Forever His(66)

Gaston was the only one who refused to use her “nickname.” He wasn’t buying a single word she said, and he wouldn’t call her Celine. Not that he had called her much of anything lately.

He had avoided her completely since that night in the forest. That disastrous, foolish, humiliating night.

Celine’s eyes burned as the firelight brought it all back in painful detail. The two of them had barely spoken to each other all the way back to the castle. Gaston had held her in his lap, and insisted that she wear his cloak, even when she had tried to give it back to him. He had been gentle and protective and she had almost thought that he ...

That he might care about her, just a little. That he might regret what he had said. Her hope had strengthened when they arrived here and he had abruptly declared both her imprisonment and her servitude ended. Though he said he didn’t believe she was innocent in Tourelle’s plot, he no longer seemed to consider her a threat to his people.

But after that, he had simply avoided her. He was finished with her. Finished trying to persuade her to do what he asked, finished trying to use her to attain his goal. He had instead sent search parties out on the roads leading from Aragon, with orders not to come back until they found Tourelle.

None of the men had reported in yet. Celine was disappointed about that; she had hoped to see Gaston’s face when he met the real Christiane. She wanted to hear him admit that he had been wrong. Just once.

Once before she left.

Without Christiane, nothing short of running her husband over with her Mercedes was going to convince him that she was Celine Fontaine from 1993. And until he believed her, the cool distrust he felt for her wouldn’t begin to change. The chasm between them had only grown wider.

It hurt her to realize just how badly she wanted to bridge that dangerous emptiness, wanted him to feel something for her. A flicker of caring, a rough, masculine shadow of the emotions she felt.

Emotions that she had only begun to admit after many sleepless nights. Feelings that made her pulse unsteady whenever she saw him or heard his voice. Even when he kept his distance. She couldn’t control them—and couldn’t erase them, even when she was utterly furious with him.

And it wasn’t just his kiss or his touch that moved her. It was something about him. Everything about him. That scoundrel’s grin. The warrior’s courage that let him face any danger without flinching. The way he protected and cared for his people. His strength. His intelligence. He had more passion and confidence than any man she had ever met.

And she cared about him. God help her, she cared. It frightened her to think about just how much. And she wanted ... something in return from him. More than the cold, calculating offer he had made in the forest.

Stay with me, he had said, and her heart had swept skyward.

As my mistress, he had finished, and she had crashed to earth with broken wings.

But why had she expected him to say anything else? She knew what he was. To wish for deep feeling from a tough, battle-hardened, macho type like Gaston, a man who had never known love from anyone and had never felt love for anyone, was hopeless. Impossible. And it always would be.

Even if she weren’t leaving tonight.

She had heard Gaston’s men speak of him as The Black Lion, a name that resounded with pride and courage. But she wondered whether it had been a woman who first dubbed him Blackheart.

“Lady Celine?”

“Sorry?” Celine tore her gaze from the fire, suddenly aware that Yolande had been speaking to her.

“Shall we begin with the new batch?” Yolande repeated, walking over with the skillet. She looked Celine up and down, smiling. “Before you are wearing any more of it, milady?”

Celine glanced down at her dress, realizing she had gotten carried away with her enthusiasm for cooking. She always did—but at the moment, she wasn’t wearing easy-care cotton-lycra off the rack from Marshall Field’s.

It was a gown of velvet in a burnished rust shade. Yvette the seamstress had specially dyed the material to complement Celine’s coloring. And now the bodice and skirt were splashed with egg and melted butter and smudged with sugar and flour.

“Oh, no,” Celine groaned. Reaching up reluctantly, she found her cheeks splotched with ingredients, her hair tumbling from the plaits Gabrielle had pinned in place, and her rust-colored, cone-shaped hat thoroughly speckled with batter. “What have I done?”

“Do not concern yourself, milady.” Yolande shook her head with a bemused expression. “Both you and the gown will look as lovely as ever with a bit of attention. Shall we use the pan while it is still hot?”

Celine nodded with a sigh. She wouldn’t have minded the mess so much, except that today was the first time she had worn this new outfit. And she had worn it with the secret hope of seeing Gaston. A silly impulse. Naive, he would say. Childish. Foolish.