by Allegra Gray
Getting past the gates to Geneva was one matter. Rescuing the Count of Savoy was another.
Nicolas slammed his fist into the wall.
His tower room was well-furnished—his enemy didn’t dare dishonor him so much as to lock him in the dungeon—but there was no mistaking he was a prisoner.
One thoughtless move, and he’d put his people and lands at risk. He should have known that a man who would hire ill-equipped mercenaries to attack Chillon would not balk at breaking the code of chivalry by which negotiations were—usually—bound. Damn the dishonest Genevan. He would pay. Eventually.
But for now there was naught he could do. He’d insisted his men be allowed to see he was unharmed. Only this morning had his demand been granted, but the small party they’d allowed in had been under heavy guard.
No chance to get a message out. No chance to plot an escape. His men had been led away after the briefest confirmation he was in good health. Merde. He hated waiting.
The room that constituted his prison had been thoughtfully cleared of all writing utensils, anything that might constitute a weapon, and anything with which to occupy his time. Nicolas sat. Inevitably, his thoughts drifted toward Celia Lyndon.
After weeks of longing for her, he was finally willing to admit she was more than a passing interest. When he got back to Chillon—and he would get back—he would make it up to her.
She’d offered love, and he’d thrown it in her face. He’d hurt her. And still she’d promised to stay—a testament to the truth of her love.
They’d parted with unspoken feelings. He hadn’t wanted to deal with those emotions. War was messy enough.
But for weeks, now, he’d had nothing but time to think. He wouldn’t be able to spend long at Chillon. His other holdings needed his attention, too. He didn’t want to make up with Celia, only to leave her again. Surely he could convince her to come with him. He might even marry her. And why not? As Giles had observed, she made him happy. Her less-than-illustrious family history would raise some eyebrows, but he didn’t care.
Someday, he could even have an heir of his own.
Nicolas contemplated the idea of a son with Celia’s bright eyes, or even a daughter with that luxurious, wavy hair of hers, and found himself utterly enamored with the idea. Hell, it was possible she’d already conceived! What if she’d been afraid to tell him before he left? After the hurtful things he’d said, he could hardly blame her.
Children were born all the time to mistresses. He’d assumed if he ever fathered one, he would pay for its upbringing. Beyond that, he hadn’t given it much thought. Until now. If she had conceived, and if he pressed for a quick marriage, any child would be legitimate—let the gossips say what they would. And if she hadn’t, well, then he would enjoy each and every moment along the way of turning his young mistress into a wife and mother.
But first, he’d have to figure out a means of escape.
Celia climbed the stairs to the north tower, blood pounding against her eardrums until nearly all other sound was drowned out. How many guards would be at the top?
They’d made it past the Genevan gates without incident. A number of merchants milled about in the bailey, haggling over their goods. No one had given the Lyndons a second glance.
When the seneschal had offered them a trencher of pottage in the great hall—a common offering to travelers—Celia had seized the opportunity. Her father remained behind to complete their trades. He’d helped her get this far. From here on out, he’d stipulated, he was going to live the life of an honest merchant, as he’d done every day of his life, save one.
She’d followed another group to the hall, then lingered for a bit before wandering off, ostensibly in search of the garderobe. That was what she planned to say if anyone questioned her. No one had. The lingering tension between Savoy and Chillon, combined with the sudden influx of merchants looking to make an unexpected profit, made it quite simple for one small woman to be overlooked.
She reached the top of the stairs and peeked around the corner of the stone wall. Only one guard. A large man, though. He didn’t look the type to fall for the “I’ve got a secret” ruse she’d used so long ago at Chillon to incapacitate poor Pierre. If only she knew Hebrew, she’d be tempted to try Helena’s witch act—though that had probably only worked since everyone believed it in the first place.
She could still faintly hear the murmur of the crowd in the hall below. Inspiration struck.
She tightened her grip on the thin knife she’d tucked into a fold of her cloak. Prayed she wouldn’t need it.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the open, shouting, “Everyone to the great hall! Truce! His lordship to make an announcement! Everyone to the hall!”
The guard started in surprise. She saw his mouth twist in suspicion. “I ain’t heard no word of truce.”
“That’s what I’m telling you, good sir! His lordship just said. Everyone’s to report to the hall. You don’t want to miss it.”
He took a few steps in her direction, then slowed. “How do I know you’re tellin’ the truth? An’ what about my post?”
She shook her head. “It won’t matter, now there’s a truce. Do you want to be the only man who doesn’t respond to his lordship’s summons?”
“Nay, but—”
“Then you’d best go.” Celia heard pounding on the door to the tower room. Nicolas’s voice, muffled, called out. She gave the guard a nudge toward the stairs.
He reached out and grabbed her arm. “Who are you, anyway?”
Oh, no.
He pulled her closer. “You don’t work here.”
“I do! I’m new,” she said desperately, her heart tripling its pace. “Or I was. I’d just begun, and then the siege came, and I was shut out these many months.”
He cocked his head as though considering, then grimaced. “No. I don’t think so.”
His grip was bruising her. He thrust her toward the stairs.
This was it. Nicolas could die imprisoned if she did nothing. She might die if she acted. They both might die, regardless.
Now or never.
With her free arm she reached into the cloak, grasped her knife, and with every ounce of strength she possessed, drew it up and across the guard’s throat.
She saw his eyes bulge in surprise as blood gurgled out. He released her to grasp his neck. She stumbled back and watched in horror as he sank to his knees, then toppled over, blood spilling across the stone floor. The knife slid unnoticed from her fingers.
Bile rose in her throat and she felt dizzy. What had she done? But there was no time for that. The latch to the tower room was simple enough, though her fingers fumbled as her body trembled with the horror of harming another.
Nicolas was already on his feet, his fist raised to pound on the door, when she pushed it open. She gave herself just one brief moment to savor the sight of him alive and unharmed.
His mouth dropped open. “Celia?”
She flung herself into his embrace.
He held her tightly. Oh, so tightly. She wanted to glory in it forever—but she remembered their purpose. She murmured in his ear. “Speak not. Just follow. Quietly.”
He was no fool. He did exactly that.
They hurried back down the stairs, past the body of the guard.
“What—” Nicolas started to ask. Celia cut him off with a shake of her head.
She handed him her cloak. “Wear this. And hunch over, walk with a limp. But hurry.” He frowned but donned the cloak and stooped.
She led him down a corridor, praying she had her bearings correct and it would lead to the open area of the bailey. It did. For once, Fortune seemed to be favoring her.
They slipped out of the castle, keeping to the shadows. Celia signaled her father, who stood in the yard haggling with the Genevan seneschal over the firewood he’d unloaded. He must have had to wait his turn for the seneschal’s attention. She hadn’t planned on that.
He caught her message, though, and led the
Genevan seneschal over to look at the lambs, which he’d thoughtfully left tethered in a far corner of the yard. The firewood was of meager value. They could accept a knockdown price on it, as long as he haggled over the lambs long enough to avoid suspicion.
Sweat beaded on Celia’s forehead and trickled down her back. Was it possible they could actually get away with this? She slung one of Nicolas’s arms over her shoulders as though he were crippled and led him across the yard. He kept his head down and seemed to understand her makeshift plan. She helped him into the back of the cart.
Nicolas played the part of old cripple perfectly, acting as though every movement caused him pain. No one else in the yard seemed to think anything of a peasant woman assisting an old man—an old man who also appeared to be a peasant. She covered him with a few rough and smelly old blankets, then piled up the few belongings that remained—the essentials she and her father had traveled with—on top. That done, she looked for her father.
She found him, still engaged in trading. She thought she caught his eye, but he gave no sign, so she couldn’t be sure. She hitched up the mules.
Hurry, Papa, hurry, she prayed.
Any second, someone could discover the dead guard.
Celia swallowed, feeling ill. She’d killed a man. The Count of Geneva had imprisoned Nicolas, but his guard had paid the price for his ruler’s decision. A man who’d simply been doing his duty.
Soon, her father returned to the cart, carrying a small purse of coins. “It is done?” he whispered.
“Oui, Papa.”
“Then let us make haste.” He took the reins and turned the cart toward the gate. The mules stepped off, and Robert Lyndon nodded casually at the Genevan seneschal, now focusing his attention on another, as they passed through. Celia was too terrified to move.
Only when they’d traveled a good distance did her father speak again. “We are fortunate. We shall be more fortunate still if the seneschal does not question why I suddenly agreed to sell at a price that reaps me almost no profit.”
Celia nodded, but her mind was on the man lying silent in the back of their cart. She’d had but a brief moment in his arms. There was so much unsaid.
Her heart ached to hold him and be held, to talk to him about everything that had just happened.
But, she reminded herself, she had not done this to win him back. She’d done it for honor.
She might love him, but he’d told her clearly he did not share that affection. She would do well to remember that.
“Shall we leave him with the soldiers?” she asked her father, keeping her voice low.
“Yes. But not so close to the main road.” He turned the cart onto a narrower path that led through the Savoy camp.
“What about spies?”
“This is still a common road. There are other merchants. See?” He pointed. “We won’t linger. As soon as he is with his men, we go.”
“Go?”
He turned to look at her fully. “I mean that, daughter. For all our safety, we dare not linger.”
Celia swallowed. She wouldn’t get to talk to Nicolas.
“Oui, Papa.” Her father had already done more than anyone could ask. She couldn’t risk his safety further, just to ease her own heartache.
They reached the edge of the camp and halted the wagon. The tents here were small, those of lesser soldiers and servants.
Celia hurried to the back. “We’re at your camp. Go now.”
Nicolas pushed back the blankets hopped down from the cart, blinking in the sun. For a moment he stood so close she could feel the heat of his body. “My camp,” he repeated.
She watched as his eyes cleared and his shoulders straightened, as he once again assumed the mantle of a great lord and commander.
“Oui. You’ll be safe here. May Fortune shine more brightly upon you in the days to come.”
“Fortune has never shined so brightly upon me as she has done this very day.”
Oh, Nicolas.
“I must go now,” she whispered, not trusting her voice. She moved toward the front of the cart.
“Wait.” He put a hand on her arm. “Celia, my sweet. I do not know how to thank you, or your father, for what you have done this day. How did you... There is so much I wish to ask.” He stepped close to her again. “And much I need to tell you.”
“Nicolas.” More than anything, she longed to give in. She couldn’t breathe. A heartbeat passed, then another. Finally she shook her head. “I must leave. The risk is too great. And I’ve promises to keep.”
“But—”
“Goodbye, Nicolas.”
A man came out of one of the tents to see what the commotion was about. He cried out at the sight of his leader. “My lord!”
“I must go,” Celia repeated, hurrying now. “Before ‘tis known what happened. You will need every man to fight. My father and I are not warriors. We must be far away, or our lives are forfeit.”
She hated the bereft look in his eyes, the way he lifted one hand toward her—but he did not stop her. “Godspeed.”
She clambered back into the cart, her father slapping at the reins before she was even settled. She glanced back to see Nicolas clasp hands with the other soldier, then duck inside a tent.
So that was it. Her adventure was over.
Nicolas would go on ruling Savoy, and she would go home and marry Bernard.
Chapter 22
Gruyère, June 1203
Nicolas dismounted and looked at the tiny hut before him. Thanks to Celia’s daring rescue, he’d had his men launch a surprise attack while the Genevan defenses were still down. By the time they’d left, most of the chateau was in flames.
He’d ridden back to Chillon with a mind full of questions. He wasn’t surprised to find Celia gone, knowing she’d been with her father during his rescue, but he’d been shocked to find out why she’d left in the first place. He’d heard first from Bernice of his mistress’s theft, but that didn’t make sense. He’d given Celia the necklace. Alisoun had soon set him straight on all that had transpired. She’d even—contrary to her servant’s standing—given him a piece of her mind about his failure to protect the girl.
He’d failed Celia in so many ways. Not only had he failed to protect her, he’d tossed her love back in her face. And in spite of all that, she’d had the bravery and audacity to do what his own soldiers had not—she’d given him his freedom.
God, he loved that woman.
He prayed she’d let him make amends.
He’d already toyed with the idea of marrying her. Now, he knew in the depths of his soul there could be no other. His first marriage had been made to create political and financial alliances. It had done this admirably, despite the lack of any emotional alliance between its two participants. His next marriage, Nicolas promised himself, would be for love. He wanted Celia by his side, secure in the knowledge that she was cherished.
He would have to tell her he loved her. He couldn’t recall ever telling a woman that—at least not since his youth. He’d claimed love was a matter best left to the poets and minstrels. But Celia was stuck in his head, and in a part of his chest he suspected was his heart. He couldn’t deny the depth of what he felt. It wasn’t right to go on without her knowing it and taking the place she deserved—his wife, his love.
Not leaving matters to chance, he’d seized Hans and had him locked in his own dungeon. The seneschal, realizing the tide had turned, confided an additional suspicion—he’d tried for months to reconcile the expense of operating the dungeons, but the numbers didn’t add up. Only Hans knew why, and he wasn’t talking.
The delay infuriated Nicolas…but he knew that in this one thing, he needed to take care of matters before going after his beloved. That included Hans, and his nasty wife, too. He probably needed to appoint a new seneschal—one with a spine—as well, but that would have to wait.
As soon as he could, he’d gotten a fresh mount and gone on to Gruyère, leaving Giles to settle the chaos of the returning army
.
He’d assumed he would find Celia with her father. But, only moments ago, Robert Lyndon had given him the unwelcome news that she’d been betrothed to a local shepherd—the same shepherd whose home he approached now.
“Merde.” The shepherd’s hut was no place for the woman he loved.
A betrothal was as good as an actual marriage in the eyes of many. He only hoped Celia and the shepherd didn’t see it that way.
He strode to the tiny abode, knocked once, and opened the door.
“‘Oo are you?” the burly shepherd asked. He’d been bent over a table, sharpening a shearing knife against a stone, but he straightened when Nicolas entered the low-ceilinged hut.
Apparently the man was unfamiliar with the Savoy coat of arms, or he wouldn’t have had to ask.
Nicolas’s gaze locked on a familiar form at the back of the room. Celia. She kept her back studiously turned to him.
“Nicolas, Count of Savoy,” he replied finally, taking a measure of satisfaction in the widening of the shepherd’s eyes. “I’ve come to take this girl home.”
“Her?” the man jerked a thumb in Celia’s direction. “What ye be wantin’ wi’ her?”
“I intend to marry her.” Celia, he noted, did not turn around.
The shepherd let out a loud guffaw. “Now I know you’re foolin,’ me lord. Count, you may be, but if that’s so, ye surely aren’ goin’ to marry that one. She ain’t nothin’ but a poor merchant’s daughter and a tavern wench!” he scoffed.
Nicolas started to say something very pointed, but the other man kept going, oblivious to the dangerous glitter in the count’s eyes.
“She ain’t even,” he leaned in confidentially, “pure. Set off wi’ her pa last fall to sell their goods, but she didn’t come home when he did. Turned up months later, and rumors about her takin’ up with a witch an’ rescuin’ princes an’ the like. Like as not it’s just a story she invented to cover up her sinful doings. ‘Course,” the man puffed out his chest, “I don’t pay too much mind to such things. I ain’t a fancy lord. The girl’s sound enough, an’ I need someone to keep the home, now Ma’s gettin' on in years. She’s holdin’ up her end. No complainin’, that one.”
