Forever His(24)

He leaned closer, his voice as persuasive as it had been last night in his bedchamber. “Has Tourelle threatened you in some way? Do you fear him? I will protect you, Christiane. I will escort you home to your convent personally and see that you are well guarded. With our marriage annulled, you will be free to take your vows and join the cloister. Is that not what you wish?”

She turned away, unable to withstand the urgency in his gaze. “You don’t understand.”

“Nay, chérie, I do not. I do not understand why you would be so stubborn when it is within your power to end this with but a few words.” He reached out and gently placed a finger beneath her chin, turning her face toward him. “Stand with me before the King and admit what scheme Tourelle intends. It is best for us both. Our liege will forgive you your part in this. I will forgive you. You will be safe.”

Safe? Celine could hardly steal a breath, feeling the warmth of his touch, the contrast of his rough, callused finger against her skin that had been softened by years of pampering and expensive facials. His eyes held hers, and Celine felt herself falling deep and then deeper still into those hot, lavish-lashed pools of darkness. Danger and drowning waited within, yet tempted and compelled at the same time. “Gaston,” she whispered, “please don’t ask me to—”

“Has he promised you some boon for your part in this?” he replied, leaning even closer, his breath warm against her mouth. “Jewels? Wealth? Is that what you seek, rather than life in a convent? I will double whatever he has offered. Do what is right and you will want for naught.”

He was so urgent, so persuasive, Celine almost wished she could do what he asked of her. She clenched her fists in frustration against the worn velvet of her gown. It was impossible. She couldn’t explain Tourelle’s plot to the King. She had never even met this supposed “overlord” of hers. Even if she tried to make something up, it wouldn’t sound plausible.

And if her marriage to Gaston were annulled, she would be banished from the chateau. She wouldn’t be able to stay close to that window in the upstairs bedchamber—which just might be her only way back to her own time.

“I can’t!” she cried, pulling away from his touch. “I can’t explain why, but I can’t say anything to the King and I can’t agree to an annulment!”

Gaston stiffened. The softness in his expression vanished and he straightened with a jerk. “Your misplaced loyalty to Tourelle will be your ruin, ma dame.”

Celine didn’t know what upset her more—the sharp emphasis he put on the word “ruin,” or the fact that his eyes, his voice, his words shifted so quickly from warmth to cool hostility. “You weren’t thinking of me at all just now, were you?” she accused, incensed that Gaston’s easy, powerful charm had almost reeled her in when she should know better. “You don’t care what happens to me. You were just saying what you thought I wanted to hear.”

He smiled again, but this time it had a cold, cynical edge. “You wound me, chérie. I wish to do what is best for us both.”

“Best for you, you mean. What kind of knight are you, anyway? What about honor? What about chivalry?”

“What of them? As I warned you, ma dame, refuse to help me and you will discover how I earned the name Blackheart.” His expression hardened. “I was one of the good Christians who took part in the slaughter of two hundred Saracens at Jaffa in 1290. I returned home and became a mercenary purely for the booty and the bloody love of battle. I stole the very castle you are sitting in now by cheating in a tourney. I have oft found honor and chivalry to be most inconvenient. You would do well to remember that. And you would be wise to change your mind. Quickly. Do what I ask, speak to the King, and get as far from me as you can.”

Celine could only gape at him, numbed by the litany of his ruthless past—and by the threat in his tone. This was not the kind, sensitive, noble knight of her childhood dreams. Meeting the real Sir Gaston was a very rude awakening indeed.

He kept staring at her, as if he were unused to meeting with defeat, as if he could force her by sheer, overpowering will to do what he demanded. “You will not succeed in your scheme,” he grated out. “And you will live to regret any harm you bring to this place and my people.”

“There is no scheme and I’m not going to harm anyone,” Celine replied in exasperation. “The only thing I want to succeed at is going home.”

“Aye? Then let us drink to that.” He stood suddenly, the force of the movement pushing his massive chair back several inches. The whispers of conversation in the hall instantly fell to a hush.