believe me now!” she said triumphantly. “You want proof that I am who I say I am, Sir Suspicious? Well, you’ve got it! Absolute proof. I’ve been telling you the truth all along!”

She started tossing things onto the covers. “Checkbook. Wallet. Look at this—credit cards. My driver’s license! How about a calculator? Or my camera? Or a chocolate bar?” She was tempted to take a bite, but didn’t dare. She had to keep everything exactly as it was to get home. “Passport. Sunglasses. Plane tickets—God, I couldn’t even begin to explain to you what those are for. My keys.” She held them up and jangled them. “This one’s to my condo. This one’s for my Mercedes—boy, talk about losing your car keys big time.” She tossed them into the growing pile, laughing, and pulled out her Chicago Cubs baseball cap. “You think my other hats are weird, how about this one?”