Forever His (48 page)

The book slipped from Celine’s numb fingers and fell amid the stone chips and dust on the floor. What she had pretended as a child, had dreamed of all her life when she looked up at those entwined letters ... of a dark knight on a charger who would sweep her away ... of a love so strong, so legendary, that it would still be talked about centuries later ...

She sank into Gaston’s embrace, held him with all her strength, her pulse racing wildly with joy. “It’s all true,” she sobbed. “Oh, my God, it’s all true.”

“It means that you
must
come back to me.” His arms tightened around her, his breathing rough and warm against her hair. “You must find a way, Roussette. Whether it takes months or years matters not. You must find those in your time who might help you. Scholars or—”

“Scientists,” she said into his tunic. “My family knows plenty of scientists. People in astronomy and physics and—oh, I’ll talk to all of them! I’ll talk to whoever will listen. I’ll find a way. I’ll come back! Gaston, it has to work!” She was trembling with a surge of hope that would have sent her to her knees if he hadn’t been holding her so tight.

“You will find a way. You will be able to return home, and your surgeons will make you well, and then you will come back. Because that is what is
meant
to happen, my Roussette.” He lowered his mouth to hers, and kissed her deeply. “We are meant to be together.”

She melted into his kiss, feeling the strength of his conviction and the power of his love warm her, feeling certain, for the first time, that
nothing
could keep them apart.

***

“Your book says that we are to name him Soren.” Gaston stood before the huge kitchen hearth, staring down into the flames with a goblet of wine in one hand. “It was my father’s name.”

“I like that idea,” Celine said, stirring onions, vinegar, and pepper into the salsa she was improvising. With most of the servants gone, including the best cooks, she had decided to commandeer the kitchen and make dinner. With a little meat and some cheese, she could do a decent imitation of enchiladas. “It’s a nice tribute to your father. Soren de Varennes. A good, strong name.”

“Aye, for a strong, bold son.”

Gaston’s wistful voice made Celine smile. She could already picture their son, as tall and handsome as his father, growing up in a home filled with love.

“For our second child,” Gaston said indulgently, “the name shall be your choice.”

“Dweezil, maybe,” she offered, hiding a grin. “Or how about Moon Unit?”

He turned, looking a bit less indulgent. “These are common names in your time?”

“Oh, very common,” she assured him, trying to look serious. “Then there’s Whoopi. That’s very popular. And Spike, and Rumer. Or maybe Zowie, if it’s a girl.”

“My daughter ... Zowie?”

“Or we could combine a couple of those into one. Whoopi-Zowie de Varennes,” she mused thoughtfully, stirring. “Hmm. I like that. Lady Whoopi-Zowie.”

He looked appalled.

She had to stare down into the bowl and bite her tongue to restrain a giggle.

“Lady Whoopi-Zowie?” he echoed.

She focused her attention on stirring vigorously. “Yes. Or maybe Whoopi-Rumer. Or Whoopi-Cushion?” She glanced up, fighting to keep a straight face.

He was speechless.

“Or ...” She let herself smile, let her love for him shine through in her eyes. “We could always go with something simpler. Like Jacqueline. After my sister.”

A grin slowly curved his mouth. “You are jesting about the other names,” he accused.

“Yes,” she admitted, laughing. “I am jesting.”

He walked over to her, a smile lighting his features and making his eyes crinkle at the corners. “It is good to hear you laugh, Roussette.” He leaned one elbow casually on the tabletop, watching her work in silence for a moment. “Do you know, I never noticed before, but this table is precisely the right height for a use other than cooking.”

“Oh, no, you don’t.” She ducked around the corner of the table to evade him before he could make a move. “A
duc
can’t live on lovemaking alone. At least let me feed you first.”

He made no effort to pursue, lounging where he was. “Very well, feed me if you must,
ma chère
.” He sipped his wine, heated promise glowing in his gaze over the edge of the goblet. “But I mean to feast on you later.”

She snagged a small iron cookpot from the other side of the table and poured her makeshift salsa into it. “You’ll have to catch me first,” she challenged softly.

“A hunt, my sweet vixen?” he drawled. “I believe I can rise to such a contest.”

She caught the way he emphasized the word “rise”—and could feel the temperature rising in the kitchen as heat sizzled between them. “A contest? One that might last all night?”

“Nay, it is to be a short one, Roussette. When I have captured my prey and carried her to my lair, I mean to subdue her quickly. Beginning with kisses. The first on her soft—”

“Keep this up and we’ll be going to bed hungry.”

“I am already too hungry to wait for bed.” He stroked the tabletop with the flat of his hand.

She picked up the cookpot and her spoon, flashing him a bold look. “But the longer I make my predator wait,” she teased as she crossed to the hearth, “the
hungrier
he will be.”

He growled in reply and she could feel his gaze following her every step. She hung the pot from one of the hinged hooks embedded in the stone wall of the fireplace. Positioning it over the flames, she started stirring.

After a moment, he exhaled slowly, patiently, his voice taking on a softer, deeper tone. “You will be even more beautiful than you are now, Roussette, when you are round with child.”

Celine opened her mouth to reply—when a sudden, sharp pain struck her lower back.

Like she had been stabbed.

She stopped what she was doing, so startled she simply froze with an agonized little gasp. Gaston couldn’t have heard it, because he was still talking, telling her in that tender voice how lovely she would be when she was pregnant with his baby.

The pain was intense, jagged, worse than anything she had felt before. She waited for it to pass.

Her right leg started to feel tingly and numb.

Oh, God.

She gripped the spoon hard, trying not to shake. Everything was going to be all right. They had only two days left. Two days until the eclipse. Two days and she would be back in 1993 and the doctors would take out the damn bullet fragment and then she could come back to her husband.

Two days. There was nothing Gaston or anyone could do to stop the pain. She just had to hold out against it until she could get home and go to a hospital.

She forced herself to keep working, stirring. “Beautiful? Round?” she asked lightly, trying not to let him see that she was breathing in short, shallow gulps. “I’ll be ... fat.”

“Nay. Beautiful,” he assured her. His voice dropped to an even deeper tone. “And I shall make love to you very, very gently.”

“You sound ... hungry again,” she teased.

Oh, God, it hurt.

“Aye, I am,” he growled. “Mayhap I shall eat ...” He let the sentence hang for a moment. “Some of these.”

She could hear him walk to the table in the far corner and experimentally munch the flour tortillas she had fried earlier.

“Stop that,” she protested. “Or we won’t have any left to eat with this. Gaston, would you bring me the—”

A stabbing, searing jolt of agony went up her back. She tensed, held her breath.

“Roussette?” he asked, still munching, “What is it you wish?”

The pain wasn’t quick and sudden this time. It was steady, and it got worse. She dropped the spoon into the pot, raising a shaking hand to the stone wall of the hearth. Her vision misted to gray at the edges. She didn’t even have the strength or the breath to turn around and ask for help.

“Roussette?” Gaston’s voice had an edge of concern this time.

She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

Her legs went weak, limp, refused to hold her. Everything seemed to tumble around her, the stones of the fireplace spinning before her eyes. She crumpled, heard him running toward her, his boots striking hard against the stone floor.

And then she was aware only of the blinding agony that wrenched her lower body and tore a cry from her lips. She could hardly feel it when he caught her in his arms, easing her down, holding her. A confusing, foggy haze closed in over her mind, her sight, her hearing.

His voice seemed to come from far away. “Nay! Sweet Christ,
nay!
”

She clutched at his muscular arm, staring up at him, barely able to see him through the gathering darkness.
“Oh, no,”
she whispered.

It was the last thing she said before blackness closed over her completely.

***

Even the glow of the candle at Celine’s bedside could not add color to her cheeks.

Gaston truly thought his heart would stop beating, if not from the shock of what had happened, then now. Now as she lay unmoving beneath the blankets, so pale and fragile among the heavy coverings. Her skin, her lips were so pallid it looked like she had lost a great deal of blood, though she had no wound—at least none that could be stitched or bandaged or healed.

He grasped her hand, his grip bruising, as if he could hold her here by sheer physical force.

But he knew that with every passing moment, she was slipping away from him.

He clenched his jaw, eyes burning. He had no memory of lifting her in his arms and carrying her here, to one of the upstairs chambers. All he knew was that she had not made one sound. Not when he had laid her in the bed, nor when he had summoned Brynna, nor when the mystic woman had used a strong-scented potion to try to rouse her. It had only made her drift in and out; she had not strength enough to awaken.

“Milord,” Brynna said softly, glancing at him as she pressed a cool cloth to Celine’s forehead. “There is little we can do. She has no wound, no fever, naught that can be aided by my herbals or healing skills.”

Gaston had no breath for words. He kept staring at his wife, unwilling to accept that this was happening. Her spirit and fire and laughter could not be quelled so abruptly. Sweet Christ—it was like some unseen arrow had struck her. In the span of a heartbeat she had gone from vibrant and alive to silent and helpless. Defenseless against this bit of metal inside that was killing her.

Killing her.

Desperation and frustration clawed at him, ripped an animal sound of pain and rage from deep in his chest. She was dying because of this future weapon that had wounded her so long ago,
and he could not stop it
. Could not protect her. Could not help her. Could not fight for her.

All his life he had conquered opponents by physical prowess, battle-skill, sharp wits. But now, all his years of hard-won experience availed him naught. His strength was useless. Guile, power, force—all futile. There was no way he could vanquish this unseen enemy. Even his love was not enough to save her.

He lifted her hand to his cheek, finding her skin so cool ... warm honey and cream transformed almost to ice. He fought a cry of grief and denial that threatened to tear him to pieces. Only moments ago, she had been teasing him, his Roussette—her smile brilliant, eyes sparkling, her body strong and graceful as she moved.

They had spoken of names for their children.

He had relished the sound of her laughter.

And now one small, hidden piece of metal had silenced her. Mayhap forever.

He exhaled a shuddering breath, could no longer hold back the tears, buried his face in her hair, in the pillow. By holy Christ, this could not happen.
Why?
Why now, with the dark of the moon so near? Two days, and she would be safe and well. Could God not grant her two days?

Brynna’s voice was a bare whisper on the other side of the bed. “Milord.” She held one hand pressed to the slender column of Celine’s throat. “Her heartbeat grows weaker.”

Gaston remained where he was, numb.

Roussette, do not leave me.

His shoulders shook with that silent, futile plea. She could not leave him. Not this way. Not when there were but two days left and their future held so much promise.

This was not meant to happen.

He pushed himself upright, still grasping Celine’s hand, clenching his other hand into a fist. He wrenched his gaze from her long enough to look at Brynna, heedless of the salty wetness on his cheeks. “We must find a way to keep her alive until she can return home.”

Brynna shook her head, her own eyes bright with tears. “Milord ...”

“Nay, tell me no more of her weakness! She has strength. She has courage. She can fight it. There must be a way.”

“But even if there were ... I do not think there is time.”

He thrust himself up from the bed, a spill of savage curses tumbling from his lips.
Time
. “Damn that word to the black depths of hell—I never want to hear it again!” He paced away, turned back, looking down at Celine, willing her to be strong, willing her to live.
Two days.

And then she stirred, her lashes lifting.

But even as she came awake, even as he felt a surge of hope, she made a sound of pain.

He knelt at her bedside, brushed her coppery hair back from her forehead, pushing the cool cloth aside. She struggled to speak, but only made the sound again: a strangled little gasp.

“Shh, love,” he whispered, feeling the hot, bitter burning in his eyes again. He thought he had endured agonies before—but naught in his life had ever hurt him so much as seeing her in pain. “Be strong, sweet Roussette.” He forced a smile. “You will be well.”

“You’re ... not a very ... good liar ... my lion.” Her voice was so weak he had to lean near to hear it. Her eyes were glazed.

“It is no lie,” he said forcefully. “There are but two days. You will return home. The physicians of your time, with their skills—”

“Gaston ...”

Her voice suddenly cut short in a broken cry. She closed her eyes, her lower lip quivering.

He bent his head, clamping his teeth together to hold in a sob, unable to bear her suffering. He took her hand. “You will be well,” he repeated in a low voice that was almost a prayer. “And you will return home, and then you will come back to me. And we will have a son called Soren. And a daughter, with your fire-colored hair and your storm-colored eyes, and she—”