Forever His (4 page)

Family legend had it that one of the original owners of the chateau, a knight by the name of Sir Gaston de Varennes, was responsible for that bit of artwork.

Sir Gaston, it seemed, had been quite a ladies’ man—until he had met and married his wife, whom he loved so much, he had had her initial engraved with his in every castle he owned. The romantic gesture appeared in several chateaux in the region. The wife’s name either had never been recorded or had been lost over the years, because the identity of “Lady R” remained a mystery.

A wistful smile curved Celine’s lips as she turned down another hallway. As a child, she used to pretend that she was Lady R, that she rode with her handsome knight on a white charger through a world of pageantry and colorful tournaments and lavish banquets. And ladies with great hats.

Her smile faded. Some dreams died hard. She was
still
holding out for that kind of man: gentle, sensitive and sweet, soft-spoken and thoughtful. The perfect, chivalrous knight, devoted to his lady fair.

Not the sort of man who would leave her when the going got tough.

This time the thought of Lee brought anger and determination as well as hurt. It hadn’t been fair of him to blame
her
for the incident in Lincoln Park. Maybe it had been her romantic, impulsive idea to go make snow angels at midnight—but if he hadn’t fought with that gang of armed teenagers who demanded his precious BMW, she might not have been shot.

Carjacking
, the media had called it. One violent moment that had changed her life and threatened to steal her future.

Her vision suddenly blurred as she passed beneath another arch and glanced up at the engraved G and R. What if this were the last time she saw the cherished hallways and tapestries of Manoir La Fontaine?

What if she weren’t alive to return next year?

Celine ran the last few steps to her room. Blindly, she closed the door behind her and dropped her shoes, willing away the fear. Her heart was hammering again, and her head ached.

She rubbed her temples. Sleep. That was what she needed. In the morning she would feel better. Stronger. Able to face the truth. Able to tell her family. She wouldn’t think about it now. Not tonight.

She left the lights off, savoring the cool darkness after the bright lights and noise of the
grand salon
. Leaving her shoes where they lay, she crossed unsteadily to the dresser. She unfastened her earrings and watch and dropped them on the polished top.

She could hear celebrations outside, in the streets surrounding the chateau, the citizens of the town of St. Pol singing and laughing and setting off fireworks. It must be almost midnight.

Unpinning her hat, she stepped over to the windows, into the light from the full moon that poured in through the stained glass. Looking down, she watched the snow falling softly, the twinkling lights of the houses surrounding the chateau, the blinking neon that advertised night spots in the town below.

There were a few dozen people perched atop the ancient, crumbling chateau wall, some holding cameras and telescopes aimed skyward. Celine leaned her forehead against the glass, letting the moon’s silver light wash over her.

Silver. Gold. Below, she could see the chateau’s outdoor heated pool and tennis courts and guest villas, and the Lamborghinis and Mercedes and Aston Martins that crammed the courtyard.

Wealth. She had always taken it for granted. But her family’s wealth couldn’t protect her anymore.

Daddy couldn’t buy her way out of this.

Her head began to pound more fiercely. She turned away from the window. If she was going to get any sleep tonight, she would have to take an aspirin, no matter how much she hated pills.

Crossing to her armoire, she tossed her hat into the jumble of brightly colored fedoras and berets and plaid tams on the top shelf. She unzipped her dress, pulled it over her head and slung it across a hanger. Wearing only her gold silk teddy—a lacy little nothing she had picked up for six hundred dollars in Milan—she bent down and rifled through the clutter of boots and shoes on the bottom of the armoire, looking for her purse. She might have an old aspirin in it somewhere.

She found the large, hot-pink leather bag, carried it back to the bed, and sat down. Her fingers encountered passport, plane ticket, wallet, sunglasses, camera, sightseeing guidebook, a rolled-up Chicago Cubs baseball cap, and a chocolate Toblerone bar with a few bites left. No aspirin.

She closed her eyes with a shoulder-slumping sigh.

Outside, she could hear the crowd counting down:
“Six ... cinq ... quatre ... trois ... deux ... un—Bonne Annee!”

Happy New Year.

She started to cry. It was a stupid thing to cry over, not being able to find an aspirin, but she couldn’t stop the sob that had welled up inside her.

It was just so typically Celine: ready to fly around the world at a moment’s notice, but unprepared for anything as simple and mundane as a headache.

It was a moment before she realized the laughter and songs outside had stopped, changed, turned into a cry of awe.

Celine opened her eyes—and gasped the same sound of wonder as she looked out the window.

The moon was slowly turning black. Disappearing into darkness! Mesmerized, she stood and stepped toward it, breathless at the sight of the night sky engulfing the lunar glow.

Suddenly a ray of the silver-blue light struck through the window. Like a prism, the stained glass condensed it into painful brilliance. Startled, blinded, Celine threw up a hand to cover her eyes, dropping her purse, falling backward.

But there was nothing beneath her.

The bed had disappeared!

Falling, she flailed wildly. There was nothing around her! Nothing to grab onto. A strange heat shimmered through her body. It felt like she was made of a million particles of fire. She opened her mouth. Screamed. She didn’t hear the sound. She was falling into darkness and couldn’t breathe.
Because there was no air.

C
eline came awake with a start, suspended for a moment in the confusing fog between sleep and consciousness. She lay motionless in bed, groggy, unsure whether she was dreaming ... but what she felt couldn’t
possibly
be real.

Because what she felt was an arm around her waist. A burly, muscular, masculine arm.

Not daring to move or even breathe, she widened her eyes, blinking, trying to tell whether she was still asleep. She couldn’t see. The room was pitch-black. There was no moonlight. No glow from the lights outside. No light at all. Like there had been a power failure.

But she was definitely awake.

And definitely not alone.

And that bare arm was definitely attached to a bare man!

Even as the shock of it stunned her, she felt a tingle of awareness chase down her body: warm breath dusting the nape of her neck, a broad, hairy chest pressed against her back, a muscled leg thrown over hers.
And nestled against her hip ...

Celine sat up with a yelp of panic and outrage. “Who are you and what are you
doing
in my room?” she cried, trying to untangle herself from his heavy limbs.

The man mumbled something she couldn’t make out, in weary-sounding French, and recaptured her easily with his arm. Pulling her close again, he kissed her bare shoulder and settled back to sleep with a sigh.

“Stop that!” Celine demanded in fluent, frantic French, realizing she had spoken English the first time. Her heart hammering, she wriggled and twisted and finally extricated herself from his embrace. She threw aside the blankets and half fell out of bed. It seemed much higher than it had before.

The man groaned. “
Chérie
,” he murmured painfully, “you make far too much noise. Stop tumbling about the floor and get back into my bed.”

Celine scrambled to her feet, away from him, so terrified that her throat had closed off. It was difficult to understand what he was saying. His words were strangely accented—perhaps because his voice was muffled by the pillow and fatigue. And liquor.

Who was this naked man in her bed?

Thoughts of rape and kidnapping and various other violent crimes chased through her head. She turned to run—and slammed her knee straight into a large, square piece of furniture. It tripped her and sent her sprawling with a shout of mingled pain and surprise.

“Saints’ breath,” the man grumbled in that same hung-over tone. “If you must cry out so loudly,
petite
, at least return to bed and let me give you reason.”

For a second, Celine couldn’t answer his outrageous request because she was biting her bottom lip and holding her knee. Where had that big wooden trunk come from? She didn’t remember it being in her room before! And what was the crunchy stuff beneath her—like straw—all over the floor? She couldn’t see it. Or the bed or the man or anything. It was too dark. And there was a strange scent in the air, like cooking herbs.

Between painful, frightened little gasps of air, she finally managed to say something. “D-don’t you come near me! I’ll—I’ll scream!”

Even as she threatened that, she knew screaming wasn’t going to do her any good. She was the only one staying in this wing of the chateau. Everyone else was at the party in the
grand salon
. And the walls were so thick that no sound would get past these corridors.

Not even a bloodcurdling cry for help.

“
Chérie
, you speak so quickly, I cannot understand half of what you say.” The man’s muddled tone turned curious. “You felt too softly rounded to be Isabeau ... and too long of leg to be Yvonne or Babette. Are you the new wench who works in the kitchens?”

Celine got to her feet, her heart racing. If she couldn’t see him in the darkness, he couldn’t see her, either—and she wasn’t going to give away her position by talking.

“Or mayhap one of the guests at the feast?” he mumbled into his pillow.

She began making her way quickly but cautiously around the bed toward the door, stretching her hands out in front of her to feel for obstacles, shivering. God, it was freezing in here!

“Fie, but I cannot ... remember taking a wench to my bed at all last night,” the man continued, his voice thick with equal parts alcohol and confusion. “Though it was worth celebrating the eve of the new year, with Tourelle and his party so long delayed.” He rolled over with a heavy, tired chuckle. “Mayhap they are all lost in the snows somewhere. Gone forever. Never to be seen again ...”

Celine didn’t even try to make sense of his drunken ramblings. Her silent escape had carried her halfway to the door. But she was so concerned about large obstacles, she neglected to be careful of small ones.

She tripped on a stool and landed hard on the stone floor. Pain shot through her ankle, wrenching an exclamation from her lips.

“Saints’ blood, demoiselle,” the man gritted out, the words muffled as if he had pulled a pillow over his head. “If you do not cease your clamoring, I shall toss you out on your shapely derriere!”

Celine tried to stand and to think of some threat that would keep him away from her. “If you lay one hand on me, I’ll ... I’ll ...” Her ankle wouldn’t support her weight, and her efforts to get up only landed her painfully on that part of her anatomy he had just described.

As for her unfinished threat, it only seemed to amuse him.

“You shall ... mete out some dire punishment?” His intoxicated voice was now laced with laughter. She could hear him sitting up. “Allow me to offer a suggestion that would be most effective: kiss me into submission.”

He got out of bed.

She remembered vividly that he wasn’t wearing a thing.

“Don’t! Don’t come near me!” she cried desperately, tearfully, helplessly, holding up one hand as if that would be enough to hold him off.

To her surprise, she heard him stop and sit back down on the mattress. She still couldn’t see him. Though her eyes were adjusting, he was still nothing more than a black shadow in the darkness.

When he spoke, he sounded a bit more sober and serious. “Do I frighten you,
petite?
” he asked with genuine surprise. “Why?”

“Why?”
she echoed incredulously. Despite the fact that he had backed off—for the moment—she was so terrified of this naked stranger who had invaded her room and her bed that her head swam dizzily and her tongue seemed incapable of forming anything more than that one stunned syllable.

“
Chérie
, was I ... rough with you last night?” The words were reluctant and edged with a sharpness aimed at himself. “I was well into my cups at the feast, but I cannot believe I would ... Saints’ breath, I apologize, demoiselle, if I was less than gentle.” He stood up again. “Allow me to—”

“No!” she squealed. To her surprise, he stilled again.

He didn’t sit back down, but he didn’t make another move toward her. “I only intend,” he said softly, “to make up for whatever drunken behavior last night left you so fearful of me that you would injure yourself trying to get away.”

He stayed where he was. Incredibly, he seemed to be allowing her the next move.

Celine couldn’t begin to figure out what was going on. Nothing in her life had prepared her for such a bizarre encounter. “I-I have no idea what you’re talking about and I don’t care! I’m ... I’m getting up and I’m getting out of here. I’m going out that door, and if you try to stop me, I’ll—”

“I would never do aught to force a woman,
chérie
,” he assured her quietly. “Leave, if that is what you wish.”

Her mouth dry and her heart in her throat, Celine managed to get to her feet, slowly, painfully. She couldn’t move much farther than that. She hobbled one step and stood there, swaying unsteadily, teeth chattering, unable to run if her life depended on it—which it just might.

After a moment, his voice sounded again from the darkness.

“Do you wish me to carry you out?” he offered lightly.

Celine realized just how ridiculous her predicament was. As he was so subtly pointing out, if he intended to hurt her, he could do it in a second and there was nothing she could do to stop him. “No,” she insisted stiffly. “I’ll be fine on my own.” She took only one limping step, and even that made her inhale sharply with pain.