Forever His(79)

She looked at him again, silently begging him to believe her, to help her.

In return she got only that stoic stare.

His eyes condemned her as a liar. A cunning, skillful liar. The cool contempt in his dark gaze hurt worse than any words, worse than a physical blow. It ripped through her with the same agony and numbing shock as the bullet she had been shot with so long ago. Whatever tiny, fragile spark of trust and caring he might have felt for her was gone.

Gone.

Snuffed out. Destroyed before it had ever had a chance to burn a little brighter and cast even a small light into the black shadows that cloaked his heart.

He stood there, judged her, and found her guilty. He looked at her the same way he had when she first arrived here.

As an enemy.

A sound of pain escaped Celine’s lips. One of the nuns put an arm around her. “You are overwrought, poor lamb.”

“Aye, it would appear you are suffering some strange brain-fever,” Tourelle concurred in that same patronizing, infuriating tone everyone else was using. He stroked her short hair. “But you are most definitely my ward, Christiane. It is true that I do not understand how you came to be here so quickly, though. Do you not remember?”

Celine hung her head, looking at the rush-strewn floor, feeling all the staggering events of the past few hours crushing down on her. The eclipse had failed, Christiane had disappeared into the future, and now she herself was trapped in the past. Trapped in the identity of her ancestor. Trapped in a marriage with a man who looked at her like he hated her.

And she might never be able to get home.

A choking wave of defeat and despair rose in her throat. “No, I can’t,” she whispered. “God help me, I can’t explain what’s happening to me.” She covered her face with her hands.

At the first sign of tears, she was instantly surrounded again by clucking nuns, who patted her cheeks and offered comfort.

“You must be honest with us, my dear,” Tourelle said quietly. “Has Varennes hurt you in any way?”

Had he hurt her?

Celine was so racked with pain that she couldn’t even speak.

But she knew that wasn’t the kind of hurt Tourelle meant, and she would not give him any ammunition to use against Gaston. She shook her head silently.

“There is no shame in admitting the truth,” Tourelle urged. “The fault would not be yours. He claims he has not forced himself on you, or bedded you even once. Is that true?”

The nuns made little exclamations of shock at the question. Celine simply raised her tear-streaked face, looking at her husband. “He told you the truth,” she said softly. “Our marriage has been nothing.” Her voice broke. “Nothing but a mistake.”

Tourelle put his arm around her, tucking her close and turning her away from Gaston. “I would speak with her in private, Varennes,” he said over his shoulder. “To be certain that my ward is not merely saying what you have instructed her to say, out of fear of you.”

“She is no longer your ward,” Gaston said, finally breaking his stony silence. “She is my wife.”

Celine stiffened at the taunting edge in his voice. He wasn’t claiming her as his own; he was getting in a dig at Tourelle.

“That,” Tourelle snapped, “is a temporary situation which will soon be remedied.”

“Indeed. Temporary,” Gaston agreed with a humorless laugh.

It tore at what small shreds were left of Celine’s heart.

“Will you allow me to speak with her or nay?”

“By all means,” Gaston replied casually. “Speak to her in private. Visit with her as long as you wish. I am certain the two of you have much to discuss. Your long journey here. The weather. Plans for seduction and murder.”

Tourelle’s arm tightened around Celine. “You are mad, Varennes, if you think this sweet innocent would partake in such treachery. But then, that is what you have always been—a mad barbarian. Completely lacking in honor. As you always shall be.”

Gaston didn’t respond to the gibe. “Etienne, escort them to my solar and post yourself outside the door. Make certain that the good and honorable Duc does not raise a hand against my wife. Royce, Marcel, I would speak with you.”

Without so much its one word to her, not one word, he turned and stalked away with his men.

Celine listened to them go, feeling a pall of desolation settle over her as their boot steps rang through the hall. Now she would never be able to convince Gaston she wasn’t plotting with Tourelle. Or that she was from 1993. Or that he must let her go meet with Brynna again. Oh, God help her ... was she ever going to be able to get home?

Or was she going to die here?

She wanted to curl up into a ball and sob out all the shock and hopelessness she felt, but Tourelle had taken a firm grip on her elbow and was leading her off to the solar, following Etienne. A sharp word stopped the nuns when they started to tag along.