by Allegra Gray
Nicolas had had mistresses, too, but never the sort that entertained him as much out of bed as in it. They were fun, enjoyable, and not to be taken seriously. He didn’t believe in concepts like love, having been relieved of such naivety long ago, but he did believe that what he had with Celia was good, and rare. He knew she felt something for him too, or she could never be so willing in his arms.
Of course, the return of her father could change all that.
“I—don’t know.”
She still hovered in his doorway. Nervous. Standing, he went to her and took her hands in his. He waited until she met his gaze. “You don’t have to.”
Her breath caught.
“I don’t want to,” she whispered.
He knew a moment of rushing relief.
“But,” she continued, “How can I, his daughter, tell him that? What am I to say?”
“Tell him whatever you like.” Now that he knew she would stay, it didn’t matter to him what she told her father. Frankly, he had far more important things, matters of life and death, to worry about.
Celia, however, did not seem to share his unconcern.
“Tell him what? That I’m a fallen woman? A brazen daughter who slept with the man who imprisoned him and now refuses to come home? Not that he’d want me to come home if I told him that!”
She plunked her hands on her hips. “He’s my father, Nicolas.”
Ah. He didn’t like her tone, but he understood. Sort of. She couldn’t tell her father about him. He’d given her clothing, gifts, made sure everyone at the castle knew there would be hell to pay if they showed Celia the slightest disrespect, and still she was unwilling to admit their relationship.
“Mistress to a man of my position is hardly the worst thing that could befall a woman of your status. Indeed, there are some who covet the position. Are you ashamed, then, that you won’t tell him you’re staying here because of me?”
Celia huffed. “It’s not shame. Not exactly. But our relationship is outside the bounds of propriety, and fathers, of all people, do not understand such things.”
She had a point—though he’d known numerous fathers who had no problem selling their daughters to the highest bidder, not bothering to discern whether the offer was marriage or mistress. And Celia’s father—though he’d now fulfilled his end of their agreement—was still, in his mind, a man whose motives were questionable.
“I suppose you could say to him that you like the bustle of castle life and want to stay on as a servant. There is always room among the alewives,” he offered grudgingly. It was low of him to say it—but it rankled that she cared more about sparing her father’s feelings than his own. He’d given her a more than she’d ever had before, and she seemed happy enough, so why couldn’t she admit that he was the one who made her that way?
Her eyes narrowed in anger. “You actually expect me to tell my father, a vintner of good wine, that I’m staying to take on a position as an alewife? How would he ever believe that’s what I want? Nor would he allow it. He needs my help at home. He’ll be terribly disappointed for me to leave home permanently. I’ve always been a dutiful daughter, even if we didn’t see eye to eye on my dreams. He won’t understand why I would choose the life of a lowly castle servant over that of an independent merchant, or even a farmer’s wife. Besides, he already saw me in this gown. Not exactly befitting a woman who spends her days brewing ale.”
“Then he probably already knows—or will soon enough. Gossip won’t stop just because he’s here.”
She squirmed. “I know. He’ll probably drag me back home posthaste. He would never understand. But you could at least try to help.”
He studied her. Her face was flushed in anger, her eyes bright, reminding him of other times he’d seen her face flushed. He felt the lust stirring in his loins in spite of his frustration with her.
Somewhere deep in his gut, a voice lectured him that he was being unfair, that a young woman did not, could not publicly acknowledge her affection for a man who was not her husband or even her betrothed. Even though he knew this, he couldn’t help wishing she wanted to proclaim it to the entire world. His first love had been a comely wench, but as soon as word of his interest had gotten out, she’d been sent away. His wife, who’d been no love of his at all, had been perfectly content for everyone to know of their marriage, but the connection ended there. He’d thought he had accepted that this was the way of things…but since meeting Celia, his hopes had flickered to life—hope that a woman existed who would want him in bed and out, for more than his title. A lover and a companion. But Celia was telling him she’d rather be known as a servant than his lover?
“You rule over Chillon,” she continued. “You could see to it that I was offered a position respectable enough to make my staying here seem reasonable!”
Nicolas felt his ire rising as well. Being his mistress, if it wasn’t exactly respectable, was certainly better than some servant’s job, no matter what position she served in. He’d given her more than she would have ever had otherwise, and she was still angry.
“Based on what qualifications?” he challenged, deliberately provoking her. Only after the question had left his lips did he realize just how bad it sounded.
Her mouth fell open and her eyes grew even wider. “Based on wha—” she spluttered. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Had I known you thought so little of me, my lord,” she scathingly replied, “rest assured I would never have bothered to ask for a position serving here!”
Celia turned and stormed from the room, insulted and humiliated by his implication that she had no talents. Apparently he didn’t even think she was worthy enough to serve him anywhere but in the bedroom.
Fine. Maybe she would leave. Let him find another woman...surely there were plenty of others foolish enough to throw themselves after the Count of Savoy, insensitive bastard though he was!
Celia stomped through the courtyard and into the hallway that led towards her chamber, not caring when people turned to stare. She flung open the door and threw herself down on the bed, staring discontentedly at the smoke-darkened stone of the ceiling. For long moments, her anger seethed, hot and bright, as she mentally castigated herself for falling in love with such an impossible man.
Only after she’d lectured herself, and consigned him to the darkest pits of hell, did the fury begin to subside, leaving her to contemplate her options.
If she left, what would she have then? She’d have her father—assuming he would take her—and she’d be back in her old life. Her dull, old, boring life. Well, not always boring, but certainly arduous and monotonous.
She would become a spinster and spend the rest of her life at home, helping her papa and smelling like cheese. Rebuilding the trade would mean working harder than ever before…and for the first time, Celia realized that helping her father and becoming a merchant was no longer her only dream. She had a new one, and it warred mightily for dominance over the other.
If she left now, she would never again lie trembling in Nicolas’s arms, never again see the triumph lighting his beautiful green eyes as he watched her quiver with passion, cry out in pleasure.
She shivered. The man was arrogant. Horribly thoughtless. But she’d never felt anything like the way she did with him. He made her angrier than anyone else and still she longed for him over anyone else.
He listened to her—most of the time—made love with her, laughed with her. How could she leave that behind?
Oh, but if she stayed, then her dreams of becoming a merchant, of traveling and seeing the world, of spreading her family’s business and reputation to new territory...then all those dreams would be lost. Perhaps she would see the world with Nicolas, but it would be always on his terms, not hers, and he might not even choose to bring her with him when he traveled. She would never have money of her own, but be always dependent on his goodwill.
Then again, her father was equally unlikely—perhaps even more so—to ever let her travel again. Her dreams were looking like�
�well, just that. Dreams. No matter what she chose, they were unlikely to come true.
She flipped over on the bed, burying her face in the pillow. She refused to cry. She just needed to shut out the rest of the world for a few minutes while the weight of that realization settled on her shoulders.
Celia could not fathom her own regard for Nicolas diminishing—even if he was occasionally infuriating—but would that be enough? What if he tired of her? Who knew how he would feel in another month, another year? Could she make him long for her, the way she did for him, until there was no question they would ever part?
She had to at least try.
Pushing herself up, she scrubbed a hand over her face. Saying goodbye to her father again would be a difficult, irrevocable step in her life, but saying goodbye to Nicolas would be impossible.
Chapter 15
Unfortunately for Celia, she ended up doing both within a scant two weeks of one another. Her father, unsurprisingly, had ill memories of Chillon, and no desire to linger once he’d sold his goods. Celia found him tying down the now-empty crates and baskets in preparation for departure.
“Papa,” she pleaded, “I know it might be hard for you to understand, but I like Chillon. His lordship has been ever so kind, and he’s offered to let me stay on and study under the spicekeeper.” She’d come up with the lie on her own, despite her fight with Nicolas, and squirmed only a little as she delivered it.
“An apprentice?” Robert Lyndon scoffed. “You’re not a lad, you’re a grown woman, who ought to be thinking of marriage. Do not play me for a fool, daughter. My eyesight may be failing, but I have not yet gone utterly blind. That is not the gown of an apprentice you wear.”
He knew. An invisible band closed around her chest, squeezing until she found it difficult to draw air.
“It’s Savoy, isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question.
She managed a nod.
A growl escaped him and he slapped a hand against his cart. “I should never have agreed to let you stay.”
“Papa, you might have died in the dungeon otherwise. Letting me stay was the best and only choice.”
“And this?” He gestured at her attire, as though it were the party guilty of transgressions with the count. “Was there another choice in this?”
Her whole body trembled with nerves, but she stood her ground. “He did not force me. He is not that kind of man.”
“He promised you would come to no harm!”
“And I have not.”
“But—“ he spluttered. “What about Bernard?”
“The shepherd?”
“He spoke for no one over the winter. He needn’t hear of this. I all but promised him the two of you could wed this spring.”
Inwardly she groaned at the thought of the shepherd and his overbearing mother, but she said simply, “I suppose you will have to tell him he is free to choose another.”
His face fell. “You are not thinking clearly. This folly will play itself out, and what will happen to you then?”
He’d struck a chord. Ignoring the chill that trickled down her spine, she clasped her hands. “I do not know what the future will hold.”
“He will not marry you.”
“No,” she acknowledged. “But he does treat me well, and ensures everyone else at Chillon does, too. Papa, think of the opportunities. We’ll have better connections in trade, and I can tell you all about the things I learn, and it can help the family trade grow stronger. You know that is my fondest wish.”
He sighed and shrugged. “I know, though I can’t understand it.” Rubbing his beard, he admitted, “Savoy has always been fair with me. There are far worse men in the world. I suspect he would treat a comely maid with that same fairness. And I can even understand why a comely maid would find it flattering to be the subject of his attentions.”
Celia tilted her head. This was more consideration than she’d thought he would give.
“But I am still your father, and it is a father’s duty to worry over his daughters. I fear this will end badly for you.”
“I know. I am not entirely a foolish girl. I have to either live with that fear, or with the knowledge that I’ll never know what might have been.”
He gave her a wry smile. “There is the heart of a dreamer in you, girl. But if you are to stay, I cannot promise to find you a husband after he casts you aside.”
She winced. “Oui, Papa.”
“Well, then, tell me at least that when you tire of castle life, you’ll come home. You may send a messenger, and your brothers or I will come to fetch you.”
No matter what, home was home, and knowing she could go back if she ever needed to…it was more than she’d hoped for. With tears streaming down her face, she’d nodded assent and said goodbye. He’d hugged her and she’d watched as he heaved himself up into the now-empty cart and picked up the reins.
“I love you, Papa,” she’d whispered, not thinking he could hear.
He’d turned his head over his shoulder, proving his hearing was better than she’d thought. “And I you, daughter, though I do not like this choice you make.”
The tears had become a flood, blurring her vision as she heard him signal to the mule—the second one having been returned to the count—and begin to drive off.
If only there had been a few more tears, enough to blind her completely, she wouldn’t have seen him gaze curiously at the count, nor the swift look of understanding that passed between the two men. She wouldn’t have seen her father shake his head sadly, or his shoulders droop and his head lower as he drove off without another backward look. Only then did the tears flow heavily enough to offer such merciful respite from sight.
If saying goodbye to her father—for the second time—wasn’t enough, the prolonged dry weather meant that Nicolas’s war plans were moving forward with considerable speed.
Though it was still cold, the roads were clear and the sun shone. All around the castle, Celia could see signs of the impending battle with Geneva.
She hated watching the preparations—they were a constant reminder that Nicolas would soon be leaving. He’d told her he hoped for a short battle, but a prudent leader prepared for the worst. That meant packing the supplies necessary to sustain a lengthy siege. Who knew what Fate held in store? It was possible he might not return at all. She’d chosen to stay with him above everything else—above her dreams of becoming a merchant, even above her own father. Yet Nicolas had made no promises to see to her well-being once he left.
They had not spoken of their argument again, nor had Nicolas asked what she’d told her father. Instead they’d fallen back to their old ways, an unspoken agreement between them not to discuss deeper matters of the heart.
It was a brief respite.
Nicolas’s impending departure made Celia uneasy in more ways than one. Very few men would be left behind. A few of the older servants. The youngest vassals. The priests.
And the dungeon-keeper.
To Celia’s frustration, Nicolas had shrugged aside her concern about this last. “I have spoken with him, Celia. He’s apologized.”
“Not to me,” she’d muttered.
He sighed. “He said he’d believed the rumors flying about the castle.”
Rumors started by his own wife, she’d retorted silently.
“He even acknowledged that his many hours spent tending to criminals has made him grow too accustomed to the nastier side of humanity. He sees that he made a mistake with you, and possibly your father.”
“And you believe him, my lord?” It sounded to her like Hans was being his slippery self. What evidence was there that he’d truly taken his lord’s admonishment to heart?
“He has served well before. Right now I cannot afford to relieve him and lose from the battle campaign another good man to replace him. He stays.”
“Oui, my lord.” It was clear she had no choice—unless she were the one to leave.
“Ah, my sweet, just stay clear of him and all will be well.” He’d pull
ed her in for a brief embrace before changing the topic, obviously considering it a closed matter.
She sighed now and walked to the tiny window of her chamber. Nicolas was below, inspecting the hooves of two warhorses he’d just purchased.
Perhaps he was simply waiting for the right moment, she thought—the one where he would tell her he loved her and wanted, above anything, to see her upon his return.
Or perhaps his mind was filled only with thoughts of bloody deeds.
Despite their uneasy truce, she was desperate for some sign of lasting affection from him, particularly now that she’d chosen him over her own family. There were so many reasons she admired Nicolas...he was a good leader for his people, stern but just. He’d been merciful during Helena’s trial, when everyone around him favored condemning her to death. He was a strong-willed protector of his estates, but he was not without reason. He’d treated her better than she’d ever expected, listened to her and often considered her thoughts carefully, rather than dismissing them because she was a woman. Though they’d argued, she could not allow a few harsh words to outweigh all they’d shared...especially the way he could make every nerve in her body sing with desire...but still, it was not enough. Was she greedy to want still more?
She loved him. There was no denying it any longer.
Alisoun had warned her of the danger of losing her heart to such a man, but ‘twas too late. The deed was done. Acknowledging it only to herself, though, was not enough to balance her anxiety. She would have to tell him. She might have her faults, but lack of honesty was not among them. The thought of telling him frightened her, though, for what could he possibly say in response? That he loved her too, but could never marry her? That they must live within the bounds society had set for them since birth, unhappy though they might be?
