Meanwhile, she wasn’t going to show any weakness. She wouldn’t give this big hunk of obstinate male striding in front of her the satisfaction. She couldn’t do what he kept demanding, and the sooner he realized that, the better. Maybe when he figured out that turning her into Cinderella in reverse was not going to get him the confession he wanted, he would give it up.
He led her to one of the large huts that hugged the inside of the massive stone wall. It was a sturdy-looking structure, with a thatched roof, wooden walls, and a little fenced yard attached. Etienne waited in front of it, watching while a pair of small boys herded a flock of chickens and fat geese into the open-air pen.
The squire smiled as they approached, bowing. “Bonjour, milord. And to you, mila—” The greeting hung unfinished as he looked at Gaston uncertainly.
“You may call her milady,” Gaston said. “She is, after all, my wife”—he turned to Celine with a cool smile—“for the moment.” He gestured to the inside of the hut. “There you are, wife. You may begin your work.”
“Work?” Celine echoed, peering into the dark, malodorous little building with a sinking feeling. There were rows of wooden benches built into the walls on all four sides, floor to ceiling, covered with nests. The smell of the place was so strong it made her eyes sting.
“The interior requires a thorough cleaning and the nests need to be replaced with new ones. When you are finished here, there are the dovecotes and falcons’ mews to attend to.”
Celine felt ill. It would take all day. If she didn’t faint from the smell first. Or get frostbite before she ever finished. Her feet were already numb. She rounded on Gaston. “This time, monsieur, you’ve gone too far.”
“I am sparing you the kennels and stables,” he said magnanimously, leaning on the wooden rail fence. “And you may accept this task or not, as you please. The choice is entirely yours.”
Celine clenched her fists within the folds of her cloak, watching the chickens and geese scramble about, squawking and flapping their wings. The closest she had ever been to a goose at home was the down in her pillows. “I’m not in on any plot against you. I wish you would believe—”
“Do not be so quick to be stubborn. You will never manage this, little nun. You know you will not. And I can think of many more duties whenever you finish here. You will not outlast me, Christiane.”
Gritting her teeth in frustration, Celine bestowed a silent, unflinching glare on him. Damn the man!
“Say the words,” Gaston prodded. “You want to say them as much as I want to hear them. Such simple words, Christiane: ‘I wish to tell the truth.’ Say them to me and free yourself.”
Celine gathered her cloak more tightly around her and turned to Etienne. “What do I have to do first?”
“The old straw must be cleaned out, milady.” He ducked into the shed and came back with a small, ineffective-looking pitchfork, which he handed to her with an unhappy expression.
Gripping the tool tightly in her bare hand, Celine turned to Gaston. “You’ll have to excuse me, monsieur. I’m burning daylight.”
She turned on her heel and stalked into the dark shed.
The overpowering odor smothered her senses. She tried not to inhale too deeply. Behind her, she could hear Gaston chuckling at her strange comment. She didn’t care if he understood it or not.
He walked away, his boots crunching in the snow. “Watch her well, Etienne, and when she is done”—he raised his voice, for her benefit, no doubt—“take her inside to Yolande. I will leave instructions for further duties.”
Celine felt her resolve flagging already. Left with no target for her righteous indignation, she could feel the full force of total exhaustion pressing down on her. She couldn’t have had more than an hour’s sleep. The thought of just curling up in a snowbank and falling unconscious was tempting.
Instead, her stomach growling, her strained muscles stiff and sore, she gripped the rough wooden handle in her dishwater-raw hands, stabbed a forkful of hay, and tossed it aside.
“That man is the most arrogant”—she skewered another forkful—“insufferable”—she picked up the pace—“pigheaded ... insensitive ... underhanded ... overbearing ... annoying ... tyrannical ...”
It took several minutes for her to run out of adjectives.
She set the pitchfork aside, breathing hard from the brief exertion. To her surprise, she had already cleared a respectable amount of hay. And she felt a little better. Smiling with satisfaction, she wiped away the perspiration beading her forehead. She couldn’t outlast him? Ha!