Forever His (10 page)

His thoughts were filled instead with the shimmer of a strange, topaz-colored garment, lace and silk as liquid as the ale, immodest and enticing over curves generous enough to stir a man to recklessness. He could not banish the image of flashing bright eyes, rich with unusual color—not quite blue, not quite gray, like a stormy clash of clouds and sea. A sweep of silky, short red hair. A chin lifted high with pride and defiance.

Defiance
. Saints’ breath, but that confounded him. Never in his life had he met with such complete resistance to all his skills of persuasion and will. She had not offered a word of protest when he took the outrageous step of declaring her a servant—but there had been an unmistakable spark in her eyes. It went beyond stubbornness or disobedience.

She had looked at him, not with anger or hatred as he might have expected, but with ... disapproval. Disappointment.

He suddenly tossed the cup aside, sending it clattering across the scarred oak table. The devil take her. And her overlord as well. The sooner he had done with her, the better.

A tentative knock sounded at the door.

“Come,” Gaston commanded, straightening, half expecting his wife, mayhap come to use a few midnight wiles to try to win some mercy from him.

Instead it was Royce Saint-Michel, the captain of his guard.

“Milord? I was unsure you would still be awake.” The tall, dark-haired man stepped inside and closed the portal behind him, stamping his feet and brushing snow from his broad shoulders. He so resembled Gaston that they were sometimes mistaken for brothers.

Gaston waved him to a seat, oddly disappointed that he would not face another duel of wills with Christiane. “I wished to hear of your search before I slept. But it would seem from your expression that we shall find more answers in our cups this night than you have found in the village.” He slid the flask of mead and an empty chalice across the table.

“Aye.” Royce settled his large frame on the opposite bench, unfastening the silver clasp of his sable-lined mantle and letting the garment fall to the floor. He picked up the flask with a nod that was equal parts fatigue and gratitude. “I fear I have naught but mysteries to report.”

That gave Gaston a sinking feeling in his gut, but he allowed his friend a moment to thaw and pour a drink before explaining his comment.

As Royce filled his cup, the Spanish blade at his waist and the silver-embroidered gauntlets he wore flashed in the firelight. The younger man was a commoner, and had no right to wear either weapons or finery, but he had “obtained” much of both in Castile, Navarre, and less-savory places during two years of his life that he never discussed. He rarely spoke of his past at all, though he had mentioned once that he had been born in the mountains along France’s eastern border—which explained his almost unnatural affinity for snow and ice.

Whatever he had once been, Saint-Michel clearly had not spent his youth herding mountain sheep. His talents for battle strategy and blade-skill were almost unmatched. Gaston would never forget watching him talk his way into a tourney, where only those of noble blood were usually allowed to take the field. After seeing this commoner, then just twenty-two, defeat a dozen more experienced barons and
vicomtes
, he had offered him the highest place in his guards.

“You found no sign of Tourelle anywhere?” Gaston prompted at last.

“Nay.” Royce shook his head, finishing a long draught of ale. “No one in the village has seen a caravan, or a single blessed nun, or one red hair of Tourelle or any man answering such a description. They say no strangers have passed this way for a fortnight. And though it was difficult to tell how many travelers there have been upon the roads, I doubt that anyone with a lesser mount than a destrier could have ridden them. The snows are too deep.”

Gaston frowned. “So Lady Christiane came here alone, through the worst winter storm we have seen in years, on roads that no palfrey could have managed? Without being seen by anyone? It is impossible. She could not have made her way into the castle without assistance.”

“Indeed, milord, she could not. But that is yet another mystery—there was no trace of her entering the castle at all.”

Gaston raised an eyebrow. “I am in no mood this night for jests, Saint-Michel.”

“It is true.” The young captain sighed heavily. “Once the guests had arrived, the drawbridge was raised, with our men posted along the ramparts, and the King’s guards as well. All had been told to watch for Tourelle’s party, but they saw not a soul venturing near the curtain walls. And within the castle grounds ...” He paused, running a hand through his thick, damp hair, clearly disturbed that he could make no sense of this puzzle. “I checked for myself, and there were no footprints. The fresh snow was unmarked. Even beneath the window of the bedchamber where you slept ... I do not know how she came to be there, unless she flew.”

Gaston felt an unearthly chill chase up his back as he remembered her strange comment at supper:
My father flies ...

He shoved the idea aside just as quickly. He would not let the treacherous girl and her insane lies play havoc with his logic. “She must have known of our secret sally port,” he declared flatly.

“Nay, I thought of that as well. The lock had not been disturbed. She did not slip inside that way.” Royce shook his head, frowning. As the one responsible for securing the castle, he seemed deeply unsettled at being unable to find out how an intruder had gotten all the way to his lord’s bedchamber. “I am sorry, milord. I cannot explain it.”

Gaston could not explain it, either, but there
had
to be some logical answer. She was not an angel who could wing her way past raised drawbridges and armed guards. He tried to think, to remember the moment he had first noticed her in his room. Had she come through the door? The window?

All he could remember was falling asleep alone ... and awakening to find her nestled beside him.

Christiane’s voice again drifted through his thoughts. He remembered vividly the claim she had made while trying to explain herself:
When I stepped into this room to go to bed, the year was 1993.

Madness. Lies. He shook his head to clear it. “I must have an answer, Royce. If she has found some secret way to slip inside, we can wager that Tourelle knows it as well.”

“But, milord, even if she
could
have gotten inside—past the drawbridge, the guards, and through the bailey without leaving a mark in the fresh snow—how did she manage the portcullis? She could not lift a gate made of solid oak and iron.” Royce pushed himself away from the table and stood, then paced to the hearth and back again. “Even a child could not fit through the small openings in it. Certainly no woman with such ample—” He suddenly broke off and froze, his gaze dropping to his boots, color rising in his face. “I ... uh ... meant—”

“Nay, do not apologize,” Gaston said lightly. “My men would have to be blind not to notice the lady’s generous ... attributes. It bothers me not, Royce. She may be my wife, but she means naught to me.” He dismissed the odd tightening in his gut as a reaction to too much drink and poor food, not a jealous response to another man noticing Christiane.

Royce nodded, but still seemed uncomfortable. He quickly returned to the hearth, stoking the flames as he continued his musings. “If she could not have slipped inside last night, that means she must already have been inside when the celebrations for the eve of the new year began. Mayhap she disguised herself, entered with some of the guests, and secreted herself somewhere until all had gone to bed.”

“Mayhap,” Gaston agreed, though he did not quite believe that, either. When one played host to the King, one did not let unknown persons wander in through the gates. The guards had stopped and identified each guest and his retainers before allowing them entrance. Such a tall, striking beauty would not have slipped past unnoticed.

But it was the only explanation.

Gaston rubbed one hand over his eyes. “The fact that we can find no trace of the lady’s arrival only underscores what I have said from the beginning: she is cunning, skillful, and
not
to be trusted.”

“Aye, sir. We shall have to keep a close watch on her.” Royce leaned back against the stone hearth, crossing his arms over his chest. A grin slowly crept across his face. “While we see how she fares at the scrubbing of floors.”

Gaston grimaced. “Told you, did they?”

“Aye. Even the guards at the gates were speaking of it by the time I returned. I am sorry to have missed her
adoubement
as a serving maid. They say she began her duties at once.”

Gaston slanted him a disbelieving glance. “You jest.”

“Nay, milord. They say she cleared as many trenchers and platters as she could carry, then asked that young Etienne direct her to the kitchens that she might wash them.”

Gaston almost laughed. “I trust she did not mean to wash the trenchers.” She had more spirit than he had given her credit for. Damn.

Royce shrugged. “Poor Etienne had no idea whether to bow to his new mistress or correct her. Are you sure it was wise to put him in guard of her?”

“The lad will stick to her like porridge to a plate.”

“Aye.” Royce nodded in hearty agreement. “That is what concerns me. He can be a bit of a feather-wit, that one, when it comes to a pretty face.”

“He must learn to be a man, to let his
reason
rule his actions, not some foolish passion for a female. It will serve him well to learn at a young age how to manage a woman, beautiful or not. And I doubt she will be so fair after a few days of washing, cutting wood, spinning, fetching water—”

 “Milord, you could make the lady clean stables, and even with straw in her hair and the smell of horses about her, she would yet be fair enough to fell a man with a single glance.” Royce’s grin widened, and he added quickly, “My apologies for my boldness, milord. You said it bothered you not?”

Gaston was annoyed to find that it
did
irritate him that Royce had taken such notice of Christiane’s beauty. He covered the unwelcome feelings with laughter. “Someday, Saint-Michel, you will go too far.”

“Without a doubt, milord.” The younger man nodded sagely, like a pupil absorbing a lesson—but he did it while managing to look as unrepentant as the Devil himself.

The chamber reverberated with the deep sound of their laughter, breaking the tension of the unanswered questions about the enemy in their midst. As it died down, they fell into another silence until Royce came back to the table and poured the last of the ale into their cups. “Milord, I would offer a
salut
.”

“To my new bride’s attributes?” Gaston asked dryly.

“Nay, sir.” Royce lifted his goblet, his expression suddenly solemn. “To your inheritance. With your marriage this day, you have come into rightful possession of what should have been yours months ago, what we fought to win back from Tourelle: the chateaux of your father and brother.” He raised his cup higher. “I drink to you and to them, God rest their souls. You are three of the most honorable men it has been my privilege to know in this life.”

Gaston felt his throat close, caught off guard by the unexpected homage. Royce was like that, his moods like quicksilver—flippant one moment, deadly serious the next.

Never in his life had Gaston thought of himself as “honorable.” Nor had he counted himself in the same rank with his father and brother, on that score or any other. In truth, he had not allowed himself to think much about them at all these past weeks, keeping his mind fastened on reclaiming the chateaux, the lands, his inheritance.

And now he had that. But his father and brother were gone. The last of his family. All he had left was their half-empty castles and a sister-in-law who wouldn’t even speak to him.

He had gained much ... and lost far more.

He forced down the grief, lifting his goblet. “To my father, Sir Soren, and to my brother, Sir Gerard.”

He and Royce clicked metal against metal and drained the last of the ale.

“And by all that is holy,” Gaston continued when his cup was dry, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I will make Tourelle pay for their murders. Nay—” He held up a hand. “I will not allow you to blame yourself.”

Royce choked back whatever he had been about to say, but Gaston knew what he was thinking. Royce had been the one who had found them—lying only yards apart from each other in a field, looking as peaceful as if they had fallen asleep, each with a single mortal wound. When no witnesses had come forward, Tourelle and his men had been quick to cast suspicion Royce’s way, since he had been the first to find them—and he was not of noble blood.

Royce succeeded at holding his tongue for only a moment. “But the blame
is
mine, milord. They told me they were riding off alone. I should have suspected some trap. Tourelle had been acting strangely all day. I should have warned them—”

“There is but one knave in this, and I will see that he answers for what he has done.” Gaston looked into the empty bottom of his cup again, at the play of gold over silver. “And my new wife shall help me.”

Now Royce looked genuinely puzzled. “
Help
you?”

“Aye,” Gaston said confidently. “She will come to her senses with haste. Within a se’nnight, she will be begging to tell the truth and give her overlord away.”

“But how shall you accomplish this? And in only seven days, milord?”

“Because, Saint-Michel, the lady believes she knows how ruthless I can be. In truth, she has had merely a taste of me.” Gaston indulged in a wicked grin as he rubbed the smooth cup ever so gently between his hands. “She will get her first full draught on the morrow.”

G
od, she would kill for a shower. Celine lay on the straw mattress in her bedchamber, too exhausted to sleep, too sore to move a muscle, so tired she couldn’t even think ... except to imagine how wonderful a shower would feel right now: a hot, stinging spray that would tingle on her skin and steam up the room and soothe her muscles until they felt warm and relaxed. She sighed in longing.