Forever His(101)

“Drunk and witless,” he finished sharply, his gaze on the splotch of red.

“Caring and gentle,” she corrected, then blushed crimson. “Well, not ... not all of it was gentle, but it was still ... I mean it was—”

“Whatever it was, it is over.” He clenched his jaw, ignoring the pain the motion brought. Then he stalked to the side of the bed, snatched up his garments, and started yanking them on. “It is over and Tourelle has what he wanted.”

“I am not plotting with Tourelle!” she said defensively. “And I have no intention of trying to kill you, so don’t you dare try to accuse me of seducing you. I wasn’t the one who jumped onto your terrace!”

“It matters naught. Whoever you are, I am shackled to you now—till death do us part. All because I allowed wine and desire to overwhelm my reason and render me witless.”

“Shackled?” she repeated breathlessly, as if he had struck her. “But last night, you ... you said ...” She closed her eyes. “Don’t you remember any of it?”

He jerked on his boots. “Do not remind me of aught that I may have said last night, ma dame. I would have told you anything to have you hot and willing in my bed.”

She inhaled a sharp, pained gasp, still trying to cover herself with that damnable blanket. “I told you that you would feel this way,” she accused softly. “I warned you that you would hate me.”

He turned away from her with a low sound of frustration, the pain in his head redoubling at the sharp movement. Hate her? By nails and blood, that was as far from the truth as the moon and stars above the world. Hate did not number among the multitude of feelings he had for her.

Guilt, he felt. And regret. Need and desire, more fierce than ever before. And above all else, that soft, unfamiliar, unwanted concern that tightened around his chest, making his heart beat unsteadily. It was almost like ...

Nay, he would not call it caring.

“May I have my dress, please?” she asked tonelessly when he did not deny her accusation. “It’s ... it’s out on the terrace.”

Not looking at her, he stalked to the far side of the room and thrust open the terrace door, wincing in the full, bright daylight that slashed his eyes. He snatched up the gown from where it lay, a pool of lush fabric on the cool tile. Seeing it there cleared more of the haze from his mind, brought another torrent of memories—the way he had slid it off her shoulders, nuzzled her breasts, pinned her against the wall. Given her no choice as he swept her into his arms.

He crushed the velvet in his fist. Blackheart. Never had he earned that name more than last night.

He walked back to the bed and handed her the gown. “Get up.”

“There’s no need to be surly,” she said hotly. “I’m not—”

“Get off the bed.”

She scrambled up, releasing the blanket and holding her gown in front of her. He yanked the wool coverlet from atop the rest and carried it to the hearth.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “You can’t burn Avril’s—”

“It is mine to do with as I wish.” He stuffed it into the huge hearth and stoked the embers. When the sparks became flame, he straightened and turned to look at her. “Mine to keep ... or to destroy.”

His emphasis on that last word made her flinch. “Gaston, don’t. Avril was wrong when she said destruction is what you’re best at. You proved that to me last night. You proved that you can be ... more gentle and caring than you know.”

He did not reply, nor did he allow himself to stay one moment longer. Anger and self-disgust and something more drove him to the door.

It was fear. Fear of the words that even now choked up in the back of his throat and threatened to spill forth. He had given in to unguarded words and sweet passions last night—and the result had been disastrous.

Only when he had closed the door solidly behind him did he allow himself to go still, leaning against it in the cool darkness of the corridor, his pulse rushing and his head throbbing, his breath coming sharp and shallow.

He could ill afford to be weakened by feminine words like “caring,” and that other one which he did not even allow to take form in his thoughts. Especially now. They had to leave here, and quickly. If it was the last thing he did, he meant to save her from Tourelle. Her and Avril both, for if the bastard learned that Gerard’s widow was with child—another Varennes heir—he would not hesitate to take her life as well.

Gaston forced himself to walk away from his wife’s door. He had failed those who had counted on him in the past; he would not fail again. He had too many lives depending on him. Too much to protect. Too much to lose.