Forever His(100)

The pain in his head was suddenly naught compared with the dread and denial that raked his gut.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, what had he done?

He could not move, even as his stomach lurched threateningly. Some part of his addled brain clung to the word “innocent.” Mayhap he had wandered into her room in the grasp of a drunken dream. Mayhap he had merely lain beside her ...

He carefully lifted his arm and moved away from her, rising from the bed one slow inch at a time, ignoring the stabbing torment that exploded through his head. Even before he stood, his rapidly awakening senses told him that his wish was hopeless.

For there on the woolen coverlet was the proof of what he had done, the stain of her lost virginity. Burn him, he had not even bothered to pull back the blankets and ease her onto the sheets before he had taken her.

He staggered backward a step, stumbled from the dais, almost tripped over his boots. They lay discarded atop his garments. He stared down at them—and the night’s folly came back to him one drunken drop at a time. Most of it. Some of it. Enough of it. He had barely taken the time to undress before thrusting inside her.

Groaning a curse, he raised both hands to his head in a futile effort to either stop the relentless thunder or crush his own skull. He could not blame her. She had used no tricks or lies. He remembered that much. He had been the one who had come to her. She had pleaded with him to leave, but he had pressed on. Run her to ground like a hunter after a sleek doe.

He squeezed his eyes shut, loathing every heathen impulse in his black soul. He had wanted her and he had taken her. In a stupor so deep that he barely remembered the act itself. He had brought her here to rest—and instead had ravished her. With no thought for her and all for himself. He should have known better. Should have known that he could not be trusted near her without a score of attendants to hold him at bay.

God’s breath, had he hurt her? The sounds tangling in his muddled memory were only cries that might have been pain or pleasure.

He heard a rustling of the bedclothes, a small yawn that became a sigh. He forced himself to straighten, to face her, to look at her, despite the bright, painful glare of day. She rolled over, blinking sleepily.

Then her eyes widened when she saw him.

She did not speak. And he was unable to summon even one syllable. He searched her eyes for some sign that he had not made her loathe him—and then another scrap of memory snapped into place.

I love you.

She had said that to him, even as he had been doing the unthinkable. I love you. She had welcomed him into her bed and her body because of her feelings for him.

Damn him to Hell and back again, he wished he did not remember that.

He stared at her and she at him until the chamber felt very small and far too hot, although the fire on the hearth had burned almost to embers. When he could stand the silence no more, he finally asked the question, dragging the words from his parched throat in a dry rasp.

“Did I hurt you?”

Her stormy blue-gray gaze still on his, she shook her head. “No.” She repeated it, firmly. “No.”

Her assurance was small solace as the greedy maw of what he had done opened wider to swallow him whole. For no sooner was he relieved of that first concern than a second struck and nearly sent him to his knees.

He had broken his vow. Broken his word. Again. Tossed aside any good intentions for a moment’s pleasure. Exactly as he had done all his life—but this time would cost him dearly.

He had played directly into Tourelle’s hand.

There would be no annulment. No marriage to Lady Rosalind. No way to reclaim his stolen family lands. No justice for his murdered father and brother. It was not enough that he had failed them in life; now he had failed them in death as well. And endangered his own life in so doing.

And his wife’s.

Something inside him twisted and tore asunder. Tourelle was no doubt hard on their trail already ... and if he found out that the vows had been consummated, he would be rabid for blood. Their lives would not be worth one sou.

Gaston had betrayed them all. His father. Gerard. His wife. Betrayed them as only he could.

The sunlight glimmered around him, around her, bright, cleansing sunlight, and its purity showed all the more clearly the thoughtless act he had committed. The dark stain on the coverlet marked mayhap the most unforgivable sin in his entire unholy life.

And he had done it here, in his noble brother’s chateau.

Some of his horror must have shown in his face, because she hurried to console him, sitting up, trying to cover herself, apparently not noticing the mark on the coverlet as she drew it in front of her.

“Gaston, don’t look at me that way. You didn’t hurt me. It was ... you were ...”