Forever His(95)

He made a vague gesture with his free hand. “Up onto the ledge. Then a leap, then a twist, then a bit of a pull.” He moved his shoulder uncomfortably, mumbling, “I think I may have strained an old wound.”

Celine bit her bottom lip to stifle a groan. “And did you have any plan for getting back down?” she asked, trying to remain calm.

He slanted her a glance, his head tilted to one side, his tousled hair falling over one eye. “You sound worried, she. Are you worried?”

Celine didn’t know why she was being called “she,” but she didn’t care at the moment. “I just don’t want you to break your neck—if you don’t drown in the moat first!”

She shouldn’t have said that, because it made him look down at the moat. Which made him lose his balance. She covered her mouth with both hands, too horrified even to scream, seeing it in slow motion as he started to slide.

He recovered almost instantly, probably more from the instincts of a lifetime of training than from any conscious thought. Regaining his precarious seat, he gave her a reckless grin. “You are right, she. This may be dangerous.”

Shaking, Celine slowly lowered her bloodless fingers. “Gaston, don’t move. Please don’t move. Stay right there. I’m going to get some help.”

“Nay, do not leave, little wife. I will come down if you are so concerned.”

“No!”

But even as she shouted it at him, he was already moving, sliding down the side of the roof with all the caution of a kid in a playground, only to stop himself on the decorative, upswept edge with his booted heels. He tossed her his last remaining flask as he swung into a movement—so quick she couldn’t see it—that involved grabbing the roof and twisting himself into a midair somersault.

She didn’t realize she had shut her eyes until she opened them, as soon as she heard the solid sound of his boots hitting the tile floor inside his terrace. He stumbled but straightened, then negligently rested one hip against the wide stone railing, not even breathing hard. Still wearing that cocky grin, he held out his hand. “May I have my flask back?”

Celine slumped against the nearest arch, hiding her face in the crook of her arm, unable to speak. Even drunk, he had the physical ease of an athlete. Thank God.

“Wife?”

“No, you may not have your flask back,” she choked out, though she was tempted to aim it straight at his reckless, unthinking head.

“But my shoulder hurts,” he grumbled. “Did you not once tell me that wine is most effective on wounds?”

“Not on old wounds. And drinking it doesn’t do anything for you.” She lifted her head and gave him a glare. “Except turn you into a daredevil lunatic.”

He frowned, his eyes glassy, his lids half drooping. “I have suffered all the female deef ... defli ... deli ...” His tongue stumbled over the word until he finally got it out. “Defiance that I mean to brook for one day. If you will not give it, I shall come and take it.”

“Oh, no, you don’t, buster.” Celine whirled to go inside. “I’m going to lock my door right now.”

It took her one second too long to understand his meaning.

From the corner of her eye as she turned, she saw him backing up to jump from his terrace to hers.

“Oh, my God!” She spun toward him, flinging the flask away as she raised both hands. “No, don’t!”

Her plea was about as effective as shouting at an oncoming train. She heard the flask splash into the moat as she saw him making a running vault with awful clarity: two quick steps, then his hand coming down hard on the railing, lifting him over with enough force, she hoped—enough speed, she prayed—to let him clear the distance. It seemed he hung suspended in the air for an instant that felt like all eternity.

Then some miracle brought him through the wide arch on her side without cracking his head on the stone. He landed in a running, staggering crash that plowed straight into her and carried them both into the wall.

The impact knocked from her what little breath was left in her lungs. His weight crushing her, she couldn’t draw in enough air to shout and curse at him as she wanted to. She could only grab onto him, barely able to believe that he was still in one piece, her fingers grasping handfuls of his tunic as she buried her face against his chest with a sob.

His arms went around her and he pulled her close, laughing into her hair. “You are trembling, wife. And you dropped my flask into the moat.”

She stopped hugging him and tried to push him away, shoving at his chest. “You lunatic! You reckless maniac!” She pummeled at him with her fists. “You could have killed yourself! You could have—mmphh.”