Forever His(19)

“Precisely what I would wish to know, sire,” Gaston said darkly, not giving Celine a chance to speak. “I have my men searching for him even now. I awoke not an hour ago to find my betrothed in my bed, wearing a garment so shocking I will not shame her by forcing her to show it to you. Tourelle obviously thought to trick me into compromising her.”

Celine felt a cold lump in her stomach as she found herself the object of yet another angry glare, this one more regal and intimidating than any of the others.

“Is this true, Lady Christiane?” the King demanded.

She summoned what shreds of courage she could. “I’m ... I’m not Lady Christiane. My name is Celine and I—”

“She feigns madness, sire. She claims to be from a place called ‘Chicago’. But she admitted to me that she is the Fontaine girl. She cannot explain how she came to be in my bed. And one has only to look at her and hear her to know her identity.”

“Aye,” the King agreed, nodding. “She looks most like the description I received. But why would Tourelle wish you to bed her? He was as much opposed to this marriage as you.”

Celine tried to get a word in, but they talked right over her.

“True, sire—or so we believed. He obviously had time to devise a plan while journeying here from Aragon. Had he managed to overcome my vow not to bed her, the betrothal would have been binding and an annulment impossible.” Gaston folded his arms over his chest. “My new wife would inherit all, were some untimely fate to befall me. Tourelle no doubt intended to bide his time and make it seem accidental, to avoid your wrath. He probably promised the wench some reward for her role in it.”

Celine gaped at him as he related his theory. At least now she understood why he had so suddenly turned furious at finding her in his bed! Because he had sworn not to make love to her—to Christiane, that was. He thought she was involved in some enemy’s plot against him.

Both men looked at her expectantly.

“Well?” Gaston prompted when she didn’t say anything. “Do you still insist on your deception? Do you still claim you are from this place that does not exist?”

She glanced from one glowering male to the other, her heart hammering. She was finally being given a chance to squeeze a word in edgewise and explain—but how could she?

How could she explain the way she had suddenly appeared in Gaston’s bed? She didn’t understand it herself! She could only guess that it had something to do with the lunar eclipse. That ray of blinding moonlight had somehow snatched her world from beneath her feet and landed her here.

But how could she make them believe she was from almost seven hundred years in the future? She had no proof. No way to convince them. No one to back up her wild-sounding story.

Swallowing hard, she dropped her gaze to the rush-strewn floor, looking at her bare feet. “No ... I-I mean ... yes ... I ...” Her voice dissolved into a whisper as the full truth of her predicament hit home. “I’m ... I’m from a country that won’t even be discovered for almost ... two hundred years.”

It overwhelmed her to think about it. She had no idea how to get home. No way to get help. No way to get in touch with her family. She was in a time when there were no phones, no electricity, no cars, no planes. No refrigeration, no running water, no sanitation, no technology, no medicines—

Celine started to hyperventilate again.

No doctors.

At least no neurosurgeons.

And if she didn’t get home fast, she was going to be in far worse trouble than she was in now.

Her mind reeled. How long did she have? Months? Weeks? How long before the bullet fragment in her back shifted enough to kill her? If she didn’t return to her own time and have the operation she needed ...

She was going to die.

“Do you see, sire?” Gaston asked with satisfaction when she didn’t say anything more. “She is caught in her scheme and cannot admit to it. Tourelle does not want peace. He wants my blood. Since you have prevented him from getting it by war, he will be equally happy to obtain it by treachery—using her as his weapon.”

“I am not so sure, Gaston,” the King replied. “Lady Christiane, how did you come to be here? Where is the rest of your traveling party?”

“I ... I don’t know. I don’t know how I got here or anything else.” She raised her head, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Except that I’m not who you think I am. I’m not Christiane. My name is Celine Fontaine. Please, you must believe me. I’m from ... from a place that’s far away and I have to get home.”

“Hmm.” The King raised one eyebrow. “Gaston, there is a possibility you have not thought of. Mayhap it was not the snow that delayed her arrival—their caravan might have encountered some misfortune along the roads. She acts most like one whose memory has been affected by a blow to the head.”