“I have taken care of that,” Tourelle insisted mysteriously. “Do not worry about the King’s order. You have only to manage your part.”
“But how do you intend to actually kill him?” she prodded carefully. “Are you going to try and make it look like an accident? Even if you—”
“The less you know of that, my sweet, the better for you.” He stepped closer and gave her a hug of reassurance that made Celine feel sick. He obviously wasn’t going to reveal any of the most important details to her.
Setting her away from him, he tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. “Keep your attention on your own task, Christiane. It seems you have made at least some progress already—Varennes’s people have told us how intelligent and kind you are. You have done an excellent job of making them drop their guard and accept you as one of their own. You will not be a suspect.”
Celine’s stomach turned. Her mouth felt dry. He clearly had this all planned out, and she had unwittingly played right into his hands.
“But what if my part ... fails?”
It was one last hope. If she never made love with Gaston, Tourelle would find no profit in killing him.
The Duc smiled, and somehow there was more threat in that smile than if he had fastened his hands around her throat and squeezed.
“Ah, but you will not fail, my dear. Or has your memory loss made you forget what I told you before? About the Moorish traders who deal in women? They would pay well for a pale beauty such as you, a virgin fresh from the convent. Do you wish to spend the rest of your days as the amusement of some Saracen desert lord ... or as the wealthy widow of Sir Gaston de Varennes?”
Celine pulled away and turned her back quickly, hoping he couldn’t see the color draining from her cheeks. “I understand.”
That was an understatement. She had judged her ancestor too quickly. A threat like that, used against an innocent, convent-bred girl ... poor Christiane had been forced into this.
“Excellent, my dear.” Tourelle stroked her hair, as if he were caressing a favorite pet. “I shall return home at once, then, and leave you to your task. My chateau is but a few hours’ ride from here—in case you do not remember.” He started for the door. “I will expect to receive a missive from you before a se’nnight is past, Christiane. Send it with one of the nuns. Send word that you have succeeded in bedding your husband.”
***
The cold gray of dawn chilled the air as Gaston stood leaning against one of the trees in his apricot grove, casting blistering mental curses upon whatever cruel trick of fate had thrown Christiane into his lap.
He had spoken to Royce and Marcel, and their report was not heartening. They had not been able to find any proof of Tourelle’s plans. The Duc had apparently been looking for Christiane, exactly as he had claimed. After following him for days, they had finally confronted him and brought him to the chateau.
They had no proof. No evidence. Which left Gaston exactly where he had started: trapped in this marriage, shackled to one of the most incredibly treacherous women he had ever had the misfortune to meet.
When he thought of the way she had so easily confused him, cloaked herself in lies, planted small clues here and there to mislead him, almost made him believe. Made him want to believe. Made him want her. God’s blood, she had come so close to succeeding.
But which was better? To mistakenly believe that she was a woman from seven hundred years in the future, intent on leaving him and returning to her own time?
Or to know the truth, that she was in fact Tourelle’s ward, intent on seducing him?
Neither alternative eased the churning pain that knotted his gut.
He looked up through the barren branches that scraped the iron-gray sky. He was not sure what had drawn him out here in the dead of winter. The trees were barely taller than he was. He was probably killing this one just by leaning on it.
He glanced down at the snow, remembering how hard he had laughed when Gerard had ridden up with the cartful of tiny saplings, just after Gaston had taken possession of this castle. What was a knight doing with that collection of sickly-looking sticks? he had chortled.
His elder brother explained that he had brought the apricot trees back from Crusade and wanted to give them to his brother as a gift. Tending an orchard was a true nobleman’s calling, Gerard had said, and Gaston was a true nobleman, now that he finally had a castle of his own.
A true nobleman. The words had cut Gaston’s laughter short, made his throat tighten even now. Gerard had never known exactly how he had taken possession of this castle. How he had won it in a tournament, by cheating. With the help of a potion dropped in his opponent’s drinking water. He had unhorsed the poor fool quickly, and claimed this prize.