by Allegra Gray
Or worse...he could say nothing. That was, perhaps, her greatest fear—being left with the wrenching pain of unrequited love.
Celia tried to put those tumultuous thoughts aside as she prepared, later that night, to meet him. Marie helped her wash and comb her hair. Now that she was Nicolas’s mistress, she had soaps scented with lavender and rose. Lovely. She couldn’t quite get used to the luxury. She’d found the scent calming at first, but tonight it served as a reminder that she was living on borrowed time.
Nicolas was waiting when she arrived. He drew her directly into his arms, kissing her with a fierce urgency that bespoke need, pure and physical. When she started to speak he shook his head, kissing her words away and robbing her of breath until she understood—he sought escape.
She took what he offered, and gave herself in response, until the only sounds in the chamber were lovers’ groans and the soft hiss of fabric sliding away from flesh. They made love silently, desperately, as Celia tried to tell him with her body what her mind had only just discovered—that she loved him.
He did not question her intensity, just as she did not question his. He held her close, face to face, as he drove into her, fierce and needing. She shifted her hips to take him more fully, reveling in the power and desperation of the spell that hung in the air around him. Finally, he found the release he sought, pouring himself into her with an expression of tortured ecstasy before collapsing atop her.
Celia breathed deeply as she felt the tension slowly ease from his form. She didn’t totally understand what had just happened, but she knew instinctively that it was different from anything they’d done before.
He opened his eyes and shifted to the side, so that they lay facing one another, legs entwined. He seemed calmer now, smiling gently at her as she ran her hand lazily up the flat planes of his chest. The weight of his muscled thigh on hers made her smile, too...how could she ever imagine a future without him? If she had to sacrifice all her other plans, she knew she would do it if it meant being near him.
She had to tell him. Now was as good a time as any.
“I love you,” she whispered, placing her palm against the firm skin of his chest.
Instantly she felt the change come over him. His eyes, his whole body, became alert. “No, you do not,” he told her flatly. He rolled away from her, stood up and began to dress.
Hollowness took over the place where Celia’s heart had been. She watched him in confusion.
“You think you love me, but ‘tis only a passing thing. You feel desire, perhaps you even admire me,” he said, not looking at her as he fastened his chausses, “but do not fool yourself into thinking it is something else. Love is a fool’s game. No one wins and most are deluded.” His voice sounded rough, even angry.
“Who disappointed you so terribly, that you turn your back on love altogether?”
He gave an empty laugh. “You misunderstand. What we have together is good. In matters of love, someone always ends up hurt. I do not want to hurt you. I want things to remain good. It will be easier if we keep love out of it.”
He held a stiff hand out to her and Celia woodenly stepped from the bed, dressing herself as quickly as possible. What had she done wrong?
“Do you understand me, Celia?” He cupped her chin in his hand and forced her to look at his stern face. “What we have is a gift, one we both can enjoy, but neither of us should mistake it for more than that.”
“Oui, my lord,” she choked, then fled from the room as tears pricked at her eyes, threatening to overflow in an uncontrollable flood. She didn’t understand. Not at all.
Nicolas’s entire body shook as he watched Celia disappear. He’d hurt her. But it had been for her own good, hadn’t it? Emotions warred within him. He didn’t want to hurt her…he wanted to make her happy. But he didn’t want to lie, either. Happiness bought with false promises would soon run out.
He had no doubt Celia had meant it when she’d told him she loved him. But Nicolas of Savoy had long since stopped believing that love was real. It simply didn’t work that way. Not for a man in his position. He’d learned that when he was sixteen, and had fallen headlong for the daughter of one of his father’s foot soldiers. A nobody. Sensing his preoccupation, his own father had arranged the girl’s marriage. Not to Nicolas, but to a country farmer some distance away. A better marriage than she might have made otherwise. Neither she nor he had had any say in the matter—but he’d suspected, in spite of her tears, her disappointment was tempered by the prospect of marriage to a landowner. He’d found little such consolation for himself. Eighteen months later, she had died in childbed. By then, his own nuptials had been pending. Lord knew that hadn’t brought him any love.
The women that had offered themselves since then hadn’t been looking for love, either—no matter what they might have told him. They wanted an enjoyable time, and the sort of favors he could easily bestow. Nothing more.
He’d grown accustomed to it. He’d stopped looking for fulfillment in a relationship, and found it on the battlefield instead. Why did Celia have to complicate the simplicity of their arrangement by speaking of such things?
And yet, a part of him had been absurdly pleased by her admission, as though her words could serve as a balm to his hardened soul.
“You seem awfully quiet today,” Marie said as she bustled around their shared chamber the next morning, tidying up more from habit than from need. “Is something wrong?”
Celia did not answer, only vaguely aware that Marie had even spoken.
The maid came to stand next to her, peering out the window as though it might hold a clue to Celia’s mood. “Celia?”
She turned to look at her friend. “I told him I loved him,” she admitted miserably.
“No!” Shock and dismay were evident on Marie’s face. Curiosity, too. “It did not go well, I gather?”
Celia shook her head, once more feeling the sting of tears. “He thought me a fool. He said it was only desire, and not to mistake it for more.”
“No! The cretin! He could not have been so cruel!”
Celia gave her a weak smile. Marie was a loyal servant, but she was an even truer friend.
“You don’t think he’s right? That I am a fool?”
“Well, perhaps it was a bit unwise to spill your heart to him so. But if you truly do love him, well, then, he is the fool for throwing it in your face, when it is obvious to anyone in the castle that he is happier than he’s ever been with you here.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. He is kinder, and though he still drives the men hard, he smiles more often. And did he not free that Jewish woman on little more than your word? He does care for you, Celia—no matter what he thinks of love. The way he looks at you is...well, I only wish someone would look that way at me. But he is a man, and a powerful one used to taking things for granted, so ‘tis likely his head is simply too hard to see the lovely gift you’ve offered. He’s just wary. Besides two unhappy years of marriage, all he knows is how to conquer lands and rule over them.”
“But now I’ve told him and ruined everything.”
Marie put a comforting arm around her. “Surely not everything. It may be awkward, but his lordship has a lot on his mind right now. Perhaps if you just act as though it were a little slip of the tongue, not a true declaration of love...”
Celia shook her head. “I won’t be fool enough to mention it again, that’s certain, but I have a better idea. I can do my best to make sure that every day he spends away from me, he is longing to return, wishing he’d taken what I offered. He’s going off to war, just as you said. A cold world of men and their machines. Perhaps once he no longer has me at hand all the time, he’ll realize what he had.”
“There’s the spirit. If anyone can bring him to his knees, Celia, it will be you.”
Chapter 16
Celia nearly killed herself in her efforts to be as cheerful, witty, and provocative as she knew how for the remaining days before Nicolas left. The tension o
f maintaining such charm was exhausting, but she was determined to be everything he could possibly desire in a woman.
She was determined to make him love her.
Her campaign was thus far without results.
Oh, he enjoyed the attention, no doubt. He kept her at his side whenever he could, spend most of his nights tangled in her arms, and showered her with little trinkets—pretty ribbons brought by a trader from the south, an elegant comb for her hair, a new pitcher for the washstand in her chamber, and other such fripperies. If trinkets had been her goal, she would have been well-pleased, indeed.
Finally, on the night before he was to leave, he drew her to him solemnly. They’d spent the evening enjoying one another’s company, both in bed and out, and now her heart hammered at the intense expression he wore. He’d had his hair clipped short—easier to keep the nits out when living in battlefield conditions—and the shorn look accentuated the hard planes of his face. Every inch the warrior, this man she loved.
“I have a gift for you, ere I leave.”
“My lord, I need no gifts. You have given me much already.” Unless the gift was his love, in return for hers. That she would take, and weep with gratitude.
“Men take pleasure in giving fine things to their mistresses. But that is not what this gift is about. This is something special.” He retrieved a small silk pouch from his desk and held it out to her.
Celia tentatively reached out a hand, and he up-ended the pouch, sending a strand of shining amber beads tumbling into her palm. The center stone was largest, set elegantly in gold.
She gasped. “I couldn’t possibly! These are worth more than my father would see in a year. Two years! Mayhap even longer.” She held them back out to him, her palm open and flat, afraid to touch them any more than necessary.
“’Tis one of the things I like best about you, my sweet, that you do not expect fine things the way so many in your position would. You seem to delight more in my company than in the comforts I can provide. But in this one thing, this gift, take what I offer.”
He used his own large hand to close her fingers over the beads, then continued holding her hand. “Tomorrow I go to war, and while I predict victory, a man should never be too certain of his fate. I give you these beads as a token of my affection, and they will last longer than any garment or frippery you have had from me before. The amber reminded me of you—warm, and glowing from within. When I am gone, you can keep them close to remember these quiet days we’ve shared. But this gift is more than that.”
His other hand came up to caress her face, then rested along the curve of her cheek.
Now, she thought. Now he would tell her.
But his next words shook her from such fantasies.
“I would see you protected, Celia. There is always the possibility that life will take an unexpected turn. These beads will afford you some protection that I cannot. Should the day ever come when life is too hard, break open the strand. Sell them. You need not lack for basic comforts. I will rest easier knowing you have such protection.” His hand dropped from her face.
“Let us not talk of such days,” she choked. The reality of his leaving was becoming far too clear, forcing her mind in directions she did not wish to follow.
She’d hoped he would speak of love, but instead he spoke of death and hardship.
“’Tis better to be prepared, than to face both grief and poverty without hope of relief from either one.” He drew the beads from her hand and held them up, slipping the strand over her head and placing a soft, tender kiss on her lips as the beads fell into place.
The glowing amber stones felt like boulders settling into place, weighing her down, the burden of unrequited love.
“Then I thank you for your gift, my lord,” she whispered. How could he be so rational? Tears threatened to spill from her eyes at the prospect of his possible death, but she fiercely held them back, maintaining that precious but fragile control.
“I will pray I never know the day when I must look to these beads as anything other than a symbol of your l—your affection.” Love. She’d wanted to say it, just then, but the word wouldn’t come. He, after all, hadn’t told her the beads were a gift of love, only of affection, and to afford her a measure of protection.
He thought enough of her that he didn’t want her to go hungry should he be killed. Chivalrous, that.
She should be grateful. Resentment was unworthy of her. Truly, the gift was both generous and thoughtful. But the love she felt tore at her insides, suffocating her until it seemed like sheer torture to listen to Nicolas speak of their relationship as anything less. His “affection” was going to be the death of her.
He picked up her hand and pressed a kiss to its back. “Will you miss me?”
Her heart lurched painfully. She would, but it would never do to let him know how much. The instinct of self defense came too late to protect her wounded heart, but she was wise enough to know when to retreat. Instead of tears, she gave him a plucky smile.
“I shall be utterly desolate in your absence,” she lightly replied, taking back her hand and lightly tracing the planes of his chest.
She could tell from his face that he wasn’t satisfied, but he let the matter drop. “The seneschal and a few soldiers will be staying behind to protect Chillon, in addition to the servants. You can trust them if you need anything.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine, my lord.” She was actually sure that she wouldn’t be fine, but he couldn’t know that either, and she kept her voice light. “I shall count the days until your return. Be careful.”
“I always am.” He kissed her.
This was her last chance. Celia put everything she knew into the lovemaking that followed. She licked and stroked in all the ways she knew drove him crazy, until they both collapsed from sheer physical exhaustion. Nicolas murmured something about getting a last few hours’ sleep in a real bed. She murmured something in agreement, and then they were silent—though she wasn’t certain either of them slept.
The middle and lower courtyards were bustling as Nicolas readied the men to march out the following morning. They began assembling before dawn.
Celia stood off to the side under an overhang, observing the commotion. Fine horses were led from the stables and grooms rushed to get them saddled. A young groom led Nicolas’s courser, the finest of all, into the courtyard, looking both proud and nervous of the spirited creature by his side. It was a tall, beautiful chestnut stallion with the powerful build of a warhorse. Her mind flashed back to the day she’d arrived at Chillon, when she’d first seen that horse, and its master, in action.
Watching the stallion now, Celia would have bet her new ribbons that, aside from its skill in war, it could outpace any of the other knights’ horses in a race. He pranced and tossed his head as though eager to be off. Another groom brought the saddle and accoutrements, also of finest workmanship. There were even red ribbons woven into the stallion’s mane to match the Savoy banner.
If only such pageantry were not so often a precursor to death.
Nicolas looked up and smiled at the entry of his glorious mount, but he gestured to the lad holding him to continue doing so while he saw to other arrangements for the siege.
Chain mail flashed in the morning sun, squires unfurled the red and white banners they would carry, and men gave their weapons a last testing to ensure they were in working order.
A huge battering ram was levered onto a cart, requiring the strength of several of the sturdiest foot soldiers, then slowly rolled out the gate. The siege towers, which had been assembled in the village, also waited just outside the gate. Celia had seen them from her window that morning.
She had seen men, too—far more men than the number living at Chillon. Now she could hear the noise of a large crowd beyond the walls. From what she could see through the open gates, the rows of men, slowly being formed into lines by Nicolas’s men at arms, stretched nearly out of sight.
“There are so many! Where have they a
ll come from?” she asked an elderly man who was peering in the same direction.
“Been assemblin’ in the village. His lordship sent out riders. A call to arms.”
“But so many!”
“Loyal to the House of Savoy. The count, and his father before him, have always been fair men. Protect the land, keep the road safe. That’s what the people want. They trust him to do it. Stern he is, mind you, but they’ll fight for him when there’s need.”
“But surely these men are not all trained warriors!” She could see that many wore no armor and carried few weapons.
The old man turned to look at her fully, leaning on his staff. “Nay, mistress, they are not. Most are simple farmers. But many men are needed for an operation so large. It will take many hunters and cooks to feed this army. When they set up camp, they will need guards. And a blacksmith, and men to care for the horses. There are many tasks these men can do, and do well. And yes, some, those who are strongest, will fight.”
Celia stared at him in silence. She’d never actually thought about the effort it took to support an army. Strategy and tactics—things like where the enemy’s weakest points would be, and where to place the siege towers—she knew Nicolas’s councils were filled with such talk. Obviously there was far more to it than that.
“Savoy, he’s a good leader. He’ll see these men placed where they can be of best use,” the elderly man tried to reassure her.
“Oui, a good leader,” she murmured absently, amazed at all Nicolas had accomplished during the winter months. She knew he’d been frustrated at having to wait and assumed there was little he could do, besides sword practice, until the roads were solid enough for travel.
