Suddenly a ray of eclipsing moonlight glanced off the stained glass, showering her in blinding brilliance. The same breathless tingle she had felt on New Year’s Eve swept over her
And then came the dizzying feeling of the floor shifting out from beneath her.
Chapter 13
“Good night, milord. I thank you.” The dark-haired beauty picked up her slippers and delicately covered a yawn as Gaston escorted her out the door of his bedchamber.
“Nay, it is I who thank you, Isabeau.”
“The pleasure was mine, milord.” She smiled shyly. “Though upon our next meeting, I cannot promise to succumb to you so easily. At least not so many times.”
He grinned. “I am sorry if I was ruthless with you tonight. And that I allowed the hour to grow so late. I did not realize I had kept you occupied so long.”
“‘Twas a most pleasant occupation, sir. Whenever you wish another match, please seek me out. This was so much more enjoyable than an evening at my loom.”
“Mayhap I shall.” He nodded absently as he led her through his solar, then bade her farewell at the door that led into the great hall. “Sleep well.”
“I am certain I shall.” She curtsied. “Our games have worn me out completely.”
Gaston closed the solar’s door as she departed, resting his forehead against the smooth wood, shutting his eyes. After a moment, a low groan of pure wretchedness slipped out of him.
Day by day, hour by hour, he was slowly going mad.
No matter how many nights he spent this way, with how many different women, none of it took the edge off his restlessness. He guessed the hour to be near midnight, but he was not even tired.
Straightening, rubbing his hands over his eyes, he walked back into his bedchamber, closing the door behind him. He went to the table before the hearth, picked up the wooden game board, and slid the ivory and black playing pieces back into their leather pouch, along with the dice. It was useless to keep trying to pass the nights this way.
The rounds of tables with pretty company distracted him barely a whit. None of the women raised his interest in the least. In truth, his favorite game merely served to make him agonizingly aware of what he would rather be doing, and with whom.
For three weeks now he had thrown himself into all manner of activities, but he could not wear himself out no matter how he tried. The days he spent at hunting, hawking, sword practice. And the nights ...
The nights were unendurable.
All because of that one night in the forest snows when he had watched his wife blaze so gloriously in his arms.
That reckless encounter had set free a simmering need and an irksome tangle of unwanted feelings that made all the days and nights that had followed pure torment.
To his annoyance, he had discovered that even food and wine had lost their appeal. What he needed was a long, cool draught of Christiane.
He opened the trunk at the foot of his bed and tossed the game board and pouch inside, letting the lid fall with a thwack. Saints’ blood, why did she have to be so damnably stubborn in refusing his offer to stay with him? It was a perfectly reasonable offer. He would take care of her, protect her. She would want for naught.
To think of the passion and pleasure they could share, if only she would relinquish her misguided loyalty to Tourelle and her naive, false notions about love. The image of her in his bed made him want to shout his longing from the parapet of his highest tower.
She was his, by God. His. She belonged to him in a way that had naught to do with kings or vows or laws or so foolish a female notion as love. They were a match, a pair, bound together by a far stronger force, one forged of mutual desire and a potent attraction deeper than any he had ever felt. It was the sort of bond a man could depend upon, unlike something so vague and fleeting as emotion.
And he knew she felt it, too. Her response to his merest touch was proof enough of that.
Why could she not admit it?
She would admit it. She had to. Because their marriage was about to end, within a se’nnight, mayhap less.
He strode around the bed and took off his tunic, forcing himself to prepare for sleep, though he knew it would not come. He had charged his men not only with finding Tourelle, but also with spying on him.
They had orders not to return until they had some evidence of Tourelle’s treacherous plans. That was why they had been gone so long, he knew. As soon as they returned, he would be able to go before the King, present real proof of his enemy’s scheme, and obtain the annulment that would rid him of his unwanted bride.
Unwanted?
Untrue.
Sitting on the mattress, he nudged off his boots. Christiane was most definitely wanted. Not as his wife—but definitely wanted. He could not keep his body from stirring at the merest thought of her. Earlier tonight in the kitchens, he had not allowed himself to take one step toward her or linger longer than a moment, because he knew it could end in only one way: with him taking her into his arms and off to his bed.