Celine (17 page)

Giselle's body pitched forward. “Why, you little—”

Trevor's low laughter interrupted Giselle's counterattack. “And what pedigree does your friend have, Celine?”

His words cut through her like a hot knife. Head held high, she walked out of the stable.

The night air was now a shock, as though cold water had been thrown in her face. She headed straight through the garden toward the rear of the house. Before she could reach the house, her knees buckled. She leaned against a mimosa tree for support. Sick to her stomach, she purged its contents. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she quietly and desperately sobbed.

Her arms stretched around the smooth trunk of the small tree, and she hugged it for solace. The cool bark against her cheek drank her tears. How utterly and completely alone she was. She couldn't begin to find the words to describe her pain.

Wiping her eyes, she retreated to the back stairs and to her room, each step heavier than the one before.

Chapter Twelve

Morning gave way to a somber gray sky and humidity that hung heavy in the air. Overnight guests streamed aboard the early riverboat, hoping to reach New Orleans before nightfall. Just as well. Celine was in no mood for stragglers.

She was curled up in a chair in the cookhouse, twisting a loose tendril through her fingers and chewing on her lower lip as she watched Zola cook.

“I hate days like this,” Zola grumbled. “The air is so heavy even my bread dough refuses to rise proper.” She cast a frown at Celine. “Miss Celine, don't you think you ought to take lunch with the family?”

“Huh? Oh, I . . . I don't feel like eating. Guess I had too much champagne.”

“But you'll be missed.”

“I won't be the only one to pass up food. You outdid yourself last night, Zola.”

“You don't look so happy today. Did something go wrong last night?”

When Celine failed to answer, only curled up like a cat in the chair and went back to reading her book, Zola said nothing, but produced a quilt and tucked it around Celine. It wasn't the first time she'd spent the day in the cookhouse.

When Marie walked in, it was late afternoon. Zola's shushing woke Celine, but she kept her eyes closed and feigned sleep while Marie and Zola gossiped in hushed whispers.

“Best if'n I take Miss Celine's dinner on up to her room,” Marie said. “By the way she was sittin' up there at the window starin' out at nuthin' this morning, she don't plan to see herself to the table.”

“Too much champagne at the ball,” Zola sing-songed.

Marie humphed. “If'n you ask me, there's somethin' besides too much champagne wrong with her. And it started last night. I know, 'cause she went to bed lookin' like someone done punched the life out of her. Of course, it couldn't possibly have anythin' to do with that
sweet li'l ol' punkin' head
you favor, now could it?”

“Hush. What goes on between those two ain't none of our business.”

Celine stretched, yawned, and stood. Silence filled the room. “I'll be off to my chambers.” She didn't care what they had to say. In fact, she didn't care about much of anything.

Near the dinner hour she wandered back into the cookhouse, again refusing to join the others. She curled up in the same chair she'd occupied earlier, and sat with her back to the door while Marie hovered about, cross as a cow that hadn't been milked in three days.

Zola's eyes widened.

At Zola's odd expression, Celine glanced over her shoulder. Trevor's broad shoulders shadowed the entry. He leaned against the door's frame and folded his arms over his chest. “Seems you have been entertaining a guest, Zola.”

Marie, standing next to Celine, muttered. “Seems to me he doesn't look any too good, neither.”

Trevor's brow furrowed, and his eyes lacked their normal fire. “Come, Celine. My father wants you to sit with the family at dinner.”

She wished he would leave. “Tell your father I had more than enough food and drink at the ball, thank you very much. A day's fast is my usual panacea.”

Trevor dropped his arms to his sides, one hand fisting and unfisting. “May I speak with you for a moment, Celine?”

“Why?”

“There's something I wish to discuss with you privately.”

“There is nothing you could possibly have to say that would interest me in the least. Besides, I honestly find you despicable.” Her voice sounded as flat as she felt.

He shifted his stance, stood straight. A muscle rippled along his jawline. “What a coincidence. I find you—”

Marie hissed and Zola chewed on her lip.

Celine stood and turned on Trevor. “I am soon gone from here, Mr. Andrews. In the meantime, you go straight to hell.”

She made for the exit, but Trevor blocked it.

Zola chewed her lip again, likely to keep from blurting out something she had no right saying. But then she sucked in a deep breath and, on the exhale, spoke. “Best maybe you be joining the others like your papa requests, mischie. Food'll be on the table in an hour and we don't want him disappointed. I'll send Miss Celine along right soon.”

Trevor turned on his heel and stalked off.

Zola clucked her tongue. She shot a scowl at Marie when the maid slammed a pot on the worktable. “Don't say nuthin'. I don't want to hear it.”

Marie huffed.

Blast it all, the last thing she needed was to spend the night in her room with that secret closet door between her and Trevor . . . Well, she could do something about that little problem.

Zola shuffled over to where Celine sat and lifted the quilt. “You'd best git to the big house, Miss Celine.”

Celine tossed the quilt aside and stood. “I was just leaving.”

Trevor was acutely aware of the empty chair at the dinner table. He was also painfully aware his father eyed it with a grim countenance. His father had said nothing, other than to order him to collect Celine for dinner rather than have Marie perform the task—which told Trevor his father knew something had happened between them.

The silence throughout dinner was deafening. Trevor's gut was so tight he wasn't even aware of what he'd eaten.
Oh, hell.
He'd leave in the morning. He should have known returning to Carlton Oaks was a mistake.

Lightning split the air with a searing hiss, followed instantly by a boom of thunder, so close it shook the chandeliers.

Cameron dropped his silverware onto his plate. “Where's Celine?”

Marie's frantic voice and slapping feet echoed down the hallway. “Mister Andrews! Mister Andrews!”

Justin glared at Trevor. “Where the devil is Celine?”

Marie barreled into the dining room, wild-eyed, with Zola close behind.

Trevor stood, and nearly collided with Marie. She spoke to Justin but glared at Trevor. “Sir, the stable master done said Miss Celine left the barn an hour ago on that bay and headed for the woods—most likely to that
garçonnière
she calls her cabin.”

Another round of lightning and thunder fractured the air.

Zola jumped. “Somebody better fetch her right fast. We can't let nuthin' happen to that girl.”

Marie shook as she tried to control herself. “She's not in a good way.” She glared harder at Trevor.

Zola swatted at Marie's arm. “Hush.”

Cameron was out of his chair and halfway through the door when Trevor caught up with him and grabbed his arm. “I'll take care of this.”

Cameron shrugged off Trevor's hold. “Keep your bloody hands off me. I'll see to her.”

Justin slammed his fist on the table. The vein in his right temple pulsed thickly. “Be damned! I have held my temper in check these past few days, but I have had enough. Trevor, if you have anything to do with Celine's disappearance, you had better move fast.”

Felicité whimpered. Elizabeth kept her head bowed. The others sat in stunned silence.

Damn it, Trevor knew exactly what was wrong with Celine, and he had to be the one to see to her.

Seeing the silent determination on his face, Cameron stepped back. “You had better make this right.”

“I won't come back without her.” Trevor bolted from the house and ran to the stables, taking no coat or wrap, not bothering with anything other than a bridle for Panther.

The winds nearly knocked him off his horse when he rode out. After the last storm he'd seen her through, and what it had done to her, his only concern was for Celine. He raced for the
garçonnière,
praying she'd made it there and wasn't lost in the blinding rain. Lightning and thunder shattered the night around him, the bolts crashing louder with each snap across the sky. Wind lashed and hurled the rain at him from every direction.

“I'm so sorry, so sorry. Please let me find you safe.”

The rain pelted his face with such force, his eyes were mere slits. Bushes and branches blew across his path, the sky and ground trembled beneath the onslaught. He hoped to hell this wasn't a hurricane blowing across the gulf. Tree limbs tore at his clothing as he rode. Panther tried to pull back, whinnying and dancing about.

“Come on, boy. Come on,” he urged. “You can make it, not much farther.”

The horse bolted and pulled sideways as the riderless bay nearly knocked them over in a frantic search for shelter.

Nausea knotted Trevor's throat. He knew for certain now that Celine was in trouble. He dug his heels into Panther's flanks and called out her name. The horse pushed through the wind and lancing rain. What the bloody hell was she thinking, going off in a storm?

They crossed the swollen stream, and by memory, more than by sight, he pulled up in front of the
garçonnière.
Lightning struck nearby, splitting a tree. Thunder engulfed them. The earth beneath him trembled as the heavens let loose another angry deluge.

Trevor dismounted, and raced up the steps into the cabin, feeling for the front door in the darkness, hoping she was in there and hadn't fallen off the horse, lying injured somewhere.

“Celine! God, Celine, where are you?”

The storm howled and swirled around the small house with such ferocity, he could not have heard had she answered. He fumbled with the door's handle and stumbled inside. A blaze of lightning lit the room. There she was, curled up in a corner, arms hugging her knees against her chest.

He fastened the door, and in two long strides, knelt beside her. Lightning flickered around the banging shutters, and thunder boomed. Celine whimpered, grasping at him in stark terror. He swept her up in his arms and carried her to the chair by the fireplace.

“
Ma petite,
it's all right. It's all right,
mon amour.
” He sat with her in his lap, cradled her in his arms, rocking her back and forth.

“Celine, listen to me. I've got to get a fire going and get those wet clothes off you before you catch a chill, all right?” He attempted to pull away, but she clutched at him like a small waif and moaned.

“Everything's all right now, I'm here.” He pushed her hair from her face and tenderly wiped the dampness from her cheeks.

She clung to him, disoriented and shivering. At another blaze of lightning, her teeth chattered. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in the curve of his neck.

“Celine,” he said, grasping her shoulder, “let me light the fire, sweetheart. I won't be but a couple of feet from you.”

He pulled her hands away, kissed her cheek, and then brushed his lips back and forth over her damp skin. “There, there. It's all right, everything's all right now.”

He sensed her trust in him and stood, placing her in the chair. Quickly, he lit the fire, relieved when the seasoned wood ignited without a problem. He crossed the room in long, quick strides and latched the shutters, then bolted the door lest the storm blow them open.

Gathering blankets and pillows from the bed, along with quilts stored in the cedar chest at its foot, he fashioned a pallet as close as possible to the crackling fire.

Already, the room was losing some of its dampness. He reached for Celine's wet clothing. “Let me help you.”

She nodded.

He stripped off her clothing, and rubbed her dry with the cloth he'd wrenched from the table, not allowing his eyes to linger on her naked form. The light was poor, but still, he couldn't help but note the satin of her skin, the graceful swell of her hips, the perfect roundness of her breasts. A hunger passed through him. He shoved the emotion aside and tucked her into the pallet, bunching the covers around her shoulders until just her face, from the chin up, was visible.

Silently, she watched him. He smiled down at her, then reached out with the back of his hand and gently caressed her cheek.

He spoke, hoping to reassure her. “It sounds as though the lightning and thunder aren't going to give up. And the rain is coming down in torrents. I have a hunch we're here for the night.”

His hand left her cheek, and he gently combed through her tangled, wet hair with his fingers.

“You're wet too,” she whispered.

He cocked his head to one side and grinned, relieved to hear her quiet voice. “I know.” He hesitated, unsure whether he should say what he had to say.
Oh hell.
“I can't tell you how relieved I am you are safe.”

“I am safe, aren't I?”

He nodded.

“Tell me, Trevor, what did you want to speak to me about in the cookhouse?”

The last thing he wanted to discuss right now was the mess he'd made of things. He continued to run his fingers through her hair. “Later,
ma petite.
”