Their father might still be alive.
It was a mistake to feel passion for one female above all others. A lethal mistake. Gerard’s death was proof enough of that.
Gaston sat on the bed, running a hand through his hair. He must rid himself of this foolish desire. Rid himself of Christiane. She was Tourelle’s ward, for God’s sake. Sent here to do exactly what she was doing. Trick him. Lure him in. Seduce him.
He must have an annulment and marry Lady Rosalind de Brissot as soon as possible. Not just for himself, but to protect his people. The three chateaux that were now his had too great a distance between them. Separated, they were vulnerable—to Tourelle, to the simmering Flemish, to any marauding rogue who happened along. Only when he had united his holdings with the de Brissot lands that lay between could he hope to stand strong and defend them against all threats.
But first, he must rid himself of Christiane.
Gaston barely heard the whisper of the door opening.
She didn’t knock. Bold little wench. One moment he was alone, and the next she was there—standing in the portal, holding a basin and soap and several lengths of linen. And a wine flask. She kept her gaze meekly lowered, but every inch of her body was taut—whether with anger, defiance, or some other emotion he could not tell.
He cursed himself silently. It had been an impulsive move, ordering her here. Witless. He had thought to prove—to her, to them both—that he was the one in command of this situation. That his reason ruled his passions. That no woman could make him lose control of his desire, least of all her.
Only now did he realize just how unwise it was to be alone with her like this. He should send her away.
But doing that would tell her how powerfully she affected him.
When he didn’t speak, she finally lifted her gaze from the basin of water. “I’m here, as you demanded,” she said quietly.
He fixed her with a glare. She didn’t flinch. “Close the door.”
“I don’t know why you would trust me to tend your wound when you won’t even trust me to cook—”
“Close the door.”
She finally obeyed. Her hand was shaking.
His heart was beating fast, unsteady.
He purposely deepened his breathing to slow its pace. Here and now and henceforth, he was going to prove that he was a warrior first and a man second, and always would be.
“I ordered you here because I would speak with you alone, wife.” Casually, he leaned back and rested his weight on one elbow. The bed ropes creaked beneath him. “I do not trust you, but the wound is not deep and you know the King’s warning as well as I. If aught befalls me, your lord will forfeit all he owns.”
She set the basin on a table beside the bed, not looking at him. “You can hardly blame me for an injury you suffered while ... while wenching.”
In truth, he could. Better, though, to let her believe Royce’s vivid tale. “The pain is but a small price to pay for the pleasure the lady gave me.” He smiled, his most wicked grin. “And though that fault was not yours, if any ill befalls me now, because of your care, Tourelle will pay the price.”
“I’m not in on any plot with Tourelle,” she said with an irritated shake of her head.
Gaston had stopped paying attention to what she said. God’s blood, she was beautiful. A breath of spring all garbed in green, warming his winter-cold chamber. She looked like an exceptionally brilliant bird that had fluttered in by mistake. She made the room look colorless by comparison, even the bright-hued silks that hung on the bed, embroidered with his crest.
It was the first time she had been in his bedchamber. This close, he could even catch her scent: lavender and thyme and roses—
Damn and damn and damn. He willed the awareness away.
Wetting a strip of linen, she rubbed it with the soap and turned to face him at last. “I suppose it was too much to hope that a few days away would improve your mood.”
“My mood will improve only when you are gone. That is why I ordered you here. Tell me, have you had time to reconsider your treacherous ways? Will you go before the King and admit the truth?”
Christiane raised her hands in a gesture of pure exasperation. “No, I can’t. I couldn’t four days ago, I can’t now, and I won’t be able to the next time you ask me, or next week, or ever.”
“That is unfortunate. For you.” He leveled a cool gaze on her. “I will be rid of you, Christiane. Soon.”
“Believe me, I’m counting the days.” She said it with such vehemence, it sounded like the truth.
“You make no sense, woman. If you wish to be gone, why will you not cooperate?”
“Because I can’t. I’m sorry if that doesn’t make sense, but I ...” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Look, do you want me to tend your wound or not? This argument is never going to get us anywhere.”