Forever His(15)

“Demoiselle, if you keep running out of my arms that way, you are going to greatly damage my confidence as a lover.”

Celine swayed dizzily. “Did you say you were ... but you couldn’t be ... not that Gaston!”

“Sir Gaston de Varennes,” he confirmed, a note of pride in his voice. His smile widened. “Did you not realize that you were about to make love to the lord of the chateau?”

Celine felt the blood drain from her face. She clutched at the wooden shutter, but felt herself sinking to her knees.

Gaston was at her side in an instant, moving in that quick, silent way. “Ma petite, what is it that upsets you?” His voice was husky with concern as he helped her to her feet.

Celine looked up at him, but as he saw her face closely in the light for the first time, his expression changed. His smile disappeared. He stared at her eyes, at her hair.

Suddenly, his hand came up to touch the loosened chignon at the nape of her neck—and this time his fingers were faster than they were gentle. He had it unknotted in seconds. Her hair fell freely in its natural, chin-length blunt cut.

Just as quickly, he released her and stepped back. His eyes narrowed with disbelief.

“You are the Fontaine woman!” He snapped the words more like an accusation than a question.

Celine blinked, confused by the sudden change in his attitude—but at the same time relieved. At least he knew who she was. She was not losing her mind. Maybe there was some explanation for this after all.

“Yes,” she replied. “Yes, of course—”

He cut her off with a particularly short, nasty-sounding oath. “I should have guessed Tourelle would attempt such treachery as this!” He grabbed her by the arm.

“Wait a minute!” Celine cried in astonishment. “What are you doing? I don’t understand! What’s going on?”

“Do not pretend ignorance, demoiselle. You know your purpose here,” he replied sharply. “You are to become my wife this day.”





Chapter 3


“How did Tourelle spirit you into my chamber?” Gaston demanded, tightening his hold on the Fontaine girl’s wrist, glaring down at her in the moonlit darkness. “What was his plan? Why did he wish me to bed you when he wants this match no more than I?”

She seemed unable to speak, or move, or do anything but stare at him, wild-eyed and trembling. She almost crumpled, but he held her upright—and tried to ignore the fact that his body felt heavy and hard with wanting her. He could not cool the desire she had roused in him. Damn her.

By nails and blood, apart from her burnished red hair, his unwanted bride was not at all what he had been told to expect. She looked naught like a convent-raised innocent; she looked like a fallen angel, created to sate a man’s needs, to fire a man’s body with hell’s own heat and heaven’s own pleasure. She had appeared out of the darkness like a fantasy plucked from midnight dreams and sent floating in on a ray of moonlight.

He ground out an oath, struggled to right his thoughts—and instead found his gaze fastened on the indecent garment she wore. It shimmered over lush curves, concealing and revealing and tantalizing. Her tall, slim form fitted to his perfectly. Her kisses still burned on his mouth, on his memory.

The urge to carry her to the bed and lose himself in her heat almost overpowered him. Almost made him forget his vow to leave this girl untouched. If he compromised her, it would make their betrothal binding and an annulment impossible.

Which would end his plans for vengeance and justice.

“Answer me, woman,” he ordered in a low, taut voice, fighting the desires that threatened his control. “How did you steal past my guards?”

“I ... I’m ... I ...” She gasped for breath, then started sobbing. “Oh, God, I’ve finally lost it! I’m having a nervous breakdown! This can’t be happening! It isn’t real!”

It was difficult for him to understand her words—especially when she was crying and talking at the same time. From what he could make out, she seemed to doubt his identity. “I assure you, I am as real as our betrothal, Lady Christiane.” He tightened his grasp to underscore his point.

“But you can’t be! I can’t—Chris who?”

“Do not think to play games with me,” he warned sharply, walking her backward into the stone wall. “You have already admitted to being the Fontaine woman. Now you claim not to recognize your own name?”

“I am not ‘Lady Christiane’! I’m not Lady anybody. My name is Celine. Celine Fontaine. I’m from America. From Chicago! There’s been a mis—”

“Lies will not save you,” he snapped. “You are Lady Christiane de la Fontaine, ward of the Duc de la Tourelle. You were to arrive last week from a convent in Aragon for our wedding. We thought the snows had delayed you.”