Forever His(71)

He should not have allowed himself near her at all, but he had been walking through the great hall when he caught the rare, sparkling sound of Christiane’s laughter, and it had drawn him like a thirsting man to a sweet, clear waterfall.

He snuffed the candle beside his bed and let himself fall backward onto the mattress, remembering.

The look of her had captivated him as much as her girlish giggling: her tousled hair, that shining gaze, one of her many hats half tumbled, the ruined gown reflecting the sheer joy she found in cooking. The scene made him smile even now.

It had all been so errantly unladylike ... and so irresistibly charming. For one moment, before she realized he was there, she had truly looked happy.

And what would become of her, this flour-dusted, high-spirited, redheaded little minx of his, when his men returned and their marriage ended?

His smile vanished. He ran a hand through his hair, thinking for the first time of Christiane’s possible fate after all of this was over. More than thinking of it, worrying about it.

It should not matter to him what happened to his enemy’s ward, but he could not deny that it did. At first, he had cared only about getting her out of his life, but now he ...

Now he was ...

Concerned. That was the word. Concerned for her wellbeing. Naught more.

Yet it was a peculiar sort of concern, one he had not felt before, forceful and yet gentle at the same time, and so much a part of him that he could only yield to it.

And it made him question what would become of Christiane. Would Tourelle send her back to the convent in distant Aragon? Gaston did not like to imagine her condemned to that fate. It was hard to believe that Christiane had ever set foot in a convent, much less been raised in one. She bore as much resemblance to a novice nun as he did to a monk.

He could not believe that a woman like her, a passionate woman of such strong will and fierce independence, would willingly return to the quiet, restrictive, celibate life of the cloister.

Which raised a second possibility. Tourelle might marry her to another man.

That thought sent a savage rush of denial through Gaston. He thrust himself off the bed and started pacing, as if he could escape the image he had conjured. The idea of another man touching Christiane, taking her to his bed, claiming her sweet feminine secrets as his own—nay!

But even as that loathsome image hit him like a fist in the gut, another, still worse possibility presented itself.

Tourelle would be furious that she had failed to carry out his plans. Furious enough to punish her. The whoreson might beat her. Or do far worse.

Gaston’s jaw clenched. He would never let that happen.

There was but one answer. She might not be willing to accept the idea yet, but it truly would be best—safest—for her to remain here with him. He would protect her.

Eventually, she would come to see that her naive ideas about men and women and love were naught but imaginings, learned from listening to too many troubadours’ tales. She would leave behind such girlish fancies anon. He had given her the first taste of her true, womanly passions, and she would not be able to resist them for long, any more than he could. And once he was married to Lady Rosalind, there would be no reason for him and Christiane to resist.

She had to stay.

Every fiber of his being resonated with that thought. The sooner she accepted it, the better for them both.

Crossing the chamber in two strides, he yanked open the door and went to inform her of his decision.

***

Nothing was happening.

The feeling of the floor slipping out from beneath her feet lasted less than a second.

Celine opened her eyes, trembling with the beginnings of fear.

She hadn’t moved one inch, much less seven centuries. Clammy fingers of stark terror closed around her throat.

Why had it suddenly stopped working? What was going wrong?

Her heart started pumping wildly. What was she doing wrong? The dazzling moonlight still bathed her, the eclipse was clear, the time was right, her clothes, her thoughts. Why had the feeling of movement stopped?

This had to work! It was her only chance to get home. Her only chance before the bullet fragment in her back ...

“Oh, please,” she cried, reaching out to touch the glass, staring up into the blinding white light. “Oh, God, please!”

The window remained as solid as the rush-strewn stone floor beneath her. She grasped the stone sill with both hands, pleading with every ounce of her heart and soul for this to work. Whispering a prayer, she squeezed her eyes shut, desperately hoping she would open them to find herself in 1993.

But she didn’t. When she opened her eyes, she remained solidly, undeniably, in 1300.

A dizzy rush of nausea swept over her. She felt like she was going to be sick, or faint, or burst into tears. She refused to let herself slump to the floor. She couldn’t panic. She could not panic! She clung to the sill and to one fact: she would have another chance, in three months.