Forever His (45 page)

“May have had what wrong?” Gaston demanded.

“Overlooked what?” Celine asked at the same time.

Brynna gestured absently to Celine’s belongings, stored neatly in the corner. “We thought it was the missing pouch that held you here, milady. And it ... it may have been. Or it may have been something else. Something I never
thought
of before. But I did not know ... I had no idea ...”

“Of what?” Gaston asked impatiently, his gut tightening with concern.

Brynna moved closer to them, hands raised as if to make a measure, or as if she were warming her palms before a fire. “Lady Celine, you must take with you everything that you arrived with ... you cannot leave
anything
behind.”

“Like my purse?” Celine asked in confusion.

“Or your
heart
.” Brynna stopped a few feet away, squinting as if in a bright light, while her hands moved in a graceful pattern through the air. “Oh, milady, the feeling ... it is so strong between you, I can
see
it. It is like ... like the light and the heat of the sun. Of a hundred suns. I did not know ... I never realized! All along we have been concentrating on the physical elements—your garment, your pouch—when
this
may be far more important.”

“Not things,” Celine whispered in amazement, “but emotion?”

Brynna nodded, looking worried. “I had no idea that you and your husband were so much in love.”

Gaston felt as if the floor had been snatched from beneath him. His arm flexed around Celine’s shoulders. “Are you saying that she cannot return home?”

“I do not know, milord. Lady Celine is the first time-traveler I have met. My father knew of dozens, but I have not his experience. All I can say is that this may be important. Never have I witnessed so strong a link between two people.” Brynna shaded her eyes with one hand, as if Gaston and Celine were emitting a blinding glare. “Mayhap it was this emotional force which pulled your lady to you across time ... and now the bond has grown so
strong
—”

“So strong that it might be unbreakable,” Celine finished for her.

Gaston stared at Brynna, unable to move, unable to speak, shaken to his core by what she had said—that it might be
him
holding Celine in this time. That his love might cause her death.

But Celine seemed strangely calm.

“Celine?” He finally moved, drawing her in, tilting her face to his with one hand. Mayhap she was dazed with shock.

“It’s all right, Gaston.” She gazed at him, her eyes clear, her voice steady. “I’m fine.”

“Milord, there is still hope,” Brynna said helplessly. “It may hold her here ... or it may not.”

“We’ll find out in four days.” Celine slid her arms around his ribs and hugged him. “One way or the other.”

Gaston felt like shaking her. How could she be so calm, with her life hanging in the balance? “Brynna, if you would excuse us,” he said, fighting to keep his voice even, “I would speak to my wife alone.”

“Aye, milord.” Brynna walked around them, still gazing at them with a look of awe. “I am late in attending to Etienne—I promised that I would make an herbal for him, to help him regain his strength more quickly. Milady? We will speak again on the morrow?”

“Yes. Thank you for all your help, Brynna.”

The mystic woman curtsied and went to the door. As it closed behind her, Gaston took a deep breath before he could speak.

“Help?”
he said sarcastically. “Celine, do you not understand what she has told us? What it means? If you cannot return home, you will—”

“I know,” she said calmly. “But I’m not afraid.”

He could not voice his reply to that.

I am.

He released her and turned away, battling an emotion unlike any he had felt before. Not in all the times he had nearly lost his own life in battle had he known the cold, bitter taste of fear on his tongue. But he knew it now.

“By nails and blood, I will not accept it so easily,” he growled. “I will fight. We will find a solution. We shall stay away from one another. Bury our feelings.”

“Shut down all the emotions we have for each other? Pretend there’s nothing between us? Like we were blowing out a candle?”

 He jerked around. “Aye! And I will leave here. Ride as far as Pharaon can last. In four days at a fast gallop, I—”

“Gaston.” Her lashes dusted her cheeks, then lifted. “Do you really think that would work?” she asked softly.

He clenched his jaw, fought for breath against the iron bands of fear closing around his chest. He knew the truth of it: once, weeks ago, such pretense might have succeeded. But not now.

“Nay,” he choked out in agony.

She moved toward him, her lips touched by a gentle smile. “We’ll know whether the eclipse will work when the eclipse happens. In four days. Until then there’s no sense in worrying about it. Worrying won’t change anything.”

He watched her draw closer, her movements strong and graceful, her slender form showing not even the smallest whit of a tremor. He could not help feeling a surge of love and pride at her courage. “You truly feel no fear, my brave lady?”

“You’ve taught me a lot, my brave knight.”

They came together in a tender embrace, not speaking for a long moment.

“You really
have
taught me a lot, Gaston,” she whispered after a time. “I was just thinking this morning that I haven’t had a panic attack in weeks—and it’s not just your breathing techniques that have helped me. It’s something else.”

“Pray tell, what great wisdom have I imparted?” he asked with a pained laugh.

“That when you have something important to do, you should simply do it. Because fear is a useless emotion that doesn’t change anything.” She rested her cheek against his chest. “And life is too short and too precious to spend any of it being afraid.”

He found it difficult to speak past the lump in his throat.

“Gaston, we only have four days left, and I don’t want to spend them being afraid.”

He tilted her chin up on the edge of his fist. “Then we shall feel no fear, my lady of fire. We shall take this time and seize it with both hands and make it ours.”

“Pretend that we have all the rest of our lives.”

“With naught to keep us apart.”

“No bullet,” she whispered. “No eclipse. No Lady R.”

“Naught but the two of us.” He slowly lowered his head. “Forever.”

His mouth closed over hers and she responded with a hungry sigh, and they melded and became one in a deep, gentle joining. Not breaking the kiss, he bent and scooped her into his arms.

“
Gaston
, “ she protested against his mouth. “If you keep picking me up, you’re going to tear out your stitches, and I don’t think the barber-surgeon would appreciate—”

“Burn the surgeon. I care naught for the ache in my shoulder, wife—it is the ache elsewhere that requires swift attention.” He nimbly opened the door. “And I will not make love to you in this chamber.”

He shut the portal solidly behind them.

T
hey needed naught more than a makeshift bed and a fire in the hearth. As he stoked the roaring flames, Gaston thought that his barren chamber had never felt so comfortable, so complete, even when it had been filled with rich furnishings and tapestries. Celine knelt beside him, on the thick pile of sable and wolf and marten fur throws he had gathered, gazing up at him. Awaiting his touch.

She wrought a spell on his room, on his life. Astonishing, the magic a wife could weave, simply with her presence. Her eyes sparkled with wonder and love, as if he were more worthy of worship than a god, more desirable than all the jewels and riches she might ever possess, more important to her than breath.

Had he once feared that she would make him less of a man? he wondered as looked down at her, his hand straying through her hair. She looked at him as if he were the light of sun, moon, and stars all in one. Never had he been more aware of his masculine strength, his warrior’s body, his muscle, hardness, experience, power. He saw it all, and more, reflected in her eyes, as the hearth flames made shadows dance around them in the darkness.

He knelt in front of her, sliding his fingertips over her temples, her cheeks, her neck ... lower.

Celine closed her eyes as he eased the velvet gown off her shoulders. “Every time,” she whispered, “you make me feel brand new.”

His throat closed. Had any king, any Saracen desert prince, any emperor of the East ever possessed such a treasure? She was sweetness and innocence. Pale as snow, delicate as spring’s first petals. And she was flame and intoxication. More potent than wine in his blood, hot as a blaze when she burned.

He kissed the bared hollow of her throat, inhaling the scent of lavender and thyme and roses that lingered from her morning bath. “This time, I want to make it last,
ma chère
. All night.”

“All night,” she agreed in a sultry whisper.

He slid her gown lower, gently pulling it down her arms, letting the jewel-bright fabric fall to her waist. She was glorious. Half-nude yet unashamed of her nakedness, her hair shimmering flame-red in the firelight, the tresses grown longer in her time here, curling beneath her shoulders. Her breasts trembled before him, full and taut, the rosy tips puckering to hardness even as he watched.

He could see her breathing deepen, felt his own match hers.

“I would tell you that you are as beautiful as a goddess,” he said reverently, touching her, running one finger slowly from the kiss-dampened hollow of her throat, over one breast, to the other. “But it would be a lie, for you are more beautiful. Even a goddess would envy you. Even a poet could do you no justice ... and I am no poet.”

For the first time in his life, he wished that he were. Wished that he had skill with words rather than with weapons. That he could describe the shy smile that his compliment brought to her lips, the sweep of her lashes as they lifted, the blush that colored her cheeks so charmingly. The beat of his heart became heavy, demanding.

He continued his slow path, down her ribs, lower. She felt like honey and cream. Sweet. Smooth. He rested his hand at her waist, caressing and kneading the flare of her hip as his eyes lingered over her. He longed to taste her, to take one of those trembling, proud peaks into his mouth, to hear her small gasps and cries of pleasure, leave the nipple glistening and hard from his kisses. Fighting the fevered urgency of his own need, he held himself in check. This would last, even if he died of it.

He grasped a fistful of the velvet piled about her slender curves. “Let me see you, Celine,” he commanded softly. “All of you.”

He held the gown as she rose. The heavy fabric slid down her legs, revealing each enticing inch in slow splendor. She left the garment at her feet, stepping out of it, truly a goddess of elegance and grace. Hearth fire and moonlight battled to bathe her skin in gold and silver.

She stood before him, ran her hands down her sides and up again, not brazen, but comfortable in her body. The curve of her lips told him she found pleasure in the way he looked at her. His rigid shaft felt almost painful as it pressed against the restriction of his leggings.

His every muscle taut, he caught her hand and pulled her down until she was kneeling before him again. She exhaled a small sigh at the feel of the furs against her nakedness, the sound like a warm caress all down his body.

He stopped touching her just long enough to remove his tunic, but before he could pull it over his head, she covered his hand with hers.

“Let me,” she asked softly.

He released his hold on the garment, and allowed her slender fingers to do the work. She lifted it, sliding her palms up over his chest, his arms, as slowly as he had undressed her, her touch a glittering heat that warmed his skin more than the fire.

She dropped the garment to one side and reached for his leggings, pausing, her eyes meeting his, the color in her cheeks deepening. He swallowed hard, controlling himself ruthlessly, though the feel of her hand there, so close to that part of him that throbbed with awareness of her, was almost more than he could endure.

Keeping his gaze fastened on her face rather than her fingers, he braced his arms behind him to balance his weight, and allowed her to continue disrobing him. She gently peeled off the leggings, careful not to jar his bandaged thigh. He closed his eyes and groaned when she freed his arousal. He heard her quick intake of breath.

And her feminine murmur of appreciation.

It almost undid him.

But before he could sit up and reach for her, intending to turn her murmurs into sighs with his mouth and hands, she placed her palm firmly on his chest and gently pushed him down into the furs.

He stared up at her with a quirked brow and a growl of surprise; he was used to being in command of every encounter ... but the way she was smiling down at him, her hand stroking his chest while her gaze swept slowly, hungrily along his prone body, made him lie still, intrigued.

“My lion,” she whispered. “My Black Lion.”

He caught her hand and nibbled at her fingertips. “Beware, lion’s lady, for your predator is hungry tonight. He may not wait long before devouring you.”

“Devouring me?” she asked, challenge gleaming in her eyes. “What if I devour him first?”

Her husky tone made his blood run hot. And the suggestion she was making—if that was indeed what she meant—but nay, it could not be. The thought of his sweet Celine, her soft, full lips ... the shocking image burned him like a brand, seized him with violent desire.

She bent near, rubbing her cheek against the hair of his chest. “Please,” she whispered, kissing him, her silken red tresses cascading over his body.

Searing tendrils of pleasure whipped through him. The idea of relinquishing control over their lovemaking was new to him, but he began to find the thought as arousing as it was unfamiliar. Never had he lain passive beneath a woman’s hands, her mouth, allowing her hunger, her feminine demands, to determine what would happen and when.

Deciding to explore the possibilities, he lay back more fully in the furs, folding his hands behind his head, knowing that control could be his once more the second he wanted it. He returned her smile with a slow, lazy grin of his own. “Have your way with me, lioness.”