almost instantly surrounded by men and women rubbing the sleep from their eyes and looking at her with bleary—and decidedly hostile—stares.
“Royce, Marcel,” Gaston said to two of the men as he pushed his way back to her side through the gathering crowd. “Rouse the guards and search the grounds. It seems our friend Tourelle has some scheme in mind, for he sent his beloved Christiane in alone. The cur no doubt lies in wait nearby to see whether his ruse has succeeded. Find him.”
The men hurried off, and others with them. Celine realized with a sinking feeling that the faces of the people surrounding her had become even less friendly. She tried to get her careening mind and wild heartbeat under control. She had to pull herself together. She had to get these people to believe her!
“W-wait a minute,” she said, forcing words past her dry throat at last. “I’m not who you—”
“Save your lies.” Gaston took her arm again. “Mayhap they will amuse the King. Let us see what he thinks of your sudden arrival, my innocent Lady Christiane.” Pulling her with him, he turned and headed toward the rear of the chamber, his people moving aside to clear a path.
A strapping blond teenager ran ahead to open a door on the far side of the hall, near the hearth. Celine’s panic meshed with a fresh wave of shock as the significance of what Gaston had said sank in.
The King?
As in the King of France?
He led her through the door into a side chamber. This one had a smaller fireplace, a large glass window on one side, and two men sitting on stools in front of yet another door. They were dressed differently from everyone else, in white-and-blue velvet tunics. Both were dozing but scrambled to their feet when Gaston entered.
“Milord?” one of them queried. They blinked at her, looking her over from short hair to bare toes with curious expressions.
“My betrothed is arrived,” Gaston said dryly. “And as you might tell from the state of her garb, all is not well. I would speak with the King.”
“Please, please listen to me!” Celine’s voice was as thready as her pulse. She tried to unfasten herself from Gaston’s hold. “I am not your betrothed!”
None of the men paid any attention to her. The guards were obeying Gaston’s request. One opened the door behind their stools and disappeared, while the other shooed out the throng of whispering, uneasy people who were trying to crowd in from the great hall.
When the room was emptied and the door closed, Gaston finally let her go, leaning against a nearby trestle table. He smiled at her, a smile that was predatory, triumphant—and much more unpleasant than the openly hostile stares the people in the hall had given her. Somehow, that one look made her feel more alone and afraid than any of the other mind-numbing blows she had suffered tonight.
“Stop looking at me that way! Please, you don’t understand! I’m not—”
The door on the other side of the chamber suddenly swung open and Celine turned to find herself facing a tall, fair-haired man not much older than Gaston. Only the velvet shirt and leggings he wore set him apart from the rumpled, weary bunch in the hall. His blue eyes narrowed as they fastened on her. “Lady Christiane?”
“Sire, I ask pardon for disturbing you at this hour.” Gaston stepped forward and dropped to one knee. When Celine didn’t move, he yanked her down beside him. “Apparently, my liege,” he continued, slanting her an irritated glance, “this innocent is so unschooled in worldly ways that she does not know enough to bow before her liege.”
“Leave us.” The King motioned curtly to his guards. He kept studying Celine as Gaston rose. She was trembling too hard to get up until the King took her hand and helped her to her feet. “Milady, what strange garb is this you wear?” He turned his gaze to Gaston. “And where is Tourelle?”
“Precisely what I would wish to know, sire,” Gaston said darkly, not giving
“Royce, Marcel,” Gaston said to two of the men as he pushed his way back to her side through the gathering crowd. “Rouse the guards and search the grounds. It seems our friend Tourelle has some scheme in mind, for he sent his beloved Christiane in alone. The cur no doubt lies in wait nearby to see whether his ruse has succeeded. Find him.”
The men hurried off, and others with them. Celine realized with a sinking feeling that the faces of the people surrounding her had become even less friendly. She tried to get her careening mind and wild heartbeat under control. She had to pull herself together. She had to get these people to believe her!
“W-wait a minute,” she said, forcing words past her dry throat at last. “I’m not who you—”
“Save your lies.” Gaston took her arm again. “Mayhap they will amuse the King. Let us see what he thinks of your sudden arrival, my innocent Lady Christiane.” Pulling her with him, he turned and headed toward the rear of the chamber, his people moving aside to clear a path.
A strapping blond teenager ran ahead to open a door on the far side of the hall, near the hearth. Celine’s panic meshed with a fresh wave of shock as the significance of what Gaston had said sank in.
The King?
As in the King of France?
He led her through the door into a side chamber. This one had a smaller fireplace, a large glass window on one side, and two men sitting on stools in front of yet another door. They were dressed differently from everyone else, in white-and-blue velvet tunics. Both were dozing but scrambled to their feet when Gaston entered.
“Milord?” one of them queried. They blinked at her, looking her over from short hair to bare toes with curious expressions.
“My betrothed is arrived,” Gaston said dryly. “And as you might tell from the state of her garb, all is not well. I would speak with the King.”
“Please, please listen to me!” Celine’s voice was as thready as her pulse. She tried to unfasten herself from Gaston’s hold. “I am not your betrothed!”
None of the men paid any attention to her. The guards were obeying Gaston’s request. One opened the door behind their stools and disappeared, while the other shooed out the throng of whispering, uneasy people who were trying to crowd in from the great hall.
When the room was emptied and the door closed, Gaston finally let her go, leaning against a nearby trestle table. He smiled at her, a smile that was predatory, triumphant—and much more unpleasant than the openly hostile stares the people in the hall had given her. Somehow, that one look made her feel more alone and afraid than any of the other mind-numbing blows she had suffered tonight.
“Stop looking at me that way! Please, you don’t understand! I’m not—”
The door on the other side of the chamber suddenly swung open and Celine turned to find herself facing a tall, fair-haired man not much older than Gaston. Only the velvet shirt and leggings he wore set him apart from the rumpled, weary bunch in the hall. His blue eyes narrowed as they fastened on her. “Lady Christiane?”
“Sire, I ask pardon for disturbing you at this hour.” Gaston stepped forward and dropped to one knee. When Celine didn’t move, he yanked her down beside him. “Apparently, my liege,” he continued, slanting her an irritated glance, “this innocent is so unschooled in worldly ways that she does not know enough to bow before her liege.”
“Leave us.” The King motioned curtly to his guards. He kept studying Celine as Gaston rose. She was trembling too hard to get up until the King took her hand and helped her to her feet. “Milady, what strange garb is this you wear?” He turned his gaze to Gaston. “And where is Tourelle?”
“Precisely what I would wish to know, sire,” Gaston said darkly, not giving
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