Forever His(26)

And he did not know if it was true.

He knew only that he had no choice. Most of what his father and brother had worked for was now his, and soon he would reclaim the rest. And avenge them both.

‘Twas a cruel trick, to have battled for so long, gained so much, come so close to having the justice he sought—only to be forced into marrying a wench who could undo it all. A minion of his enemy. A she-cat in the guise of an “innocent” novice, sent to sink her claws into him and then end his life when he expected it least.

He smiled humorlessly as he gazed down into the goblet. Fate, it seemed, would not allow him to set aside his weapons. Not now. Mayhap not ever. He must keep fighting ... and truth be told, he was tired of battle. Bone-weary tired. A pox on his fierce reputation. He had planned to spend this time of his life strengthening his holdings, learning to tend to his lands, making sons, and watching them grow tall and strong. After a lifetime of destroying, he had looked forward to discovering what it was to build, to create.

Never had he imagined spending his wedding night this way.

Were it Lady Rosalind who wore his ring, he would be getting himself an heir even now.

But as he looked down into the cup, watching the wash of gold over silver, he frowned, perplexed. For it was not a fantasy of gentle Rosalind’s petite form in his bed that tormented him.

His thoughts were filled instead with the shimmer of a strange, topaz-colored garment, lace and silk as liquid as the ale, immodest and enticing over curves generous enough to stir a man to recklessness. He could not banish the image of flashing bright eyes, rich with unusual color—not quite blue, not quite gray, like a stormy clash of clouds and sea. A sweep of silky, short red hair. A chin lifted high with pride and defiance.

Defiance. Saints’ breath, but that confounded him. Never in his life had he met with such complete resistance to all his skills of persuasion and will. She had not offered a word of protest when he took the outrageous step of declaring her a servant—but there had been an unmistakable spark in her eyes. It went beyond stubbornness or disobedience.

She had looked at him, not with anger or hatred as he might have expected, but with ... disapproval. Disappointment.

He suddenly tossed the cup aside, sending it clattering across the scarred oak table. The devil take her. And her overlord as well. The sooner he had done with her, the better.

A tentative knock sounded at the door.

“Come,” Gaston commanded, straightening, half expecting his wife, mayhap come to use a few midnight wiles to try to win some mercy from him.

Instead it was Royce Saint-Michel, the captain of his guard.

“Milord? I was unsure you would still be awake.” The tall, dark-haired man stepped inside and closed the portal behind him, stamping his feet and brushing snow from his broad shoulders. He so resembled Gaston that they were sometimes mistaken for brothers.

Gaston waved him to a seat, oddly disappointed that he would not face another duel of wills with Christiane. “I wished to hear of your search before I slept. But it would seem from your expression that we shall find more answers in our cups this night than you have found in the village.” He slid the flask of mead and an empty chalice across the table.

“Aye.” Royce settled his large frame on the opposite bench, unfastening the silver clasp of his sable-lined mantle and letting the garment fall to the floor. He picked up the flask with a nod that was equal parts fatigue and gratitude. “I fear I have naught but mysteries to report.”

That gave Gaston a sinking feeling in his gut, but he allowed his friend a moment to thaw and pour a drink before explaining his comment.

As Royce filled his cup, the Spanish blade at his waist and the silver-embroidered gauntlets he wore flashed in the firelight. The younger man was a commoner, and had no right to wear either weapons or finery, but he had “obtained” much of both in Castile, Navarre, and less-savory places during two years of his life that he never discussed. He rarely spoke of his past at all, though he had mentioned once that he had been born in the mountains along France’s eastern border—which explained his almost unnatural affinity for snow and ice.

Whatever he had once been, Saint-Michel clearly had not spent his youth herding mountain sheep. His talents for battle strategy and blade-skill were almost unmatched. Gaston would never forget watching him talk his way into a tourney, where only those of noble blood were usually allowed to take the field. After seeing this commoner, then just twenty-two, defeat a dozen more experienced barons and vicomtes, he had offered him the highest place in his guards.

“You found no sign of Tourelle anywhere?” Gaston prompted at last.