Forever His(146)

“Husband,” she said with a dreamy sigh that brought a round of masculine chuckles.

“Right again. Pupils are responsive. Speech seems reasonably clear.” He felt her forehead. “No fever.” He went to the foot of the bed, moved the covers aside, and brushed something—it felt like a small piece of wood—over the soles of her feet. “Can you feel that?”

“T-tickles,” she objected, wiggling her toes.

“Good.” He did it again. “Damn good.” Replacing the covers, he came back to her side, running a hand through his hair, grinning. “Nice to have you back, Mrs. Varennes. You’re not in a lot of pain, are you? The potion that Arnaud made up should take care of the worst of it, but it was a somewhat experimental synthesis. It’s hell working without a good centrifuge.”

She peered up at him, feeling more confused than ever, though her head had started to clear. “Who are you?”

Gaston moved in front of the man, reclaiming the seat next to her bed. “I fear this requires a long explanation, Roussette,” he said wearily, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

The other men pulled up chairs, and only then did she realize that there were several near the bed. Gaston hadn’t been the only one watching over her.

“Sorry there wasn’t time for introductions before, ma’am,” the Texan began. “My name is Dr. Carter Ramsey. From Dallas—”

“Dallas?” she echoed incredulously, wondering if she was still dreaming.

“Dallas and Boston—Harvard Med School, class of 1982. My assistants here are what you might call ‘locals,’ though. Arnaud I believe you’ve met before.” He nodded toward the young man on his right. “And this is Thibault, one of my students from Agincourt.”

“You’re from 1982?” she repeated dazedly.

“Actually 1989,” Ramsey said. “But I suppose we should start at the beginning. You see, ma’am, your husband rather ingeniously took a few bits and pieces of what he knew about time-travel, and put them together into a theory—”

“That mayhap there were other people from the future who had come back in time,” Gaston explained. “And if, as Brynna’s father said in his writings, they were unable to return home, they would still be here. Trapped in this time.” He gazed down at her like he would never take his eyes from her again.

Celine felt dizzy trying to follow it all. “But ... how did you know ... where to find Dr. Ramsey?”

“In truth, milady, he came to me first,” Arnaud said. “When I treated his wounds after the joust, I cleansed them with wine to prevent infection. He noticed it at the time, but I evaded his questions. I had been sworn to secrecy. And I had no idea that you were from the future. Then four nights ago, the Duc came bursting into my chamber, demanding the truth.”

“Your husband believed that poor Arnaud was from the future,” Thibault supplied.

“And I had a most difficult time convincing him that I am not.” Arnaud slanted Gaston a wary glance.

“I apologize for breaking the door,” Gaston told him a bit sheepishly. “And for threatening you. And ... throwing you against the wall.”

“‘Twas understandable, milord.” Arnaud laughed. “When you were fighting to save the life of your lady.”

Gaston looked down at Celine again. “I rode to Tourelle’s chateau to find Arnaud, thinking I knew where he must have acquired such knowledge. But I was wrong. When I explained to him that you were from the future, and that you were dying ...” His voice choked out. He paused for a moment, closing his eyes and opening them before he continued. “Once I told him of your injury, he broke his vow of secrecy and revealed where he had learned these methods—from a physician in Agincourt. A physician from 1989.”

“I’ve had to be very careful, as I’m sure you can appreciate, ma’am,” Ramsey took up the story again. “Just about everything I do could get me burned at the stake as a heretic—and I only learned that after making some very arrogant mistakes in the beginning.”

Looking at him, with his thick blond hair, green eyes, and broad shoulders, Celine found it easy to believe he might lean toward arrogance. But he seemed to be doing an excellent job of blending in. Dressed in those clothes, he appeared as medieval as every other man in the room. “But how ... how did you ... get here?”

“What’s a nice boy like me doing in a century like this?” He smiled ruefully. “I was on sabbatical in 1989, doing research at the Sorbonne in Paris. One night I was up late, pulling an all-nighter in the library, and I fell asleep over a journal article, while I was sitting at a table in front of a window. When I woke up ... I was still in the Sorbonne, and still in Paris, but it wasn’t 1989 anymore. It was 1296.”