An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Sinful
ISBN # 1-4199-0637-2
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Sinful Copyright© 2006 Nathalie Gray
Edited by Mary Moran.
Cover art by Syneca.
Electronic book Publication: October 2006
This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Content Advisory:
S – ENSUOUS
E – ROTIC
X - TREME
Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).
The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been rated S-ensuous.
S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.
E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. E-rated titles might contain material that some readers find objectionable—in other words, almost anything goes, sexually. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry in terms of both sexual language and descriptiveness in these works of literature.
X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Stories designated with the letter X tend to contain difficult or controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.
SINFUL
Nathalie Gray
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
Allow me a quick detour before you get onto the highway. It’ll be short and—hopefully—interesting.
War and religion have long been buddies. The idea that one man can serve both his sovereign and his God and not demand twice the pay is neither new nor the sole jurisdiction of the Catholic Church. During the Middle Ages when crusading had become a popular sport—and we need to thank Pope Urban II for that—several orders of these religious knights were formed. One only needs to think of the Knights Templar or Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem.
Then there are the lay brothers, as with Gautier, Sinful’s hero. Lay brothers are devout, hardworking men who through a formal and private promise give their loyalty to the service of the Holy Order with which they affiliate. They follow the rule of prayer as closely as their individual circumstances and prior commitments permit. They are not ordained priests and wear different uniforms than their religious brethren. Also, during the Middle Ages and as per the Code of Canon Law, when there was a shortage of priests, lay brothers were sometimes called upon to perform certain services such as marriages and contrition of charity—what was later called penance or confession.
Barring an incredible convergence of cosmic powers beyond my control—but I’m working on it—this story isn’t a historical record. When I wrote Sinful two and a half years ago, I proudly dredged any wickedness it may contain from my own turbulent mind.
Sinful wasn’t intended to mock, ridicule or offend anyone from any given denomination. An optimist at heart, I sincerely believe no one’s faith should be brittle enough to be affected by the ramblings of an overly imaginative mind. Most of all, I’d like you, dear Reader, to remember that Sinful is a love story. It is not intending to represent actual factual details of the Church language or customs of the times…and…oh yes, it’s a work of FICTION.
Chapter One
A storm pounded outside her window. Rain ticked against the glass while the wind howled like a dying beast. Charlotte filled the page of the ledger with her tight scrawl and drew an oblique line under the very last entry. After signing the document, taking half the reserved space, she dated the entry and put the quill back in its holder on the worn desk. Baroness Charlotte Bourbon-Condé gleamed Prussian blue before it darkened and dried.
Charlotte leaned back in her chair and sipped the last drop of amber liquid from the copper siphon. Sweetness on the tongue and spicy aftertaste in the throat. Just right. The single-barrel bourbon was her first batch on her own, started during the summer of forty-eight, eight years ago, right after both her parents had died of ague—before Jean-Louis had left for the crusade, not to be seen again.
The usual sting made her eyes water. She kissed the ring her brother had left her, which had once belonged to their father. It only fit her thumb, yet she could not stomach the idea of having it fitted to her fingers. Jean-Louis would return and claim it back. What would he say if the thing no longer fit him? She surely could have used her brother’s help these days but would walk about town naked before she would admit it.
Still, this latest batch’s success was assured since her twice-removed cousin and his entourage practically treasured whatever came out of the Bourbon-Condé distillery. That the Duke Charles of Valois, the old paternal uncle to three kings, drank her bourbon, made it possible for her to sell it at a handsome price, which in turn turned a thick profit and provided for her province, her house and her employees.
Never mind that people whispered at her back!
Yes, she was a twenty-six-year-old single woman who ran the largest distillery in Europe and until Jean-Louis returned from the crusade, she would remain the head of the Bourbon-Condé family. Husband or not. Charlotte yawned.
A monastic silence owned the darkened distillery. She massaged her neck as she rose from the desk and paced blood back in her legs. From her vantage point on the mezzanine, she could survey the large warehouse, its lower floor divided into tiered ricks, which held a row of barrels each. A narrow passage down the middle much similar to the aisle in a church allowed access to the barrels. Lovers’ Lane, according to her overseer. Charlotte scowled at the thought. Though she had never actually stumbled upon anyone so occupied, she did not doubt the dark corners’ enticing shelter.
Charlotte yawned wide and stretched. She still had other accounts to fill. She best start now before Armand arrived and did them himself. Her overseer’s handwriting was even worse than her own. And he always complained as he filled the ledgers about the cost of such and such item or how much precious water flowed in the oars of the distillery. She sat back at the desk and pulled the other ledger close.
With balmy smells of wood barrels and their caramel-scented contents drifting up to her, Charlotte leaned over the book and began another long list of entries.
* * * * *
“Mistress Charlotte.”
Armand’s voice floated through her mind with the ethereal grace of a ghost ship on an oily sea. He repeated her name. Her grumbled reply did not satisfy him for he shook her by the shoulder. Dark brown curls fell over her face. She blew on them.
“What?” she mumbled, lifting her head and rubbing saliva from her cheek. She had fallen asleep at the desk. Again.
“You should turn in and get some true sleep, mistress. I’ll make sure the batch goes out smoothly.”
“I’m sure you would, Armand, but this one’s different. You understand.”
He said he did and retreated a couple of steps when she stretched and unfolded her tired frame from the chair. She stood almost as tall as he did—much taller than most women. She usually looked down at other females. Not factually of course, but figuratively. Then again, maybe she did both…
Armand’s wizened face tightened. “He was here again, mistress. I told him that I couldn’t find you.” A cloud masked his already dark eyes. He tried hard to keep the disdain from showing but there it was, plain as salt on
a wound.
“Guilabert?” As if she needed to ask.
Armand’s lips twitched. He nodded.
Guilabert. Now there was a different sort of man. Darkly handsome with a wit keen enough to cut through steel, he had a thirst for life that made him exciting to be around. Yet since his return from the crusade almost a year ago, he had in his head to marry her and would not let go. Surely, the long time away from home had dulled his memory. He’d been the one laughing at the idea. Never in front of her parents of course, who loved him as their own, but did privately when only the three inseparables were present—her brother Jean-Louis, Guilabert and she. Charlotte had been torn between her affection for the handsome young lad and her friendship with Jean-Louis and her childhood friend. Despite her parents’ insistent appeals that she marry the family friend and be done with it, she hadn’t voiced her penchant in case things started happening too fast. Not that she’d never been intimate with him. Fortune’s good graces, she had lost her virginity to him and his to her, but it was years ago. Children’s games. Then her parents had died and with them, any hope of her finding solace in Guilabert’s arms as both her brother and his best friend had left to fight for the Holy Land. She had stayed behind, had waited as the years effectively doused any flame that might have lived for the dark-haired handsome man. And since his return, well, she hadn’t been able to reconcile the driven but appealing lad with the stern knight who came back from Jerusalem.
“I’ll go home to freshen up but I’ll be back for the shipping. I want to be there when the horses take those barrels away.”
A knowing smile tugged at Armand’s thin lips. “No master distiller wants to miss his first batch leaving home.”
Master distiller.
He had never called her thus before. Feeling more validated than she had ever been, Charlotte nodded and climbed down the narrow steps leading to the main floor. Keeping to the right of the central alley, she rolled down the sleeves of her tunic and crossed her arms.
Bright late summer sun hailed her. Workers nodded or saluted her as she passed and headed for the stable. She knew they spoke behind her back. “Ice Queen.” “Iron Maiden.” “Steel Daisy.” She heard them all. She had to be—for the family, for the business. And for my sanity. Running things as a female caused an assortment of difficulties Charlotte could have done without, but keeping an austere exterior had worked to her advantage until now. Though it apparently had no grip on overconfident Guilabert. Perhaps because he held hope she was still the impressionable girl he’d left behind.
Lemony smells of coniferous trees and heady scents of horses accosted her. She managed a tired grin. If mankind meant trouble, animals meant peace. And she much preferred to be around the latter. Less worry. Less heartache.
She rounded the corner of the vast warehouse and crossed the crushed gravel path. Crystal gurgles from the river floated to her. Charlotte smiled openly then was quick to suppress it. Nothing stirred her as rushing water. How she had worried her parents when Guilabert, Jean-Louis and she would out dive one another from the rocks overlooking the cascade. What fun! She rarely visited their favorite spot now. She had neither the time nor the heart to indulge in such simple pleasures.
The groom must have spotted her coming down the path for a horse was ready by the time she neared the stable.
“My thanks!” she called to the unseen groom.
Fretting under its saddle, the blue roan quivered into a brisk trot as soon as she deposited her bottom. No need reining it back—she felt up to a good ride herself.
She barely touched its flanks, but it knew right away its rider wanted speed, yearned for release. It kicked into a fast trot then a leaping gallop. Thundering down the hill, they devoured the path and left dust in their wake. Charlotte yelled at the top of her lungs. Between trees to her left, the river flickered past, like silver coins spinning against a green velvety background. It blinked as if telling a good story. It had stories to tell, that river!
The Bourbon-Condé family had been making their namesake whiskey for generations, whiskey prized by the upper crust of society, French and foreign. They had dammed the river, using its force to work the machinery then its essence to make the bourbon now so famous. Even the horses benefited from the limestone water that kept them strong and swift.
The manor poked copper pointy roofs over the crest of trees and Charlotte slowed her horse. She sighed when she looked down at herself. Dew and mud splattered her boots and hose. Constance would have something to say about it for sure. As much as her husband Armand was good-natured, head servant Constance was all vinegar.
Charlotte’s scowl deepened when she spotted a lone rider by the side of the road. The dark destrier was hard to miss, as was its rider. Charlotte shook her head. So the knight was back in the region again, probably housed at his friend’s home not far from Montmorency. Guilabert still wore bits of armor. Not that it did not suit him, on the contrary, for the burnished plates gave him quite a stunning look. Yet it had been a while now since his return from the crusade.
“Guilabert,” she called with a small wave.
He waved back, his gloved hand moving high over his head. He maneuvered the huge dark horse about and slid off its back, armor and all, with the ease of a dancer and the strength of a bear. Her heart would have leapt at the sight only a few years ago. Not now. Not anymore.
“No helm today, Guilabert? You’re losing your edge,” she remarked with fake levity.
He let the quip pass with a nod of his dark head. The tight curls made him look much younger than his late twenties. His eyes though betrayed his age, especially since his return. The hazel orbs looked colder, had lost the gay sparkle from before the crusade, although he accused her of the same. And he was right. She had changed. She had hardened.
Charlotte squinted in the sunlight when Guilabert approached and meant to seize the reins from her hand. Her horse neighed and shook its head away. A crease carved the man’s high brow.
“Your mount needs taming,” he said in his milky baritone.
She dismounted a foot from Guilabert. Flicking the reins over her horse’s head, she shrugged. “What brings you down about these parts? Is Lussier getting lonely?” She knew full well the answer but wanted to give him a chance to prove her wrong.
His glove creaked when he balled a fist. A step brought him a hand’s-breadth away from her. He leaned in and inhaled deeply. “You still smell of up there,” he said, pointing with his chin at the hill behind her. “Like caramel and cinnamon, sweet and spicy. And just as intoxicating.”
“Stop your games.”
“They’re not games, Charlotte. Not to me.”
There was steel in his voice and in his eyes. She shivered when he extended a hand and caressed her chin. How she had yearned for his touch before he had left and continued to hunger for it while he was gone. At first anyway. In the almost eight years he’d been gone, with no note except the quick greeting he’d scribble on her brother’s letters, the tiny flame had sputtered and died. Then she’d received no more letters. Now that he was back—with no news from Jean-Louis other than “he’s fighting the enemy”—she should be glad he still held affection for her, but something had changed in him. Something had soured. Darkened. The young man she’d known was dead.
“I’m sending out my first batch today,” she replied lightly. Trying to keep Guilabert from his goal was as futile as trying to divert a river from its bed—it worked, but only for a short while.
Playing along, he nodded. “Are you? I’m sure it’s…delectable.”
How could a man use such a common word, render it so sinister yet so seductive? Heat rose in waves out of her parted tunic. She fought to keep her breathing regular, did not want him to see the effect his words had on her. If her heart was forever closed to him, her body was not immune to his dark charms. Traitorous flesh.
As if he sensed her struggle, he leaned in and let his mouth hover over hers while he inhaled her breath. His lips were a gli
stening invitation, poised over hers, a whisper away. She sighed and lowered her head, breaking the spell.
“It wouldn’t work…”
He grabbed her shoulder. “Do you enjoy tormenting me?”
“You’re tormenting yourself. I already told you—”
Guilabert’s lips landed on hers in a bruising kiss. He straightened hurriedly and took a step back. “There was a time when I didn’t have to beg for a kiss from you.”
His tone was a keen blade sliding against her heart. True, there had been a time, and it was gone. Along with her freedom to do aught about it.
“It’s different now. I have the distillery to think about, the affairs, and it’s taking all my time.”
He laughed that cold laugh so uncharacteristic of the friend she remembered.
“Ah yes, no need for a husband when you have all those men at the distillery to keep you satisfied. Which one do you visit the most, I wonder.”
Charlotte wanted to slap the sneer from his face. Arrogant brute. Instead, she willed her anger to subside. Guilabert had undoubtedly suffered during the crusade and she should do well to remember. With time he would find a woman who would be good to him. And he’ll leave me alone. They’ll all leave me well alone. The men in her life left her—that is what they did. Her father, her brother and now her friend, even though he stood right in front of her.
“Naught to say? That’s not like you.”
She forced a casual grin and shrugged. “I know you. You don’t mean what you just said.”
“You don’t know me now, Charlotte,” he snapped back. Then, as if feeling remorseful, he shook his head. “And I don’t know you either. You’re distant, cold. Can’t it be as before? I’d be a good husband to you. Your parents wanted it, so does Jean-Louis. I’d take care of you and provide everything you need.”
“I have everything I need,” she replied, trying too late to keep the edge from her voice.
Guilabert raised an eyebrow. “It’s wrong for you to work so hard and so long. To always be surrounded by men. It’s not natural.”
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