Forever His(93)
She paced the length and breadth of the spacious bedchamber Avril had given her, fuming over the issue. Alone. Which wasn’t nearly as satisfying as letting her husband have it with both barrels. For a man who put so much importance on truth and trust, he had been misleading her thoroughly. How did he dare accuse her of being dishonest and manipulative? She was the one telling the truth about who and what she was.
Why had he let her believe the worst of him? Why hadn’t he just corrected her about what “playing tables” really meant?
She had spent the better part of the evening plotting an after-supper ambush: thinking of ways to bring up the subject, and all sorts of brilliant, witty things she might say. But her plans had been thwarted by Gaston’s disappearance. He hadn’t shown up for supper.
Avril had been unconcerned, saying it was his habit to go off by himself, especially if he was upset about something. Insisting there was no cause for alarm, she had coaxed Celine into a tour of the unique chateau: from the fountain in the kitchen to the marble pavilion in the gardens to the unusual tile floors in some of the upper chambers. Avril explained that Gerard had become fascinated with the East while on Crusade as a young man, and had included Moorish touches everywhere when building this chateau for the two of them.
There were Persian rugs instead of rushes in the great hall, blown-glass goblets at the table, and damask curtains and canopies on the beds. Most of the rooms were downright luxurious compared with the Spartan simplicity of Gaston’s castle. Celine, however, had barely admired the architecture, focusing more on looking for her husband, her righteous indignation mixed with worry and thoughts of Tourelle’s threats.
Gaston was nowhere to be found.
Standing in the middle of her chamber, she finally stopped pacing, rubbing her back. He was probably trying to worry her on purpose, to repay her for teasing him earlier. Well, she wasn’t going to let him ruin another night’s sleep. He had already kept her awake too many times on the trail, every small movement he made on his pallet making her feel all tense and restless and tingly-hot inside.
It should be a relief to have him nowhere in the vicinity for the first night in weeks. It was a relief, she corrected herself. Kicking off her slippers, she went over to her bed on its large, round dais, looking up at it with an appreciative sigh. She started unlacing the back of her gown, struggling to do it herself because she didn’t want to waken one of the maids Avril had assigned to her.
The bed would be quite a treat after so many nights spent in cramped inns, sparsely furnished abbeys, or on the forest floor. It was a huge, heavily carved four-poster, with soft white sheets, tasseled silk pillows, and several finely woven Arabic coverlets in cotton and wool. Definitely lavish by medieval standards. She pulled her gown over her head, let it drop in a pool on the floor, and climbed up to slide between the almost-silky sheets.
What she needed most right now was sleep. Too many long days of riding had left her with zero energy. Not to mention a dull ache in her lower back that she was too afraid to think about. Curling up on her side, she closed her eyes and tried to relax. Which was almost impossible with all the disturbing thoughts chasing through her head. Such as the odd little fact that Avril had revealed earlier while they were talking in the kitchen.
Celine had been whipping together a decent version of pasta while Avril discussed one of her personal passions: languages. There had been a renewed light in the younger woman’s eyes as she mentioned her collection of poems and manuscripts in Latin and Greek. She also spoke fluent German, Castilian, and a smattering of Arabic. One of her special interests was the study of word origins. “Avril,” for example, meant “spring.” She had puzzled over the name Celine for a while, never having heard it before. Then she had gone to look it up.
When she had come back and happily announced the meaning, Celine had dropped an earthenware jar of dried sage from numb fingers, not even hearing the crash when it shattered on the floor.
Even now, opening her eyes, she still felt a little queasy and weird because of it. Celine was a name that had been in her family for generations. Centuries. Her mother had named her after her great-great-grandmother. The meaning she had always heard was downright boring: “sprig of parsley.”
Avril said that Celine meant “daughter of the moon” in ancient Greek.
An eerie tingle chased down her neck and shivered through her. She sat up, pushing aside the covers, rubbing her arms in the darkness. Daughter of the moon. it was almost as if her destiny had been decided even before she had taken her first breath. Like all this had been meant to happen, from the day she was born.