Forever His by Shelly Thacker

once.”
    Gaston slanted him a disbelieving glance. “You jest.”
    “Nay, milord. They say she cleared as many trenchers and platters as she could carry, then asked that young Etienne direct her to the kitchens that she might wash them.”
    Gaston almost laughed. “I trust she did not mean to wash the trenchers.” She had more spirit than he had given her credit for. Damn.
    Royce shrugged. “Poor Etienne had no idea whether to bow to his new mistress or correct her. Are you sure it was wise to put him in guard of her?”
    “The lad will stick to her like porridge to a plate.”
    “Aye.” Royce nodded in hearty agreement. “That is what concerns me. He can be a bit of a feather-wit, that one, when it comes to a pretty face.”
    “He must learn to be a man, to let his reason rule his actions, not some foolish passion for a female. It will serve him well to learn at a young age how to manage a woman, beautiful or not. And I doubt she will be so fair after a few days of washing, cutting wood, spinning, fetching water—”
     “Milord, you could make the lady clean stables, and even with straw in her hair and the smell of horses about her, she would yet be fair enough to fell a man with a single glance.” Royce’s grin widened, and he added quickly, “My apologies for my boldness, milord. You said it bothered you not?”
    Gaston was annoyed to find that it did irritate him that Royce had taken such notice of Christiane’s beauty. He covered the unwelcome feelings with laughter. “Someday, Saint-Michel, you will go too far.”
    “Without a doubt, milord.” The younger man nodded sagely, like a pupil absorbing a lesson—but he did it while managing to look as unrepentant as the Devil himself.
    The chamber reverberated with the deep sound of their laughter, breaking the tension of the unanswered questions about the enemy in their midst. As it died down, they fell into another silence until Royce came back to the table and poured the last of the ale into their cups. “Milord, I would offer a salut .”
    “To my new bride’s attributes?” Gaston asked dryly.
    “Nay, sir.” Royce lifted his goblet, his expression suddenly solemn. “To your inheritance. With your marriage this day, you have come into rightful possession of what should have been yours months ago, what we fought to win back from Tourelle: the chateaux of your father and brother.” He raised his cup higher. “I drink to you and to them, God rest their souls. You are three of the most honorable men it has been my privilege to know in this life.”
    Gaston felt his throat close, caught off guard by the unexpected homage. Royce was like that, his moods like quicksilver—flippant one moment, deadly serious the next.
    Never in his life had Gaston thought of himself as “honorable.” Nor had he counted himself in the same rank with his father and brother, on that score or any other. In truth, he had not allowed himself to think much about them at all these past weeks, keeping his mind fastened on reclaiming the chateaux, the lands, his inheritance.
    And now he had that. But his father and brother were gone. The last of his family. All he had left was their half-empty castles and a sister-in-law who wouldn’t even speak to him.
    He had gained much ... and lost far more.
    He forced down the grief, lifting his goblet. “To my father, Sir Soren, and to my brother, Sir Gerard.”
    He and Royce clicked metal against metal and drained the last of the ale.
    “And by all that is holy,” Gaston continued when his cup was dry, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I will make Tourelle pay for their murders. Nay—” He held up a hand. “I will not allow you to blame yourself.”
    Royce choked back whatever he had been about to say, but Gaston knew what he was thinking. Royce had been the one who had found them—lying only yards apart from each other in a field, looking as peaceful as if they had fallen asleep, each with a single mortal wound.