Forever His (40 page)

“You have betrayed me, you willful, ungrateful girl. You have driven me to desperate acts. I cannot be responsible for what may happen next if you anger me further. Already the boy who was riding ahead of you is dead, Christiane. He would not come along quietly. He tried to warn his lord—a foolish choice. We were forced to kill him.”

Celine flinched and closed her eyes, remembering the sound of Remy’s voice cut short so abruptly. It made her feel sick inside. She could still see his easy smile and the pride he had felt at being chosen as one of their escorts. She heard Etienne swear beside her.

“Let his blood be on your hands,” Tourelle shouted, his voice terrifyingly close now. “All of this unpleasantness could have been avoided, Christiane, had you carried out my orders. But instead you repaid my trust with treachery, and you fled with Varennes.”

The sound of his horse’s hooves stopped. Celine felt a cold trickle of fear down the back of her neck. Though she and Etienne were concealed by the thicket, she almost believed that Tourelle was looking right at them. He stopped talking. She held her breath.

He continued along the trail.

“You know it is useless to defy me,” he said coaxingly, his voice fading as he moved on. “It was inevitable that I would find you. I have had my men looking for you on every road north for weeks, but Varennes was too careful.
You
, however, my dear, were not. You were sighted on one of the main roads, riding a lame mare near the chateau of Lady Rosalind de Brissot. It was easy enough for my men to follow you and guess your destination.”

Celine bit her tongue to hold in a sob. This was her fault! Gaston had been so cautious, but her impulsive side trip had led Tourelle right to them! Remy’s death
was
on her head. And if anything had happened to Gaston—

“Once my men reported back to me, I knew I need not even trouble myself giving chase.” Tourelle laughed. “Far simpler to lie here in wait and let you gallop straight into my arms. It was most thoughtful of you, my dear, to make this easier for me. Almost as if you had planned it.” His voice hardened. “Though I know better now. I grow weary of this, Christiane. Show yourself!”

He was so far away that they had to strain to hear him.

“A moment more,” Etienne whispered, rising to his feet, half crouched so he couldn’t be seen, pulling her up beside him. They stood poised, listening for Tourelle to move far enough away that he wouldn’t notice them when they left their hiding place.

But they were so focused in the direction of the trail, they failed to pay attention to what was behind them.

A rustling whoosh of air was the only warning as a sword came slashing straight down at Etienne’s head. He dodged, dropping and rolling. The blade tangled in the bushes. The man who held it yanked it free, snarling curses.

“Run, milady, run!” Etienne cried as two other burly swordsmen closed in. From his prone position, he whipped up his crossbow and fired at the nearest attacker.

Celine screamed, paralyzed with shock and horror as the small, deadly arrow found its mark. The man staggered back with a high-pitched cry and fell to the ground.

Etienne scrambled to his feet. “
Run!
” He swung the crossbow with both hands, connecting solidly with the jaw of the second man, sending him reeling.

Celine couldn’t move. Not even when she heard horses galloping toward them through the trees. It was like she was trapped in a movie, everything happening too fast, the sounds so loud they drowned out her own terrified screams.

Etienne turned to face his third opponent, but the swordsman was already thrusting forward with his blade.

Celine saw it happen with horrifying clarity. The point sank into Etienne’s side and he crumpled to his knees, jaw slack. The man pulled the sword free, bright with blood. Etienne tumbled face-first into the leaves and grass of the forest floor, not making a sound.

The other man, the one Etienne had hit with the crossbow, lurched to his feet, holding his jaw and swearing. He kicked Etienne over onto his back.

Etienne was gasping for air, his eyes wide and staring—then one long, shuddering breath escaped him. His lashes closed slowly. He didn’t breathe again. The two left him there in a pool of blood and advanced on her.

With a cry of rage and anguish, she dropped her bundle and threw herself at them, fists raised.

Someone caught her from behind before she could reach them. He spun her around, grasping her shoulders.

“What a pleasure to see you again, my dear,” Tourelle said cheerfully. “But look at the measures you have made me resort to. One dead lad will be hard enough to explain away to the King—but two?”

“You
bastard!
” She tried to hit him, but he caught her wrists.

“Poor, overwrought Christiane.” He subdued her with a bruising grip. “Wherever have you learned such language? From your beloved husband?” He jerked his head to the left, where several more of his men stood with their horses.

Celine followed the direction of his gesture. And saw Gaston. Slung over Pharaon’s saddle. Unmoving.

“No!” she shouted, trying to tear herself away from Tourelle. “
No!
What have you
done?
”

“Calm yourself, my dear. He is not dead. Not yet. I have no intention of killing him—at least not until you answer one simple question for me.” He shook her, hard, forcing her attention back to him. “Tell me, Christiane, have you bedded him yet?”

Celine stopped struggling. A sudden icy calm took hold. “No. No, we haven’t—”

“Do not lie to me, my sweet
innocent
. It will be simple enough to have a physician examine you and tell whether your maidenhead is intact.” He shifted one hand upward, his fingers closing around her neck, his thumb pressing painfully into her jaw, forcing her head back. “Or mayhap I will simply examine you myself!”

Celine felt a rush of fury and fear. But instead of panicking, she did something that surprised even her: she brought up her knee, fast and hard, straight into Tourelle’s groin.

With a strangled curse, he released her, staggering back. Swearing and spluttering, he fell to his knees with an agonized groan.

She glared down at him. “Go to hell,” she said evenly.

His men closed in on her, but he gestured them away with a savage wave of his hand. One tried to help him to his feet but he pushed the man aside, a venomous stare fastened on Celine.

“You ...
bitch!
” he rasped out, staggering to a half crouch. Celine stood her ground. “You traitorous little bitch, you will pay for that!” Still gasping for breath, he straightened—and hit her so hard, he knocked her off her feet. She fell to the forest floor, dazed with shock and pain, her head ringing.

“You are dead!” he snarled, towering over her. “You have been dead from the beginning! I had it planned perfectly. You were going to fall through the ice on Lac du Clermont. Your husband was going to die trying to save you. It would have appeared completely believable—loving husband attempts to save his new bride, but both tragically drown in the freezing lake. No one would have found your bodies until spring! There would have been no evidence by then that you had both been strangled.”

He yanked her to her feet. “But you have ruined my plans for your ‘accident,’ Christiane. The snows are past and the ice has melted—but I shall devise something else. Something better.” He spun her around and shoved her toward his horse. “And until then, you and your husband shall live out your last few days in my dungeon.”

***

Etienne felt the blood beneath him. His blood. Everywhere. And pain. Layers of it. Wrenching, blazing pain. It felt like his left side was on fire. Darkness tried to drag him downward again, even as he struggled to find enough strength to open his eyes. He did not know what had awakened him.

Until his stallion nudged him.

He would have laughed, except that it was agony just to breathe. Damned loyal horse. He opened his eyes. Only tiny pinpricks of starlight and a glimmer of moon penetrated the dark forest. He felt cold. Unnaturally cold. And too weak to move.

Guard her with your life.

He had failed Sir Gaston. Again. But he had at least done one thing right: he had had sense enough to play dead. Lying there, he had held his breath and kept still, knowing he could not fight them.

He had heard enough before he passed out. Tourelle had taken Sir Gaston and Lady Celine to his chateau.

Guard her with your life.

Somehow—he was not sure exactly how, because he fainted once during the process—he ripped a length of cloth from his sleeve and bound his wound as tightly as he could, biting his lip at the pain. Then he made it to his knees. Leaning against his horse’s leg, he pulled himself to his feet. He rested there for a moment, his stallion twitching nervously at the smell of blood.

“Nay...” he croaked. “Easy.”

The night-draped forest danced crazily before his eyes. He had to get help. Had to ...

Trying to steady himself, he glanced down, and noticed Lady Celine’s bundle. He bent over and almost fell as he picked it up. It had seemed important to her, and he did not wish to leave it behind. After several tries, he managed to get his foot into the stirrup and heave himself into the saddle.

Groaning, leaning over his horse’s neck, he urged the stallion forward. Sir Gaston’s chateau was still several hours away. Captain Royce would be there. He would know what to do.

 Etienne was going to either get help or die trying.

A
wakening only traded one darkness for another. Time passed in a hazy blur, hours of cold and blackness sliding one into the other until Gaston was not sure how many days he had spent in the small cell, with no heat or light, no food or water, and no idea why he was still alive.

Mayhap Tourelle meant to leave him here until he slowly starved to death. The hunger gnawing at his gut was matched only by the ache in his head from the blow he had suffered when Tourelle’s men attacked him. He had killed one of them before they overpowered him, but that fact was small satisfaction.

Most painful of all was not knowing what had happened to Celine.

He could only hope that she had escaped with Etienne. Unless she was being held elsewhere. He had called her name, but there had been no reply from the darkness. No sound penetrated the dungeon save the echo of his own voice.

His efforts to escape proved just as useless. Digging at the clammy stone floor and walls was futile, and the solid wooden door did not give way no matter how hard he kicked it or how many times he threw his full weight against it. Despite all the noise he made, no guards came to subdue him. He was left utterly alone in the darkness.

Left alone to worry about whether Celine was safe.

It was a torture worse than any other Tourelle could have inflicted. Gaston almost would have believed the bastard was doing it apurpose, except that he could not know.

Could not possibly know how much Celine meant to him. How much he cared for her.

He had not truly known it himself, until now.

Left with naught to do but sleep and think, he found himself unable to sleep because all he could think of was her. He did not care what happened to him, as long as Celine was safe.

The feeling took him by surprise, yet it was undeniably true. If he never left this cell alive, if he died here without seeing her again, if all his hopes for vengeance and justice for his murdered father and brother were thwarted and Tourelle triumphed, he would not care ... as long as she lived.

Never in his life had he had such thoughts. For as long as he could remember, his own plans and desires and needs had been foremost in his mind. Now, for the first time, someone else mattered more.

The realization made his heart beat strangely, made him pace the cell restlessly, made him do something he had not done in many years.

Alone in the darkness, he knelt on the cold stone floor, and began to pray.

He prayed that she had escaped. That she would go to his chateau and await the eclipse. That she would return to her time—and not waste precious hours she could not spare trying to save him.

Never in all his years on the battlefield had he prayed so fervently. And never had he made the offer he made now: his life for hers. He would give up all he had, all he was. He would die willingly, if only God would save her.

 He was still kneeling there, head bent and eyes closed, when he heard a sound. At first he thought he had only imagined it, that he was delirious from hunger and thirst and fatigue. But then it grew louder, closer, inescapably real.

Footsteps. In the corridor outside. Four men, mayhap five.

Gaston rose and flattened himself against the wall next to the door, poised to make a bid for freedom if the chance presented itself.

A key turned in the lock. The portal opened a bare inch. Torchlight flickered in the gloom. Squinting, he tensed, ready to strike.

“Hold, Sir Gaston,” one of the men said urgently, pushing the door open only a crack. “Allow us to speak.”

Gaston remained mute, started to lunge—then froze when they stepped inside: four men, three wearing the royal blue and white of the King’s guard.

“Milord,” one said, bowing low as if they were at a courtly feast rather than in a dank dungeon, “his Majesty wishes to see you.”

***

They brought food and water with them, and a change of clothes, and they waited outside while Gaston washed and donned the garments and barraged them with questions.

He did not bother with the food when they informed him that his wife was waiting above with the King.

She had been captured when he was, they explained as he hurried with them down the corridors, emptying the flask of water as he walked. Nay, she was not hurt. It was his squire, Etienne, who had gone for help; wounded, he had managed to make it to Gaston’s chateau before slipping into unconsciousness. Nay, they did not know the lad’s present condition, but the captain of Gaston’s guardsmen, Royce, was here—it was he who had sent riders to fetch the King.

Above in Tourelle’s great hall, royal guardsmen milled about, along with Tourelle’s men and several of Gaston’s own. His escorts accompanied him to the solar at the rear of the chamber, where the others waited, all standing in separate areas of the room, like combatants awaiting the call to battle: the King, Tourelle, Royce ... and Celine.