by Allegra Gray
Sooner or later, she would come face to face with the lord who held her fate. She wasn’t sure if he was avoiding her after their shocking kiss, or if he was busy and had simply forgotten her.
Oh, she’d seen him at mealtimes, and he’d been unfailingly pleasant, reserving her a stool and making conversation with her as though she were of equal rank to the others at the table —though whenever she went to a meal where he wasn’t present, she ate at the lower tables, or simply took food back to her own chamber. Twice she’d seen him in other parts of the castle, but he’d been absorbed in other tasks and if he’d seen her in return, he’d given no indication. He hadn’t approached her, hadn’t once referred to their evening tour, or even to her father’s situation.
Perhaps her whole conversation with Marie and Alison had been no more than silly speculation. In her heart, though, was the utter conviction that they could not share a kiss such as the one that had shaken her so completely the other evening, then go about as though it never happened. But, she told herself, the count’s disinterest was for the best. A woman of her station had no business yearning for a man like him.
The snows lasted for three days. When the thick flakes finally stopped falling, the castle was packed in. No one could get out to do the normal chores, and all anyone could talk about was that there hadn’t been a winter like this in years. The weather remained bitterly cold, preventing the snow from melting.
Celia was feeling cooped up. She’d mended all she could think to mend, and helped others with weaving and spinning, until her fingers ached from use.
With so many of Chillon’s residents hovering around the hearths, Bernice’s was hardly the only temper that flared. Even normally chipper Marie had taken to bed by early afternoon, citing a headache. Maybe castle life wasn’t as great as Celia had always imagined. At least when bad weather struck at home, there were fewer people to deal with.
She was staring out the window, just outside the upper hall, when the sound of boot steps made her turn.
“You look like you need to get out of here,” the count said. “I know I do.”
She curtsied, ignoring the sudden acceleration of her heart. “’Tis true I am unused to spending so much time indoors,” she admitted politely.
“Do you ride?”
“My lord?”
“I thought to go riding. Would you like to come?”
She thought fast. He was asking her on an outing. What did he mean by it? She was forever guessing at his intentions. “I have ridden on mules, and my brothers’ farm horses, but I have never ridden for sport.”
“No matter. With snow still on the road, we’ll keep the horses to a slow pace.”
“We?”
“You and I. You will come, won’t you?”
She smiled at his eagerness. “I should like that very much.”
“Good. Meet me by the stables as soon as you’re ready.”
When she arrived there just a short spell later, having retrieved her cloak and answered Marie’s speculative look with a mysterious smile, Nicolas took one look at her and frowned. “How thoughtless of me. You’ll freeze.”
She’d been a little worried about that, herself.
“I have an idea. Wait here.”
She waited, watching as the grooms led out a large brown gelding and a smaller gray palfrey. These weren’t the warhorses she’d seen before, chasing down the fleeing marauders. They stood calmly, their nostrils releasing puffs of steam into the frosty air.
Good. She had no hope of impressing the count with her riding skills, but she hoped at least to not make a fool of herself. Why did he want to take her riding, anyway? It was more than feeling pent up in the castle walls—if that were all, he could’ve gone without her. No, his actions pointed to one thing—in spite of his attempt to deny it the other night, he’d taken an interest in her.
Nicolas reappeared, bearing a fur-lined hood and leather gloves. He presented them to her with a smile of triumph. “For you.”
She fingered the soft leather. “These are beautifully made. To whom should I return them after our ride?”
“No need. Keep them.”
Keep them? “I couldn’t possibly.”
He chuckled. “No jest. They belong to my mother, but she rarely comes to Chillon anymore. They will serve you better than her.”
A noblewoman’s hood? Celia tried to hand them back, but the count refused. “You needn’t worry. I’ll order another set made for her, just in case.”
She stroked the soft fur. “Thank you, my lord.” What else could she say? She donned the hood and gloves, then stood on a crate to mount the filly. By the time she’d arranged her voluminous skirts over the saddle, Nicolas pulled up next to her, astride the gelding.
They led the horses to the bridge and waited while the guards lowered it. Two grooms mounted up and followed behind them, keeping a respectful distance as they crossed the bridge and turned onto the road.
Around them, the trees sparkled with bits of ice and snow. Everything felt new and clean, as though the blizzard had blown away the last vestiges of battle that lingered in the air.
And here she was, a mere nobody, riding next to one of the greatest lords in the land. It was too much to believe.
She snuck a glance at him.
He sat his horse proudly, shoulders back, his face alert, surveying all around him. He breathed deeply. “That feels better, doesn’t it?”
“Mmm,” she agreed. It did. They wouldn’t be able to stay out too long before the chill cut through her layers, but the brief respite was a gift. “Do the men snipe as much as the women when they are cooped up indoors?”
“More,” he averred. “They get bored, and then they fight.”
“And you, my lord?”
His lips quirked. “Imp. I fight for sport, but there’s no anger in it. My people are better served if I reserve my anger for our common enemies.”
“I’ve never heard a nobleman speak of serving his people the way you do.”
“All good rulers do. It’s not entirely unselfish—not at all, really. Protecting the safety and trade of the lands has served my own family well.”
She thought about that. It seemed a just reward, if the job was well done. “You have a great deal of responsibility. Did you know from the time you were very young, that you would someday bear this title?”
“As long as I can remember. I was not my mother’s first born son, but my older brother did not survive past his second winter. I came next, so, yes, I have always known.”
She wondered about the man behind the title, behind the well-made cloak and fine leather boots. What drove him? What brought him joy? “Do you ever do anything just for yourself? For pleasure?”
He shot her a speculative glance. “I am right now.”
Warmth rushed through her in spite of the winter air. The clop of the horses’ hooves startled a squirrel resting on an overhanging tree branch. It ran away chittering, sending a shower of sparkling flakes down on her.
The count smiled. “Definitely the most pleasurable time I’ve spent in days.”
“Then I am honored to be the one spending it with you,” she replied, proud of herself for actually managing a courtly response.
“Perhaps I shall be fortunate enough to find other ways to occupy your time, Mistress Lyndon.”
He was flirting. Definitely flirting. Her heart sped up again, but she managed a demure, “As my lord so chooses.”
His smile turned into a smirk, as though he didn’t believe her demure façade for a moment, but he didn’t challenge her.
Instead, they rode companionably side by side, until even the leather gloves could not keep the numbness from her fingers, and her feet had long since turned to blocks of ice.
“We should head back,” Nicolas said, regret in his voice.
Celia didn’t know whether to share his regret or be relieved.
When they returned, a servant ran up with steaming mugs of ale nearly as soon as they’d dis
mounted. Celia stumbled, her numb feet responding sluggishly to supporting her weight. She wrapped her hands around the mug, soaking in the warmth.
The count stepped close and brushed the dusting of snow from her hood and shoulders. It was an intimate gesture. She held her breath, caught in the moment, until his gaze flicked to the ever-observant servants and he stepped away.
They sipped slowly, and walked even more slowly, on the way back to the main section of the chateau. She wasn’t anxious to break the spell of the peaceful afternoon. Neither, it seemed, was he. She felt the undercurrent of desire as much as ever, but without the accompanying sense of uncertainty.
Their respite came to an end the moment they set foot in the main building. The seneschal stood, as though he’d been lying in wait for the count to appear, and, after bowing, began reciting a list of things that required his master’s attention.
Knowing she was no longer needed, Celia gave him a soft smile and curtsy, then wandered back to her own chamber. Marie, feeling somewhat better, took one look at the fur-lined hood and leather gloves that Celia peeled off, and quirked a brow. “I guess you know his intent now.”
Celia lowered her lashes, but couldn’t quite hide her smile. “He did not actually speak of the matter.”
“Mm hmm,” Marie said knowingly. “‘Tis only a matter of time.”
As much as it galled him, Nicolas was unable to pursue his desire for Celia for a full day after their ride in the snow. He’d first imagined the weather would bring a sort of lull over the castle, but instead his chambers had been bombarded by one petitioner after another. First came the workmen who feared his wrath at not having the new fortifications complete before the bad weather struck. He assured them it was not their fault and sent them on their way, mentally noting that his seneschal ought to handle such matters rather than allowing them to come directly to him.
Next came his men at arms, who were worried about the impact of the weather on the plans to attack Geneva. Nicolas shared their concern. He asked them to move the tables in the great hall so they could continue to prepare and train indoors. The rest of the plans were in God’s hands.
The seneschal—after being chided about sending the workmen in—came to assure him there were supplies aplenty for the castle dwellers to ride out the storm.
Hans arrived at the end of the stream, warning him that the dungeons were overcrowded. In addition to the remainder of the group who’d attacked Chillon, there were common thieves and those accused of stranger crimes, like the village woman rumored to be a witch. A decision needed to be made as to how to handle the surplus. Feeding so many, no matter how paltry their meals, was a waste. Nicolas assured him that he would hold a judgment day soon.
He met with each petitioner dutifully and did what he could to ensure all his people—those not residing in the dungeons, at any rate—were as safe and comfortable as possible.
In between, he plotted the best way to seduce Celia. The snows had bought him time, but he’d no wish to wait much longer.
Did she? Being an innocent, he thought wryly, it was unlikely her mind was filled with quite the same lustful images as his. Perhaps she was even grateful for the respite from his attentions. He sincerely hoped not, for he couldn’t help but imagine the feel of her soft skin, the lush curve of her hips, their bodies tangled together in abandon...but first he had to gain her compliance. She owed him, but he’d not stoop to taking advantage of that. His marriage had taught him firsthand that a woman who submitted out of duty alone brought no passion to the bed sheets. When he and Celia came together, it would be what they both wanted. There was far more pleasure to be had that way. But it would happen.
Celia huddled on the stool near the fire, a small plate of supper on her lap. She’d taken it back to her chamber, certain that her presence wouldn’t be missed—especially when she’d noted the count and several of his knights had also foregone their usual places at the high table.
A tap at her door startled her. The sound seemed unnaturally loud now that the howling winds had subsided.
A servant poked his head in and gave her a funny sort of bob, as though he wasn’t certain if he was supposed to bow or not. “Mistress Lyndon, his lordship bids you attend him.”
She sucked in a breath. This was the moment she’d been waiting for—wasn’t it? Now that it had arrived, she didn’t know if she was relieved or anxious.
“Did his lordship say why?” She couldn’t help but chafe at the way the boy told her the count “bid her attend him,” as though she too were one of his servants—though she knew logically her place was not much higher, and that “attend” was a common phrase anyway.
Of course, one of its most common uses was for a wife to attend her husband. A brief flare of desire stabbed through her at the thought. Was that what his lordship had in mind?
“Nay, mistress.”
“I wonder what he has in mind,” she mused, more to herself than to the young man at the door.
“I’m sure I don’t know, mistress. But if you’ll follow me, I suppose you’ll find out straightaway.”
She followed the young man down the drafty hall. Along the walls, lit torches every twenty feet helped dispel some of the gloom, though the air remained brisk. They went down a set of stairs, through another hall, then up more stairs. Here the hallway was brighter. The walls had been plastered over and painted with bright patterns and motifs, and the torches were spaced more frequently. She recognized the Savoy coat of arms worked into one of the patterns on the wall and knew they were approaching the count’s chambers. She vaguely remembered this hall from the day she’d first arrived at Chillon, though then she’d been too preoccupied to pay much attention to the surroundings.
Sure enough, they came to a finely carved door. The servant held it open. “In here, mistress.”
As soon as she stepped through, the youth quickly disappeared, and she found herself standing alone in the count’s outer chamber.
This room was unbelievably luxurious compared to the others in the castle. True, the great hall was festive and many of the other chambers she’d seen put her own modest home to shame, but this was something else entirely.
Intricately woven carpets covered the floors, their pattern foreign and beautiful. They whispered to her of far-off lands and exotic secrets. Floral motifs covered the walls and a large fire burned in a hearth surrounded by marble tiles. The primary piece of furniture in the room was a large, imposing desk that was covered with parchment, maps, and a few bound ledgers.
This must be where he kept appointments, Celia realized. A receiving room. She clasped her hands to keep them from shaking.
She’d assumed that the purpose of tonight’s summons was personal, but perhaps she was wrong. Had he some information about her father? Or did he wish to change the terms of their bargain?
She twisted her hands idly, repeating to herself her father’s advice to have patience. She wandered towards the window, intending to examine the fine fabric of the draperies, when the creak of a door opening startled her.
She whirled around to face Nicolas of Savoy, dropping a curtsy so fast she wobbled before regaining her balance. Her heart hammered in her throat as she wondered what to say to him. Three days ago she’d been certain he was pursuing her, but then he’d stopped. Yesterday afternoon, she’d thought it again. Now she simply didn’t know what to think. Or do.
He acknowledged her curtsy with the slightest of bows and Celia stifled a giggle at his formality. Calm down, she told herself. This is no time for hysterics. You said you wanted an adventure. Well, let’s see if you’re game.
“You look lovely this evening, Mistress Lyndon,” he said as he crossed the room to her in a few long strides.
“You flatter me, my lord. But I look no different than any other time. My gown is the same, and there is nothing special about it to merit such praise.” She spoke in a tone intended to inform him that she was not fishing for more compliments. Rather, she was trying to cut through
the pleasantries and find out the real cause for this meeting.
He looked surprised at her blunt reply. “I was not complimenting your gown, mistress. It was the sparkle of your eyes and the flush of your cheeks that compelled me to speak. Such things cannot be replicated by charcoals and pastes. You are lovely, or I would not waste my words telling you so.” He trailed one finger from the top of her shoulder down her arm, all the way to her fingertips.
Personal. Tonight’s meeting was definitely personal—and it was hard to argue with words as pretty as those. When her sleeve ended and his fingers touched hers, Celia shivered at the brief flash of contact. Unthinking, she leaned closer.
“I called you here tonight to ask if you would pass the evening with me playing games.”
“Games, my lord?” They were already playing a game, she suspected. She just wasn’t sure who was winning.
“Oui, games. You asked if I do anything for pleasure, and I realized, I do enjoy games. Surely you know some. Draughts, perhaps?”
Celia shook her head. “I know of them, but not how to play.”
“Do you wish to learn? I can think of no better way to spend a snowy evening than teaching a pretty maid to play at draughts.”
Once again, he was keeping her off-balance. Draughts sounded so innocent—but she could still feel the path his finger had traced down her arm. There was a current flowing between them, no matter how he proposed to pass the evening. She felt it, and she desired it, too. But she remembered Alisoun’s advice. She had to hold his interest. An easy conquest wouldn’t do that.
She gathered her wits, determined to test his true intentions. She was game for his games—she only wanted to know what the game really was.
“That sounds lovely, my lord. But should we not go somewhere less”—she faltered for a word—“alone?”
He studied her for a long moment. Was that a hint of disappointment in the green depths of his eyes?
