Forever His(47)

Celine shuddered and squeezed her eyes shut, wishing it were equally simple to shut out the vivid memories.

Never in her life had she felt anything so ... so sudden and powerful. Uncontrollable. Logic, reality, the awful things they had shouted at each other, the fact that their marriage was a sham—all of it had gone sailing straight out the window. She had not only returned his kiss, she had practically swooned. Felt a rising rush of irresistible pleasure. Wanted more.

Oh, that was the most mortifying part of it. When he had shoved her away, all she could do was stand there shivering, blinking at him like a fool, shocked by what he had done—and disappointed that he had stopped.

And he had glared at her with hostility in his eyes. Like she had planned it. Like she was the one who had grabbed him. Like the entire thing was her fault!

Infuriating macho chauvinist swine. She should have said that. Shouted it at him. Instead she had run away, mute and frightened as a deer faced with a double-barreled shotgun.

She couldn’t understand why he had kissed her. But now that she was alone and clearheaded and could think rationally, she had to admit one inescapable fact: she had developed some kind of intense ... attraction to her maddening husband. That wasn’t even the right word. A connection? A bond? She didn’t have a word to describe what she was feeling.

Maybe it was simply because he was so damn male. She was used to the twentieth-century variety of the species—most of them polite and well-behaved and occasionally even sensitive. Gaston was none of those things. He was blunt and commanding and relentless in pursuing what he wanted. An unrepentant scoundrel who loved hunting, fighting, women, and a good strong drink. Not necessarily in that order.

One-hundred-percent virile, unrefined male.

Even as the sensible part of her found those qualities primitive and alarming, some other, deeper part of her was responding to them. To him. In a way she had never experienced before. Something about Gaston brought all of her senses alive—and engaged every emotion she had, from outrage to concern to desire to ...

She stopped herself before she could name any other feelings she might be developing for him. All she knew was that from the moment she had met Gaston, she had felt more ... alive than she had in a very long time.

And after that kiss two days ago, if he hadn’t shouted at her to leave, if he had instead taken that single step toward her and swept her into his arms again, she wouldn’t have objected.

She would have given in.

To his kiss—and more.

He had sworn he wouldn’t consummate their vows, but he had never made any promises about kissing. Or anything else. Exactly how far might he go before it was considered consummation?

Celine sat up suddenly, getting out of bed. Tossing the blankets aside, she sent her kitten tumbling into the rushes.

“Oops, I’m sorry, Groucho.” She scooped him up and settled him back in his favorite spot. “I haven’t exactly been the best company these past couple of days, have I?” She scratched the bridge of his nose, but he would have none of it. With a lion-size yawn, he hopped across the covers, down the side of the bed, and rustled through the rushes until he reached the hearth.

Celine sighed, trying to calm her jangled nerves as she watched him. Little Groucho had been her only companion since she had been shut in her room. Yolande had brought him up from the great hall that first day, just after Royce had posted himself outside the door.

The odd thing was, Yolande had said it was Gaston who had ordered Celine’s pet brought to her room.

Another unexpected act of kindness.

Shaking her head, she went to the small table in the corner and poured herself a cup of water. Couldn’t the man be even a little predictable? Just when she was convinced that he was completely unfeeling and impossible, he had to go and do something thoughtful.

Little wonder that she was feeling so confused and off-balance. And exhausted. What she needed, desperately, was a good night’s sleep. She climbed back into bed and huddled under the covers.

She also needed to start thinking rationally here. To keep one essential fact in mind: Gaston was a womanizing cad. The sort who could tumble tavern wenches, then brag about it publicly. If she were looking for a playboy or a one-night-stand kind of guy, there were plenty of them back in the twentieth century.

The worst part was, she sensed he had boasted about his conquest only to hurt her.

And it worked.

Every time she thought of him in bed with the tavern girl—Celine pictured a toothy blonde with a buxom figure and a mug of ale in each hand—she felt a sharp ache, right in the pit of her stomach. To imagine him weaving that masterful sensual spell over another woman, kissing someone else the way he had kissed her, using his mouth and body and hands, making love ...