Free Forever His by Shelly Thacker Page A

“obedience.”
    She grated it out and told herself it didn’t matter, that this was a temporary arrangement and she wasn’t really Christiane so it didn’t really count.
    The next thing she knew, Gaston was taking her left hand and slipping a ring on her finger. The gold band felt hot from being held in his hand. Her skin tingled with sensitivity where he had touched her for even that brief second. The weight of the ring seemed awkward and unfamiliar. Heavy.
    The mass went on endlessly, until her entire body ached with stiffness and she was sure her knees had rubbed permanent hollows in the stone floor. Everyone in the chapel was joining in a responsive prayer when a harsh whisper from Gaston startled her.
    “You have not won yet.”
    “What?” she whispered back.
    Not moving his head, he slanted her a steely glance. “You and Tourelle have not won yet. I promise you, wench, you will regret your part in this if you do not cooperate with me. I mean to have done with you anon and I will marry Lady Rosalind.”
    The name arrowed straight into Celine’s memory. Lady Rosalind.
    Lady R.
    The woman whose initial he would someday carve with his above the chateau doors. Celine surprised herself by whispering her thoughts aloud. “The woman you love.”
    “Love?” he replied scathingly. “Love is a weakness for fools who know no better. Whatever I may feel for Rosalind, it is certain what I feel for you . Contempt.”
    Whether it was something in his voice or something in her, Celine felt another unexpected emotion welling up from the tangled knot inside her. Jealousy. “As if you’re Sir Perfect,” she muttered under her breath. “If you’re so chivalrous and devoted, what were you doing seducing some unknown woman last night?”
    “You will find I take my pleasure where I will—a habit which I have no intention of changing. Ever.”
    “Fine. I don’t care. It will keep you away from me,”
    “On that we are agreed. I intend to apply for an annulment with haste. And you, my deceitful little wife, will help me obtain it. If you do not, I vow that you will discover for yourself why some call me Blackheart.”
    Before Celine could reply, the priest cleared his throat.
    Only then did she realize the prayer had ended. Everyone must have overheard the last part of their conversation. Her face burned.
    “Sir Gaston,” the priest repeated patiently, shifting to French. “You have been pronounced man and wife. It is time to kiss the bride, to seal your vow.”
    Gaston turned her to face him, his dark eyes blazing, his fingers burning right through the worn velvet of her yellow gown. As his mouth brushed over hers, Celine couldn’t help the quick clenching of her heart, the heat swirling through her, or the uncomfortable question flitting through her mind.
    Which vow?

Chapter 4
    T his wasn’t exactly the kind of medieval pageantry she had always imagined.
    Celine felt queasy as she stared down into the plate before her—a “trencher,” everyone called it. A square, stale piece of bread that soaked up juices from the chunk of half-charred meat a servant had plunked on it. Beside it sat a bowl of thin soup with bits of something unidentifiable floating on top, and a platter with two partridges, roasted whole.
    At least she thought they were partridges. She didn’t want to guess what other sort of birds they might be.
    The greasy smells alone were enough to make her stomach clench, never mind the tense, stultifying silence that held the room captive.
    The great hall overflowed with people celebrating the wedding feast, but only the occasional clink of a knife on a metal platter, the splash of more wine being poured, or a hushed request for salt broke the tomblike quiet. The hearth crackling at her back was the loudest sound in the chamber—and the only warmth.
    Celine and her new husband —she had to force herself  even to think the word—had been sitting beside each other on a dais, not speaking, for what felt