Forever His(145)

She opened both eyes, blinking. The first thing she saw was the shaft of bright morning sunlight streaming across the room ... shining ... almost like a halo ... on a tousled dark head just a few inches away.

Gaston.

She smiled. Though it seemed to require an incredible amount of effort to smile. So he was the one snoring.

Strange, she thought sleepily, that he was sitting on a chair. Only his shoulders and head rested on the mattress, one arm beneath his bearded cheek, his other hand clutching a handful of her pillow. The position looked very uncomfortable. He was going to have one heck of a kink in his neck when he woke up.

She moved her hand, reaching toward him, though that, too, seemed to take a huge amount of work. Slowly ... so slowly ... she managed to bridge the distance, and rested her hand lightly over his.

He looked very tired. She hated to wake him up.

She decided not to. It made her feel inordinately happy just to touch him.

After a moment, though, he stirred, his hand moving beneath hers. He squeezed her fingers, murmuring something in his sleep.

Then he went still.

His hold on her hand tightened.

After a second, he lifted his head, the movement so gradual it looked almost reluctant. His dark hair tangled over his forehead, half falling into his eyes.

Those potent, movie-star eyes. They met and held hers.

“Good ... morning,” she whispered, wanting to sit up and kiss him, frustrated that she didn’t have enough strength.

He didn’t say anything for a second. His expression was one of disbelief. He seemed to be holding his breath. He looked exhausted. Haggard. From his rumpled tunic to his tousled hair to the deep lines that bracketed his mouth and eyes.

She blinked at him, still feeling confused, like her head was stuffed with fuzz. “You ... look ... terrible.”

A grin broke across his hard features. It broadened into a smile. Then he laughed. “Aye, Roussette, I am certain that I do.” Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it soundly, laughing so hard it brought tears to his eyes. “A ride of twelve hours to Agincourt and back followed by three days without sleep oft has a most dire effect upon my beauty.”

“You were ... snoring,” she accused drowsily.

“It was that which awakened you?” He closed his eyes, pressing her hand to his bearded cheek, breathing so hard he could barely talk. “I should have thought to try it from the beginning.” He was laughing and crying at the same time. She could feel his warm tears on her skin. “Thank you, God,” he choked out. “Thank you, holy, merciful God in Heaven.”

She was too tired to question what he meant about Agincourt, or why he was sitting in a chair.

“Does it hurt, Roussette?” he asked suddenly. “Are you in any pain from the surgery?”

The question cut through the clouds of confusion that clogged her thoughts. Everything came back in a flood. The bullet. The darkness. The pure white light that had beckoned to her. Then the other, glaring light ...

“No ...” It took her a moment to really assess how she felt. There was soreness, but not pain. More like uncomfortable muscle cramps than anything else. “I’m ... all right,” she said with surprise and relief. “Gaston, I ... had the strangest dream. There were ... doctors.”

“Nay, not a dream, Roussette.” He stood, still holding her hand as if reluctant to let go. “Do not move.”

“I’m not ... going anywhere.”

He released her hand for a second, long enough to go to the door and bellow into the hallway. “Ramsey! Arnaud! Thibault! She is awake!”

Before Celine knew what was happening, she was surrounded—by the same three men she had seen looming over her in the bright light.

Except that this time they were all grinning and clapping one another on the back, looking almost as tired as Gaston. And they weren’t wearing masks or aprons; they were dressed in simple medieval clothes.

“Well, my stubborn prize patient, how nice to see those pretty blue-gray eyes of yours again,” one of them said.

She recognized him as the Texan—though he wore a tunic and leggings and was speaking French this time.

“It was touch and go there for a while.” He lifted her hand. “But you’ve got more strength than any of us gave you credit for.”

“Except the Duc,” one of the others said, smiling at Gaston.

The Texan proceeded to check her pulse. “Nice and steady.” He nodded approvingly. “How do you feel? Do you know what year it is?”

“It’s ... 1300.”

“Excellent.” He bent down and gently lifted her eyelid with his thumb, peering closely at her. “I would ask you who the President is, but that doesn’t exactly apply in this situation, does it? How about identifying this man for me?” He gestured toward Gaston.