by Allegra Gray
She shook herself. Of course he hadn’t. Just because the snow at the castle had melted and merchants had begun to arrive from the south didn’t mean the mountain roads were clear. She’d lived up there her entire life. If she weren’t so thoughtless, she’d have realized that immediately. Her father couldn’t possibly have traveled. Her only real worry should be that he hadn’t foolishly gone out in the snows in some misguided attempt to return to Chillon for her sake. As much as she wanted to see him, it wasn’t worth risking his life yet again.
She held her cloak out to absorb the warmth of the fire, still pretending she hadn’t heard Bernice. Finally the woman left, muttering something about “If my husband were in charge, such disrespect wouldn’t be tolerated!”
“But thankfully,” one of the older servants said after she was out of earshot, “her husband will never be in charge of anything more than the stinking dungeons!”
Celia smiled at his show of support, even if it came a bit late. As long as Bernice did no more than talk, there was really nothing to be done.
In the meantime, she had better things to worry about. Despite her new status as mistress, she spent much of her time alone. A lord over many lands and people, her lover was often busy.
She was beginning to realize that she did not like being the last of the lord’s priorities. Her friendship with Marie and Alisoun was a fine thing, but it did not hold a candle to the pleasure and anticipation of spending time with Nicolas. To keep her loneliness at bay, Celia pleaded with the servants until they allowed her to help decorate the great hall for the feast. Many of the knights’ wives wished to help too, and soon the hall was overflowing with brightly colored banners and emblems. Jugglers practiced in the courtyard and strains of music could be heard as the deformed harpist tuned his instrument.
Everyone was excited, for though the count had been in residence at Chillon for over six months, there had been no feasts since the one honoring his arrival. Instead he drove them to fortify the castle, to maximize the harvest, and to prepare for winter. As much as these things were necessary, the people relished the opportunity to finally have some fun.
Celia dressed with care that evening. She would undoubtedly be seated near the count, on display to all. She chose the red and gold brocade, the finest of the garments he had given her. She carefully linked the gold belt at her waist, the heavy ends pulling the belt into a deep V above her womanhood and emphasizing the curve of her hips.
Her chemise was of deepest green, visible only at her bosom and where the wide flares of her sleeves fell away to reveal the undergarment. She allowed Marie to help her arrange her hair so that choice tendrils curled about her face and were not completely hidden by the silk veil. Finally, she was ready.
“Oh, you look like royalty!” Marie averred.
The compliment made her smile, but inwardly her stomach fluttered with anxiety. The feast was meant to celebrate the true nobles. She, Nicolas’s mistress, was an imposter. Yet she knew there would be as many sets of eyes on her—if not more—as on those above her station.
Marie and Celia went down to the great hall together, but parted ways before entering. Feeling very much alone, Celia gazed about the great room. Everything was in place. Nicolas sat near Giles and the highest of his knights and their wives. As she’d expected, he beckoned her over. He shot her a look filled with male appreciation as she approached, though of course with the crowded table she did not dare return the look. Instead, she reluctantly took an empty spot on a bench near the seneschal and some lower knights, as far from the nobles as possible.
Her hands shook with nervousness as she tried to remember her best table manners and draw as little attention to herself as possible. She stared at the soup in front of her, appetite gone, wishing she had skipped the meal. Going hungry would have been preferable to this scrutiny.
Nicolas and Giles, the elderly advisor, were animatedly discussing the latest decree of the pope, while the rest of the men were either absorbed in their food or discussing the best ways of manufacturing armor. The wives among the group, unfortunately, did not seem to find this topic nearly as fascinating as their husbands. Their surreptitious glances toward Celia grew bolder.
Celia lowered her eyes to her trencher. In her short time here she’d come to admire Nicolas greatly, and desire him even more. She’d become his mistress for those reasons. But her upbringing had never prepared her to move in the circles he did.
The other women flirted with and amused their men. She’d managed to flirt in private, but she didn’t dare do so in front of others. She would never be able to keep up with the sophisticated conversation, the double entendres, the self-assuredness that came with knowing one’s place at the pinnacle of society was secured by birthright—not to mention years of upbringing, education, and living amongst the privileged set. Her own rise to the pinnacle rested on one man’s whimsy. She could tell him about cheese, and might even spar with him when she was passionate about a cause, but she didn’t possess the worldly knowledge to entertain him with wit.
How long would it be before he realized that, too?
Chapter 12
Late that evening, Celia waited in the count’s outer chamber. He’d asked to see her after his last appointment of the night, another meeting with his war advisors, which was obviously running late. She couldn’t imagine what they had left to talk about.
She was pleased and nervous that he’d asked for her. Other than a few kisses stolen in passing, she’d had little time with him. What would he expect of her now? Was she to seduce him? Entertain him? Uncertainty left her feeling uncharacteristically shy.
That shyness slowly fell away as time marched on and still Nicolas did not appear. She paced the room, gazed at the tapestries until she knew all their intricacies, and wished she’d brought some needlework to stave off boredom.
Needlework! The mere idea brought a choked laugh from her. What if his lordship had been ready, anxious to lie with her, and she had appeared with a needle and thread in hand? She was hopeless.
The massive wooden desk drew her eye as she waited. It was covered in scrolls and parchment slips as though the count had abandoned them in the middle of a project. She shouldn’t pry, but she was desperately curious to know more about Nicolas of Savoy. Were these the war plans he spoke of so often? Family matters? Household accounts? She knew from Alisoun and Marie that Nicolas had vast business interests and estates, yet he rarely discussed such things in her presence. She wished he would.
She wanted to know what interested him, what drove him. Besides, she found such things fascinating, no matter how often her father had told her such matters were best left to men.
She glanced at the desk again, then at the door. There was still no sign of Nicolas. Unable to deny her curiosity, she peeked at the lengths of parchment on the large table. She cracked open a thick book in which many sheets had been bound together. It contained household ledgers, from the look of it, though she couldn’t understand all of the words written in neat lines. The numbers next to the words were perfectly clear, though—and larger than any she’d ever tried to use before. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be responsible for such wealth and found it difficult to fathom.
A few of the words on one page stood out, such as “iron” and “wool,” although the numbers next to those words were so great as to make her wonder if she was not in fact mistaken. She traced them with her fingers, mentally doing the sums, captivated by the complexity and magnitude of the ledgers. There were numerous sheets with line after line, carefully accounting for all the goods coming into and out of the castle. Although...she peered closer.
One of the columns, an inauspicious one marked “H,” didn’t seem to add up correctly. She did the numbers again in her head, then again using her fingers to count, as her brothers had shown her during their few years of schooling.
No, it was still wrong.
“Spying?”
She jumped guiltily as Nicolas entered the
room. His voice held a teasing note, but heat infused her cheeks. She reached out to close the book, but hesitated as the line of numbers, which she was now certain were incorrect, caught her attention again.
“I’m so sorry, my lord. I don’t know what got into me.”
He shrugged it off. “I kept you waiting.”
She peered up through her lashes, the art of flirtation coming more easily in private. “A little.”
“I’ll make it up to you.” He ran a palm over her upper arm, and she leaned in to the touch.
“Mmm. Please.” But her glance fell once more on the open book. “My lord?”
“Yes?”
“There’s a mistake on that line.”
“Mistake?” Now he sounded baffled.
“Oui, my lord, unless your method of figuring is other than what I’ve been taught.” She pointed at the offending numbers. He followed her gaze, frowned at the page, then looked back at her.
“You can read?” Incredulity marked his features as he stared at her as though she’d sprouted an additional head.
“Figures mostly,” she muttered.
“Are you trying to usurp my position? Take charge of the castle? You’ve saved your father, inspected my dungeons and berated me for their status while pleading for the innocent, and now you are correcting my household accounts! Perhaps we should simply make you count!”
Red-hot embarrassment set her cheeks aflame. She shouldn’t have examined his ledgers, but she had, and then once she’d seen the error she simply couldn’t refrain from pointing it out. Didn’t he want his figures accurate? Still, it was wrong to have pried. She squirmed under his scrutiny until he reached out a finger to lift her chin. Only then did she see the amusement in his eyes.
“You are an intelligent woman, Celia. And a nosy one.”
“You’re not angry?” The sparkle in his green eyes suggested he wasn’t, but she still needed to hear him say it.
“Lucky for you, sweeting, you have other attributes that make up for your nosiness.”
She didn’t ask, but he answered the unspoken question.
“For one, there is the way you kiss me,” he said huskily, leaning forward to brush his lips to hers.
She wanted him to continue his kiss, but she was also curious as to what attributes of hers he appreciated. Surely her ability to kiss was not the only thing that drew him to her.
He chuckled at her torn expression. “And there is your courage.”
At this, her breast swelled with pleasure.
“An attribute more suited to a boy, of course.”
The pleasure evaporated and she opened her mouth to argue.
He did not give her the chance. “Yet I cannot help but find it attractive in you. You are unusual, and I am never bored with wondering what you will think of next, or to what outrageous lengths you will be willing to go to get it.” His lips quirked in a hint of a smile and she could read the pride in his eyes.
“And if the next thing I want is a kiss?”
“Oh, how dull. You disappoint me,” he teased. “I fear there will be no elaborate schemes necessary to achieve that desire. No trips to the dungeon, no bursting into war councils, no spying on my accounts...you may achieve that goal with a simple step forward.”
She took it.
His mouth slanted over hers, coaxing, possessing. She gave herself over, loving how he could send her thoughts spinning off into the clouds this way. Her breasts tingled where they pressed against his tunic.
When he broke the kiss, she uttered a cry of dismay.
He pecked her on the cheek. “I like where your thoughts are headed. If we keep going right now, though, I will be far too distracted to check this mistake you say you have found.”
Desire warred with pride. He was actually going to look at the ledger? She loved it when he gave credence to her thoughts and ideas…almost as much as when he touched her in ways that made her forget those thoughts.
He stroked her hand, keeping her by his side as he reviewed the column of figures she’d criticized.
“Just there,” she whispered, pointing.
His eyes widened. “An error, indeed. Wherever did you learn figures?”
“I learned them to help my father keep record of his trades. I am not so good with words. We had little need for other reading.”
“But you are good with this? The numbers, I mean? Obviously you are,” he glanced again at his desk, “but I’ve never known a woman to pay them any mind before.”
Celia considered whether to be insulted. Why did everyone assume her gender rendered her an idiot? Still, Nicolas had looked into her claim, which was better than dismissing her as foolish—or, as she’d mostly expected, telling her not to meddle in his affairs.
“I am adequate, my lord. ‘Twould serve no purpose for a merchant to know numbers but not be any good with them.”
“True. But it is your father who is the merchant, no?”
“Oui, as was his father before him. The records are a particular challenge for my father, though. His eyesight is poor for working up close, but ‘tis a task I can easily do. He is the merchant, but I aid him in all I can.”
“As a good daughter should. Still, numbers are an odd thing for a woman. You said you had brothers. Do they not do this?”
“Nay, my lord. They have families of their own and they labor to produce the goods we sell.”
“And what becomes of this family trade when your father is no longer able? Your brothers sound as though they are remiss in their duties?”
She imagined that Nicolas must have known from a very young age that he would someday bear the responsibilities of rulership. Tradition held that the eldest son would inherit whatever the family had to offer, including work, debts, and duties. He would assume her brothers would do the same.
“My father would not have it that my brothers be forced into a life that did not suit them. I suppose he is unusual in that manner,” she replied softly. “I shall take his place.”
Now he looked truly incredulous. “You? Your father is not the only unusual one, Celia. You want to become a merchant in your own right?”
“Indeed,” she averred.
“You must know that is no thing for a proper woman to do.”
“My lord, I know ‘tis not normally done, but I am perfectly able. Have I not just demonstrated my skill with figures, even catching the mistakes of others at a glance?”
He checked the ledger again. “So you have. And I admit I am impressed. You have a quick mind. But a merchant must travel, and I still hold that the road is no place for a lone woman. ‘Tis too dangerous.”
She sighed. “My father says the same. He cannot understand why I dream of far-off places and profits while other young ladies dream only of a husband and home. I think…I think maybe he feels bad, that I want more than he is able to provide, but that isn’t it at all. I am proud of him, and how hard he works…I just thought if our trade improved, both our lives would be better for it.”
He studied her intently. “It is not your ambition I condemn, nor even your desire for profit. I control many lands and can understand ambition, even in a woman. But your willingness to run unchecked into danger, into situations where unscrupulous men will not hesitate to take advantage—in more ways than one—that, I cannot abide.”
This last was said in a lordly tone, one she rarely heard him use, and she cast down her eyes. “Oui, my lord. But I must find a way…”
“Is it so important to you as that, then?”
“Indeed, my lord.” She spoke quietly. “It is all I have hoped for.”
“Perhaps if you were to marry, and your husband act as the merchant...” he trailed off, apparently realizing what he’d just suggested.
Tension sliced through the room like a knife. They were standing in such proximity she could feel the heat of his body, smell the clean wool of his tunic—a definite reminder that their own relationship made the possibility of marriage for her an awkward subject.
“I think we both know I have no plans to marry, at least not any time soon. Else I should not be here, my lord.” She spoke softly.
Admiration for her honesty lit his eyes. “You are a brave woman in many ways, Celia. Know that I would never disrespect you for your decision to be here with me, though that too defies convention. But know also that you cannot spend your entire life breaking all the rules of society, my sweet. To do so with me will earn you my protection, but to do so in matters of trade would earn you enemies, something no successful merchant can afford. And as a woman, it will cost you friends, and bring you pain. I would not have you suffer so.”
Celia felt tears prick her eyes. As he fell silent, Nicolas caressed the line of her neck, running his thumb slowly from the bottom of her earlobe down to the fabric at her collarbone. She sighed and leaned into him, grateful for the arm that offered strength and support while she considered what he’d said.
Her father and brothers had always dismissed her dreams out of hand, and she’d never taken their objections to heart. But Nicolas’s words—his logic, his concern, struck deep.
She wasn’t anxious to go leaping into danger. Yet she couldn’t afford to hire anyone to escort and protect her, once her father stopped making the trips.
If she did nothing, the trade would surely pass out of her family’s hands and they would be left to work the fields and tend the cows their entire lives to support the profit of others. Her brothers might not mind, having no heads for trade, but to Celia that sounded even more miserably tedious than her life had been until now.
When Nicolas’s head came down to claim a kiss, she sought his lips eagerly, anxious to escape into the dizzying sensations the kiss would offer. He began slowly, brushing back and forth against her lips, feather-light, until in frustration she pressed her own lips firmly to his, causing him to chuckle.
“Greedy little wench,” he chided—but he gave her what she wanted, hauling her body to his and kissing her fully, his tongue tangling with hers in an erotic rhythm that set her senses thrumming. She boldly gave him her own tongue, exploring his mouth with desperation, until she heard him groan in pleasure. All thoughts, all problems, fled her mind as she gave into the consuming need to be ever closer. She tilted her head back as Nicolas kissed her throat, her jaw, nibbled at her ear, before finding her mouth again. Heat and pleasure stabbed through her as he stroked her mouth, offering her the oblivion of pleasure she sought.
