by Allegra Gray
“You’re not ready.”
“I am ready,” she argued.
With a shuddering breath, he drove forward with a powerful thrust.
Her eyes flew open at the shock of pain, the shock of his betrayal. Uncomfortable awareness flooded her. She was naked, intimately joined with him, but he was too big…or she was too small. She moved beneath him again, this time trying to escape, but he put out a calming hand to stop her.
“No, my sweet, do not run away. Just be still a moment. Trust me.”
He was right. Even by the time he finished speaking, the pain had receded as her body stretched to accommodate him. Coils of desire unfurled once more, and Celia abandoned all thoughts of escape. She needed more of him, more of something...she didn’t know what, but she was desperate that he give it to her. This time when she squirmed beneath him, when she looked at him with an expression that begged for what she couldn’t express in words, he responded with a low chuckle that resembled a growl.
“Oui. I know what you seek.” He began to move, slowly at first, and Celia thought she would faint from the pleasure of it. His slow thrusts sent deep waves of longing resonating through her. Gradually his thrusts quickened. She caught on to the rhythm of the intimate dance and joined him, her hips bucking to meet his with each thrust. The need within her spiraled upwards, nearly out of control, until she was hovering on the edge of something she couldn’t comprehend but desperately desired.
“Nicolas!” she cried, and he gave it to her.
He drove deep, burying himself to the hilt. His expression was one of intense concentration, and as she began to convulse around him, she felt him do the same, groaning in passion as he spent his hot seed inside her. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her until she was left whimpering.
Moments passed before she could breathe again. Finally she opened her eyes to see Nicolas above her, their bodies still intimately joined and slick with perspiration as the heady scent of lovemaking blanketed them.
He slowly withdrew, leaving her with a brief feeling of emptiness before he gathered her against him, trailing soft kisses across her cheek and eyebrows.
“You are wonderful.”
“Mmm,” was all she could respond as she snuggled tightly against him. Later, she would contemplate the enormity of what they’d just done, but right now...right now she wanted nothing more than to sink into an oblivious sleep while he still held her.
Hours later, Celia finally turned to the pile of clothing Alisoun had brought, much of which had tumbled to the floor as a result of her and Nicolas’s impassioned use of the bed.
She gasped as she picked up the first garment that caught her eye. Apparently Alisoun had taken her master’s instructions to “treat her as a princess” to heart. The dress she’d retrieved was finer than any she’d ever seen—any she’d even imagined. Crimson silk with heavy gold brocading spilled over her arms. Matching gold trim at the edges of the wide sleeves and the hem of the gown completed the effect. To dye a garment that vivid color of crimson was an expense few but the nobles could afford—let alone all the brocade and trim. She noticed the gleam of metal among the remaining clothes in the pile and reverently extracted a linked gold belt. She’d never seen such finery in her life.
In total, the pile contained two fine linen chemises, a lovely saffron kirtle, stockings and garters, and a veil that matched the crimson gown. Her eyes welled with tears as she raised them to Nicolas.“I couldn’t possibly wear these. They were intended for someone else—maybe a queen—but certainly not me.”
“You can wear them, and you will,” he stated emphatically.
“But, Nicolas—”
“I like it when you say my given name,” he interrupted as he came forward to seize her mouth in a swift but thorough kiss, reminding her vividly of when she’d first spoken his name earlier that evening. “No more protests. You will be beautiful in these gowns, and it will give me pleasure to see you in them.”
How could she argue with him? Or deny him the pleasure of seeing her so adorned? She smiled helplessly as she allowed him to help her on with a chemise and the beautiful dress, giggling when he struggled with the laces at her back.
“I’m a bit relieved you’re not too accustomed to playing ladies’ maid,” she laughed.
He spun her around, silencing her laughter with a hungry kiss. “I am more adept at undoing laces than tying them,” he suggested with a little tug. Celia felt her body tighten in response to the implied promise and wondered wildly how he could still have this effect on her when they’d so recently satiated themselves. He deepened the kiss as if sensing her desire. When he finally released her, he looked down and said solemnly, “I shall have to practice more.”
“More?” She quirked a brow at him.
“I wouldn’t want you thinking of my skills in that area as a shortcoming.”
“Well, if you insist upon practicing, I suppose I could volunteer myself as a target for your endeavors.” She was flirting shamelessly and was surprised at how easily it came. And by how much she was enjoying it! She twisted her hair into a quick bun, securing it with a pin Alisoun had thoughtfully brought with the clothing. She took the veil, as well, placing it over her hair and holding it in place with a headpiece of gold fabric that fit on her head like a crown. The ensemble felt foreign to her, but she realized that after last night, her carefree, bareheaded days were over.
“Practice, my sweet, can be arranged. I shall be certain my schedule allows room. ‘Tis far more enjoyable than many things that occupy my time.” He paused. “You do look lovely, though I miss being able to see that incredible hair of yours.” He fingered the veil, lifting it away for a moment, then letting it fall back in place. “This is probably best. I shall be in council much of the morning. But don’t wander too far…I shall look for you after.”
“I shall count the hours with every tolling of the bells.” She pouted, then gave him a wide grin so he would know she was teasing. She pressed a quick kiss to the underside of his jaw, which was as high as she could reach when he stood tall. Reluctantly drawing back, she slipped out the door and down the hall, thankful there was no one about to see her leaving the count’s chambers at this early hour.
Nicolas watched her go, smiling to himself. The luxurious gown emphasized her tantalizing curves to perfection. The crimson color matched her vivid personality. He made a mental note to reward Alisoun for selecting the dress and for her discreet service that night.
Most importantly, the gown she wore served a purpose beyond his own pleasure. As soon as she was seen strolling about the castle in such fine clothing, everyone would know immediately that she was his mistress. His mistress. He couldn’t say when he’d decided his infatuation with her warranted a more than a passing dalliance, but he was sure of it now.
He wasn’t quite as certain how Celia felt about the matter, but that was a discussion for later. For now, making everyone else aware of her favored status with him would ensure she was never again mistreated. Even if some of the more religious matrons disapproved of how she came by his favor, they would never dare say an unkind word to her for fear of angering him. To the men, the clothing would mark her as his, exclusively.
He’d promised her he’d have “the right people say the right things” to protect her in the future—and he would—but the crimson gown would speak more clearly than any words could. Celia Lyndon belonged to him alone.
Chapter 11
When Celia next saw Marie, she, too, was wearing a veil. Hers was made of plain, serviceable linen. Celia felt a momentary pang of guilt. How quickly their roles had reversed. When she’d first arrived at Chillon, she’d had to rely on Marie’s assistance for everything, even borrowing clothing, and now she wore extravagant garments her chambermaid friend could never hope for.
Marie was polishing a trunk in the room they’d been sharing since the snow blew in, but she straightened when Celia entered. Her eyes grew huge as she surveyed Celia in her finery. “So you�
��ve done it, then,” she whispered. “Become his lordship’s mistress.”
Celia gave Marie her best mysterious smile.
The maid burst into a giggle and threw her arms around Celia.
“How did you guess?”
“Well, hmm, let us consider,” Marie began, a tinge of light sarcasm in her tone. “Has your brain been addled? I first suspected when you didn’t return to this chamber last night...” Marie stepped back to get a better look at her.
Oh, right. How could she have forgotten that they’d been bedmates? Marie and Alisoun had already been up and about their duties when she’d snuck back in the early hours of the morning and crawled under the covers. She’d still been reeling from all that had happened and not given the two women a thought.
“In case I still had doubts, you are wearing evidence enough to convince anyone. No one but a nobleman’s wife or mistress would have such things. You look stunning, by the way. Wherever did that gown come from?”
She grabbed Celia’s hand and pulled her toward the bed where they could both sit. “Tell me everything. You will, won’t you? I so want to know!”
“Everyone will know, truly?” she whispered, fingering the red and gold brocade. She’d suspected as much. Marie’s observation confirmed it, but Celia couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad thing. Only a few hours had passed since she’d lain in Nicolas’s arms. Everything was happening so fast.
“Certes, they will. But none will dare spurn you. The count has marked you as his woman. You know how powerful he is, and if he prizes you, then his people will have no choice but to do the same. Mama says a mistress can be quite powerful, if she is well liked and behaves carefully. You needn’t worry.”
She’d known what she was doing last night, Celia reminded herself. She’d chosen it. She trusted Nicolas. It was inevitable that everyone would know. Marie was right. She had nothing to be nervous about.
“Do tell me what happened!”
Celia complied, grinning foolishly. Despite the unfortunate, frightening incident that had brought her to the count’s chambers—which she skipped in the telling—the rest of the night had been the most magical of her life. She wanted to share her excitement, her happiness, even her fears about what lay in the future for her as Savoy’s mistress. She needed a confidante. Her family would never understand, but Marie would listen with open ears. Despite her penchant for gossip, Celia knew the other girl would never spread anything that would hurt or embarrass her.
“So, what’s he like up close?” Marie continued, her questions bubbling forth irrepressibly. She leaned back on the bed, blithely ignoring her chores in favor of hearing Celia’s story. “What’s it like?”
“Um. Beyond words.” Heat crept up her neck as she remembered Nicolas’s promise of pleasure that would deprive her of words.
Marie batted her with her polishing cloth, laughing. “I could have guessed that! Tell me details!”
She did. Well, not quite all the details...there was no way to describe the intimate, heady sensation of Nicolas thrusting inside of her, nor was that something she wanted to share. To her own ears, her description of the evening’s events sounded dry and unreal. No matter how many times she used words like “handsome” or “exciting” or even “tender,” she knew there was no way Marie would understand.
That didn’t stop the girl from plying her with questions, though, including—after a thorough recounting of those more intimate events Celia was willing to divulge—“And we are to wear veils now? Mama insisted this morning. She never has before.” Marie tugged at the simple one covering her hair.
Celia hesitated. Much as she hated the restrictive feel of the fabric on her head, there was no real choice. Marie was pretty and innocent, and Celia hated to think of anyone making the same leap in judgment that had resulted in the treatment she’d nearly received at the hands of the dungeon guard.
“We are. ‘Tis the proper thing.”
“Ugh. It’s heavy. And it makes my neck itch.”
“I know. But the veil will help keep unscrupulous men from thinking we are loose—giving them an excuse to mistreat us. One of the dungeon guards nearly did so to me.”
Marie’s eyes widened. “No!”
“I swear it. He is now one of the prisoners.”
“Perhaps the veils truly are necessary, then,” Marie said seriously. “And what now? For you and his lordship, I mean.”
“We didn’t really speak of the future,” Celia admitted. “Just that he wanted to see me later today.”
Marie cocked her head. “But if he has given you this gown...” she fingered the rich fabric of Celia’s skirt. “He may as well have it shouted from the castle towers that he is claiming you for himself.”
“But claiming me for how long?”
“How long do you want?” Marie countered.
Forever. She wanted to be his forever. That was not a possibility, however, and she was well aware of it. A mistress, even a favored one, was not forever material.
Marie, as usual, had asked her a question difficult to answer both honestly and realistically. A few weeks? A year? No matter how long it lasted, he would never completely belong to her. Celia studied her skirts. Somehow she had let her guard down and fallen more than half in love with him already. That would never do.
Nor was she willing to deny herself the pleasure of being his mistress, even if it exacerbated the torture of secretly longing for more than she could have.
“Are you in love with him?”
“No!” She burst out desperately. Marie had an uncanny ability to read minds, Celia thought begrudgingly. If she didn’t know better, she’d think the girl was one of the sorceresses the jongleurs sang about.
Marie paid no attention to Celia’s denial. “You are! How romantic! He must care for you as well, or he wouldn’t have given you such fine things.”
“I’m not in love with him. I just...he’s just...well,” she finished lamely. Another thought occurred to her. “About the fine things…do you think he gave them to me as a sort of…payment? For lying with him? I did this because I wanted to— because I wanted him, not what he could give me!”
“Well,” Marie said slowly, “I’m not sure he sees it the same way. I never thought of it like that until you said it just now. It seemed to me that giving you those things was not to purchase you, but to give you fine gifts, to show he thinks you are worthy of fine things, that he thinks you are beautiful and should be dressed befitting your beauty. ‘Tis an awfully chivalrous thing to do, you know, especially for someone who ranks so far above you. Of course, I’m sure he wouldn’t think about what he’s doing in just those words—men aren’t good at that sort of thing, at least from what I know, which isn’t all that much. But Cook is that way—he grumbles and never says a nice word, but then he always puts extra honey on my bread, which is just his way of showing he likes me even if he can’t say it. ‘Tis honey he gives and not silk and velvet, but I imagine the honey matters about as much to him as that gown to the count.”
“I haven’t met Cook. Is he sweet on you?”
Marie laughed. “No, I just used that as an example. Cook is an old man, old enough to be my grandfather, probably. He’s cantankerous to everyone, but I can talk him out of nearly anything—otherwise you’d never have gotten hot water for a wash when first you came here.”
“I’m lucky you’re the one I turned to for help, then,” Celia smiled, then unsuccessfully tried to stifle a huge yawn.
“Tired?” Marie asked knowingly.
“I, um, didn’t get a great deal of sleep last night,” she replied, flushing despite the fact that she’d already shared much of the experience with Marie.
“It’s all right. You rest. I’d best get to work anyway before Mama realizes I’ve passed half the morning away with my chatter!”
Not everyone around Chillon was as pleasant as Marie. Outwardly, Celia knew the count’s men and all the servants were aware of her new status—a fact that made her uncom
fortable whenever she was away from the safety of her own or Nicolas’s chambers. She’d put the elaborate red and gold gown away in favor of the simpler, saffron-shaded kirtle, but even that garment was fine enough to proclaim her position as a kept woman. Many castle-dwellers actually did show her increased respect, but others seemed determined to make her life unpleasant.
Bernice, the dungeon-keeper’s wife, was unsurprisingly one of the latter.
“Your father is certainly taking his time in returning. You must know that doesn’t speak well for him,” she said, rather loudly, one day in the upper hall.
Celia turned her head away, unwilling to give credence to such vitriol. She usually tried to avoid the sniping woman, but few rooms in the castle were kept constantly warm and cozy, so people tended to gravitate toward them. The upper hall had a fire roaring in the hearth, and though Celia had noted Bernice’s presence when she’d entered, she’d assumed that with so many other people around, she was safe from her pointed barbs. Apparently not.
Steeling herself against the implied insult, Celia held her tongue. Instead she offered up a brief, silent prayer for patience—something she found in short supply in present company. The other people in the hall looked uncomfortable, but none dared speak out.
Bernice was undaunted by Celia’s lack of response. “Of course, if I’d had the poor judgment to attack Chillon and then the luck to be set free, I wouldn’t return, either.”
As much as she tried to ignore Bernice’s ill words, she, too, was worried about her father. She had been for some days now. Was he taking too long? How long had she been here? A fortnight? A month? Longer? It shamed her to realize she’d lost track. The tiniest, niggling doubt entered the back of her mind. Could her father have been involved with the attackers? She knew the family needed money quite badly, but she couldn’t imagine her father would stoop so low.
