Forever His (44 page)

“Yes! Yes, I could. I could come back. And I could even bring things with me, wonderful things! I ...”

But even as hope swelled in her heart, reality invaded.

Questions. Problems. She shut her eyes, willing the concerns away, but they tore apart his glorious plan with sharp claws.

Gently she raised one hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her palm. She opened her eyes, aching. “Gaston, I’m ... I’m not sure it would work. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that time-travel isn’t an exact science. There’s no way of knowing if I could get back to this year again. What if I missed? What if it fails? You can’t wait for me forever.”

His fingers moved restlessly over her cheeks, her jaw, her throat. “I can,” he said hoarsely. “Forever.”

His declaration brought tears to her eyes. She lifted both hands and laced her fingers  through his. “But we can’t take the chance that it might not work. Even if we could, even if it did work, we can’t play Russian roulette with history—”

“Russian what?”

“It’s a game of chance. A
deadly
game. And that’s exactly what we’d be doing if I came back, if you stayed married to me instead of marrying Rosalind. The book says you’re supposed to have a son with Lady R—not with me. Who knows how the future might change if it were
our
son instead of yours and Rosalind’s?”

She started to pull away, but he captured her wrists, his calloused palms rough against her skin. “I will not wed Rosalind.”

“But you—”

“I will not wed her. I do not understand these feelings in my heart, but I cannot deny them any longer—”

“Gaston, don’t do this! Not now. Not when we have no time left. Don’t make me wish for what can never be. You’ve got to stay here and marry Rosalind, and I’ve got to go
home
.”

The last word came out as a sob. She realized in that moment that the twentieth century was no longer her home. And never would be again.

Her home was here, with him, the man she loved.

And any other place in the world or in time, without him, would never be anything more than a bleak, cold shell.

His face was lined with strain. “I care for you Celine.” His voice became rough. “Deeply.”

She tucked in her chin as her tears began to fall, and rested her forehead on his bare chest. She had thought she would never hear those words from him, the ones she had waited for, wished for. “But we were never meant to happen,” she whispered. “And I’m going to spend the rest of my life thinking of you, remembering you, every hour of every day. And I don’t want to think of you here alone, Gaston, waiting for me. That would kill me just as easily as the bullet in my back. I want you to live. Exactly the same fierce, reckless, passionate way you’ve always—”

“Naught will be the same for me.” His hold on her shifted, his arms sliding around her back. “Naught will ever be the same without you. There will be no passion left. No life.”

“But there has to be,” she said just as fiercely, raising her head. “You have to find it. Fight for it. I want you to find happiness, with your son, with your ... family. I ...” She could hardly speak through her tears. “I want you to have
love
.”

“I want no love but yours.” His own eyes were glistening. “And I will love no other but you.”

“
Gaston
—”

He crushed her close as his mouth captured hers, his kiss branding her, claiming her, the penetration of his tongue sudden, possessive, deep. A low, sobbing breath echoed in her throat, her hands sliding through the mat of hair on his chest, her lips opening to him as his words shimmered through her, magnificent and unbearable.
I will love no other but you.

He loved her. This warrior knight who had fought the idea with all the strength he possessed, who had deflected every bit of feeling as if it were a lethal sword stroke,
loved her
. He had once scoffed at the word, but now he used it.

With tears in his eyes.

And it ran wild through her, like a fever, engulfing her heart and body and soul. She twined her fingers through his damp hair and returned his kiss, taking his mouth as he took hers, her tongue thrusting, tasting, curving around his. But even as they came together in scorching need, a single thought tormented her.

Five days from now, she would never be able to touch him again.

Shattering images of countless years alone sliced into her thoughts, all the cold days and colder nights alone stretching out before her, her heart as empty as her body. She would be robbed of these kisses, torn from this heat of love and longing, from the soul-satisfying wholeness of being his.

This might be the last memory they could share, their last moment of stolen glory.

As if he read her mind, he moved suddenly, backing her toward the table, lifting her onto it. She cried out into his mouth, twisting in his arms, wanting him even as she resisted. They
couldn’t
. It was too dangerous. There was nothing between them and the men outside but the flimsy silk walls of the pavilion. Someone could walk in on them at any moment. And if they were caught, there would be no annulment, not now, not in a few months, not ever.

But there was no stopping him. He tore the linen he wore from around his hips and gathered her in, holding her as if he meant to make her his until day and night and all time spun out and they were still one. One body, one breath, one love, united against any force that would tear them apart. Defiant in the face of time, fate, death, destiny.

She could feel his heart pumping, his hunger and forcefulness and love all mingled in his touch, his kiss. She could feel the hardness and heat of him, the sweat on his body—and the blood from his wounds. She knew he had to be in pain, and made a sound of protest. How could he think of making love when he was hurt?

But he never even flinched. His hand left her just long enough to knock the candle out of the way, sending it tumbling to the dirt floor. It sputtered out, cloaking them in darkness as his fingers pulled at her bodice and his mouth covered her bare breast, suckling hard.

Celine’s bruised lips parted and she gasped for air, the center of her body tightening as his rough kisses lashed her with wild sensations. In his embrace, questions and worries went spinning into the distance; she was alone with him in the dark, her body arching into his, and she wanted this, wanted him. All of him. Every dream, every breath. She wanted to be his. Now, tomorrow, forever.
Forever his.

He pushed up her skirts, his hand parting her thighs, and slid her closer until she was poised at the edge of the table. His blunt fingers stroked into her, quick and demanding, until she was shaking with longing and dampening his hand.

“Yes,” she whispered with a small cry, her fingers digging into the corded muscles where his neck met his shoulders. “Yes, my love,
now
,” she demanded as the need swept through her, hot and jagged. “Take me and don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

A sound of hunger tore from deep in his chest. He caught her wrists and pinned them behind her, taking both in one hand with an iron grip. With his other hand, he fitted himself to her, the velvety steel of him entering her the barest, most tantalizing inch. Then he speared his fingers through her hair and took her mouth, thrusting his tongue against hers—and in that same moment he fully joined their bodies with one stroke that left them both groaning with the sweet violence of it.

He was part of her, all the length and weight and thickness of him. She kissed him, hard, burning with his intensity as he locked her against him and began to thrust, deep, fast. He ravished her, making love to her the same way he had fought for his life on the battlefield, with the same volatile power. It was rough and fierce and overwhelming and it swept her away and drew all her awareness into him.

She reveled in the strength of his body as he moved. The massive lines of his chest and shoulders. The raw scent of him, mingling with her own muskiness. The wet, gliding fullness of him inside her. The tingle of her skin rubbed raw by the roughness of his beard.

He moaned and she made the same sound, her voice and need matching his. Passion wiped away all awareness of pain, of danger, of anything real—how many days were left, the future, the past.

All she cared about was him. All she loved in the world was this one man. Her scoundrel knight. Her Black Lion. Ravenous and untamed. Tender and loving. They were together, they were alive—closer than they had ever been before, more alive than they ever would be again.

He released her wrists, his arms catching her close as her hands twined around his neck. She wrapped her legs around his hips, taking him deeper, her hips arching into his with each stroke. The tension that clenched deep in her belly began to unravel. He was so hard and powerful within her, his rhythm so primitive and glorious as he drove into her, mercilessly sweeping her toward release.

Their joined bodies heated the darkness of the tent. Surging, straining, they moved together until all their differences vanished. Hard and soft, taking and taken, medieval and modern—all blended and melded until the world spun away, and there was only the two of them and what they gave to each other. Love and passion. Two made one.

Celine clung to him, her body tightening around his as the tremors began sweeping through her. Her whispers of pleasure came out as his name and urgent pleas for him to make it last. Now Tomorrow. Forever.

But neither of them could make it last. The world exploded around them in a sudden burst of brilliance as he emptied himself into her, deeply, at the same moment she surrendered to her own climax. He lifted her and she was soaring with him, far from this place, this dark pavilion. Flying in his arms, washed with hot needles of pleasure that left her shattered and whole. She felt it to the depths of her heart, just as she felt him embedded to the depths of her body. Love and joy that banished all else.

Banished even the small, nagging fear that she harbored about the bargain she had made this morning—her secret bargain with God.

M
oonlight and night air flooded in through the window in Gaston’s bedchamber. Leaning out through the open shutters, gripping the stone sill, he glared up at the blue-white orb that so dominated the tiny stars glimmering around it, the bold, distant sphere that scribes and troubadours always praised so lavishly. He wished he could rip it from the sky.

It had brought her here to him. Celine, a sweet and sudden and unexpected gift. But soon it would steal her away just as abruptly.

In a mere four days.

That damnable, almost-full moon. He had come to think of it as an enemy, one he must battle for the greatest prize he had ever set out to win. But the shimmering silver glow was not an opponent he could fight with muscle or blade. It eluded and defied him, shining across the bare floor of his empty chamber, as if mocking how equally empty his life would soon be.

Gaston thrust himself away from the window. He stalked about restlessly, rubbing his sore shoulder, staring at the bare walls and floor. The room had been swept clean of rushes. His furnishings and belongings had been taken to his new home in the north weeks ago. Royce kept his own chamber on one of the upper floors, saying he did not feel right taking the lord’s chamber when he was not a lord.

This place where Gaston had lived for more than nine years felt empty and strange. Not merely his bedchamber, but the entire chateau. Most of his servants and guardsmen were in the north, preparing their new home for their lord.

And his lady.

Who would never see it.

She would not be coming back to him. And he must marry Rosalind.

Four days. That was all they had left. Even now Celine was above, in the chamber where she had first arrived, talking with Brynna. He had sent Royce to fetch the mystic woman, to bring her here so that she and Celine could make certain all was in readiness before the dark of the moon. Gaston would take no chances with Celine’s life.

Though he did not wish to be separated from her for even a moment, he had left the two women alone for their discussion. He could not listen to them plan every detail of how his wife was going to leave him.

And they did not need his help. All was proceeding vexingly well. Etienne’s fever had broken, and he had been able to describe the path he had followed through the forest. Gaston’s men had soon located Celine’s bundle. With her garish pink pouch and her garment of topaz-colored silk, she had all she needed. To leave him. Forever.

With a frustrated oath, he exited the bare chamber, slamming the door behind him. He felt angry and irksome, and all the pacing and thinking he could do would make him feel no better. The two women had been planning long enough; they could continue their accursed discussion on the morrow.

He had other plans for his wife this night, and they did not involve talking.

On the floor above, he opened the door to the chamber without knocking. Celine and Brynna were having such an animated conversation, standing at the window examining the panes, it took a moment before they seemed to realize he was there.

As they turned, Gaston felt suddenly out of place, like a bull charging into a display of delicate perfume flasks at a trade far. He remained in the doorway, his hand on the latch. “I did not wish to interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting.” Celine crossed the room with a bittersweet smile.

He met her halfway, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “I lied. I did wish to interrupt.” Staring into the blue-gray depths of her eyes, he almost kissed her, but was mindful that they had an audience.

Then he kissed her anyway.

“By all the holy saints,” Brynna gasped.

Gaston raised his head to find the mystic woman gaping at them with a look of wide-eyed astonishment.

“I’m sorry,” Celine said, color rising in her cheeks. “Brynna, we didn’t mean to embarrass you—”

“Nay, milady, I am not embarrassed ... it is merely that I have not seen you and Sir—I mean you and the Duc ... together before.” She stood frozen, as if in a hypnotic daze. “Oh, sweet Mary, I may have had it wrong all along,” she said breathlessly. “How could I have overlooked this?”