He was not certain how the conversation had gotten diverted from the very pleasant subject of her becoming his mistress to the unpleasant annoyance of her incredible tales, but he flicked a glance out the window to placate her.
Then he turned toward it more fully, staring into the light with an uncomfortable clench of his heart.
There was indeed a dark of the moon as she had said, a small slice of black obscuring the silver disk. His gaze narrowed.
Even as all reason denied what she had said, he found himself glancing back at her, studying her strange garment ... looking down at the crumpled note of farewell he had dropped on the floor.
“It’s true,” she told him again with quiet insistence. “I’m from 1993.”
He shook his head, fighting it, but at the same time a trace of uncertainty began to take hold. He thought of all he had witnessed: the way she had appeared so suddenly in his bed; the fact that Royce and his men could find no trace of how she had entered the castle; her short hair when she was so obviously not a novice nun; her strange ways and knowledge; the devices she had invented; her meeting with the mystic woman in the forest; her presence here tonight in this chamber; the fact that she did not know of a game so common as tables ...
None of it made sense.
Unless she was telling the truth.
The facts added up to an utterly impossible conclusion. If he were to depend on his powers of logic and reason, as he had all his life ...
I have to go home or I’m going to die.
Nay, it could not be true!
“You’ve got to believe me,” she said stubbornly. “I came here tonight to go home. I put on this outfit because I have to go back the same way I came in. I can’t take anything from your time with me. Brynna—the mystic woman—explained it to me. And ... and look at that.”
She pointed to the trunk she had pushed from beneath the window. A gold ring gleamed on top of it.
“I even took off the wedding band you gave me because I couldn’t take it with me.”
He stared down at the band of gold, then lifted his gaze to hers, slowly, still not willing to believe it.
Not wanting to believe it.
He opened his mouth, but before be could say a word, a cry of alarm out in the corridor cut him short: the sound of someone calling his name.
“Conceal yourself,” Gaston said curtly as he went to the door. When she was hidden in the shadows, he stuck his head out into the hall. “You there! Hold!”
Etienne, who was halfway down the hall and heading for the spiral stairs, turned around with a jerk. “Milord! I was sent to find you, but you were not in your chamber,” he said breathlessly. “Captain Royce and his men have returned, sir—and they have the Duc de la Tourelle and his traveling party with them.”
“Excellent. Tell Royce to make our guest comfortable. I will join you below in a moment.” The news sent a shot of satisfaction through Gaston. At last, he would have this resolved. He closed the door and turned to inform Celine, but she was already hurrying toward him.
“They’re finally here?” she asked excitedly.
“Aye.” He eyed her warily, still unable to sort out all she had told him. “Why does that please you?”
“Because now you’ll finally meet the real Christiane! And you’ll have to believe me!” She rushed past him as if she were going to run right out the door.
He caught her, hooking a finger in the back of her silk garment. “Not so quickly, my headstrong lady. You are not going below garbed in that. In fact, you are not going below at all. You will stay in your chamber until I summon you.”
“But—”
“Do not argue with me. I will not risk letting Tourelle within ten yards of you until I talk to my men and have the truth of his plans.”
Not giving her time for further protest, he escorted her down the hall to her room and sent her inside, unable to resist a solid, possessive little pat on her derriere. She called him something most unladylike as he closed the door, and he went below with a grin. He rather liked her unladylike ways.
He entered the great hall to discover a noisy crowd of his guards, unfamiliar knights, and nuns in their black habits, all of whom were talking at once.
“Sir!” one of his men shouted gratefully from amid the melee. “We could not find you—”
“You will not believe this, milord.” Royce appeared at his side, still wearing his travel garb and looking as if he had endured a hard ride. “Nor will you like it—”
“You will pay for this, Blackheart!” That was shouted above all the clamor, and Gaston recognized the voice, though he had not heard it in months. He turned to find Tourelle, his arms held by two of Gaston’s men, an ugly sneer on his face. “You will pay for your treacherous misdeed with your lands and your life!”