The furry, miniature Marx brother mewed in reply and settled into the crook of her arm as she turned and headed back to the keep, her heart swelling with hope—real hope—for the first time since she had arrived here. Someone believed her! Someone knew the lunar eclipse had brought her here! Okay, so it was only a little girl—but it was s a start.
If she could just figure out some way to evade her Eternal Shadow and meet with the girl’s mother ...
“Lady Christiane!”
Celine lifted her gaze from Groucho to see the object of her thoughts running toward her from the direction of the castle. “I’m coming, Etienne.”
He reached her first, panting. “Milady! You must come back to the keep at once—”
“Why? What’s—’’
“Sir Gaston and the hunting party have returned! Everyone is telling milord what you have done, and he is most angry. He is also wounded, which does not improve his humor.” He took her arm. “Come! We dare not keep him waiting.”
Chapter 7
Wounded. Celine froze in place, unable to move when Etienne grasped her elbow. Her heart seemed to be beating strangely. “What do you mean, Gaston is wounded?” She squeezed little Groucho so hard he hissed and sank his tiny claws into her arm.
“An injury suffered on the hunt. His anger is of greater concern.” Etienne tugged her forward. “Never have I seen him in such an ill humor.”
Celine knew that idea should strike fear in her heart and make her want to run in the opposite direction—but it didn’t. She wasn’t thinking of herself, but of Gaston. Wounded. She couldn’t explain the emotions that gripped her, yet she didn’t stop to question them. She needed no urging from Etienne to hurry back to the keep.
Near the front entrance they passed servants who were leading away the hunters’ horses and carting off the catch, several deer and a huge bristly boar. Celine barely glanced at them—except to notice that Gaston’s black horse had huge smears of red on its saddle and down its right side.
By the time she and Etienne rushed inside and reached the great hall, she was ahead of him, her pulse pounding.
A crowd of retainers, servants, and the men who had gone on the hunt had gathered around the dais before the hearth all talking at once. It was impossible to hear what was being said amid the clamor of anxious voices. She couldn’t see Gaston. Was he stretched out on the floor? Was he too badly hurt to stand? She blindly handed Groucho to one of the younger serving girls and started pushing her way forward with Etienne, asking those in front of them to move aside.
Suddenly Gaston’s voice boomed above the noise—and Celine felt a wave of mingled surprise, relief, and dread at his words.
“What do you mean, you allowed her to cook?”
“But, sir, she has done no harm,” a male voice insisted.
“Milord, you must taste this wondrous delicacy she makes, called quiche,” Yolande said.
Celine finally managed to nudge her way to the front of the gathering. Her heart slowed only slightly when she saw that Gaston was seated in his carved chair before the hearth, looking whole and healthy—except that his right leg was wrapped in a scarlet-soaked bandage.
“Are you all right?” she blurted breathlessly.
The crowd’s chatter dropped to murmurs as Gaston turned his glowering attention on her.
He swept her from head to foot in a single glance, his eyes darkening, his fingers tightening around the arms of his chair. An unfamiliar expression flickered in his gaze, just for a second before it vanished.
A cold smile curved his lips. “I see that you have made excellent use of my absence, you treacherous, scheming, murderous little wench.”
Celine flinched, taking an involuntary step backward, startled by such an unexpected attack. What in the world had she done that made him so furious?
He didn’t give her a chance to speak before he turned his anger on Etienne. “What do you mean by letting her wander around the grounds unescorted?” His voice grew louder with each word until this last was a bellow that shook the rafters..
“M-milord, she has worked most diligently these past days, and she has proved both helpful and trustworthy—”
“Trustworthy?” Gaston snapped, “Has everyone in my command lost their senses? What knavery might she be carrying out while you are all busy filling your bellies?” He cast another glare at Celine. “And why is she going about garbed as richly as royalty? From where did she get these ...” He gestured at her leggings and tunic. A muscle in his jaw worked and he seemed unable to speak for a moment. “These masculine garments?”
“I made them for her, milord,” Yvette, the seamstress, said. “In gratitude for a favor she bestowed upon me. She created the most wondrous devices which cut fabric so quickly and easily—”