Forever His (33 page)

Time.
She was just exhausted. That was all it was. She should go back inside and at least try to get some rest, even if she couldn’t sleep. Pacing and wandering and trying to come to terms with her troubling thoughts were making her feel worse, not better.

She turned to go in but stopped in mid-stride when a small object fell past her terrace, right out of the sky. She rushed to the far railing, just in time to see whatever it was land in the moat with a splash. Puzzled, she glanced up to see where it had fallen from—then gasped.

Gaston sat perched on the onion-shaped roof of the terrace adjacent to hers. From six feet away and ten feet up, he glanced down and gave her a lopsided grin. His beard had grown in during their weeks on the road, and it made him look all the more like a complete rogue and a disheveled reprobate. “Good eventide, wife. Come to enjoy the view as well?”

Her throat had closed off so tightly that she couldn’t say anything for a moment. He was wedged precariously between the curving roof and the tower. One wrong move and he would fall. “What do you think you’re
doing
up there?” she shouted at him, terrified.

“Enjoying the view,” he replied, as if it should be obvious, his words slurring. “And a flask or two of my brother’s excellent Castilian wine.” He lifted the object in his hand.

“You look like you’ve had a flask or
ten
of your brother’s excellent Castilian wine.” Her words were angry, but it was fear that made her fingers tighten around the wide stone railing. However in the world he had gotten up there, there was no way he could get down safely. Not drunk.

“Two. Ten. No matter.” He let his head fall back against the stone tower, making a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “In truth, it is
my
excellent Castilian wine now.”

The liquor that muddled his voice couldn’t quite hide the anguish that lay beneath his words. Celine felt his pain so suddenly and so deeply that it made her hurt inside. How could she not have recognized it before? She hadn’t given a thought to his grief. It had to be torment for him to stay here, in this place so full of memories.

His brother and father were all the family he had ever had—and now they were gone. Both taken from him at once. And despite his claim that he had felt only respect for them, their bond obviously went much deeper than that. Gaston might not be able to use the word, but he clearly
was
capable of feeling the emotion ...

He had loved them.

Celine felt a wave of sorrow and tenderness steal through her. Her rugged, unyielding, formidable husband would never admit it, but he
did
know what love felt like.

“Gaston,” she said quietly, trying to keep his mind and her own on the problem at hand, “how did you get up there?”

He made a vague gesture with his free hand. “Up onto the ledge. Then a leap, then a twist, then a bit of a pull.” He moved his shoulder uncomfortably, mumbling, “I think I may have strained an old wound.”

Celine bit her bottom lip to stifle a groan. “And did you have any plan for getting back down?” she asked, trying to remain calm.

He slanted her a glance, his head tilted to one side, his tousled hair falling over one eye. “You sound worried, she. Are you worried?”

Celine didn’t know why she was being called “she,” but she didn’t care at the moment. “I just don’t want you to break your neck—if you don’t drown in the moat first!”

She shouldn’t have said that, because it made him look down at the moat. Which made him lose his balance. She covered her mouth with both hands, too horrified even to scream, seeing it in slow motion as he started to slide.

He recovered almost instantly, probably more from the instincts of a lifetime of training than from any conscious thought. Regaining his precarious seat, he gave her a reckless grin. “You are right, she. This may be dangerous.”

Shaking, Celine slowly lowered her bloodless fingers. “Gaston, don’t move.
Please
don’t move. Stay right there. I’m going to get some help.”

“Nay, do not leave, little wife. I will come down if you are so concerned.”

“No!”

But even as she shouted it at him, he was already moving, sliding down the side of the roof with all the caution of a kid in a playground, only to stop himself on the decorative, upswept edge with his booted heels. He tossed her his last remaining flask as he swung into a movement—so quick she couldn’t see it—that involved grabbing the roof and twisting himself into a midair somersault.

She didn’t realize she had shut her eyes until she opened them, as soon as she heard the solid sound of his boots hitting the tile floor inside his terrace. He stumbled but straightened, then negligently rested one hip against the wide stone railing, not even breathing hard. Still wearing that cocky grin, he held out his hand. “May I have my flask back?”

Celine slumped against the nearest arch, hiding her face in the crook of her arm, unable to speak. Even drunk, he had the physical ease of an athlete. Thank God.

“Wife?”

“No, you may not have your flask back,” she choked out, though she was tempted to aim it straight at his reckless, unthinking head.

“But my shoulder hurts,” he grumbled. “Did you not once tell me that wine is most effective on wounds?”

“Not on
old
wounds. And drinking it doesn’t do anything for you.” She lifted her head and gave him a glare. “Except turn you into a daredevil lunatic.”

He frowned, his eyes glassy, his lids half drooping. “I have suffered all the female deef ... defli ... deli ...” His tongue stumbled over the word until he finally got it out. “Defiance that I mean to brook for one day. If you will not give it, I shall come and take it.”

“Oh, no, you don’t, buster.” Celine whirled to go inside. “I’m going to lock my door right now.”

It took her one second too long to understand his meaning.

From the corner of her eye as she turned, she saw him backing up to jump from his terrace to hers.

“Oh, my
God!
” She spun toward him, flinging the flask away as she raised both hands. “No,
don’t!
”

Her plea was about as effective as shouting at an oncoming train. She heard the flask splash into the moat as she saw him making a running vault with awful clarity: two quick steps, then his hand coming down hard on the railing, lifting him over with enough force, she hoped—enough speed, she prayed—to let him clear the distance. It seemed he hung suspended in the air for an instant that felt like all eternity.

Then some miracle brought him through the wide arch on her side without cracking his head on the stone. He landed in a running, staggering crash that plowed straight into her and carried them both into the wall.

The impact knocked from her what little breath was left in her lungs. His weight crushing her, she couldn’t draw in enough air to shout and curse at him as she wanted to. She could only grab onto him, barely able to believe that he was still in one piece, her fingers grasping handfuls of his tunic as she buried her face against his chest with a sob.

His arms went around her and he pulled her close, laughing into her hair. “You are trembling, wife. And you dropped my flask into the moat.”

She stopped hugging him and tried to push him away, shoving at his chest. “You lunatic! You reckless maniac!” She pummeled at him with her fists. “You could have killed yourself! You could have—mmphh.”

He kissed her in mid-pummel. A swift, teasing kiss that cut off her tirade before she could even get warmed up. He ended her tiny blows as well, leaning into her and capturing her between the hard muscles of his chest and the hard ivory- and lapis-inlaid wall. Celine struggled, barely able to believe she could be more furious than she had been seconds ago.

She finally managed to wrest her mouth away from his. “Stop that!” she cried breathlessly, shivering with the impact of his kiss and the feel of his muscular body pressed against her. “It’s not going to work. You can’t kiss me into not being mad at you!”

“Can I not?” He chuckled with inebriated humor, dusting kisses over her forehead and temples and nose. “Mayhap I am not yet doing it correctly.” His head dipped and he nuzzled the soft skin exposed by her gaping bodice. “Mmm. I like this new way you have of wearing your gown, wife.”

He rubbed his cheek against her there, his beard sending little shivers rippling to her most sensitive places. Celine held her breath and cursed herself for not retying the gown’s laces. “I—I wasn’t expecting company to swoop in! And I would appreciate it if you would swoop right back out again. Preferably through the door this—”

She inhaled sharply when he nudged her bodice out of the way just enough to expose one breast, the soft peak pinched to instant hardness by the touch of the night air, the attentions of his tongue, and the roughness of his whiskers.

“
Gaston
,” she gasped, squeezing her eyes shut. “Y-you’re not thinking—”

“I do not wish to think,” he said thickly, raising his head to kiss her again. He made it a much deeper melding this time, a tender assault that sent her senses reeling. His lips moved over hers slowly, sampling and tasting her, not demanding a response but asking for one. He ignited a storm of dazzling light and heat, pulling her nearer to him until she felt herself melting, and him with her, until they were both nothing but a pool of warm, sweet rain.

A wolf howled somewhere in the forest below, a sound of wild longing carried on the wind, echoing the feelings set free deep inside her. The kiss tasted of exotic Castilian wine and unmatched hunger and an unspoken need that called to Celine more deeply than any touch. Without conscious thought, she relaxed her clenched fists, still trapped between their bodies, until her fingers were splayed against his chest, not pushing him away but feeling the muscles beneath the rough cloth ... and deeper still, his pounding heartbeat.

All her thoughts and objections unraveled,
no
and
yes
tangling until she couldn’t tell one from the other. It had been so long since she had touched him, felt his strength and power, known the fierce glory of his arms locked around her.

And his hands ... oh, God, his hands, so sure and yet so gentle, caressing her in that simple, extraordinary way that sent ribbons of fire unfurling through her. For so many sleepless nights, in so many uneasy dreams, she had longed for this: his mouth over hers, his hands on her body, all of it hot, sweet heaven.

Her anger and fear for him were tumbling away, like the empty flasks they had tossed into the moat. She struggled to hang on to those feelings, knowing they were her only defense against this exquisite ache he stirred within her, the dizzying need that she so wanted to drown in.

Anger and fear. Her only weapons against all the other feelings: the ones that threatened to make all sense, all caution, all the world fly away.

She tore her mouth from his. “Gaston, please ...” she begged, not sure what she was pleading for, trying desperately to remember. All she could think of was that her lips felt swollen and bruised and wildly sensitive, her chin rubbed raw by the silken abrasion of his beard. “You ... you don’t know what you’re doing. We can’t—”

“You are so beautiful by moonlight,” he muttered in that wine-thickened tone. Keeping her in place against the wall, raising his hands to her shoulders, he slowly pushed her loosened gown to her waist. He lifted one of her breasts in his broad hand, cupping the softness with an expression of almost innocent wonder. He ran his thumb over the tightened peak, drawing a ragged cry from her lips.

She tried again to wrest herself free, but be held her pinned. “P-please, go back to your room! You don’t want to do this. It’s a mistake—”

“You are too late,” he slurred. “Too late to save either of us, she. You are mine and I will have you.” He moved his thumb again, making her whimper at the heat coiling in her belly. “Have you not heard?” he muttered. “I am an unfeeling knave. I care naught for my mistakes. I take my pleasure where I find it—and I have found you, my lady wife.” He pulled her to him with one arm, his other hand suddenly at her waist, pushing her gown past her hips. “By all the blessed saints, I have found you.”

“But you’re not a knave! That’s not the truth and you know it. You don’t—”

She lost her voice and her mind when his callused fingers slid into the hot silk at the apex of her thighs. He uttered a low, masculine sound of pleasure and anticipation and caressed her deeply.

“Oh ... ah ... oh, God. Oh,
please
,” she sobbed, feeling the blinding passion and bright ribbons of sensation wrapping tighter around her, every motion of his fingers pulling her downward into that hot, sweet heaven even as she clawed for sanity. “G-go ... go away. Go and sleep it off.
Please
. Before you do something you’ll regret in—”

“Regret?” he echoed hollowly, his hands shifting, his arms flexing around her back. “Do you wish me to tell you of regret?” He lifted his gaze to hers, his dark eyes dazed and glistening with more than desire or the effects of the Castilian wine. “You never had an answer to what Avril asked earlier. Have you not wondered, wife, where I was when I was supposed to be at Tourelle’s tourney? What great purpose it was that kept me away?” His voice took on a hard edge. “What I was doing while my father and brother were dying?”

“Gaston—”

“I was playing at dice, at the autumn fair in Agincourt. In the company of a pair of comely peasant wenches. I promised Gerard that I would join him and our father at the tourney and then I changed my mind. Broke my word. Because a bit of gambling held more appeal than spending the day fighting in a tourney. I was throwing dice
while their throats were being cut
.”

Celine choked back a sob, hurting for him, hurting for all the pain he was holding inside, the grief and guilt that shone in his eyes. “Gaston, I’m ... I’m so sorry—”

“Nay, do not offer me your pity,
ma dame
. It is not your pity I want.”

His mouth captured hers again and he made a sound deep in his throat. It might have been pain or desire or something else, but she didn’t have time to sort it out, because he didn’t give her time. He simply sealed his mouth over hers and swept her into his arms.