Forever His(21)

She took a step. One tentative step toward the raven-haired warrior dressed all in black, with a black lion embroidered on his tunic and his black mood showing clearly in his hard features. His eyes—those potent, smoky eyes—captured hers, willing her away, wishing her to drop through the floor and disappear.

On that, she thought desperately, they were in total agreement.

She took another step, trying again to think of some way out of this. A few minutes of wild pleading with the serving women had made her realize that she had better stop sounding like a lunatic. She had no way to prove she was from the future—and no idea what people in this time might do to someone they considered mentally unstable. Images of being carted off to some medieval asylum or burned at the stake as a heretic finally made her shut up.

Everyone from the King to the page boys believed her to be Christiane. For now, she had decided, she had better keep quiet and play along. She had no choice. While she couldn’t begin to figure out how the lunar eclipse had landed her here, some part of her sensed that she might have to go out the same way she had come in—through the window in Gaston’s bedchamber upstairs.

At least she wouldn’t have to sleep with him. She was grateful for that. He was adamant that he had no intention of consummating their vows.

All she had to do was get through this for a few days, she told herself, taking another step forward, then another, her throat dry as a dust storm.

All she had to do was hold out until the real Christiane showed up—which should be any minute now, from the sound of it—and they would discover what a huge mistake had been made. By then, she would have figured out some way to convince them who she really was. Then they would help her find some way to get home. Until then ...

Until then, she was on her own. She would have to rely completely on herself.

For the first time in her life.

She reached the end of the aisle and knelt beside Gaston, feeling the heat—and the resentment—radiating from his large form. The ceremony was a blur, an endless drone of Latin interrupted only by everyone’s impatience when the priest had to repeat each word she was supposed to say, one at a time.

She barely remembered Latin from her lessons in private school, but she was quite sure one of the words she said had something to do with “obedience.”

She grated it out and told herself it didn’t matter, that this was a temporary arrangement and she wasn’t really Christiane so it didn’t really count.

The next thing she knew, Gaston was taking her left hand and slipping a ring on her finger. The gold band felt hot from being held in his hand. Her skin tingled with sensitivity where he had touched her for even that brief second. The weight of the ring seemed awkward and unfamiliar. Heavy.

The mass went on endlessly, until her entire body ached with stiffness and she was sure her knees had rubbed permanent hollows in the stone floor. Everyone in the chapel was joining in a responsive prayer when a harsh whisper from Gaston startled her.

“You have not won yet.”

“What?” she whispered back.

Not moving his head, he slanted her a steely glance. “You and Tourelle have not won yet. I promise you, wench, you will regret your part in this if you do not cooperate with me. I mean to have done with you anon and I will marry Lady Rosalind.”

The name arrowed straight into Celine’s memory. Lady Rosalind.

Lady R.

The woman whose initial he would someday carve with his above the chateau doors. Celine surprised herself by whispering her thoughts aloud. “The woman you love.”

“Love?” he replied scathingly. “Love is a weakness for fools who know no better. Whatever I may feel for Rosalind, it is certain what I feel for you. Contempt.”

Whether it was something in his voice or something in her, Celine felt another unexpected emotion welling up from the tangled knot inside her. Jealousy. “As if you’re Sir Perfect,” she muttered under her breath. “If you’re so chivalrous and devoted, what were you doing seducing some unknown woman last night?”

“You will find I take my pleasure where I will—a habit which I have no intention of changing. Ever.”

“Fine. I don’t care. It will keep you away from me,”

“On that we are agreed. I intend to apply for an annulment with haste. And you, my deceitful little wife, will help me obtain it. If you do not, I vow that you will discover for yourself why some call me Blackheart.”

Before Celine could reply, the priest cleared his throat.

Only then did she realize the prayer had ended. Everyone must have overheard the last part of their conversation. Her face burned.

“Sir Gaston,” the priest repeated patiently, shifting to French. “You have been pronounced man and wife. It is time to kiss the bride, to seal your vow.”