Forever His (47 page)

“I was made to be here,” he groaned, sliding into her a mere inch, into the honey-sweet tightness of her sheath. “Here forever.”

“Yes. Forever.
Yes
.”

It was the last word she managed before she closed her eyes and opened her lips for his kiss. He took her mouth with fierce desire, clasping her against him as his body joined to hers ... slowly ... so slowly.

He thrust partway into her, then pulled back ... almost all the way ... then pressed forward, not quite as far, before he withdrew again.

She made a small cry of objection. He went still and she writhed against him, her hips shifting, trying to take him deeper.

“Nay, Black Lion’s lady.” He chuckled wickedly, sliding forward a hot, tormenting inch. “I mean to discover just how long I can make this last ...” He withdrew again. “How many times I can bring you to a glorious, fiery peak ...” He sheathed half his length, then pulled back just as far. “Before this night is through, I mean to make my lioness roar.”

It was a very long time later before he thrust himself fully, deeply within her, there in his empty bedchamber, on their bed of furs, with the fire bathing their sweat-sheened bodies in molten gold.

But he made good on his vow.

***

He lightly kissed her hair, her cheek, letting her sleep. She lay curled next to him, her head pillowed on his arm, his hand at her waist. He had pulled one of the fur throws over them to keep her warm, firmly tucking her close.

He had kept her awake most of the night, loving her in every way he knew, exploring every inch of her body, every secret longing of her heart, every sensual facet of her soul. She fit his body so perfectly. Fit beside him so perfectly. Fit his
life
so perfectly.

She made him feel as if each day were his first. Made him feel ...

He knew he was but a man, higher than some, lower than others, more familiar with sin and violence than most—yet she made him feel noble and good and whole. And loved.

Why had God chosen him to be blessed with such a gift, only to steal it away?

The anger flooded in, the resentment. He had done his best to banish the question, but it raked his heart now. What cruel ruse was it for God to have deposited Celine Fontaine in his bed? To have allowed him to fall in love with her stubborn spirit, her intelligence, her beauty, the way she so boldly defied him, the way she gave herself to him so completely?

The odd hats. And strange foods stuck to the buttresses in his kitchen. And feminine giggles late at night echoing through his great hall.

The way she wiggled her toes. And the smoky gleam in her eyes when she kissed him so shamelessly.

And the fact that she fit beside him now, like she was meant to be there.

What sort of vengeful God could do this, give them this taste of heaven and hell? Bring her here, only to take her back.

Or take her life.

He felt an unfamiliar moisture on his cheeks. He could not reach up to wipe it away, did not want to take his hands from her even long enough for that.

God’s blood, was this what
love
truly meant? He had had
illnesses
that had not made him feel this bad—his stomach churning, his chest aching, his heart beating painfully against his ribs. Exhausted as he was, he could not sleep. He had not eaten since breaking fast yesterday morn, yet he had no appetite for food.

Was this what Gerard and Avril had felt for each other?

Was this what Avril felt every day—the anguish, the loss? By sweet holy Christ, how did she live with it? And how could he have been so arrogant to insist that she remarry?

He tightened his arm around Celine, knowing that what he felt now was a mere shadow of the agony he would feel in four days ...

Three
, he realized, watching the sun’s first tentative rays seep in beneath the window.

Three days.

He buried his face in her hair, feeling a wrenching pain straight up the center of his body. What use was love, he thought angrily, if it would not prevent him from losing her? His wife, his lady of fire, his lioness, his love.

“I will not yield,
ma roussette
,” he whispered as dawn’s light burnished her tresses to brilliant copper-red.

His little redhead. The name seemed to sum up all the others, captured her fire and spirit, her sweetness and vulnerability, better than “wife” or “lioness” or “Lady Celine” or aught else he had ever called her.

He murmured it again, nuzzling her hair, unable to stop the tears on his cheeks. “I love you and I will not yield, my Lady Roussette.”

A
warm afternoon breeze wafted through the apricot grove, playing leafy music in the branches overhead.

Celine sighed and kept her eyes closed, almost dozing, enjoying the feeling of the fresh air on her cheeks almost as much as the glide of Gaston’s fingers through her hair. She sat curled up beside him, her head on his chest, while he leaned back against a tree trunk.

It felt like one of the lazy, summery days she had spent at her grandparents’ sprawling country estate as a kid. Snoozing on a grassy hillside. Nothing to do and plenty of it. Nothing to interrupt the perfect blend of peace and sun and endless time.

She wasn’t going to let anything ruin this day. Or the two more that were left.

Not even the dull, throbbing ache in her lower back.

She had first noticed it a couple of hours ago. It was similar to the nagging pain she had had once before, when they had been at Avril’s. Since that feeling had gone away after a couple of days, she wasn’t going to let it worry her this time.

No fear. They had promised each other that.

The pain wouldn’t have occupied her mind at all ... except that it reminded her of the secret bargain she had made with God. Her desperate prayer when Gaston’s life had been in danger.

“Are you enjoying your ‘ride,’ wife?” her husband asked with a soft chuckle, interrupting her thoughts.

“Very much,” she replied, eyes still closed. Their plan to test Gaston’s theory of lovemaking on horseback had changed as soon as Celine stepped outside and caught the scent of the apricot blossoms. Once in the grove, she didn’t want to leave.

Just sitting here with him as evening descended, amid the lush green scents of spring that carried on the gentle wind ... it was as exquisite, as wonderful in its own way, as making love to him. She found happiness in simply being here with him, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling the rise and fall of his chest.

This, she thought sleepily, was love: that they found the same satisfaction in sharing the afternoon in quiet, companionable silence as they found in sharing their bodies with fiery, intense passion. That they were equally comfortable with silence or words, peace or excitement. That each hour seemed sweeter than the last.

Gaston had been in an exceptionally good mood all day, smiling, laughing, teasing her. Happy. She had never seen him quite so at ease before. After waking up very late, they had taken breakfast in his room, then he had left for an hour to see to some important business which he said couldn’t wait. He had returned as soon as he could, and after lunch had whiled away an hour teaching her the finer points of backgammon.

Celine had introduced a new twist: strip backgammon.

He had taken to it with that scoundrel’s grin and a gambler’s skill, winning easily. As she had known he would. Her heart had skipped a beat when he insisted on claiming the brazen prize she had wagered ... as she had hoped he would.

It was one steamy bathtub and a long time later before she noticed that the castle had become rather noisy. Stonemasons, Gaston had explained. They were making some much-needed improvements on the upper floors. That was when he had suggested a ride in the peace and quiet of the warm April afternoon, and they had ended up here in the apricot grove instead.

“I believe the craftsmen should soon be done for the day.” Gaston stretched and yawned.

“That doesn’t mean we have to go back inside, does it?” She reluctantly opened one eye.

“Aye, it does.” He grinned down at her, an odd gleam in his dark gaze. “I would like you to see their work and offer an opinion.”

Celine sat up and let him draw her to her feet, sighing, reluctant to leave their little paradise. It really did feel like a Garden of Eden—not just this grove, but this place, this time. Felt as if they were the first man and woman, as if no one else had ever loved this way before.

But soon, she would be cast out of paradise.

She forced the thought away, ignored it as she ignored the steady, throbbing ache in her back.

The moment they entered the castle, she could hear the workmen still hammering away upstairs. “I think you spoke too soon,” she said over the din, covering her ears. “They sound like they’re going to demolish the entire place.”

“Wait here.” He had to sign it as well as say it before she understood.

He bounded up the spiral stair, and a few minutes later, the noise stopped. A short while after that, he reappeared and took her hand. “Come,” he insisted, smiling broadly. “I think you will like this.”

Celine doubted that. She had little knowledge of medieval construction, and no idea what opinion of value she could possibly offer. She went along to humor him. What
was
it about tools and home repair that men seemed to find so endlessly fascinating? Apparently it was a male trait that held true through the ages.

A half-dozen sweaty, dusty stonemasons passed them, carrying their tools in bundles on their backs, as she and Gaston ascended the steps. They bowed to her, smiling. She became even more puzzled upon reaching the floor above: the torches had all been extinguished, leaving the corridor in darkness, except for one that still burned at the far end of the hallway.

One last craftsman was there, standing on a crude ladder, a cloth in his hand. From where she stood, it looked like he was polishing whatever it was he had been working on. The floor around him was littered with heavy-looking iron hammers and chisels.

“Why are all the lights out?” she whispered to Gaston, not knowing why she was whispering, just that it seemed appropriate for the mysterious atmosphere. They walked forward and she could feel stone chips beneath her slippered feet. “How am I supposed to offer an opinion if I can’t
see
anything?”

“It is to be a surprise.”

He led her down the hall until they were directly beneath the man on the ladder.

“Milord.” The stonemason nodded politely as he climbed down. “Milady.”

“Thank you for your quick work, Perrin,” Gaston said. “You and your apprentices have done a fine job.”

“We shall be finished within two days, milord, if not on the morrow.”

“Excellent.”

Celine barely heard their conversation. She was staring up at the wall the man had been working on—realizing only now that it was the arch over the door that he had been polishing. A chill shivered across her shoulders. She felt stunned. Frozen.

He had been carving letters. Two letters.

G and R, entwined.

And every curve, every graceful swirl, looked exactly like it had the last time she had seen the initials—in 1993.

“W-what ...” Her mind and heart reeling with confusion, Celine turned to face Gaston as the master craftsman left them alone. But her husband had taken the torch and was walking down the corridor, lighting the others. As the flames illuminated the hall, she could see the same letters over every arch, every door.

“What h-have y-you ...” she stuttered. “H-how c-could you ...”

“The idea struck me last night.” He smiled as he came back toward her.

“But how could you
know?
” she gasped, whirling to stare at the engraving over her head again. “I never described the initials to you. I never even told you about them! But they look exactly the same. Every detail!” She glanced at him as he drew near, her surprise turning to hurt. “Gaston ... why would you do this
now?
For you and
Rosalind?
Why—”

“It is not for her. It is for you,” he said firmly. “You,
my Lady Roussette
. I thought of you by that name last night while you slept, and I knew that was how I would always think of you.” He put the torch back in its bracket and stepped closer, tilting her face up to his with one hand. “But it was not until this morn that I realized the import of that name. I summoned the craftsmen to have them mark the letters over every arch—because as they are part of the stone, and will be forever, you are part of me. It is
you
who are meant to be my wife, Roussette.
You
are my Lady R.”

“But I can’t be! The book said—”

“Nay. Do you not remember?” He went down the hall to the guest room, and returned with the guidebook from her purse. He handed it to her. “Read it, my love. Tell me again what it says.”

Celine took the guidebook with trembling fingers. “This can’t be true. I can’t be Lady R. It’s
Rosalind
. It has to be.” She opened to the page that talked about Gaston and his wife and their important son. “Here. It says right here—” She pointed and started reading. “ ‘Seldom did the chroniclers of the medieval period record the names of women, who were not seen to be as important as men when it came to the matter of making history, and that is the case with the wife of Sir Gaston de Varennes. History has recorded her only as Lady R, but the couple provides—’ ”

“That is the line. Read it again.”

“ ‘The couple provides one of the most interesting and little-known—’ ”

“Nay, the one before.”

She frowned up at him, still not understanding, then looked down at the book again. “‘History has recorded her only as Lady R.’ ”

“Again.”

Celine’s heart began to beat fast.
“‘History has recorded her only as Lady R.’”

“Lady R. It does not mention Rosalind at all,” he said triumphantly. “We assumed that your chroniclers meant that I was to wed Lady Rosalind, but that is not what it says. It is
you
, my love.” He buried his fingers in her hair. “You and I who are meant to have a son who will one day save a king’s life. You, my Roussette, whom I will love as I love no other.”