Forever His(59)

When he had finished all this, he finally, slowly, turned to look at his wife.

Standing just beyond the edge of the firelight, she trembled like spring’s first flower in the winter wind, her sodden clothes clasped against her, her expression one of pure misery.

It softened something inside him, seeing her so vulnerable. “Come here, Christiane,” he said quietly, holding out his hand.

“My name is Celine.”

“I am not going to argue your lies any further.”

“And I’m not going to answer to someone else’s name anymore,” she said stubbornly, teeth chattering.

Gaston frowned at her defiance. But his first concern at the moment was getting her warm and dry before she caught her death in this frigid air. “Very well. Come here to me ... Celine.”

Instead of the gloating he had expected, she simply nodded in weary gratitude. She came to him, timidly, shivering but trying to look brave.

He felt that odd, tight knot inside him loosen another notch. Sweeping off his cloak, he held it out to her.

“You can’t take that off,” she said, though she looked longingly at the thick lining of silver wolf fur. “You’ll freeze to death without it.”

“I am not the one who decided to take a midnight swim. And I have suffered worse weather than this for days at a time with less to wear.”

“Right. The great warrior. So tough he doesn’t feel anything as mortal as cold or pain or bad weather. How could I forget?”

He stepped toward her, keeping his eyes on hers. “I promise that if I feel I am starting to ‘freeze to death,’ I will take it back,” he lied.

That seemed to placate her. Cheeks red—whether with cold or embarrassment he couldn’t tell—she finally let go of her sodden clothes and hung them on branches near the fire. When she had finished, she did not turn around. She stood with her back to him, as if she could not make herself face him, arms wrapping about herself, firelight dancing over her lush curves.

She went very still when he came up behind her and gently enfolded her in the heavy mantle.

God’s breath, but she felt soft and fragile and slender in his arms. Her body fitted so perfectly against his, the top of her head just brushing his chin. As if she had been made for him, made to fill his arms, in exactly this way. His cloak was so large that it covered her from neck to heels and trailed upon the ground. He wrapped it snugly around her, his heart beating strangely at the small sound of relief and pleasure she made when she felt the fur, still warm from his body heat, against her nakedness.

Lifting her in his arms, he carried her to the fire. She uttered a little gasp of surprise but offered no other protest.

He meant to set her down on the soft bed of evergreens he had made.

Meant to leave her there and sit on the opposite side of the fire.

He truly meant to.

“Gaston,” she muttered tiredly, “it’s really not necessary to keep carting me around like this.”

He settled himself before the fire, sitting cross-legged with the saddle at his back and Christiane sideways in his lap. “Walking in the snow with bare feet will not improve your health.” He held her still when she tried to pull out of his arms. “And neither will getting that cloak wet. It is the last dry garment we have.”

“But I ... I don’t think ... this is a good idea.”

He heard the soft, nervous waver in her voice, heard her feminine awareness of him, and it sent a new flash of desire through his body. “It is warmer,” he pointed out, trying to convince them both that he was acting in a perfectly logical, rational manner. “And the sooner you are warm and dry, the sooner we can return to the castle.”

That made sense. Perfect sense. He tucked the cloak more closely around her and held her against his chest, adding his body heat to healthful qualities of the fur and the fire.

“I guess th-that’s true,” she agreed, still holding herself stiffly.

Neither of them spoke for a long time. After a while the heat seemed to thaw her a bit, for she relaxed against him. Then, with a weary sigh of surrender, as if she were tired of fighting and arguing, or simply tired, she laid her head on his shoulder. In silence, they watched sparks from the fire swirling upward into the night sky.

Slowly, Christiane’s eyes drifted closed.

Glancing down at her, Gaston felt the knot of desire and concern and attraction unravel even more within him. She looked so sweet, so lovely and pale, wrapped in his black cloak, the silver fur tickling her chin, her cheek resting on his shoulder, the gesture one of ... complete, trusting innocence.

Innocence. Was it possible that she truly was innocent, as she said? A helpless pawn caught in a battle between two men?