Free Forever His by Shelly Thacker Page B

like hours. Gaston slouched in a huge carved chair next to hers, satisfying his apparently ravenous appetite, occasionally glowering at her over the edge of his battered metal goblet.
    She mostly kept her eyes on her trencher, thinking about what the King had said before he departed. His Majesty had left for Paris after wolfing down only a few mouthfuls of food, offering one last warning to the newlyweds: they were to do no harm to each other, “lest the offending parties forfeit their holdings.”
    Celine wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but it sounded ominous. Do no harm?
    She darted a nervous glance at Gaston.
    He was tearing into his partridge, using his knife and bare hands to rip it to pieces with quick, brutal efficiency.
    A shudder ran through her. He wouldn’t actually harm her, would he? A few hours ago, she hadn’t thought so ... but as she watched him make short work of that poor little bird, his blade flashing in the firelight, she again questioned her sanity in agreeing to this marriage.
    But it was too late for second thoughts.
    Swallowing hard, she turned her gaze to the people sitting at trestle tables arrayed below the dais. They ate with their fingers or knives, wiping their hands on the tablecloths. Forks apparently had yet to be invented. Huge, wolfish-looking hounds wandered among the tables, snarling over scraps, bones, and other refuse that littered the rushes.
    The noise of slobbering, fighting dogs killed whatever was left of Celine’s appetite. She tore off a corner of her trencher, squishing it between her thumb and forefinger into a little cube. As she toyed with her food, she became aware of the stray glances and whispers being cast her way. It looked like she was the main topic of interest among the velvet-garbed guests.
    They were no doubt discussing her unusual height, her odd accent, the way she had stumbled through her vows during the wedding ceremony, her decidedly un-nunlike attitude. All of it seemed to be explained away by other guests, however, with knowing looks and a single mouthed word: “Aragon.”
    Wherever it was, Aragon was apparently as distant and foreign as Borneo to these people.
    Or about as distant and foreign as this place was to her.
    She couldn’t help wondering whether the awful food was intended to make her feel unwelcome, like the faded yellow dress and scarlet shoes she wore.
    Celine dropped her gaze to her lap, feeling heat prickling at the back of her eyes. What if she were stuck here? What if she couldn’t get home?
    What if she didn’t live long enough to get home?
    In that moment, she would’ve given anything to hear her mother call her “darling, darling.” To have Jackie tease her. To be smothered by parental lectures about her impulsive, flighty ways. Would she ever see them again? They must be frantic over her sudden disappearance. By now they probably had the CIA, the FBI, Interpol, and the French Sûreté all out searching.
    But the best cops in the world wouldn’t be able to track her down here. There wasn’t going to be any daring rescue. Not unless she rescued herself.
    Blinking back the tears, she sat up straighter. She couldn’t allow herself the luxury of getting depressed. She had to focus on making it through this and going home. It was a race against time—and she had no idea how much time she had. How many days or weeks before the bullet fragment in her back shifted enough to kill her.
    But she knew the clock was ticking.
    “Our wedding feast is not to your liking, my lady wife?”
    Startled by Gaston’s low voice, Celine dropped the piece of bread she had been toying with. She turned a wary glance on him. “The food is ... not what I’m used to,” she whispered, mindful of how her voice carried.
    He stabbed the little partridge again and ate a chunk of meat from the tip of his knife. “You were accustomed to finer fare at your convent in Aragon?” he asked with a skeptically raised eyebrow, chewing.
    She hesitated,