She had wanted to look elegant and sophisticated and gorgeous—to knock his socks off while appearing completely disinterested in him. A final show of strength and pride before she left. Celine’s Last Stand.
No such luck. They hadn’t crossed paths once, and now the beautiful dress was all but ruined. Naive, foolish ...
Turning, she scooped up a spoonful of the crepe mixture. It was too late now to worry about the gown.
Too late for a lot of things.
She swirled the batter across the hot skillet. It sizzled and smelled buttery and sweet. “Careful, Yolande. Keep moving it. Just let the edges get brown ... that’s right.” She stepped back. “Fill all the little holes, and then flip it. No, wait—”
She winced as another crepe ended up on the ceiling.
“Drat,” Yolande muttered.
Gabrielle appeared from the larder, triumphantly holding up a small earthenware jar sealed with a cork: “We have honey!”
“But naught to eat with it,” Yolande moaned. “It appears we shall have to scrape our ‘midnight snack’ from the rafters.”
Gabrielle glanced up and shrugged. “No matter. It will complement the ‘caramel cream’ we had to scrape from the wall yestereve.”
She started laughing. Yolande and Celine couldn’t help but join in, and in seconds all three fell into a fit of giggles. Celine could just picture her Cordon Bleu instructors surveying this situation with a mortified twitch of their mustaches. She didn’t remember ever having heard instructions on the handling of runaway crepes. Especially runaway crepes stuck to a flying buttress in a medieval kitchen.
“Yolande,” she said when she had caught her breath, “the movement is side to side, not up and down.”
Gabrielle giggled. “It is up and gone in this instance.”
“I will master this yet,” Yolande declared, marching back to the fire with her skillet and a determined expression on her face.
“And I will stir the batter.” Celine raised her spoon in salute, a general marshaling her forces. She applied herself to the bowl, smiling in admiration at her students’ refusal to quit.
A second later, Gabrielle’s giggling stopped abruptly. Celine glanced up.
Gaston filled the doorway, his slightly perplexed gaze fastened on her.
She felt the spoon slide from her fingers. Had he come to see her? Her heart dropped to her toes, then started to pound. What did he want? Why would he seek her out after three weeks apart? Why now when it was her last day and she had hoped to see him and then she hadn’t seen him and—
Oh, God, she must look like a mess! An eggy, floury mess, from her skewed hat and tumbling hair to her dirty face and ruined gown. The one she had worn to impress him with her cool elegance.
He didn’t say anything, just stood there looking ... tall, dark and gorgeous. His blue tunic and leggings set off his jet-black hair and dark eyes and outlined every solid, muscled inch of him. Even with half a kitchen between them, she was aware of even the most minute details: the stiffness of his back, the darkness that his five-o’clock shadow added to his angular cheeks and jaw, the casual power of his hand resting on the hilt of his knife.
To her chagrin, Celine started trembling, thinking about the easy strength and grace of those hands. Trembling with memories of how he had touched her, so intimately, that long-ago night. Vivid memories that made it feel like minutes ago instead of weeks.
She remembered, too, how he was capable of compassion and tenderness—and how he completely disdained such feelings as feminine and weak. He didn’t believe there could be anything beyond a physical connection between men and women. Pleasure was all he wanted. All he would accept. Or give. It made her feel so confused and frustrated and angry that she couldn’t speak.
“Milord?” Gabrielle asked meekly from beside Celine when she remained silent. “Was there aught that you wished?”
“I was looking for ...” His voice trailed off. He didn’t take his eyes from Celine. “Isabeau,” he finished at last.
“She is weaving at her loom in her chamber, milord,” Yolande supplied a bit stiffly. “As she normally does at this hour.”
He nodded in acknowledgment, but kept gazing at Celine. “What are you cooking this night, wife?”
One of the crepes picked that moment to dislodge itself from the ceiling. It landed at her feet with a plop as if on cue.
“Crepes.”
She kept a straight face and tried to look like this was the normal way to make crepes.
Why on earth was he always around when she was doing something embarrassing and stupid, like thinking she was being chased by a bear, or running off a cliff, or having a panic attack, or ruining her best dress and wreaking havoc in his kitchen?