Stolen it.
Gerard had never questioned. He had simply insisted that his younger brother take the trees, and Gaston had accepted, telling himself they would probably not survive the winter.
But somehow they had. Somehow they still did, every year.
Two years ago, he had given in and started tending them. Not because he felt any noble calling, he had told himself, but because he liked sweets. Dried apricots in the winter were a—
“Gaston?”
The feminine query from behind him cut through his thoughts like a knife. A knife in his back.
He did not turn to look at her. “It is unwise for you to be here with me, wife.”
She came closer. “Etienne told me you were out here. I know you may not believe—”
“Aye, there you have the truth of it, Christiane. I may never again believe a word you say. Tell me, what did you and Tourelle decide upon? Poison? That would be easy enough to disguise in one of the odd dishes you cook. Or mayhap you chose a less cowardly method. A quick blade at my throat some night? Nay, too difficult to disguise as an accident. Mayhap a saddle with its cinch loosened just so?”
He spun on his heel, startling her so badly that she stepped back and almost fell.
“But of course,” he continued coldly, “all would be for naught unless you had first lured me to your bed. And that is why it does not matter what method of murder you have chosen. Because your plan will never succeed.”
She stood there staring at him with wide eyes, shivering. She had come outside without a cloak. He set his jaw, cursing himself for noticing her discomfort.
And then she said the last thing he expected.
“Yes, Gaston. That’s exactly what he has ordered me to do. He wants me to seduce you.”
He slanted her a wary glance. “What is it, wife?” He said it like an epithet, the way that always made her wince, as if he hated the very word and all it stood for. “Do you come here to tell me you have developed such affection for me that you cannot carry out your overlord’s fiendish plans?”
“Yes.”
The answer was so simple, and spoken with such feeling, it struck him dumb.
“Yes, that’s what I’ve come here to say,” she went on, slowly, calmly, as though she had given this some thought while rushing outside without her cloak like a reckless little fool. “I know you’ll never believe me now, but I’m exactly who I told you before, Celine Fontaine from 1993. But because Tourelle believes I’m Christiane, I was able to get him to tell me what he’s planning—”
“And you have come straight here to share it with me,” he scoffed.
She didn’t react to his sarcasm. “It’s exactly like you’ve suspected all along. He wants me to trick you into bed so that our marriage will be final and I’ll inherit everything when ... when you ...” Her voice broke and she suddenly took a step toward him, a flood of emotion glistening in her eyes. “He means to kill you, Gaston—”
“What a surprise.”
“Stop being so damned sarcastic! Listen to me. I couldn’t get him to tell me how he plans to kill you. He just insisted that he and I wouldn’t be suspects and that he wasn’t worried about the King’s order. You’ve got to get out of here before something terrible happens to you!”
Gaston glared down at her, his heart beating too hard. She looked so earnest, as if she were truly concerned for him, as if she ...
Nay, he would not be drawn into her web of lies and seduction again. He shook his head, laughing at his own gullibility. “Do you expect me to simply believe all that you say?”
“No. No, I don’t care what you believe anymore. Just save yourself. Get away from here. Away from me. Far away. Until he gives up this stupid plan.”
Suddenly there were tears on her cheeks. Gaston went rigid, hating how easily she made him react to her, fighting the urge to hold and comfort and protect that welled up unbidden. He hated as well the suspicion that had taken hold, upon hearing that Tourelle was not worried about the King’s order.
The good and honorable Duc had one clear way to kill him and appear completely innocent, and it was exactly the sort of thing that whoreson would do.
Kill Christiane as well.
Tourelle could hardly be a suspect if his beloved ward died in the same accident as her husband. And with the last male heir of the Varennes line and his wife out of the way, Tourelle would have the closest right to the Varennes lands—using both the marriage tie and his ancient claim through his mother’s line.
It all flashed through Gaston’s brain in the span of one rapid heartbeat. He nearly took a step toward his wife, driven by the maddening, deepening need to keep her close and safe. He was not sure how he held himself in check. “Christiane, how did—”