by Allegra Gray
“So we should. A young miss ought to be chaperoned. Shall we go down to the great hall, or shall I ask one of the women to join us here?”
She definitely didn’t want to be on display in the great hall. “One to join us here, please.”
He looked satisfied at her decision and left the room. Celia was left alone again, this time to ponder the wisdom of her decision. It pleased her that he’d allowed her to make the choice. But had it been the right one? What if he came back with someone like Bernice? She shuddered. That would make for a miserable evening no matter what games they played—and it would certainly eliminate the possibility of any games of the more intimate variety. For days, the melting, burning sensations of his kiss had lingered in her mind. Without someone to chaperone, she feared she’d give herself over far too easily.
Just when she was starting to wonder what had happened, Nicolas returned with an elderly woman on his arm and Alisoun trailing behind them.
The two women nodded to her, then settled unobtrusively on low stools in a corner of the room, talking in low tones and holding their mending close to a brace of candles as they stitched. Being evening, they worked on rougher items, where the delicacy of each stitch did not matter.
Celia breathed a sigh of relief. The women Nicolas had chosen for chaperones were perfect—she counted Alisoun a friend, and the elderly woman had a sweet countenance that was as unlike Bernice’s as day from night.
Nicolas retrieved a lovely wooden case from his massive desk and brought it over to a low table near the fireplace. He opened it to reveal a draughts board with carved ivory playing pieces.
Celia followed him, admiring the fine game pieces while the count drew up two cushiony stools. She reached hesitantly to examine one of the figures, trying to imagine what it would be like to have so much wealth that even one’s playthings were so finely made.
“They were carved for me by one of my father’s advisors, when I was just a boy.” He spoke from just behind her, his warm breath tickling the back of her ear and sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. She tried to imagine him as a boy and found it hard to do. Had he been a serious child, or had those arresting green eyes once been filled with the laughter and mischief of youth?
“He must have thought highly of you, to make such a game for a child. They have been well-cared for.”
“Oui.” Nicolas sat, and gestured for her to do so too. “He taught me to play, taught me game strategy, and later battle strategy, when others simply dismissed my questions as youthful pestering. I have great respect for him.”
A serious child, then. “Have? He is still here?”
“Indeed, he is the same man you mistook for myself upon your hasty arrival to my war council.”
She could see the teasing light in his eyes and bit her tongue to keep from grinning, though her lips quirked at the corners. It was amazing he hadn’t held that whole incident against her.
“Truly, if you had to make such a mistake, there are few men I would rather be mixed up with than Giles.”
She relaxed and returned his smile. “That, at least, is a relief, my lord. So, how do we play?”
It was very comfortable, there, by the fireplace, and as he began explaining the rules of the game she found herself forgetting her worries. Their chaperones were close enough to observe their behavior, but not to catch every word of conversation, if they kept their voices low.
Nicolas was obviously holding back when they actually began to play, allowing her to make moves that even she, in her novice state, knew he could have prevented. Still, Celia found herself having a marvelous time, amazed at the patience and acceptance of the powerful man by her side.
She even forgot her chaperones, only vaguely noticing when goblets of mead appeared on a nearby tray, the unobtrusive work of Alisoun. Instead she focused solely on memorizing the rules Nicolas repeated for her in a husky murmur, on learning to play, learning to think more than one move ahead, trying to prove to the handsome lord that she could become a worthy opponent...though perhaps not in one session.
She found herself leaning over the board in concentration, Nicolas doing the same, mere inches separating them. When it became clear that she understood the game, he began to make it harder for her, teasing her about making the wrong move, or distracting her with well-timed compliments.
“Your eyes sparkle like diamonds.”
She giggled and moved her piece exactly as she’d planned. She enjoyed matching wits with him. “Trite, my lord. Surely, if you mean to distract me, you can do better.”
He raised his eyebrows as though acknowledging her challenge, then moved his own piece. Celia studied the board, then reached out.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He placed his hand over hers, over the piece she was about to move forward. Celia’s hand nearly burned from the contact.
“Why?” she breathed, her eyes boring into his. His thumb curved around her hand to stroke the inside of her palm. Celia licked her lips, which suddenly felt unbearably dry.
“Because if you do, you will lose the game. And without the game to distract me, I will be able to think only of my desire for you.”
Chapter 7
“You cannot desire me. You hardly even know me,” Celia replied, striving to keep her voice even despite the tumult raging inside her. This new method of distraction was far more effective than silly compliments. Despite her words, she didn’t pull her hand from his.
She glanced desperately at the corner of the room where her chaperones sat. The elderly lady had nodded off, and Alisoun was nowhere to be seen. When had that happened?
She stood. He did the same. They were so close she could feel the warmth of his body, smell the fine wool of his tunic. He smelled clean and intoxicatingly male. The desire to move closer and taste that warm skin clashed wildly with the warning bells sounding in her head. Alisoun had said that if he wanted her, he would have her. Did he want her now? And could she accept the consequences?
Nicolas studied her intently. He slowly traced the line of her neck with one finger, sending a pleasant shiver up her spine. Then, to her surprise, he walked over to a chair behind the heavy desk and sat down, putting a safe distance between them.
“You say I hardly know you.” His voice was low but intense. “But I tell you, I know the deep sparkle of your eyes, the way they flash in anger when you are not pleased with something, the way your face flushes and makes you more beautiful than any other woman to grace this court. I do know you.
“But if you think otherwise, then tell me something of yourself, that I may know you better. Tell me of your home, of the cheese you and your father sell. I have eaten the cheeses of Gruyère often, but I do not know what it is that makes them so much more appealing than ordinary cheese.”
Celia realized he was deliberately changing the subject to something safe, something mundane. Once again, he was throwing her off balance. He was keeping the promise he’d made to her the night they’d kissed...a promise she was no longer certain she wanted him to keep.
She gave him a dubious look. “Cheese? Truly, my lord? You go from complimenting my looks to asking how I make cheese? What could you possibly wish to know?”
“Why does it taste better when it comes from Gruyère?” He sounded truly interested.
All right. They would speak of the mundane. But talking across the room at him seemed ridiculous, so she went to sit in the chair opposite him. It was still at least eight feet away, separated by the wide wooden desk.
She sighed. “You wouldn’t think it so special if you were surrounded by it your entire life. I believe it’s the cows, and what they eat. Every spring my brothers, and the other farmers of our village, take the cows high into the mountains and remain up there until fall. The cheese we sell comes only from those cows that go up there. The town cheese—that is, cheese from cows left behind, which most of the village eats—isn’t nearly as fine.”
“You don’t eat your own cheese?” he asked in surpris
e.
“We do,” she amended. “When there is plenty. But we save the best to sell.”
She paused, but he motioned her to go on.
She shook her head in disbelief, but she did. “The mountain cows feed all summer on the high alpine grasses, and when they return, their milk is sweet and its flavor distinct. They slaughter one of those cows, and use the stomach to curdle the milk of the other animals and make the cheeses. I can’t explain why it works that way, but it has been done so for generations.”
She shuddered. “But the smell, when the milk is being turned to cheese...the smell infiltrates the entire countryside, seeping into everything. It is overpowering and unpleasant, and it is hard to remember that the end product will be worth putting up with the toil and smell to make it. My brothers and I hardly ever eat it anymore. I suppose it has lost its magic for us. But it does bring a tidy profit most years.”
Celia stopped, realizing she’d probably just bored him to death with her long cheese exposition. Why couldn’t she have thought of something more clever and enticing to tell him? “My lord, you can’t possibly be interested in all this.”
He grinned and leaned back in his chair. Her eyes drank in the sight of his finely-clad form, limbs sprawled at ease, yet somehow still coiled. He reminded her of the lion woven into the tapestry that hung above him. A predator. Ruler of the kingdom of beasts. Unhurried. She swallowed.
“On the contrary, I am. I’m interested in the way your eyes light up when you speak of such matters, the way your voice fills with pride. I’ve never known a merchant’s daughter before, not personally. You are a credit to your father.”
A warm glow spread through her. “I suppose I am proud, for though the work is tiresome, we do it well, and for generations my family has lived by it.”
“I’ve never thought about making cheese before. I suppose Cook does it occasionally here, but I’ve never smelled it. Perhaps he simply purchases it from villages like yours.” He wrinkled his nose. “I’m just as glad, for I wouldn’t wish to ruin my appetite for such a wonderful food. Perhaps I should have asked how you make your wines instead, though I already have a good idea how that is done. What else is your home like?”
She shrugged. “We work. There is always work. My brothers and uncles are the dairy farmers, and my father manages the vineyard just outside the village. We work all year to keep the cows healthy and bring the grape harvest in, then make the cheeses and wines.”
Why was she telling him this? She must sound like such a country dolt. But her tongue tripped merrily along, unable to stop. “When those are done, my father, and this year I too, go to sell our products, and those of our neighbors, to towns and castles such as yours. When winter truly sets in, we cannot travel or work outdoors, so we set to mending clothes or spinning and weaving cloth for new items, or fixing equipment in need of repair. There is no time for such things during other seasons.”
“It sounds very arduous.”
“So it is, but what other way is there, my lord? Few are fortunate enough to find themselves a mistress of leisure.”
“I suppose so.” Nicolas stood and came around the desk, stopping only when he stood right before her. Celia suddenly found it difficult to breathe.
“Do I know you well enough now?” he asked gruffly.
“My lord?” she whispered.
“To desire you,” he clarified, just before his mouth swooped down to seize hers.
Thoughts flew from her mind as her body strained toward his. Yes, oh yes, this was what she’d wanted, what she’d missed ever since he’d kissed her two nights ago. Her hands slid up his chest of their own volition as her lips yielded to his.
He lifted his mouth, briefly. “It doesn’t matter if you say I don’t, for I do. Desire you.”
“Mmm.” It was all she could say. Wanton. His body was so powerful, so hard. She nearly moaned with loss when he drew back.
He glanced at their chaperone—thankfully still asleep—then looked ruefully back at her.
Celia’s face suffused with heat. No man had ever made her forget herself so. But with Nicolas, it seemed to happen every time he came near.
He touched her cheek, gently. “I am glad you told me of your life. While you are my guest, you must endeavor to forget your toils for a while and indulge yourself in whatever trifling pastimes please your fancy.”
She struggled to recover from the passions still coursing through her, struggled to match his civilized tone. “Merci, my lord—though I don’t really know any trifling pastimes. I do love music, which I very much enjoy hearing in your great hall.”
“And now you know another.” He nodded at the forgotten draughts board.
“I have not had time for such things since I was a young child.”
“Then I will have to teach you more.”
“My lord, ‘tis a kind offer, but I imagine you must be a very busy man. So many people depend on you for sustenance and safety,” Celia protested half-heartedly. It was hard to remember not to seem too eager—especially when, moments ago, she’d been imagining future sessions of draughts in which she would prove her aptness as both student and opponent…and anything else he might desire.
“True, but we are well-provisioned for the winter, and my military campaigns cannot move forward until the weather warms. What benefit is it to be lord of a castle if I cannot find a few hours in a snowbound day to spend on the pleasant task of educating a lovely woman in matters of entertainment.”
She gave him a shrewd look. “Matters of entertainment? What sort?” Not that it mattered. After tonight, she would happily agree to whatever he had in mind.
“Only those you deem most enjoyable, my sweet,” he replied inscrutably. “For now, the evening grows late, and your chaperone drowsy. I must arise early and see to my knights’ training. And so, I bid you good night.” He picked up her hand and, with a formal half-bow, pressed a kiss to its back.
He gave her a wink, then strode over to the elderly lady in the corner, coughing loudly. She started.
“Dear me! Where has the evening gone?”
Chuckling, the count helped her to arise, then escorted both ladies formally to the door of the chamber. There was no mistaking the warmth in his smile as he closed the door behind them.
Celia returned to her own chamber, pleased when she remembered the correct route back, and still tingling with anticipation for the next time she would see the enigmatic lord of the castle.
She climbed carefully into bed, doing her best not to disturb Alisoun or Marie, who were both sound asleep. Celia, however, found that no matter how still she lay, sleep evaded her. The evening hadn’t been at all what she’d expected, and yet it had left her even more intrigued by Nicolas of Savoy. He’d been restrained, but his blunt expression of desire before they’d parted had heated her through and through.
And that kiss. She couldn’t believe how wanton she’d been, especially with someone else, asleep or not, in the room! She’d wanted so much more. Why had she ever asked for a chaperone?
Celia remembered Alisoun’s advice, given during a conversation the day before: If he’s truly attracted, he’ll act interested in you, even when others are around and there’s no possibility of an interlude. He’ll talk to you, pay you mind. If all he wants is to tumble you, he’s likely to demand that without so much preamble.
Well, if Alisoun was right, then Nicolas was really interested in her. He’d listened to her ramble on about cheese, of all earthly things. And she’d left his chambers wanting more.
Perhaps that had been his intent.
Could she really do it? Become a man’s lover?
She’d not have resisted tonight. Did his lordship know that? He might. But he might not. After all, she’d been the one to break off their first kiss, and the one to request a chaperone tonight. She’d been torturing herself with endless “what if” questions. Now, she had her answers—as many as she was likely to get. One, he was interested. Two, so was she. And three, she wa
s going to be here for quite some time.
She just had to find the right balance—the way to tell him she would go willingly to his bed, and the way to continue holding his interest once she’d been there.
As Fate would have it, Celia was saved the trouble of seeking Nicolas out. The following morning found her standing in a corridor, staring out one of the tiny castle windows, absently gazing at the snow-covered mountains and bleakly contemplating the prospect of another day spent indoors. She absentmindedly touched her fingertips to her lips, imagining the feel of Nicolas’s mouth on hers.
The creak of a door opening onto the corridor yanked her from her reverie.
She spun around to find Nicolas standing before her, his deep green eyes on fire.
“I saw you come this way,” he rasped, closing the distance between them with amazing speed, “and of their own accord, my legs bade me follow.”
Celia let out an undignified squeak. He was here. With her. Alone. Just what she’d been dreaming of.
The ability to speak deserted her. Luckily, Nicolas did not seem to care.
“Forgive me,” he said, “but it occurred to me, after much wakefulness last night, that our evening was hopelessly incomplete. I spoke then of my desire, but you have given me no answer. Two nights ago I promised not to ravage you. I cannot trust myself to keep that promise. Tell me you will release me from such foolish words.”
Celia stared, motionless. Was she actually dreaming?
He pressed on. “Indeed, I cannot seem to forget you. The taste of your lips, the way you feel in my arms...It is madness, surely.”
Finally she found her voice, though it came out sounding unusually husky. “Then I too am mad.”
She leaned into him, aching to fill the empty craving she’d felt since leaving him last night.
“Is there no cure?” His lips hovered above hers, a wry smile tugging at one corner.
“None,” she confirmed, tilting her head up to meet him and nearly going limp with the dizzying pleasure of long-awaited contact.
