Celine would have far preferred the hostility they had bestowed on her a few days ago.
Gaston kept staring at her, as if waiting for some kind of reaction. She returned his gaze evenly, forcing down all the crazy emotions tangling inside her with every bit of strength she possessed.
“You are bleeding all over your great hall, milord,” she said coolly. “I suggest you have the wound tended.”
“Then fetch some water and linens, wife.” He spat out the word as if it were poison. “You will tend me in my chamber.”
***
Gaston stalked from his bed to the hearth and back again until he had trampled a path in the rushes that carpeted his chamber. He barely even sensed the pain in his leg. A storm of pure black fury blotted out all else.
Not because of the changes his wife had wrought in his absence, or the outlandish masculine garb she wore, or even the way she had tricked his people into her grasp in a matter of days.
Nay, he felt furious because of the strange little leap his heart had made when he saw her again.
What bothered him even more was that the incident at the tavern hadn’t happened the way he had told it.
He stopped before the hearth, bracing his arms against the stone, hanging his head. He kicked a charred chunk of wood back into the flames.
He had not bedded the tavern wench.
By God’s breath, he had had every intention of doing so, had traded smiles and jests with her half the night, then taken her to his room. It was all a familiar ritual, a sport of seduction that usually ended with him feeling happy and satisfied.
But once alone with her, he had been surprised and annoyed to discover that he felt no real desire for her. At first he had feared there was something wrong with him, something physically wrong. Her kisses had left him cold. He had removed his boots and weapons and started to undress, fully intending to take her to bed, when he had suddenly, inexplicably, changed his mind.
His injury had occurred when he turned a bit too quickly in the darkness, tripped, and cut his leg on his own carelessly placed sword.
That infuriated him more than anything. Never in his life had he been careless with a weapon—but his mind had been such a muddle, filled not with thoughts of the woman who was offering herself to him, but with images of Christiane’s form and face and ...
Fie, but this unwanted bride of his was dangerous! She had seized such a hold on his senses that he had lost interest in other women. Lost control over his own thoughts. He was utterly unable to explain it.
When Royce and his men had arrived on the scene, they had jumped to the wrong conclusion, and Gaston had let their mistaken belief stand. Even now he was unwilling to examine too closely what had happened.
All he knew was that he was ... drawn to Christiane by some force he could not name and had never felt before, in such a way that he found the company of other women unappealing.
The maddening truth of the matter was that he suspected the tavern maid had caught his eye only because she had red hair.
Like his wife.
The wife he must not take to his bed.
He straightened and lurched away from the hearth, prowling to the window, tearing open the shutters. A blast of wintry air poured into the room. He inhaled deeply, welcoming the cold, hoping it would freeze the fire burning in him even now.
The desire that had ignited the instant he laid eyes on Christiane again.
God, the sight of her wearing that outrageous garb—the cloth clinging to her long legs, showing every curve of calf and knee and thigh. He had been parted from her but a few days, yet he had felt like a lost Crusader taking his first draught of water after wandering a foreign desert. Her breasts had seemed more lush than he remembered, the tilt of her chin more proud, those sea-storm eyes—
By nails and blood, this was intolerable! He slammed the shutters closed and turned away, pacing, trying to force the images from his mind.
This was dangerous. Deadly. If she were to discover that she had such a potent effect on him, it could prove the perfect weapon in her hands.
He had to hide these unwanted ... unwanted ...
He searched for the right word, then, finding it, grimaced.
These feelings for her. Bury them beneath a stronghold of defenses.
A sudden, unbidden memory of his brother invaded his thoughts: Gerard and the mad passion he had had for his wife, Avril. The pair had spent every day, every hour, every breath together almost from the moment they had wed. Gerard had called it “love.” A woman’s word. Gaston had recognized it for what it was: an all-consuming desire that had so turned Gerard’s head around that he ...
He had become softened by it. More husband than warrior. He had allowed his fighting edge to be so dulled by his feelings for Avril that he had been less of a knight, that one second when it counted most. Had he been more cautious, more wary, more himself that day at the tournament, he might still be alive.