Brynna’s voice was a bare whisper on the other side of the bed. “Milord.” She held one hand pressed to the slender column of Celine’s throat. “Her heartbeat grows weaker.”
Gaston remained where he was, numb.
Roussette, do not leave me.
His shoulders shook with that silent, futile plea. She could not leave him. Not this way. Not when there were but two days left and their future held so much promise.
This was not meant to happen.
He pushed himself upright, still grasping Celine’s hand, clenching his other hand into a fist. He wrenched his gaze from her long enough to look at Brynna, heedless of the salty wetness on his cheeks. “We must find a way to keep her alive until she can return home.”
Brynna shook her head, her own eyes bright with tears. “Milord ...”
“Nay, tell me no more of her weakness! She has strength. She has courage. She can fight it. There must be a way.”
“But even if there were ... I do not think there is time.”
He thrust himself up from the bed, a spill of savage curses tumbling from his lips. Time. “Damn that word to the black depths of hell—I never want to hear it again!” He paced away, turned back, looking down at Celine, willing her to be strong, willing her to live. Two days.
And then she stirred, her lashes lifting.
But even as she came awake, even as he felt a surge of hope, she made a sound of pain.
He knelt at her bedside, brushed her coppery hair back from her forehead, pushing the cool cloth aside. She struggled to speak, but only made the sound again: a strangled little gasp.
“Shh, love,” he whispered, feeling the hot, bitter burning in his eyes again. He thought he had endured agonies before—but naught in his life had ever hurt him so much as seeing her in pain. “Be strong, sweet Roussette.” He forced a smile. “You will be well.”
“You’re ... not a very ... good liar ... my lion.” Her voice was so weak he had to lean near to hear it. Her eyes were glazed.
“It is no lie,” he said forcefully. “There are but two days. You will return home. The physicians of your time, with their skills—”
“Gaston ...”
Her voice suddenly cut short in a broken cry. She closed her eyes, her lower lip quivering.
He bent his head, clamping his teeth together to hold in a sob, unable to bear her suffering. He took her hand. “You will be well,” he repeated in a low voice that was almost a prayer. “And you will return home, and then you will come back to me. And we will have a son called Soren. And a daughter, with your fire-colored hair and your storm-colored eyes, and she—”
“It’s all ... right, Gaston ... I’m not ... afraid to die,” she gasped, her lashes lifting partway.
“You are not going to die,” he said fiercely.
“When ... you were on the ... battlefield ... the joust—”
“Shh, do not think of what is past. Think only of our future.”
“When I woke ... up in your ... pavilion,” she continued insistently, “I got down on my ... knees and prayed. M-made a bargain with God ... that he should take me ... instead of you ... if you were allowed to live, I would ... die willingly.”
Her words sent a chill down Gaston’s spine. The admission seemed to take what little strength she had left. Her lashes lowered and she fell silent, her breathing short and shallow.
“A noble gesture, milady,” he said hoarsely, “but I have first claim to such a bargain. I offered the same prayer—when I was in Tourelle’s dungeon and knew not what had befallen you.”
Her eyes opened again, wide, shining, impossibly dark against her pale skin. “But you ... survived the ... joust,” she whispered.
The chill he felt became a sleet of anguish. Rage. Fear.
Could God exact so terrible a price for his victory over Tourelle?
“Grateful ...” Her lashes drifted downward, the barest trace of a smile touching her pale lips. “Had the chance ... say ... good-bye.”
“Never!” he said forcefully. “That is a word I will never say to you.”
“Will ... wait for you ... until our ... souls reunited. I love ...”
She did not complete the sentence.
“Roussette?” His voice was a strangled sob.
“Lady Celine!” Brynna laid her hand alongside Celine’s neck. “I cannot find her heartbeat. I cannot ... nay, there it is! She lives,” Brynna said shakily. “She lives.”
Gaston tenderly stroked his wife’s cheek, his tears falling, hot and unchecked. “Heaven will not be enough, my Lady Roussette. I will not surrender you. Not for a day. Not for one sweet hour. I will not let you die. I mean to have you in this life as well as the next.”