by Renee Rose
Marco nodded, then looked at her. "We will give Tomi the reins, Celia."
"Yes, my lord," she mumbled.
By the next morning, she had herself worked back up. She was right; she just knew it. The wine was too sweet and was taking too long to ferment. She wanted the Parma wine to succeed as much as Tomi and the count did. Perhaps even more, because it would meant another small victory against her father.
She crept out of bed while the roosters were still calling and threw on a dress, slipping downstairs and into the kitchen. No one was up and about yet, so she was able to rummage through the pantry until she found the yeast. Then she crept out of the villa in the cold steel gray of morning. She wrapped her arms around herself, clutching the yeast. She breathed in the smell of early morning air.
The winery door opened with a loud squeak, which made her jump and her heart beat faster. She looked around, praying Enzo wasn't already up and around. Everything seemed quiet still. One by one, she opened the vats and sprinkled a little yeast in, stirring it with the giant wooden paddle they used. Satisfied, she left, shaking off the nagging worry over whether she had been right. Of course, she was right, she was sure of it. And she wanted the best for all of them.
She checked the wine obsessively over the next few days, stopping in every morning to taste it with Tomi. On the fourth day, she arrived first. She ladled the wine out cheerfully, certain she had made the right decision. But when she tasted it, she froze. It had gone dry. Very, very dry. Tomi had been right. Oh God.
"Buon Giorno, Celia." She jumped as Tomi came in through the door, whistling. "How does it taste this morning?"
She found she couldn't speak a word. She simple handed the cup of wine over to Tomi, a feeling of pure dread pumping through her body. She watched him drink it, and his face turned to a look of stunned anguish.
"This can't be!" he said. "It was fermenting so slowly. What would make it suddenly turn like this?"
She took a step back from him. "Tomi, I…"
He wasn't listening, he had run to the next vat to sample it. He cursed loudly when he tasted it. Then he muttered, "Pardon my language, Celia."
She tried again. "Tomi?"
He was sampling yet another vat, with obviously the same result.
"Tomi, I added the yeast," she blurted out.
He whirled to face her, his jaw hanging open in shock.
"You didn't."
She took another step back. "I'm sorry. I just…"
"You just what?" he boomed. His brows were low, his mouth tightened to an angry slash. He walked toward her with deliberate, menacing steps.
"I just wanted to help. I really thought…"
"You had no right," he bit out. "I had it completely under control."
Tears stung her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice cracking. "I truly am."
Tomi loomed over her, a controlled rage in his visage.
"Are you trying to get me dismissed? Do you hate me so much? Why is it I feel you've been set against me since the day I arrived?"
She shook her head quickly. "No. No, Tomi. That's not it. I was trying to help. I swear it. My intentions were good."
His eyes narrowed, and he considered her, as if trying to weigh the truth of that statement. "The count had offered me a share of the profits, did you know that?" he asked bitterly.
Oh God. She had just cost him his bonus. "No," she whispered. "I didn't know. Look, Tomi, I'll speak to the count. It was my fault."
Tomi shook his head angrily. "Speaking to the count will do me no good. Profits can't be had with poor wine, Celia."
He cast his eyes about him in disgust, as if looking for some kind of relief from the moment. She watched as his eyes came to rest on the large wooden stirring paddle, and she knew exactly how that relief would come. Tomi turned back to look at her.
She shook her head at him, her eyes wide.
He nodded slowly at her. "Bring me the paddle," he said, his voice icy cold.
Her breath stalled in her throat.
He stood staring imposingly at her, unmoving. She could concede, at that moment, that she deserved it. She felt horrible for ruining the wine. And even worse, for making Tomi angry. But all those things still didn't mean she wanted to be spanked. Especially not by Tomi and not by that huge wooden paddle.
"Now, Celia." He held her in his burning stare.
Slowly, reluctantly, she moved to pick up the paddle. When she turned back, Tomi had tipped one of the oak barrels on its side. She had absolutely no doubt how he meant to use that, either. He walked to the door and shoved another barrel in front of it to keep others out, a decency for which she was grateful.
She stood frozen, the big wooden stir paddle in her hand.
"Come." Tomi indicated the barrel with a wave of his hand.
She took a deep, shaky breath, then tossed her head, held her chin high and strode over to him like she had all the confidence in the world.
Tomi watched her, expressionless.
She probably hadn't fooled him. Briefly, the memory of the first time he spanked her and the way he'd kissed her so tenderly afterward flitted through her mind. It had been an intimate moment and even the memory of it left her feeling exposed. Vulnerable. She stared defiantly into Tomi's face, but she found suddenly she couldn't bear looking at him. Her eyes filled with tears, and she dropped them to the floor. Damn him.
His hands landed on her shoulders, gentle, almost reassuring. He turned her to face the barrel and pushed her upper back down until she lowered herself over it. He lifted the skirt of her outer dress, then her chemise, exposing her bare bottom for his view. Though she knew he'd seen it the last time he spanked her, somehow this way seemed worse – just her bottom and legs on display for his chastisement, framed by her lifted skirts. Her toes tucked on the floor, which gave the trembling in her legs the means to express itself – her knees jumping up and down. She released her toes and tucked them again, trying to make it stop. She didn't want Tomi to see it, though he surely already had.
The first smack of the hard wooden paddle on her exposed bottom sent the barrel flying forward. She screamed, her hands catching her on the floor in an effort to stop it before her head crashed into the packed earth. She heard Tomi swear as he caught the barrel, rolling it back. He gave no apologies, but he moved another standing barrel against hers to brace it. She rested her chin against the rough wood and leaned the side of her head against the other one. The tingling pain of the first whack prickled. She closed her eyes and tried to prepare for what she knew was going to be a difficult thrashing. He brought the paddle down on her again and then found a rhythm with it, his heavy breathing punctuated by the dull thwacks of wood against skin.
She lost her composure after ten, but she didn't beg or complain, just cried softly into the unforgiving slope of barrel. She lost count after twenty and started to panic as her mind rebelled against the pain, sure that she could take no more. Her toes frantically scrambled for hold on the floor, and she clung to the top of the barrel as if she might pull herself up over it to climb away. Tomi seemed to guess her intent, because she felt his hand then, pressing firmly on her low back, holding her in place.
"I'm not finished yet," he gritted.
She sobbed and sobbed as he continued, applying the large paddle at least a dozen more times. When it stopped, she didn't move—at first because she wasn't sure he was finished; then because she couldn't bear getting up and looking at him.
* * *
Tomi sat down next to her on the barrel and buried his face in his hands, suddenly depressed.
Celia turned her face away from him. She still sobbed pitifully.
Releasing his anger through punishing her only caused him more pain, as the idea that he had hurt her was revolting to him. Not to mention the fact that he really had no right to punish her. Though he often thought of her as his, the truth was that she didn't belong to him in any way. If she complained to the count, he could lose his job over this. Worse still, thoug
h their relationship had been strained since he'd arrived in Parma, he hated to think he'd damaged it irrevocably.
But she had submitted to him, hadn't she? She brought him the paddle and bent over the barrel of her own accord. He looked over at her and realized the poor woman still lay with her bottom exposed. He smoothed her skirts back down and placed a hand on her back. He wasn't sure if his touch was welcome, but he had to try.
She didn't respond.
After a while, her crying calmed, but she still hung over the barrel with her face turned away. "Will you leave me, Tomi?" she asked in a tired voice.
His heart contracted. No. If he left her now she would probably never look him in the eye again. Or, knowing her sense of vengeance, she would set the villa on end to make his life miserable. He sank to the floor with his back against the barrel and very gently tugged at her legs to urge her down.
"Tomi," she protested, but she moved from her position finally, pushing herself up so her waist came away from the barrel. When it did, he grasped it and pulled her down to sit in his lap. She looked surprised and sat stiffly, as if considering trying to extricate herself from the position.
"Celia," he murmured, coaxing her back.
She sighed and gave in, leaning her tear-stained cheek against his shoulder.
A wave of relief and love for her flowed through him. He stroked her back and nape, then buried his fingers in her thick, beautiful red hair. She smelled delicious to him.
After a while, she lifted her head, avoiding his eye. "Well," she said in a perfectly business-like tone. "Can we add sugar to the wine to sweeten it back up?"
He cupped her chin and turned her to face him. Her cheek had been roughened by the cursed barrel and there was a vulnerability in her eyes that he wanted to kiss away. He stroked her cheek with his thumb, and pulling her to him, brushed her lips gently with his own, going slowly in case she resisted.
She didn't, though – she returned the kiss timidly, her lips soft and pliant. At that moment, he wanted nothing more from her than her sweet kiss. He took his time sampling it, savoring it.
"I'm sorry about your profit sharing," she said when they broke apart.
He shook his head. "It doesn't matter." He cared not about the profit sharing. It was for her that he had wanted it.
"Well, what do you think about the sugar?" she asked again.
He sighed. He would rather sit a while with this magnificent woman in his lap and try to heal the rift between them, but she was nothing, if not determined. "Yes. It's our only option at this point."
He felt her body stiffen a bit. "Well, let's do it, then." She pushed herself up from his lap, looking stiff and wincing a bit.
Oddly, it was as though he'd been the one who had been punished and forgiven. He felt at peace – emptied of all the cares and worries of the past weeks. Nothing mattered anymore except the present moment, being there with Celia. His senses heightened, for once, he had nothing to say. All the affectations of his personality – his charm, flirtatiousness, his education – they all had dropped away.
Celia, too, seemed opened in a new way. She added the sugar, asking for his opinion on how much and having him taste samples until it seemed right. There was no teasing or quarreling, no anxieties. For the first time, they could just be. But like all perfect moments, it came to an end. When they had finished adding sugar, Celia lowered her eyes. "Well," she said. "If you'll excuse me?"
"Celia…" He wanted to take her back into his arms and reassure her that everything was going to be all right.
She paused and looked at him expectantly. For whatever reason, he didn't reach for her, he simply stood there, mute. She flushed and then ducked her head, slipping away.
When he saw her at supper, she was tense.
"How did the wine taste today?" the count asked jovially.
He sensed Celia freeze in her chair.
He spoke up before she could. "Actually, my lord, I made a mistake. I added too much yeast and it went dry. I've added more sugar now, and I'm hoping it will recover."
The count frowned.
"Nay, my lord. I added the yeast. I'm sorry," Celia said, looking truly miserable.
His own heart beat faster, in sympathy for her.
The count's face turned stony. "You added the yeast. When Tomi told you not to? Is this related to the discussion we had the other night?"
She nodded sadly.
"Who is the master of this villa?"
"You are, my lord."
"So who has the final word?"
"You do."
"And what was my final word?"
"That Tomi should make the decisions for the wine."
"Indeed. You deliberately disobeyed me."
"Yes, my lord," she whispered.
It occurred to him then that Celia could very likely be facing punishment at the count's hands. And after the spanking he had already given her, that was unthinkable. He cursed himself again for taking her punishment into his own hands.
"Tomi has already punished me for it," she said in a small voice.
His gut clenched. Of course, she had to tell him that. He wanted her to tell him, and yet, he feared the count's reaction to that news. The count's eyes snapped to his and remained there for a long moment.
"It's true," he confessed, blinking several times under the stare.
At last, the count broke the gaze and turned back to Celia. "We'll discuss it later," he said with a note of finality.
Tomi's heart sank. That did not bode well for Celia's raw backside.
When the meal was finished, the count said to Celia, "Wait for me in my chambers."
"Yes, my lord."
He groaned inwardly.
Lucia had stood and hesitated, now.
"Will you leave us, my lady?" the count asked her.
She curtsied. "Of course, my lord."
When she left, the count ran his hands through his hair. Then he banged his fist down on the table. "Dammit, Tomi!"
"My lord," he said. "Celia was only doing what she thought was best. I assure you she has been adequately punished."
"I believe I have told you before, Celia is under my guardianship, which means she answers to me."
He stared at his employer in dismay. "I'm sorry I took it upon myself to punish her. I just...I was angry and I feel a certain...familiarity with her because we have known each other so long."
The count looked at him sharply. "You never lay a hand on a woman when you're angry, Tomi."
He drew in his breath. "I didn't...I spanked her, that's all."
"If you're angry, you take a walk or wait till later to punish," the count said firmly.
He shook his head but felt doubt creeping in. Had he punished her too harshly? He didn't think so. "I don't believe I was too harsh," he said.
"Even if you weren't, you can't punish angry. It scares your woman and erodes her trust."
He looked at the older man. Though it was hard to imagine anything scaring Celia, he accepted the advice as worthwhile and nodded. And he was secretly pleased the count had called Celia his woman.
"Celia is stubborn and headstrong, and unless I miss my guess, this is just one of the many ill-conceived ways she has been vying for your attention since you arrived here. Now I said nothing at the table about you punishing her because I have been under the impression that you had interest in courting her, but if that's not the –"
"I am interested in courting her," he cut in.
"Then I suggest you go about it before the woman burns the villa down around my ears. She is waiting for you to take her in hand. So do so, man."
* * *
Celia entered the chamber to find Lucia throwing up in the bedpan. She forgot her own anxiety and rushed to her sister's side, holding her hair out of the way as she vomited.
"What's wrong? Are you sick?"
Lucia turned to her and smiled a slow smile. "Pregnant."
She gasped and threw her arms around her sister in delight. "Does Marco kn
ow?"
"Does Marco know what?" The count's mild voice sounded behind them.
"I've just been throwing up." Lucia smiled.
The count looked confused and concerned.
"You remember that I'm late?"
He looked confused for a moment longer, and then his brow cleared. "You mean?"
Lucia nodded happily. Marco rushed to her and picked her up in a giant hug. "I'm so happy, dulcezza, so very happy."
Lucia beamed at him.
"I'll send for the midwife tomorrow."
Lucia laughed. "Don't you think tomorrow's a little early?"
Marco grinned. "Well, you might need advice. About the vomiting or something."
"All right," she said, as if she were indulging her husband. "Marco?" She employed the coquettish look she always adopted when asking for something.
"Yes?" he said warily.
"Will you please go easy on Celia?"
Marco turned from Lucia to look at her thoughtfully. The hardness was gone from his face, and she saw more of his usual benevolence coming through. "Come, Celia. Let's go to your chamber to have our discussion. Lucia doesn't need the stress of it."
He led her through the adjoining door to her chamber and sat down on the edge of the bed, drawing her to stand before him. Her robe had come open, and in the past, he would have told her to take it off, but instead, he closed it for her, tying the belt around her waist more firmly. Then, without a word, he pulled her over his knee. He slid the hem of her robe up slowly, and for the second time that day, her bare bottom was exposed for punishment. Her mind wreaked havoc on her nerves, fearful of the pain of a second spanking on her red, swollen bottom. She was clawing and biting the quilt on the bed before he even touched her. He ran his hand lightly over her sore bottom.
"Tomi did his work well, didn't he?"
"Yes," she gasped.
Her skin was still sensitive enough that his hand felt as rough as sand on her backside, and she was absolutely cringing with fear.
"You're trembling."
She wanted to yell, "Would you please get on with it!" but she knew better. Finally, the count brought his hand down sharply on her raw bottom, and she yelped and jumped.
