The Devil's Bargain

by Allegra Gray

  When they paused to catch their breath, he rested his chin atop her head. “And what shall you do, then, if you are successful and become a merchant in your own right?”

  Nicolas watched as Celia’s sapphire eyes took on a dreamy look and knew he’d chosen a good question. He had a difficult time imagining that would ever come to pass, but the idea was unusual enough that he wanted to hear what she thought.

  “I shall travel. When the harvest is good, our wines are unsurpassed, and our cheeses unlike any others, but here in this region they are common. I believe we could fetch a better price if we sold further abroad.”

  “And what of the folk here? What will they do for wine?”

  “If we fetch higher prices elsewhere, we will be able to enlarge our vineyards, hire apprentices, and still produce enough for our own people.”

  He noted that she said “our own people” when referring to her family’s customers in the same way he would have said “my own people” about those living on the lands he ruled. The relationship, he supposed, was oddly similar.

  “And yet to travel so far,” he could not help pointing out, “will cause you to incur additional costs—stronger beasts and carts, for example—and danger as well. Can you sell your goods for enough to make such travel worthwhile?”

  Her brows knit. “I think so. I’ll never know for certain unless I try. As yet ‘tis all but a dream.”

  “So it is.” He could help her, though. He could send a man to make inquiries in the various marketplaces, once the weather warmed. But this was her dream, not his. He had to remind himself of that, for it was easy to get caught up in her excitement, her sparkling eyes—to want to do anything he could to make her happy.

  But helping her make this dream come true would not only lead her into undoubtedly dangerous situations, it would take her away from him. And Nicolas, selfish though he knew he was, could not bring himself to help her in that.

  Instead he offered what came easily. “I have dreams as well, my lady.”

  Celia noted the change in his tone, now deep and husky. “What of, my lord?” She would dearly have loved to know about his real dreams, but his expression told her he had other things in mind now.

  “Last night I dreamt of a beautiful temptress lying naked in my bed. Yet I know it can only have been a dream, for I am not so lucky a man.”

  “A temptress, say you? I cannot answer to that, but I deem you a lucky man nonetheless.” She kept her voice light, though her body vibrated with the sexual energy he’d stirred earlier.

  “Oh? How is that?”

  “Well,” she said slowly, moving into his arms, “you are, after all, a powerful lord, with many fine things, and the respect and loyalty of your people.”

  He gave her a look of mock disappointment. “Ah. I suppose Fortune has favored me in many ways.”

  “That is not all, my lord.” She wrapped her arms around his muscular torso, reveling in the solid strength of him. She could feel his growing arousal through the clothing separating them, and it triggered a deep, pulsing need within her. She looked up at him, aware that she was affording him a view of her bosom and taking pleasure in that fact. “You also have my affection, if you care to count yourself fortunate in that.”

  “Now, that, I think, is truly fortunate.” He took what she was offering, loosening the laces of her gown and tugging a breast free of her chemise. He cupped it in his hand as he bent his head to it. He circled her nipple lightly with his tongue, then drew it into his mouth to suckle.

  Pleasure stabbed from her breast to her knees. They threatened to buckle. She held strong, though, emboldened by their discussion in which he’d treated her as—almost—equal, with valid thoughts and goals. She could be his equal in this area too...though she lacked experience, she was determined to make him burn and melt with the same intensity he aroused in her. She pushed him back, smiling seductively at his confused expression. She eased her gown off her shoulders, stripping shamelessly before him and glorying in the way his eyes darkened and his breath caught.

  “I want you, my lord.” She allowed her hands to slowly skim the contours of her body, pausing just at the curve of her breasts, then again at her hips, as she stepped into his arms.

  “Nicolas.”

  “Oui. Nicolas.” She flicked his flat male nipple with her tongue. He threw his head back and his grip on her tightened.

  “Are you not too tender still?”

  “I don’t think so.” She guided his hand to the juncture of her thighs, where the folds of her womanhood were moist and ready. “Please.”

  Nicolas could no more deny her request than he could single-handedly move mountains. Desire whipped through him as he slid a finger into her damp opening, stroking her intimately while he held back his own need, his own screaming call for release. He loved the intensity with which Celia approached her whole life. She was passionate, a temptress—and every aspect of her enthralled him.

  She squirmed against his probing fingers, anxious little movements that told him her need matched his own. He walked her the few remaining feet to the bed, but to her surprise, he stopped at the edge. She looked at him questioningly.

  “Put your hands on the edge,” he said hoarsely.

  She complied, and he came around behind her. She gasped as his arousal came in contact with her bottom, and his hands came around to tease and toy with her nipples. She started to turn to offer him her embrace, but he held her still.

  “Don’t move.” He stepped back just long enough to divest himself of shirt and hose, then reclaimed his position. “Ah, Celia,” he groaned as he slid his manhood slowly to the entrance of her ready sex.

  She leapt at the intimate contact. “Can we—that is—can we do this?”

  He laughed, pleased by her innocence. “Of course we can. We can do anything that brings us pleasure.” He tugged lightly at her right nipple and she arched her back.

  At her response, Nicolas’s restraint broke utterly. He drove fully into her, a deep groan escaping him as her tight, wet passage sheathed him. With one hand he continued caressing her breasts, tugging at her nipples, bolder than before. She tossed her head in pleasure and need. With his other hand, he reached down to tease the tiny bud at the head of her sex while he thrust into her. He used her own moisture to lavish the swollen bead, circling and stroking until she screamed her release. She convulsed around him, impossibly tight, impossibly sweet, and he let go, driving deeply again and again until he spilled himself into her, shuddering with the power of the sensations she wrought in him.

  He let his head fall to her shoulder as he caught his breath. Though physically sated, he was oddly reluctant to let her go. Instead he pulled them both onto the bed, settling her head into the crook of his shoulder as he lay on his back, absentmindedly gazing at the heavy bed curtains above them. He was not a man for leisurely embraces or cuddling...this was just a moment’s indulgence. It felt so…right. Perhaps just this once. He closed his eyes.

  This was perfect. Nicolas paced the length of his chamber, glancing idly at the bed Celia had recently occupied. He had a beautiful, passionate woman with whom to pass his time. She made him happy. She erased the feeling he’d had for the last few months of being at odds with himself, vaguely discontent. Even better, she came with no strings—or very few, at any rate—attached. There was the matter of her father. Had he actually bedded the daughter of a traitor? He shrugged. Even if it were true, the man posed little enough threat. And his daughter was captivating.

  His marriage years earlier had been an advantageous alliance, but it hadn’t made him happy—and it had certainly come with a lot of strings. He’d never looked forward to seeing his wife the way looked forward to seeing the merchant’s daughter. Between the ambitious in-laws and the uninterested woman he’d pledged to, the two years he’d spent married had seemed interminable. He’d hoped children would make the union bearable, but his wife had not conceived even once. In some ways, though it shamed him to admit it, he’d b
een more relieved than grieved when she’d passed on.

  Celia was different. Not only did he enjoy their time together, he even wished for more. Nothing was required of him, besides treating her well, which was no trouble at all. It really was the perfect arrangement.

  But how long would it last? He was here for the winter, but after the weather warmed— and after his campaign against Geneva—he would certainly be leaving Chillon. His other estates were no doubt suffering from his neglect, and there were always political matters to attend to. Thanks to his predecessors and some of his own efforts, the House of Savoy held considerable power in the region between Italy and France. He would need to meet with the ambassadors to those two countries’ kings to ensure their friendship held strong.

  And what then of Celia? Would she come with him, content to follow from place to place with no real life of her own? Would he ask her to?

  Normally, he approached everything in life with a plan. This time, he had no plan.

  He knew she wouldn’t just stay at Chillon, waiting patiently for his occasional visits. She wasn’t that complacent—nor would he find her so attractive if she was.

  Would she return home, ending their affair and resigning herself to the life of a country merchant who made cheese? He didn’t like that idea much, either.

  Could he offer her something more, enough so she would deem it worthwhile to stay with him?

  Uncomfortable with the way his thoughts were going, Nicolas turned back to the ledger of household accounts, still unable to believe his mistress had caught an error that slipped by his seneschal.

  He shook his head. This was perfect. He’d deal with the future later.

  Chapter 13

  The trial of prisoners, set for two days following the feast, loomed large. Celia had stayed true to her promise, staying well clear of the dungeons. Now, knowing the young female prisoner’s fate would soon be decided, her stomach churned with worry.

  “Will you free her?” she asked Nicolas during the game of draughts they played the night before the trial.

  “I will hear what she has to say for herself, and listen to those who speak against her. I am a fair man. I will not condemn a person without evidence.”

  That was some consolation, but another matter worried her as well. “And the man—the guard, Garr—the one who attacked me? Is he to stand trial as well?”

  Nicolas’s jaw clenched, his expression black at the mere mention of the man. “No. He’s fine where he is.”

  People began arriving for the trials well before they started. When the appointed hour drew near, Celia filed into the great hall to find nearly everyone who lived and worked in the castle, as well as many villagers. The hall was overcrowded with onlookers who thought judgment days a fine spectacle, second only to seeing the punishments carried out.

  The trestle tables and benches in the hall, save for those the count and his advisors would use, were stacked against a wall to make room. The remaining few were raised upon a dais at the back center.

  The prisoners stood off in a corner of the hall under heavy guard. Some consciously avoided the stares of the crowd while others gazed belligerently back. She saw the young Jewish woman Helena among them, looking painfully thin. Celia prayed Helena would have the courage to speak for herself.

  The room hushed as Savoy and his advisors filed in and took stools at the high table. Nicolas was in the center, flanked on the right by a priest and Giles, the elderly advisor she had originally mistaken for the count. On his left were two more councilors—a knight Celia was not familiar with, and Hans the dungeon-keeper.

  Nicolas began with the simplest cases. A couple of petty thieves lost their wages and had to spend an afternoon in the stocks. A man whose offense was the theft of livestock was sentenced to immediate hanging. The crowd murmured in approval. Stealing another man’s livestock was a truly heinous offense. Nicolas nodded once, his countenance stern, and moved to the next case. Most of these cases could be seen to by the seneschal or local magistrates, but with the Count of Savoy in residence, everyone clamored for his judgment.

  Finally, after a variety of offenders had been handed their fates, a guard shoved Helena forward. Celia held her breath until Helena straightened, seeming to glide forward, the tiniest lift to her chin.

  She stood before the count silently. Many of the others had been begging, pleading, hunched over in subservience, but this woman, despite her ragged appearance, stood with full upright posture and calm expression, seeming to fear nothing. Celia was torn between pride and apprehension as she watched. She couldn’t say why the woman’s plight moved her so, except that it reminded her of her father, and she hated to see someone punished for circumstances they couldn’t control.

  The crowd murmured as Helena awaited judgment.

  “You are accused,” the count looked at a note, “of witchcraft and heresy leading to the outbreak of fever and the deaths of six children in Ville Neuve. What have you to say for yourself?”

  “I have killed no children.”

  “Surely you have a better argument than that.”

  “I have killed no children,” Helena repeated tonelessly.

  “And of the witchcraft?” the priest asked.

  “I am no witch. I have brought harm to no one.”

  The priest’s face was incredulous and he turned to Nicolas. “She is a Jewess!” he exclaimed in an audible whisper. “Do not take her word for anything!”

  “The good priest tells me you are a Jewess. Is that true?”

  Helena studied him for a moment. “Aye.” There was no apology in her tone.

  “I see. Have you anything to prove your innocence regarding the spread of fever in the village?” the count asked.

  “How does one prove anything about an act in which one has no hand?”

  Celia’s apprehension grew. She knew the difficulty of such a situation, for her father had faced the same problem. In Helena’s case, though, there was no one to intervene on her behalf. Surely she could say something more.

  “And the evidence against this woman?” the count asked.

  A middle-aged man in peasant garb swaggered forth. “Henry of Ville Neuve, here, my lord. Fever broke out in our village ‘long about mid-fall, at harvest end. ‘Twasn’t the summer fever, either. Right scared, we all were, and then the little ones started dyin’...”

  Sympathetic murmurs spread through the audience.

  “Now, my lord,” the village man continued, “’Taint normal for the fever to come so late, an’ after we’d had a bout in the summer, too. On’y thing that’s changed this year is she,” he pointed an accusing finger at Helena, “started livin’ at the edge o’ the village. Kep’ to herself mos’ly, and we let it pass when she weren’t at mass regular. Didn’t want no trouble, see. We was willin’ to let well enough alone. But now, her true nature’s shown. A witch she is, an’ a bloodthirsty one. We men got to protect our women an’ children from the likes of her.” Celia saw a group of similarly clad men behind him nodding vigorously. Having said what he came to say, Henry retreated into that group.

  There was a flurry of discussion at the count’s table. The priest leaned forward to whisper his recommendations, as did Giles. Whatever the priest said seemed to cause some disagreement, for Celia watched both Nicolas and Giles shaking their heads. The military advisor seemed to agree with the priest. Hans only sat silently, his expression as ominous as ever. Celia was actually surprised he didn’t recommend cruel deaths for every offender. But that, it seemed, was not his way. Such predictability, she realized, might actually detract from his power to terrify.

  She twisted her hands nervously. As far as she could tell, the village man’s “evidence” consisted of the timing of Helena’s arrival and her faith. She didn’t know exactly what it meant to be a Jew, but she knew many of the castle occupants feared and distrusted anyone who did not hold with their own religion. For them, the words “Jew” and “witch” were one and the same. Did Nicolas share those b
eliefs?

  She moved slightly, trying desperately to catch Nicolas’s eye. Finally he looked up, and she sent him a fervent mental plea for mercy. He stared at her for a moment, but gave no other sign of acknowledgment before turning back to his councilors.

  “Can you answer these charges?” The count’s lordly tone, directed at Helena, cut through the murmurs in the hall.

  The young Jewish woman lifted her chin slightly but said nothing.

  Was there nothing at all Helena could say? Why did she not defend herself? Surely she knew what fate awaited her. Unless she actually was guilty…

  The silence seemed to stretch until Celia was nearly dizzy with apprehension. She had to do something, but how could she help?

  Just as Nicolas turned his head back to the priest, Celia remembered. There was something Helena had left out, something that might help her case. It was not her place to speak out, but she could not simply stand there.

  Tentatively, she stepped forward from the crowd. “My lord, there is one more thing to consider. This woman stands here accused of killing children through fever, but she also lost her child to that same fever. What mother would sacrifice her own child?”

  All eyes were on her. Celia’s stomach flipped uncomfortably, but she could see some of the women in the audience nodding in agreement with her logic. Nicolas stared at her, his expression unreadable.

  Had she interfered too much?

  The peasant man stepped forward again. “There’s no accountin’ for what a witch would do, child or no,” he averred, his chest thrust forward. A fair few onlookers seemed to agree with this statement, as well.