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with them both. “You may seek to prove whatever you wish. You may bed your wife or not as you wish. But from this moment onward, neither of you will raise so much as a dulled table-blade against the other!” He bestowed a royal glare upon each of them in turn. “You, Alain, will forfeit all of your lands and everything you own if Gaston is harmed in any way—and the same holds true for you, Gaston, if aught befalls Alain or Lady Christiane!”
    His expression would have turned lesser men into cowering pups. The message was clear. The matter was closed.
    “As you command, my liege,” Gaston grated out.
    “Aye,” Tourelle agreed.
    The King gave them a frosty smile. “At last, my two most valued and troublesome vassals have chosen to obey my orders. Pray that I never have to journey all the way from Paris to deliver them in person again!” He picked up his sodden cloak and flung it about his shoulders. “Alain, you will bring the Fontaine girl to Gaston’s chateau by the end of December. The wedding will take place on the first day of the new year—and I shall attend myself to ensure that naught goes awry.”
    He spun on his heel and pulled aside the tent flap, muttering under his breath as he stepped out into the storm, “And may God protect the unfortunate maiden who is about to be dropped into this den of wolves.”

Chapter 1
    Artois Region, France
    New Year’s Eve, 1993
    C oming here had been a huge mistake.
    Celine Fontaine sat perched on the edge of a crimson brocade Louis XVI chair, a Baccarat crystal champagne flute clutched in one shaky hand, her lungs unable to steal a single full breath. The grand salon’s warm air, heavy with the competing scents of Saint Laurent and Lagerfeld and Gucci, seemed too thick to breathe. The crowd ebbed and flowed and chattered around her, but Celine had never felt more alone.
    She had been a fool to think she could handle this.
    Any second now, it would happen. She would lose control. Give in to the shivers of terror that iced through her and dissolve into a trembling heap on the expensive Kilim rug on Aunt Patrice’s marble floor.
    She could imagine her horrified mother dashing to her side, kneeling over her, shaking her head. Darling, darling , she would say. She always addressed Celine that way, as if her troublesome middle child needed that second “darling.” Darling, darling, your doctors said you were fully recovered. They said there wouldn’t be any long-term psychological effects.
    Her family would finally be forced to call out the men in the white suits. Or whatever the French equivalent was.
    Celine tried to picture what a French straitjacket might look like. Impeccably tailored, she imagined, choking back a hysterical little laugh that bubbled up inside her. Maybe with a Louis Vuitton logo on the lapel or gold Chanel buttons.
    She should have stayed home. Alone in her studio on Lake Michigan. Alone with her art and her antiques and her cats and her secret.
    She kept telling herself she was safe here. Nothing and no one could hurt her in Manoir La Fontaine. The family’s ancestral chateau, nestled in a small town north of Paris, had always been her favorite place in the world. She had spent all her childhood and teenage summers here, had always looked forward to the annual reunion over Christmas and New Year’s.
    The only one she had ever missed was last year’s. Because she had been in the hospital. Because of her headline-grabbing disaster with Lee.
    A twinge of hurt mingled with the terror that made her heart beat painfully hard. Thoughts of Lee would only make everything worse. She forced the name to the back of her overcrowded mind.
    She had insisted on coming to this year’s reunion despite her surgeon’s protests, not only because she wanted to please her family, but because she thought she might find tranquility in this place.
    But she couldn’t calm down. Nothing could soothe her unreasoning panic. That’s what her doctors had called this