Celine had every intention of sending just as many things for Brynna as for Fiara, but she didn’t mention that. “She’s a very special little girl.” Celine smiled. “Like her mother. Thank you again. I promise I won’t tell anyone the truth about your ... powers.” She glanced toward the corner, where Fiara was curled up beneath a blanket. “Goodbye, my little guide,” she said softly. “If I don’t see you again, be well. And be happy.”
And you as well, milady. Take good care of Groucho.
Celine started at the sound of Fiara’s voice. The little girl hadn’t moved, she was breathing evenly and appeared to be deeply asleep ... yet Celine had heard the words in her mind, as clearly as if the child had spoken them aloud.
“Lady Celine? Is something amiss?” Brynna asked.
Celine turned to her. “No, I ... uh ... I was just trying to remember how to get back to the castle.”
“Oh, aye—you must not forget this.” Brynna went to the table and brought over a small map Fiara had sketched earlier. “Remember to take the left fork when you come to the turn in the road.”
“I won’t forget.”
“And do not worry about the wolves. Fiara said she spoke to them for you.”
“Oh ... good.” The comment would seem bizarre in any normal situation, but this was not normal, and it made perfect sense. “Thank you.”
Brynna smiled warmly, her face full of hope. “Godspeed, milady.”
With a farewell hug, Celine hurried off into the darkness.
It was a bit less cloudy than it had been the previous night, so the moonlit path was a little brighter and Celine’s progress faster. She stuck to the middle of the tree-lined path, ignoring the tingles down the back of her neck when she heard the occasional wolf cry somewhere deep in the forest.
It required all her concentration just to put one foot in front of the other. After having hiked miles through the snow and having been awake for almost twenty-four hours, she kept herself going only by the excitement of her plans to return home. She was not at all eager to face Gaston when she got back to the castle. He was going to be a regular Tasmanian devil by the time she showed up.
The strange thing was, now that leaving was within her grasp, now that she had an actual date and a plan in place, she felt ... odd at the thought of never seeing Gaston again.
She chastised herself for being foolish. She had to go home, and there was no way he was coming with her—besides, he was a thoughtless, skirt-chasing jerk. Exactly the kind of man she didn’t want or need.
Okay, well, maybe “jerk” was a little strong.
And “thoughtless” wasn’t entirely accurate, either. He had demonstrated more than once that he did have a heart. Surprising her with that hot bath. Letting her have her kitten. And then there was the fact that he had given away a huge portion of his own winter supplies to the local peasantry. Not the act of a self-interested cad.
He might keep it well hidden beneath that tough-as-nails exterior ... but now and then, glints of a softer side shone through. Glimmers of compassion and nobility. Kindness and warmth. He came across all brawny and formidable at first, but there was more to him than that. Maybe a lot more. Given a little time—
She squashed that thought. Time was the one thing she had in extremely short supply.
And who was she trying to kid, anyway? All the time in the world wouldn’t change Gaston de Varennes. He didn’t want to change. Certainly not the skirt-chasing part. He was perfectly happy with his tomcat ways; that was one part of his legendary reputation he definitely lived up to. One woman would never be enough to satisfy him.
Except perhaps the wealthy, aristocratic Lady Rosalind.
Lady R.
The woman he would love so much, he would one day carve her initial above every door in his castle.
Celine’s vision blurred suddenly. She had to leave, and Gaston would be much happier without her. Married to his Lady R. That was the way things were meant to be. The rest of this was nothing but a mistake that would soon be corrected—
She stopped in her tracks, realizing that she hadn’t been paying attention to where she was going for some time. Had she passed the fork in the road yet?
She turned to look behind her. The woods and the snow and the twisting trail all looked the same to her; there were no landmarks. The map in her hand indicated the fork, but unfortunately, there was no “You Are Here” sticker.
She had passed it, hadn’t she? And chosen the left fork?
Or had she?
“Oh, damn.” She started to backtrack. “A nice fluorescent road sign or two would be a big help right about now,” she said miserably.
She ignored the cold uneasiness that trickled through her. If she was lost, she might never find her way out of these woods. Sacajawea she was not. She was used to depending on well-marked concrete highways and savvy cabdrivers to get her where she was going.