Forever His (43 page)

“Wounds?” Celine repeated in a suddenly small voice, looking Gaston up and down.

Gaston felt grateful that the tent flap had just fallen behind his assistant, who stepped inside to help him out of his armor. The only light in the darkened pavilion was provided by a candle on the trestle table in the center. He would prefer to spare Celine the sight of three deep blade-cuts.

“Naught to worry about,” he assured her, taking off his mail gauntlets and tossing them on the table with a casual air. “But mayhap it would be best if you waited outside with Royce. I would not wish you to faint again.”

“I am
not
the fainting type,” she insisted with a mutinous tilt to her chin. “Except when my husband is almost getting himself killed.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders, smiling down at her. “Milady, your husband may become ‘the fainting type’ if you do not cease being stubborn. Allow us but a few moments with the surgeon.” He turned her around and sent her toward the exit. “And then you may return.”

With a muttered protest, she gave him a last worried look and went out.

“I congratulate you on your victory, milord,” Royce said with pride before he followed her.

“My thanks, Royce, for all you have done.”

As soon as the tent flap had closed, Gaston gave in to the pain, settling heavily onto the nearest stool, unable to grit back a groan. His assistant set to work quickly, unfastening the various plates of armor, removing the chain mail and padded leather beneath. Gaston felt relief as each heavy piece came off, not only because it made it easier for him to breathe but because it was almost as if his past questions and doubts and guilt were being removed with them.

The King sat on a stool across from him as the barber-surgeon began laying instruments on the table. “You were right about Tourelle from the beginning, Gaston. Much trouble could have been avoided had I taken your word from the start. You have my apology.”

Gaston gazed at his sovereign in astonishment. Never had he heard Philippe apologize. To anyone. For anything. “A king must make difficult decisions,” he said with a shrug—regretting the gesture when it pained his shoulder.

“Aye, but a king must also know enough to judge men wisely, and I have been most unwise.”

“My liege, it is over now.”

Gaston’s assistant left with the armor, and the surgeon stepped near, applying a stinging, wet compress to Gaston’s raw shoulder that made him flinch.

“Pardon, milord,” the young man said. “‘Tis wine, to cleanse the wound. It is a method of preventing infection.”

Gaston glanced at him, a wry grin tugging at his mouth. So Celine thought all the important advances had not been made until
her
time. “Has my wife been offering you advice?” he asked curiously.

“Your wife?” The young man looked at him in puzzlement. “Nay, milord.”

“Gaston.” Philippe flicked an impatient glance at the barber-surgeon, who quickly swabbed the other cuts, turned back to the table, and began tearing lengths of linen for bandages, leaving the two men to their discussion. “Gaston, all that was stolen from your family is now returned to you. Along with Tourelle’s considerable holdings as well.” The King leaned forward, his face sober, as if he were only now getting to the subject he truly wished to address. “It makes you, in truth, a most wealthy man. Lord of a vast portion of the Artois region. I am not certain I can grant such wealth to a mere knight.”

Gaston regarded him warily. Would Philippe take back what he had only just granted? All of it? Part of it? He held his tongue.

“And so,” the King continued, his features breaking into a smile, “I suppose I shall have to make you a
duc
.”

Stunned, Gaston could not speak for a moment. “Saints’ breath,” he sputtered at last. “Sire! I ... it is—”

“Nay, do not thank me. When I make a mistake, I admit it. And I make amends.”

“Amends?” Gaston choked out. “But a
duc
. You have me leaping over more ranks than—God’s blood! Baron,
viscomte
,
comte
—”

“Aye,” Philippe laughed. “It is good to be King.”

Gaston couldn’t help but laugh as well, though it hurt his side. “Sire....” He shook his head in disbelief. “It is too generous. Too—”

“Noble? Gaston, today on this field, I saw more nobility than I have seen in all my years in battle. You fought honorably, even with all that lay at stake, even while Tourelle acted the knave. I see now that I accepted what others said of you too easily in the past. Mayhap that is why I was so slow to judge whether it was you or Tourelle who was telling the truth.”

“But that does not mean that I deserve—”

“You are more deserving than many who inherit such a title,” Philippe insisted. “You have earned it. Far more than you earned the name Blackheart. Aye, mayhap you committed some regrettable deeds in the past, but a man can change. Nobility is not in titles, Gaston, or even in deeds.” He rose to leave. “It is in the heart.”

Gaston dropped his gaze to the ground, uncomfortable with such words.
Change ... nobility ... the heart
. He had resisted change for so long. Thought he must stay as he was to survive. Believed he could never be truly noble, that he did not wish to be.

That he could never give in to his heart.

It was difficult to accept all at once.

“Mayhap, my liege.”

“I believe it is true, and I should know. I am a king.” Smiling, Philippe clapped him on the shoulder. “I leave you to the surgeon, my good Duc.” He turned to go, then stopped before the tent flap, turning back. “Ah, but I almost neglected to address the other subject I meant to speak to you about. The request that you made of me so long ago—the annulment. I believe I know what your  answer will be, but it is yours if you wish. Do you still want it?”

***

Celine waited until the King had left Gaston’s tent. She wasn’t sure it was acceptable for a mere woman to address a king, but someone had to ask the question that needed to be asked and she wasn’t sure Gaston would think of it, after all he had been through today.

But as soon as she raised the question of an annulment, the King cut her off.

“I have already discussed it with Gaston, milady. Speak to him.”

The abrupt way he said it, and the look in his eyes, told her more than she wanted to know. A sinking feeling began in the pit of her stomach. She knew it was inevitable. Knew it had to be.

But realizing that her marriage to Gaston was over still hurt.

Hurt as if someone had run her through with one of the metal-tipped jousting lances.

“Thank you, sire,” she muttered numbly.

The King bade her farewell and left, gathering his men in his wake. The others were busy cleaning up the field and taking down Tourelle’s pavilion. The body had already been carried away for burial. Royce was occupied removing all the hardware from Pharaon.

Standing by herself outside Gaston’s pavilion, the wind tangling her hair, she waited. Waited until the barber-surgeon left. Waited until Gaston was alone.

Then she still waited.

She didn’t want to go inside. Didn’t want to say what had to be said. But she finally squared her shoulders and forced herself to walk forward, stopping just outside the tent flap. “Gaston?”

“Come in. Celine.”

She stepped inside. He was sitting on a stool beside the trestle table, wearing nothing but a length of linen draped around his lap. Fresh white bandages covered his thigh, circled his ribs, bound his shoulder. The dim firelight bathed his skin in flickering gold.

Her stomach tight with concern, she shifted her gaze to the candle on the table. “Are you really all right?” she whispered.

“A few scratches, no more.”

He sounded almost cheerful. Maybe he was a little delirious from the pain. “I ... I came to say good-bye,” she said softly. “I think it’s probably best if we ... I mean, there’s really no need for us to—”

“You came to say good-bye?”

He wasn’t going to make this easy. “Yes. It’s best if we just part now, don’t you think? You’ve probably got a lot to do here. I could go back to your castle for the eclipse. It’s impossible for us to ... I mean, we shouldn’t ... we can’t ...”

She lost her voice. He didn’t say anything.

“Oh, God, Gaston.” She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling miserable, forcing her gaze to his. “There’s no sense postponing the inevitable. Let’s just make a clean break, right now. It’s really better that way, now that the King has agreed to the annulment.”

“But, my lady wife,” he said in a deep, steady voice, “there is not going to be an annulment.”

C
eline’s heart skipped a beat. She had the unnerving feeling that she was in a dream, her senses unnaturally sharp, making her vividly aware of Gaston’s eyes gleaming with dark heat as they held hers; of the glimmer of candlelight playing over the angles of his face; of their shadows dancing on the side of the pavilion, moving together as the silk fluttered with the wind.

She blinked in disbelief. She was definitely awake. But she certainly couldn’t have heard him right.

“
What
did you say?”

“There is not going to be an annulment,” he repeated in that same tone, his voice and body both as solid and unmovable as granite.

“You mean you turned it
down?
” she cried.

“Nay I told the King that I wanted the annulment.”

She shook her head, half dazed with confusion. “Gaston, you’re not making sense!”

“I told him I wished to have the annulment—but I asked him to wait a few months in granting it. He agreed, though he was not pleased. From what he has seen, he believes we should stay married ... and he has a difficult time believing that we have not consummated our vows.”

“But he agreed to it—so we
are
getting an annulment.”

“Nay.” Gaston shook his head, his eyes locked with hers, potent. “We are not.”

“Would you please stop contradicting yourself’?” She was shivering despite the heavy velvet gown and cloak she wore. “What in the world is going on? Why did you ask him to wait a few months?”

“Because I have a plan.” He stood, his muscular form slowly unfolding until his dark hair brushed the roof of the pavilion and he seemed to fill the small space. The linen knotted around his waist slid low on his hips.

The rhythm of Celine’s pulse shifted, fast and unsteady, and an all-too-familiar heat tingled through her. She backed up a step, turning. This was no time to let him distract her from the very practical and painful matter at hand.

“Gaston, there’s no plan that could possibly let us stay married,” she said quietly, moving away until the table was between them.

He followed, advancing for every step she retreated. “The King has made it possible.” He faced her across the table, leaning forward to brace his arms on the scarred wood. “He was in a most generous mood. He made me a
duc
.” He shook his head, a wry grin playing about his lips. “Me. A
duc
.”

She smiled, sharing his happiness. “Congratulations,” she said softly. “That’s wonderful, and you deserve it. But it ...” Her voice faltered. “It doesn’t change anything between us. It can’t. We ... I ...”

His gaze held her captive, stole the practical, sensible words she had meant to say. He was still sweaty from the battle, his hair and beard damp with perspiration; the bandages, stained with his blood, a glaring reminder of the violence and danger he had just taken part in. She could see that he was still burning with aggression, his hard-muscled body tense with the adrenaline.

His breath guttered the candle when he finally spoke. “I want you as my wife, Celine. Now. Tomorrow. Forever. I will not lose you. I will not surrender. I will not yield.”

“Do you think I want to surrender?” She clenched her fists. “Do you think I
want
to leave you here? In Lady Rosalind’s arms? In her bed?”

“I do not want Rosalind, and now I do not need her. With all the King has granted me this day, I possess more lands and wealth and power than any lord could want—”

“But you
still
have to marry Rosalind. What about the important son you and she are supposed to have?”

“I have thought of that. We have the advantage, you and I. We know what must happen in the future. We know how my son is to save this future king—the time, the place. We need simply to make certain it happens.”

He came around the table, so swift and determined she didn’t have a chance to move away. He reached for her, his hands taking her in that strong, sure way that made her knees weak. He cupped her cheeks, tilting her face to his.

But what took her breath away even more than his touch was the raw longing in his eyes. The need.

“
You
could have my son.” The urgency of his words matched the intensity in his eyes.

That stark, unguarded emotion, stronger than any she had known from him before, flowed through her like the spring wind that stirred the silk of the pavilion, sending warm longings rippling through her. Fantasies from deep within her heart. Wishes. Dreams of how much they could share if only God granted them more time.

But her dreams were of tomorrows that could never be. And children who would never be born.

She inhaled sharply, torn by bitterness. “I won’t be
alive
long enough to have your son if I stay! When the eclipse happens in five days, I have to—”

“You have to go,” he said firmly, drawing her closer, his fingers tangling through her hair. “You have to leave me. Go to these physicians in your time and let them make you well.
But then you must come back
.”

His fierce command took her completely by surprise. She had been so focused on getting home that she had never thought of that possibility.

Come back.

She could come back!

Once she had the surgery, once the bullet was out, she would have no reason to stay in the twentieth century. None. Not when she could return to him. Share his life, his future, his love. Have his children. It all swirled wildly through her mind, images of years of joy—not days or weeks, but
years
. The idea made her heart beat crazily.