The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (44 page)

Beaming at her, overwhelmed by the rush of
joy and love that poured through him, he drew her closer and
murmured his answer against her lips as the first rays of dawn
shimmered through the window. “That sometimes wishes do come
true.”

Excerpt from FOREVER HIS: A Time-Travel Romance

(Stolen Brides Series, Book I)

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?

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

“Grade: A (highest rating). 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.” Ellen Hestand,
All About Romance

France, 1300

“I
do not remember
taking you to bed last night.” He yawned and stretched and sat back
down on the mattress. “Though I cannot say I regret it. Noisy
though you may be, you felt most pleasing curled beside me.”

He chuckled, a low sound that did an odd
little dance down Celine’s back and made her suddenly,
uncomfortably aware of the warm spot on her shoulder where he had
kissed her.

“You did
not
take me to bed!” she
corrected.

“Truly,
ma petite
? It was you who
seduced me, then?”

“No! I—”

“Come seduce me again.” He fell back on the
pillows.

“Absolutely
not!
” Celine groped her
way along the wall, trying to feel her way to the door. “Look,
whoever you are, it sounds like you had too much to drink at the
party. Maybe there was a power failure or something and you
wandered into the wrong room by mistake.”

A power failure. That made sense. It would
explain why there wasn’t a speck of light. Or heat. The air was so
cold, it gave her goose bumps and stung her throat every time she
inhaled. The furnace must have gone out.

He sighed and yawned again. “As I told you
before, demoiselle, the chamber is mine.”

It took Celine a moment to realize that the
wall felt strange: her hand encountered nothing but cold, clammy,
bare stone. The paintings and tapestries that had hung in her room
were missing. She tried to find the light switch. It wasn’t where
it was supposed to be, either.

Suddenly her cheeks heated with an
embarrassing thought: maybe he was right about this chamber being
his. Maybe
she
was the one who had stumbled into the wrong
room!

She didn’t remember getting into bed. In
fact, the last thing she remembered was looking through her purse
for an aspirin, then stepping toward the window as the moon went
black. Rays of silver-white light had glanced off the glass and
blinded her, sent her reeling, then …

She couldn’t remember anything after that.
It was entirely possible that she had staggered out of her room,
into the maze of corridors—and into the room of another party
guest.

She turned back toward the stranger she
couldn’t see in the darkness. “Monsieur,” she said tentatively, a
bit chastened. “Perhaps I’m the one who made a mistake. I—I don’t
remember—”

“Nay, protest no more, little one,” he
interrupted, his voice easing into a low, coaxing tone. “Does it
matter how we came to be together? You are here, I am here, the bed
is here. You felt warm and soft beside me.”

He paused, and she could almost
feel
him remembering—because she was remembering, too:
what it felt like to lie snuggled against him.

He spoke again, his voice even deeper,
softer, just a notch above a whisper. “Come back to bed,
chérie
. I will seduce you this time.”

“No!” Celine squeaked, not sure whether she
was objecting to his command or to her body’s reaction. She was
shivering, and not because the room was so cold. That tone he was
using sent an unexpected electricity through her, tingly currents
that ran from her fingertips to her bare toes and back again in a
heartbeat. It left her trembling. It also made her vividly aware of
just how little she was wearing: nothing but her silk-and-lace
teddy.

She backed away a step, only to come up
against the cold stone wall. “Monsieur, I’m—I’m afraid you don’t
understand. One of us has made a mistake—”

“The only mistake,
ma petite
, would
be for us to waste the hours left until dawn.”

That confident voice reached out to Celine
through the shadows and cold, wrapping around her, warm and rich
and dark as sable. She swallowed on a dry throat. Who the heck
was
this guy? A voice like that should belong to a
hypnotist. To a deejay whispering above love songs on late-night
radio.

To a suave playboy who could easily seduce
unseen women in the darkness.

Celine froze at that thought, remembering
her conversation with her sister earlier. Maybe this man wasn’t
here by mistake after all! “Oh, God,” she whispered in shock and
dismay, “did my sister put you up to this? I can’t believe she
would really— Listen, I don’t know what she
told
you about
me, but I am
not
—”

“Again you speak in riddles,
chérie
. I know naught of you
but that you felt good beside me. Very small and soft and good.
Come back to bed. It is cold without you.”

“You’re only cold because it’s freezing in
here!”

“I must have been too deeply in my cups to
light the hearth last night. Or too eager for you to bother.” He
chuckled. “It is naught. Come here to me and we will light a fire
of our own.”

“No! I can’t—”

“Then I will come fetch you, shy
demoiselle.”

Celine could hear him getting out of bed.
“No! Wait!” She turned and ran but barely made it two steps before
her injured ankle gave way and she fell, hard.

Before she could do more than utter a sharp
cry of pain, he was beside her. He had moved almost silently
despite the crunchy stuff on the floor. The man lifted her to her
feet—and into his embrace.

“Shh, sweet, you have naught to fear. Are
you hurt?”

Celine couldn’t answer. The sensation of
being held against him stole her voice, her breath, her
mind
. She could not see him in the darkness, but she could
feel him.

Oh, God, could she
feel
him!

His hands—large, warm, callused hands—drew
her close until her breasts flattened against the solid wall of his
ribs. She gasped at the contact, her heart thrumming wildly. The
textures of her lingerie only intensified the friction of his body
against hers—heat and muscle sliding across silk and softness and
lace.

He stroked her temple, her jaw, then gently
pressed her head to his chest. The fact that he had moved so
quietly belied his size. She was tall, but he towered over her. A
dense mat of hair covering broad, flat muscle roughly pillowed her
cheek. His other arm flexed across her back, holding her,
soothing—an arm that was hard and brawny and probably strong enough
to bend steel pipe. She could only guess, because he was being very
careful with her. He smelled of woolens and woodsmoke, and of a
tangy, masculine spice that she sensed was not some expensive
designer cologne, but
him
.

Celine didn’t know which surprised her more:
that such a powerful man could be so gentle, or that she had
stopped shivering.

She no longer felt cold or terrified. It was
ridiculous—insane!—to feel safe in the arms of a naked stranger,
especially one with the build of a world-class weight lifter …
but she did. She couldn’t explain it. She only knew that she hadn’t
seen him at the party or anywhere before. No man like this could
walk around without drawing the stunned attention of every
red-blooded female over fourteen!

“I-I …” She struggled to find her voice
and answer his question, but couldn’t think over the thunder of his
steady heartbeat beneath her cheek. “Wh-what did you ask me?”

“It was naught,
ma petite
.” He
laughed again, and she felt as well as heard the easy, pleasant
sound this time. His voice, however, sounded strained, unsteady, as
if he were just as affected as she by the unexpected currents
flowing between them. “Fie, but I am hard put to remember who you
are. I truly do not recall taking a woman to my bed last
night—certainly not you. Even drunk, I would remember making love
to you.”

“We
didn’t
make love,” she said
breathlessly. “That’s what I’ve been telling you all—”

“It matters not. You are here now and we
shall remedy the oversight. Tell me, are you one of the beauties
who came to the feast with Edric and his party from Languedoc?”

“No, I’m …” She lost her voice again. His
hands were moving, to her shoulders, down her back, to her waist in
a slow caress. “I’m … from Chicago.”

He lowered his head to hers. “I know not
this land ‘Chicago,’ “ he whispered, his breath warm against her
lips. “But let me sample the sweetness of one of its fair
flowers.”

His mouth captured hers with a strong, soft
heat and Celine discovered something far sexier than this man’s
voice or his body.
His kiss
. She never had the chance to
think of a protest. To think at all.

She had been kissed before, but never like
this
.

It was neither awkward and teasing nor
forceful and overpowering, but long, slow, confident, and
devastating. It was as if he were binding them together, deftly
drawing her soul into his.

He tasted of wine and strong spices and the
virile promise of shared pleasure. Of strength and tenderness
beyond anything she had ever imagined. Her knees gave way. He held
on to her effortlessly. His lips melded gently to hers … then
gradually parted.

He angled his head, deepening the intimacy,
and Celine made a small sound in the back of her throat. She didn’t
know what it was, had never made a little cry like that before,
almost feline, somehow … restless. Wanting. It seemed more like a
plea than the objection she had intended. Her hands pressed against
his ribs, but instead of pushing him away as she knew she should,
she found herself exploring the corded muscles she encountered
there, entranced by the unfamiliar angles and hardness. She felt
his breathing quicken, heard a moan shudder out of him, deep and
masculine.

Before she could gather up the scattered
confetti of her senses, she felt herself slipping deeper into the
kiss. Into him. Into this stranger in the darkness who teased her
and laughed with her, touched her, awakened her, electrified her in
a way no man ever had.

Before she could stop herself, her arms slid
around his back and she was holding on to him as much as he was
holding her.

His kiss became bolder, more intense. The
first touch of his tongue against hers dragged a soft moan from her
lips. She felt his arms tremble, as if he were fighting for
control. His tongue flicked against hers, retreated, then returned,
sliding, seeking. She tasted him, breathed him, felt hot needles of
unfamiliar hunger. His bristly five-o’clock shadow rubbed roughly
against her chin and jaw.

If ever she had had cause for nervousness,
uncertainty, fear, it was now—but that was not what she felt.