Forever His(141)

“You sound ... hungry again,” she teased.

Oh, God, it hurt.

“Aye, I am,” he growled. “Mayhap I shall eat ...” He let the sentence hang for a moment. “Some of these.”

She could hear him walk to the table in the far corner and experimentally munch the flour tortillas she had fried earlier.

“Stop that,” she protested. “Or we won’t have any left to eat with this. Gaston, would you bring me the—”

A stabbing, searing jolt of agony went up her back. She tensed, held her breath.

“Roussette?” he asked, still munching, “What is it you wish?”

The pain wasn’t quick and sudden this time. It was steady, and it got worse. She dropped the spoon into the pot, raising a shaking hand to the stone wall of the hearth. Her vision misted to gray at the edges. She didn’t even have the strength or the breath to turn around and ask for help.

“Roussette?” Gaston’s voice had an edge of concern this time.

She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

Her legs went weak, limp, refused to hold her. Everything seemed to tumble around her, the stones of the fireplace spinning before her eyes. She crumpled, heard him running toward her, his boots striking hard against the stone floor.

And then she was aware only of the blinding agony that wrenched her lower body and tore a cry from her lips. She could hardly feel it when he caught her in his arms, easing her down, holding her. A confusing, foggy haze closed in over her mind, her sight, her hearing.

His voice seemed to come from far away. “Nay! Sweet Christ, nay!”

She clutched at his muscular arm, staring up at him, barely able to see him through the gathering darkness. “Oh, no,” she whispered.

It was the last thing she said before blackness closed over her completely.

***

Even the glow of the candle at Celine’s bedside could not add color to her cheeks.

Gaston truly thought his heart would stop beating, if not from the shock of what had happened, then now. Now as she lay unmoving beneath the blankets, so pale and fragile among the heavy coverings. Her skin, her lips were so pallid it looked like she had lost a great deal of blood, though she had no wound—at least none that could be stitched or bandaged or healed.

He grasped her hand, his grip bruising, as if he could hold her here by sheer physical force.

But he knew that with every passing moment, she was slipping away from him.

He clenched his jaw, eyes burning. He had no memory of lifting her in his arms and carrying her here, to one of the upstairs chambers. All he knew was that she had not made one sound. Not when he had laid her in the bed, nor when he had summoned Brynna, nor when the mystic woman had used a strong-scented potion to try to rouse her. It had only made her drift in and out; she had not strength enough to awaken.

“Milord,” Brynna said softly, glancing at him as she pressed a cool cloth to Celine’s forehead. “There is little we can do. She has no wound, no fever, naught that can be aided by my herbals or healing skills.”

Gaston had no breath for words. He kept staring at his wife, unwilling to accept that this was happening. Her spirit and fire and laughter could not be quelled so abruptly. Sweet Christ—it was like some unseen arrow had struck her. In the span of a heartbeat she had gone from vibrant and alive to silent and helpless. Defenseless against this bit of metal inside that was killing her.

Killing her.

Desperation and frustration clawed at him, ripped an animal sound of pain and rage from deep in his chest. She was dying because of this future weapon that had wounded her so long ago, and he could not stop it. Could not protect her. Could not help her. Could not fight for her.

All his life he had conquered opponents by physical prowess, battle-skill, sharp wits. But now, all his years of hard-won experience availed him naught. His strength was useless. Guile, power, force—all futile. There was no way he could vanquish this unseen enemy. Even his love was not enough to save her.

He lifted her hand to his cheek, finding her skin so cool ... warm honey and cream transformed almost to ice. He fought a cry of grief and denial that threatened to tear him to pieces. Only moments ago, she had been teasing him, his Roussette—her smile brilliant, eyes sparkling, her body strong and graceful as she moved.

They had spoken of names for their children.

He had relished the sound of her laughter.

And now one small, hidden piece of metal had silenced her. Mayhap forever.

He exhaled a shuddering breath, could no longer hold back the tears, buried his face in her hair, in the pillow. By holy Christ, this could not happen. Why? Why now, with the dark of the moon so near? Two days, and she would be safe and well. Could God not grant her two days?