Forever His

FOREVER HIS (Stolen Brides Series, Book 1)

 An enchanting time-travel romance for fans of Jude Deveraux and Diana Gabaldon.

Sir Gaston de Varennes wanted a docile bride who would fit into his plans for vengeance and justice, but a trick of time finds him married to a thoroughly modern American lady who turns his castle, his life, and his heart upside down. Will her desperate secret tear them apart after only a few bittersweet weeks of stolen passion—or will they conquer mistrust, treachery, and time itself to discover a love that spans the centuries?

Winner of the National Readers Choice Award: Best Historical Romance of the Year

“Irresistible, right down to the surprise at the end ... One of the best romances of the year.”
The Detroit Free Press

“A Desert Isle Keeper. Touching, ingenious ... I love this book. I’ve read it time after time, and even if I haven’t waited quite long enough between readings to forget all the details, I always get drawn back into the story so intensely that I can’t put it down. Grade: A (highest rating).” Ellen Hestand, All About Romance

“Moving, riveting, magical.
Forever His
is destined to become an all-time favorite in medieval and time-travel romances.”
The Mediaeval Chronicle

“A masterpiece!
Forever His
is time-travel romance at its very best. Five stars (highest rating).”
Affaire de Coeur

A full-length novel of 125,000 words

Adult content: explicit love scenes

Originally published by Avon Books

This Author’s Preferred Edition e-book includes bonus content: “The Making of
Forever His
: The Story Behind the Story,” plus sneak previews of upcoming Shelly Thacker books.

The Stolen Brides Series

One falls through time and finds herself married to a dark stranger ... one may never reach her royal wedding if she can’t resist her rugged protector ... one is abducted by a mysterious swordsman and swept away to a secret island paradise. Three regal brides are about to discover that falling in love with a warrior is the most dangerous adventure of all.

Book 1
Forever His:
Gaston and Celine

Book 2
His Forbidden Touch:
Royce and Princess Ciara

Book 3
Timeless:
Hauk and Avril

And coming soon, an all-new edition of the prequel,
Falcon on the Wind:
Connor and Laurien

About the Author: Shelly Thacker’s bestselling romances have won numerous national awards and lavish praise from
Publishers Weekly
,
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
,
Locus
, and
The Oakland Press
, who have called her novels “innovative,” “addictive,” “memorable” and “powerful.” Find out more at
www.shellythacker.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Publishing History

First edition published by Avon Books

Copyright 1993 by Shelly Thacker Meinhardt

Second edition published by Summit Avenue Books, 2011

Copyright 2011 by Shelly Thacker Meinhardt

ISBN: 978-0-9847646-3-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, may be reproduced in any form by any means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the author.

The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Cover design by Kim Killion of Hot DAMN! Designs
www.hotdamndesigns.com

Digital formatting by A Thirsty Mind 
www.athirstymind.com

Publishers interested in foreign-language translation or other subsidiary rights should contact the author at
www.shellythacker.com
.

Dedication

To Marjorie Braman,

the best of the best.

Time
is too slow for those who wait,

too swift for those who fear,

too long for those who grieve,

too short for those who rejoice,

but for those who love,

time is not.

~Henry van Dyke

Artois Region, France, 1299

R
ain pelted down from the iron-gray sky, choking the first tentative rays of morning sunlight and turning the trampled battlefield to treacherous mud. Unarmed and unescorted, Sir Gaston de Varennes walked slowly past the two assembled armies, his dark mood matched by the clouds overhead, his pace slowed by pain from the freshly bound wound in his side—and by the agonizing knowledge that the action he was about to take would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He stopped a few paces short of his destination, his body tensing as he stared at the hastily erected tent and its drooping white-and-blue pennant. The downpour deepened the autumn chill in the air, sluicing off his helm and soaking through his surcoat and chain mail until he felt the cold to the raw depths of his soul. The drenching rain could not wash away the scents of smoke and blood that hung heavily in the air.

He turned a narrowed gaze on the men gathered around—his own forces on the right and his enemy’s on the left. The tent’s festive colors struck a sharp contrast to the somber, grit-smudged, determined faces of these warriors whose weapons lay at their feet. The steady ping of raindrops upon discarded blades and shields and battle-axes made strange music in the uneasy silence.

As he studied his own ranks—loyal knights who had served his family for years, men who had fought valiantly beside him these two months—Gaston saw the message vivid in each pair of eyes: despite the fact that they were badly outnumbered, despite their almost-depleted supplies, they would fight on if he but said the word.

One word and they would battle until the death of the last man. Until they had claimed some measure of justice from the soulless whoreson who had by treachery taken lives and land from the house of Varennes.

Gaston felt as if he were being ripped in half. His warrior’s heart was one with theirs, pumping fire through his veins, searing him with a longing for steel and vengeance. Never had he felt more like the symbol emblazoned on his surcoat: a black lion on a silver field. A dark predator stalking the shadows.

But the leader in him knew the foolishness of continuing this battle with winter’s bite in the air, with his forces and his food stores already dangerously depleted. He could not so heedlessly spend the lives of those who depended upon him.

Nor could he defy the man who had called him to this place. The one man in all the realm who could force a halt to this war.

Clenching his jaw, he turned, thrust aside the tent flap, and entered the torchlit darkness where unwelcome peace would be met.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the flickering light. He removed his helm and straightened to his full height, his dark hair brushing the top of the tent. A rough-hewn table and two chairs had been placed in the center of the small pavilion.

The table, he noted, was round, traditional symbol of honor among knights, a table to be used for the making of noble bargains and the sealing of vows of friendship. The sort of table that he himself found use for only rarely. On the far side of it stood the Duc Alain de la Tourelle.

Gaston fastened a murderous expression upon him and saw his own hatred mirrored back tenfold.

By nails and blood, how many weeks had he fought to get within blade’s reach of this cur? In every melee, Gaston had battled like a madman, trying to win a clear path to that pale visage with its keen blue eyes and wild crop of red hair. He had never quite managed it.

Now his palm itched for the pommel of his sword and his muscles went taut with ready violence. The deep slash in his side throbbed, but he barely felt it through a haze of frustrated fury.

Holding his enemy’s gaze, he stepped closer to the table, ignored the chair that had been provided for him, and tossed down his helm. It landed with a clatter.

“Varennes,” Tourelle said with a humorless smile, leaning forward and bracing his arms on the thick oak, “as our host has not arrived yet, mayhap you and I might come to an understanding, without his interference. The claim I have upon the chateaux and the lands I have taken is—”

“Your
claim
is a lie.” Gaston yanked off his mail gauntlets and threw them down beside his helm. “The lands you took by treachery mark you as a thief, and the lives you took mark you as a murderer.”

Tourelle sneered. “You are a strange one to accuse another man of knavery, Blackheart.”

Gaston ignored the familiar gibe. “Is that why you dared attempt such blatant theft?” he asked scathingly. “Did you truly believe that the arrant son would offer no resistance?”

“It
is
surprising that you could tear yourself away from dicing and comely wenches long enough to lead men into battle,” Tourelle shot back. “But we waste time. The claim I have through my mother’s line is both ancient and valid. As for the tournament which went awry—”

“Tournament?”
Gaston snarled. “It was not a tournament but an ambush. Exactly as you planned it to be. You lured my father and brother with your challenge to tourney for glory and ransoms—and they never suspected that a lord who had sat at our tables and broken bread with us and spoken of honor and friendship for years would so suddenly prove himself a knave!”

“They knew the risks when they agreed to the tournament,” Tourelle countered. “You all did. With a hundred men on each side fighting over a ground of fifty miles for three days from morning until dusk—it is to be expected that there may be breaches of the rules. ‘Twas a fair combat.”

“My father and brother were too skilled and experienced to be killed in a
fair
combat. What you hoped was to wipe out the entire Varennes male line.” Gaston narrowed his eyes. “How long had you been planning it, Tourelle? Years?”

Tourelle straightened, his mien all innocence. “Had it been my intent to kill every last one of you, Varennes, you would not now be standing before me.”

“Aye, how disappointed you must have been when I did not arrive.”

“And where
were
you, Blackheart? Why did you not join them? Why did you break your word?”

Gaston’s temper slipped its leash as Tourelle’s barbs found their mark and brought an unwanted rush of grief and guilt. “Allow me to make clear one vow that I
will
keep,” he said with a feral smile. “The souls of my murdered father and brother demand justice. My brother’s widow demands it. The villagers whose homes and fields were ransacked and burned demand it. The women who were brutally raped demand it.” Gaston thrust himself away from the table. “I vow that I will reclaim all the lands you have stolen and make you
pay
for the blood upon your hands!”

Tourelle reached for his scabbard, only to find it empty. With an oath, he launched himself over the table. Gaston crouched into a fighting stance.

“Hold!” A booming voice rang out behind them before they could land a single blow.

They froze, turning to find that their host had arrived at last—and his expression at the moment reflected naught of the name his features had earned him: King Philippe the Fair.

Slowly, Gaston dropped to one knee, bowing his head. “Sire.” Beside him, Tourelle did the same.

“Rise, Sir Gaston,” the King commanded, his voice deep with anger that rivaled the thunder outside. “Rise, Duc Alain.”