Forever His (32 page)

“It’s hard to ignore you when you can both be heard halfway into the great hall,” she replied hotly. “The servants thought they’d better send in someone to raise a white flag. They wondered whether the two of you might not care to continue your conversation over supper. I don’t know about you, but some of us are starving.”

“You are the Fontaine woman?” Avril asked curiously. She nodded in Gaston’s general direction. “His new wife?”

“Yes. I’m sorry about all this, Lady Avril. I didn’t mean to listen in. My name is Celine.”

“You have my condolences, Lady Celine.”

“Uh ...” It took a moment for Celine to understand that Avril was not offering condolences on her name, but on her marriage to Gaston. “Thank you.”

Avril laughed at Celine’s response, then dabbed at her eyes. “Tell me, how
do
you withstand this irksome tyrannical streak of his?”

“Actually, it’s only irksome some of the time. The rest of the time it’s almost tolerable.” Celine paid no attention to Gaston’s quelling glower. “It’s his opinions of women that are really annoying.”

“Indeed, I have always thought so,” Avril concurred, ignoring the glower when it was turned her way. “It would seem you have come to know him well already. Have you any advice on how I might better manage?”

“Well, the first thing you have to learn to deal with is his arrogance,” Celine offered with the beginnings of a smile. “His main problem is that he thinks he’s always right. Then there’s his temper—”

“And his suspicious nature,” Avril added, warming to the subject. “We must not forget the way that he refuses to trust people.”

“Yes, that, too. And then there’s—”

“Enough!” Gaston thundered. “Mayhap the two of you would prefer to be left alone to amuse yourselves over my countless faults?”

Both of them gave him looks of wide-eyed innocence.

“Actually, that might not be a bad idea,” Celine said.

“Aye,” Avril agreed. “Off with you,
beau-frère
. I am certain there is something somewhere that needs to be hacked or trampled or shouted at or boiled in oil, or that would otherwise benefit from your attentions.”

Gaston scowled at each of them in turn, muttering a mixture of oaths and adjectives that Celine was grateful she couldn’t quite make out. As he turned on his heel and stalked past her toward the door, though, she thought she caught a mumbled prayer that Avril’s baby be a boy.

“Good eventide, wife,” he said coolly. “And to you, Avril. I am certain the two of you will enjoy yourselves to no end. No doubt you will understand one another far better than I understand either of you.”

He shut the door behind him with enough force to make the hinges rattle. Celine found herself still gazing at the spot where he had last been, feeling a little sheepish and sorry that they had teased him so mercilessly. But mostly she felt relief.

Relief from the strain of having to hold herself so icy and uninterested in his presence, when she was burning inside.

“Do you love him so much?” Avril asked quietly.

Celine spun around with a jerk, surprised by the unexpected question. “No! I ... I mean, I—”

“You may be able to deny it to him. You may even be able to deny it to yourself.” A bittersweet smile crossed the younger woman’s pretty features. “But it is clear in every small glance you give him, when he does not know that you are looking.”

Celine’s stomach knotted. She stared down at her toes, misery piling upon misery. Was it so obvious, this love she had barely begun to admit, even to herself? “I ... I can’t love him.”

She thought of the eclipse that was growing closer with every passing week. And of the pain in her back, the recurring ache that she prayed was caused only by the long days of riding, though she knew better.

Of what might happen to her before she had time to return to Gaston’s castle.

Of Tourelle’s threat about what would happen to Gaston if their marriage was ever consummated.

And none of that changed the way she felt about him.

“I
can’t
love him,” she repeated, not sure which of them she was trying to convince. “I can’t stay with him. It’s ... it’s very complicated.”

“He does not return your feelings?”

Celine shook her head. “No. Not in the least. But that’s not it. Even if he did, we could never—”

“Nay, you cannot think that way, Lady Celine. When you find love, you must catch it close and hold it tight. Do not let it go so easily.”

Celine lifted her head just in time to see a new tear slide down Avril’s cheek, and she felt a wave of sorrow for what the younger woman had lost.

And for what she herself would never know.

“He ... doesn’t believe in love,” Celine whispered, swallowing hard. “He can’t even see it when it’s right in front of his eyes. That’s why he keeps making that infuriating suggestion that you remarry—he can’t see that you obviously loved Gerard deeply. He thinks husbands only exist to manage and protect, and wives only exist to provide land and heirs.”

Avril sighed heavily, nodding, her lashes drooping. Suddenly she looked very young and very tired and very pregnant.

“I’m sorry, Avril.” Celine walked over to help her back into her chair. “Here I am chattering, as Gaston puts it, and you must be exhausted. And hungry. Would you like me to bring you something to eat?”

“Nay, it is I who must apologize.” Avril refused to sit down. “I have been a poor hostess. You have had a long, fatiguing journey, and you will want to retire early. And you said you were starving. Mayhap we should go and see to supper.”

Celine’s stomach growled as if in agreement. She was pleased to hear Avril mention food, since the servants had said their lady hadn’t been eating. “That’s a good idea. Do you suppose I could stage a bit of a mutiny and take over the kitchen? Cooking is one of my passions and I’d love to make something special for you.”

“A mutiny?”

“An uprising,” Celine clarified.

Avril raised an eyebrow. “Lady Celine, I like you more and more. Off to the kitchens it is.”

They started to walk toward the door. “I suppose,” Celine said, “that Gaston is going to be in a foul mood all through supper. We probably shouldn’t have teased him that way.”

“Fie on it. We shall send one of the servants to his chamber with a tray and a game of tables. That always takes his mind off most anything.”

“A game of tables?” Celine squeaked, stopping in the middle of the room.

“Aye, it is his favorite.”

“And you ... encourage him?”

Avril looked at her strangely. “Should I not?”

Celine frowned, growing suspicious as bits and pieces of the discussion she had had with Gaston on the subject started coming back to her. “Avril, what exactly is ‘tables’?”

“Merely a game.” Avril pointed to a trestle table and chairs in one corner. “I’ve a set there.”

Celine walked over and looked down at the objects Avril had indicated. “I see.” Her frown deepened. “Avril, I think that after supper, I am going to have to have a conversation with my husband about one of his favorite subjects.” She turned and moved toward the door with a new snap in her step. “Lies.”

B
ackgammon.

Celine had planned a truly satisfying scene around that word. A veritable festival of righteous indignation. Gaston had led her to believe he was sleeping with every pretty girl within arm’s reach, when the whole time he had been playing
backgammon
.

She paced the length and breadth of the spacious bedchamber Avril had given her, fuming over the issue. Alone. Which wasn’t nearly as satisfying as letting her husband have it with both barrels. For a man who put so much importance on truth and trust, he had been misleading her thoroughly. How did he dare accuse
her
of being dishonest and manipulative? She was the one telling the truth about who and what she was.

Why had he let her believe the worst of him? Why hadn’t he just corrected her about what “playing tables” really meant?

She had spent the better part of the evening plotting an after-supper ambush: thinking of ways to bring up the subject, and all sorts of brilliant, witty things she might say. But her plans had been thwarted by Gaston’s disappearance. He hadn’t shown up for supper.

Avril had been unconcerned, saying it was his habit to go off by himself, especially if he was upset about something. Insisting there was no cause for alarm, she had coaxed Celine into a tour of the unique chateau: from the fountain in the kitchen to the marble pavilion in the gardens to the unusual tile floors in some of the upper chambers. Avril explained that Gerard had become fascinated with the East while on Crusade as a young man, and had included Moorish touches everywhere when building this chateau for the two of them.

There were Persian rugs instead of rushes in the great hall, blown-glass goblets at the table, and damask curtains and canopies on the beds. Most of the rooms were downright luxurious compared with the Spartan simplicity of Gaston’s castle. Celine, however, had barely admired the architecture, focusing more on looking for her husband, her righteous indignation mixed with worry and thoughts of Tourelle’s threats.

Gaston was nowhere to be found.

Standing in the middle of her chamber, she finally stopped pacing, rubbing her back. He was probably trying to worry her on purpose, to repay her for teasing him earlier. Well, she wasn’t going to let him ruin another night’s sleep. He had already kept her awake too many times on the trail, every small movement he made on his pallet making her feel all tense and restless and tingly-hot inside.

 It should be a relief to have him nowhere in the vicinity for the first night in weeks. It
was
a relief, she corrected herself. Kicking off her slippers, she went over to her bed on its large, round dais, looking up at it with an appreciative sigh. She started unlacing the back of her gown, struggling to do it herself because she didn’t want to waken one of the maids Avril had assigned to her.

The bed would be quite a treat after so many nights spent in cramped inns, sparsely furnished abbeys, or on the forest floor. It was a huge, heavily carved four-poster, with soft white sheets, tasseled silk pillows, and several finely woven Arabic coverlets in cotton and wool. Definitely lavish by medieval standards. She pulled her gown over her head, let it drop in a pool on the floor, and climbed up to slide between the almost-silky sheets.

What she needed most right now was sleep. Too many long days of riding had left her with zero energy. Not to mention a dull ache in her lower back that she was too afraid to think about. Curling up on her side, she closed her eyes and tried to relax. Which was almost impossible with all the disturbing thoughts chasing through her head. Such as the odd little fact that Avril had revealed earlier while they were talking in the kitchen.

Celine had been whipping together a decent version of pasta while Avril discussed one of
her
personal passions: languages. There had been a renewed light in the younger woman’s eyes as she mentioned her collection of poems and manuscripts in Latin and Greek. She also spoke fluent German, Castilian, and a smattering of Arabic. One of her special interests was the study of word origins. “Avril,” for example, meant “spring.” She had puzzled over the name Celine for a while, never having heard it before. Then she had gone to look it up.

When she had come back and happily announced the meaning, Celine had dropped an earthenware jar of dried sage from numb fingers, not even hearing the crash when it shattered on the floor.

Even now, opening her eyes, she still felt a little queasy and weird because of it. Celine was a name that had been in her family for generations. Centuries. Her mother had named her after her great-great-grandmother. The meaning she had always heard was downright boring: “sprig of parsley.”

Avril said that Celine meant “daughter of the moon” in ancient Greek.

An eerie tingle chased down her neck and shivered through her. She sat up, pushing aside the covers, rubbing her arms in the darkness.
Daughter of the moon
. it was almost as if her destiny had been decided even before she had taken her first breath. Like all this had been meant to happen, from the day she was born.

But that was ridiculous. It couldn’t be true. She wasn’t meant to be here. Not with a bullet in her back. Not with a husband who didn’t trust her.

Or care for her.

Him
again. Invading her thoughts at every turn. With a groan of frustration, she got out of bed and put her gown back on, not bothering with the laces. A breath of fresh air might do her some good. The night was warm for March. She crossed to the far side of the room, toward the door that Avril had said opened onto a terrace.

She peeked out, then stepped outside. An actual terrace. Definitely odd-looking in a castle, but there was an entire network of them, encircling the chateau’s tallest tower, one outside every bedchamber. They were supported by massive buttresses, but otherwise looked surprisingly delicate, with onion-shaped roofs, gracefully sweeping arches, tile floors, and walls and ceilings inlaid with ivory and lapis sparkling in the light of the full moon.

It was one more bit of Moorish influence—an especially romantic touch that Avril said Gerard had included to surprise her. Celine ran her hand over the smoothly curving edge of the rounded, waist-high stone railing. This was not the work of a rigid, unfeeling man.

How could two brothers be so different?

From what she could glean, Gerard hadn’t always been that way. Avril said their marriage had been arranged, and at first he had been very much like Gaston: high-handed and arrogant and coolly unemotional. They had had terrible arguments, and she had spent most of her first weeks as a new bride crying and wanting to return to her home by the seashore in Brittany.

And then slowly, so subtly that neither one of them had realized it was happening, he had fallen in love with her, and she with him. It had been, Avril whispered softly, mostly a matter of time.

Time.
Celine leaned out over the railing, looking down at the castle walls far below, the bailey, the moat, the moon-silvered treetops beyond, bare branches that would soon be green with new buds. She felt very close to tears.