She smiled, sharing his happiness. “Congratulations,” she said softly. “That’s wonderful, and you deserve it. But it ...” Her voice faltered. “It doesn’t change anything between us. It can’t. We ... I ...”
His gaze held her captive, stole the practical, sensible words she had meant to say. He was still sweaty from the battle, his hair and beard damp with perspiration; the bandages, stained with his blood, a glaring reminder of the violence and danger he had just taken part in. She could see that he was still burning with aggression, his hard-muscled body tense with the adrenaline.
His breath guttered the candle when he finally spoke. “I want you as my wife, Celine. Now. Tomorrow. Forever. I will not lose you. I will not surrender. I will not yield.”
“Do you think I want to surrender?” She clenched her fists. “Do you think I want to leave you here? In Lady Rosalind’s arms? In her bed?”
“I do not want Rosalind, and now I do not need her. With all the King has granted me this day, I possess more lands and wealth and power than any lord could want—”
“But you still have to marry Rosalind. What about the important son you and she are supposed to have?”
“I have thought of that. We have the advantage, you and I. We know what must happen in the future. We know how my son is to save this future king—the time, the place. We need simply to make certain it happens.”
He came around the table, so swift and determined she didn’t have a chance to move away. He reached for her, his hands taking her in that strong, sure way that made her knees weak. He cupped her cheeks, tilting her face to his.
But what took her breath away even more than his touch was the raw longing in his eyes. The need.
“You could have my son.” The urgency of his words matched the intensity in his eyes.
That stark, unguarded emotion, stronger than any she had known from him before, flowed through her like the spring wind that stirred the silk of the pavilion, sending warm longings rippling through her. Fantasies from deep within her heart. Wishes. Dreams of how much they could share if only God granted them more time.
But her dreams were of tomorrows that could never be. And children who would never be born.
She inhaled sharply, torn by bitterness. “I won’t be alive long enough to have your son if I stay! When the eclipse happens in five days, I have to—”
“You have to go,” he said firmly, drawing her closer, his fingers tangling through her hair. “You have to leave me. Go to these physicians in your time and let them make you well. But then you must come back.”
His fierce command took her completely by surprise. She had been so focused on getting home that she had never thought of that possibility.
Come back.
She could come back!
Once she had the surgery, once the bullet was out, she would have no reason to stay in the twentieth century. None. Not when she could return to him. Share his life, his future, his love. Have his children. It all swirled wildly through her mind, images of years of joy—not days or weeks, but years. The idea made her heart beat crazily.
“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.”