Celine had introduced a new twist: strip backgammon.
He had taken to it with that scoundrel’s grin and a gambler’s skill, winning easily. As she had known he would. Her heart had skipped a beat when he insisted on claiming the brazen prize she had wagered ... as she had hoped he would.
It was one steamy bathtub and a long time later before she noticed that the castle had become rather noisy. Stonemasons, Gaston had explained. They were making some much-needed improvements on the upper floors. That was when he had suggested a ride in the peace and quiet of the warm April afternoon, and they had ended up here in the apricot grove instead.
“I believe the craftsmen should soon be done for the day.” Gaston stretched and yawned.
“That doesn’t mean we have to go back inside, does it?” She reluctantly opened one eye.
“Aye, it does.” He grinned down at her, an odd gleam in his dark gaze. “I would like you to see their work and offer an opinion.”
Celine sat up and let him draw her to her feet, sighing, reluctant to leave their little paradise. It really did feel like a Garden of Eden—not just this grove, but this place, this time. Felt as if they were the first man and woman, as if no one else had ever loved this way before.
But soon, she would be cast out of paradise.
She forced the thought away, ignored it as she ignored the steady, throbbing ache in her back.
The moment they entered the castle, she could hear the workmen still hammering away upstairs. “I think you spoke too soon,” she said over the din, covering her ears. “They sound like they’re going to demolish the entire place.”
“Wait here.” He had to sign it as well as say it before she understood.
He bounded up the spiral stair, and a few minutes later, the noise stopped. A short while after that, he reappeared and took her hand. “Come,” he insisted, smiling broadly. “I think you will like this.”
Celine doubted that. She had little knowledge of medieval construction, and no idea what opinion of value she could possibly offer. She went along to humor him. What was it about tools and home repair that men seemed to find so endlessly fascinating? Apparently it was a male trait that held true through the ages.
A half-dozen sweaty, dusty stonemasons passed them, carrying their tools in bundles on their backs, as she and Gaston ascended the steps. They bowed to her, smiling. She became even more puzzled upon reaching the floor above: the torches had all been extinguished, leaving the corridor in darkness, except for one that still burned at the far end of the hallway.
One last craftsman was there, standing on a crude ladder, a cloth in his hand. From where she stood, it looked like he was polishing whatever it was he had been working on. The floor around him was littered with heavy-looking iron hammers and chisels.
“Why are all the lights out?” she whispered to Gaston, not knowing why she was whispering, just that it seemed appropriate for the mysterious atmosphere. They walked forward and she could feel stone chips beneath her slippered feet. “How am I supposed to offer an opinion if I can’t see anything?”
“It is to be a surprise.”
He led her down the hall until they were directly beneath the man on the ladder.
“Milord.” The stonemason nodded politely as he climbed down. “Milady.”
“Thank you for your quick work, Perrin,” Gaston said. “You and your apprentices have done a fine job.”
“We shall be finished within two days, milord, if not on the morrow.”
“Excellent.”
Celine barely heard their conversation. She was staring up at the wall the man had been working on—realizing only now that it was the arch over the door that he had been polishing. A chill shivered across her shoulders. She felt stunned. Frozen.
He had been carving letters. Two letters.
G and R, entwined.
And every curve, every graceful swirl, looked exactly like it had the last time she had seen the initials—in 1993.
“W-what ...” Her mind and heart reeling with confusion, Celine turned to face Gaston as the master craftsman left them alone. But her husband had taken the torch and was walking down the corridor, lighting the others. As the flames illuminated the hall, she could see the same letters over every arch, every door.
“What h-have y-you ...” she stuttered. “H-how c-could you ...”
“The idea struck me last night.” He smiled as he came back toward her.
“But how could you know?” she gasped, whirling to stare at the engraving over her head again. “I never described the initials to you. I never even told you about them! But they look exactly the same. Every detail!” She glanced at him as he drew near, her surprise turning to hurt. “Gaston ... why would you do this now? For you and Rosalind? Why—”