by Allegra Gray
Gone. The sinister man who had haunted her dreams was truly gone. She wasn’t worried about Bernice ever turning up again…without her husband to make good on her threats, she was nothing but an annoyance.
Nicolas, Count of Savoy, had been willing to dismiss and punish one of his men, a powerful one at that, because of her. And he had even thanked her for it. The fact that Hans had killed himself first was not something she cared to dwell on.
She struggled to comprehend her situation. If all were truly as he said, there was nothing standing in the way of the dreams she’d once sheltered. There was still the matter of Nicolas reconciling with her father, but surely her papa could look past the many misunderstandings of the last several months. None of them were without some fault—and none of them were without the intrinsic sense of honor that made them work to overcome those faults.
As if he sensed her thoughts, Nicolas said, “I will speak to your father at once. He will be proud of you, Celia, just as you have always wished. Before long, you will be honored and respected as the most powerful woman in the region. You need not fear.”
He had cleared the way for everything, all she could hope for—and just when she’d stopped hoping.
Celia felt the weight she’d been carrying around, the heavy armor of depression and broken dreams, slowly cracking and crumbling. Falling away bit by bit, leaving her freer and lighter than she could ever remember. A smile grew inside her, forcing its way to her face, growing and growing until she felt her face would simply split from sheer joy.
“It seems, my lord, you have thought of everything.”
“And you will come?”
“I will come.”
She briefly registered the intense relief on his face before she was swept from her feet into a crushing embrace, whirled in circles as he murmured into her ear the three words she’d never believed she would hear, but which he now couldn’t seem to stop saying. “I love you.”
Finally, he set her down and she allowed him to help her mount the palfrey that still stood patiently in the path. He swung gracefully onto his own mount, staying side-by-side with hers as, together, they rode home.
Epilogue
Chillon, July 1203
Celia awoke on her wedding day feeling as though the sun had risen just to please her. It was a beautiful late summer day, and even though the early preparations for harvest were beginning, her entire family—minus one sister-in-law who was too near childbed to travel—had set aside their work to attend. She’d sent a messenger to Helena, inviting her as well. Her friend had declined, sending her best wishes but stating that the Chillon chapter of her life had ended, and she had found peace. Celia understood.
Upon returning to Chillon, Nicolas had immediately set ink to parchment, solidifying a new partnership between himself and Robert Lyndon. The wines Celia’s father was so proud of, and her brothers’ cheeses, would finally be sold abroad, just as she’d dreamed. The betrothal and the partnership had done much to repair the broken bonds with her father, but what truly sealed their good will was Nicolas’s decision that the wedding would take place at Chillon, rather than the main seat of the Savoy holdings in Chambéry, so that the Lyndons could attend without endangering their crops. Celia found that with her nemesis gone, Chillon was once more a magical place for her—happier now, too, that the angst of living with an unrequited love had been lifted.
After the wedding, they would travel to Chambéry. Nicolas needed to return to the family seat to see to any number of matters, and Celia was anxious to begin exploring the markets there.
The last month had been a flurry of wedding preparations, and she could hardly believe the day—her day—had finally arrived. Her brothers and father were turned out better than Celia had ever seen them before. She smiled when she saw Alisoun cast a speculative glance in her father’s direction. At last, she’d gone indoors to dress for the ceremony.
Her gown was lovelier than any she could have asked for. It had been made especially for her from yards of ice-blue silk that had arrived at the castle while she was away. Alisoun had confided in her that when a yet another cloth merchant with a loaded-down cart had arrived at the castle, she hadn’t thought anything of it—until she’d seen those folds of palest blue.
“I knew it would be just perfect for you,” she’d told Celia, “what with your dark hair and blue eyes. I knew why his lordship had left in such a hurry, after only just returning from battle. The moment he left, I had my hopes up for a wedding, but I couldn’t tell anyone, so I convinced the seneschal that his lordship had been asking after new bed hangings, and this silk would be perfect. Poor man,” she’d chuckled, “he doesn’t have a wife and hasn’t a clue about fabrics or he’d have seen right away that such fine silk was meant for a lady’s gown. But he bought it, and I’m so happy you’ll be wearing it on your wedding day, my lady!”
Celia had laughed at being called “my lady,” but now as Alisoun and Marie helped her on with the gown, she did indeed feel like royalty. Surely this was a dream. Any moment she’d wake up to find her princess fantasies replaced by milkmaid reality.
The folds of silk whispered softly as she glided on matching silk slippers over to a looking glass. The image staring back at her confirmed that her new reality was, indeed, beyond her wildest dreams. She was marrying a man who could give her every comfort in life, a man who would respect her own wishes and help her grow her family’s trade, and, most of all, the man she loved.
Fortune had smiled upon her, Celia mused, as Marie wove a strand of flowers through her elaborately dressed hair. When the last stem was tucked securely in place, she was ready.
They proceeded to St. George’s Chapel, where the small ceremony would take place, followed by a huge feast in the great hall. Alisoun and Marie held the train of her gown aloft, keeping it out of the dust and dirt, while Celia’s two young nieces traipsed along behind, happily showing off the little gowns Alisoun had hastily sewn up for them from a cheery yellow fabric that, Marie had confided, they’d originally intended for new table linens.
Not only were her clothes in place, but her heart and mind were as well. She’d heard stories of nervous, even terrified brides, but all she felt was a quiet, joyous anticipation—and desire to once again be with Nicolas, to unite with him in every way a man and woman could. Everyone around her seemed to share her mood—even the elderly priest who’d lectured at her before now smiled benevolently as she and Nicolas knelt before the altar.
The ceremony itself was short, though emotional. The feast that followed was long and merry. The great hall brimmed over with people, food, and song. They’d made many toasts with her family’s wine, and she’d seen her father’s eyes spill tears of pride for both his daughter and his wares. The celebration flowed into the courtyards, where jugglers and even acrobats performed.
No one had anything but the truest of congratulations for Celia, and her heart warmed to see all the castle-dwellers accept her as Nicolas’s wife.
As the feasting went on, however, she found herself anxious for the events yet to follow.
She hadn’t been intimate with Nicolas since before he’d left on the campaign against Geneva. That was months ago, yet he’d done no more than kiss her since they’d returned, promising that this time, he would treat her with every inch of respect she deserved. The thoughtfulness was nice, but celibacy was not. She longed to feel his touch in her most intimate places, to lie in his arms afterwards and know that this time, she truly belonged to him. And he to her. She could take pleasure in what they shared physically without any worry about what the future would hold.
She sighed audibly as yet another minstrel began to sing, and finally Nicolas turned to her. “Tired, my love?”
“Exhausted,” she replied as she gave him a come-hither look guaranteed to make him aware that her desire to go to bed had nothing to do with sleep.
“I see. It has been a long and trying day,” he said with a knowing smile, “and I believe everyone at this f
east will be able to carry on quite well without us. Perhaps I ought to see you to bed.”
A rousing cheer went up as the newly wedded couple exited the hall, but thankfully, no one tried to follow them. As soon as they were alone in the corridor Nicolas pulled her aside for a deep kiss. The touch of his lips quickly had her desire spinning out of control.
“Please, hurry,” she begged, tugging his sleeve toward his chambers. No, their chambers.
“Eager wench,” he teased, though the pull of fabric at the front of his chausses revealed his own state of desire.
The chambers were already prepared for the bridal couple. A small fire crackled merrily in the hearth, warding off any evening chill, and braces of candles glowed invitingly along the walls and next to the bed. The bed was now hung with a luxurious brocade of red and gold. It reminded her of the dress she’d worn after the first time they’d been intimate. Nicolas might not have loved her then, but he did now. And that was all that mattered.
The bed curtains were pulled to the side and the covers turned back, but she wasn’t in a rush. Not anymore. She turned to Nicolas and saw the heat flare in his eyes as she skimmed her torso with her own hands, lingering on the curve of her breasts, then stopping at the edge of her gown, tugging it just the slightest bit lower.
“It must be the wine making my fingers fumble,” she teased as she pretended to struggle, inching the bodice down a little further, “I simply can’t manage to do it any faster.”
“Is that so?” he growled, stalking towards her. “I find my own energy is recovering a bit. Perhaps I can help you.”
“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary. Even without wine, men have such clumsy hands for such delicate things as the laces on a woman’s gown.”
She took a few steps backwards, away from him, then let the rest of the gown slither to the floor, smiling in triumph as the evidence of his desire grew more pronounced. She was clad only in her chemise now. Made of the finest ivory silk, it clung to her curves in a way she knew her new husband would find tantalizing. She slowly retraced the steps she’d just retreated, allowing her hips to sway ever so slightly as she neared him. Passion darkened his intense green eyes and his nostrils flared ever so slightly as he watched her approach. She drank in his response, reveling in her power over this man who, himself, was so powerful.
“Do you, now, find men to be clumsy?” He was close enough to reach her now, but he just rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, stroking the bare skin at her collarbone with his thumbs. A thrill of anticipation ran through her. “I don’t recall you thinking me clumsy before. I believe I’ve helped you dress once or twice.”
She tilted her head. “You have? Are you quite certain? I don’t believe I could forget something like that.”
His response was a laughing growl as he pulled her in tightly, silencing her laughter with a fiery kiss that drove all thought of teasing from her mind and left her clinging to his shoulders, pressing herself to him, desperate to feel his skin on hers. She offered no protest when he pushed away the silk of her chemise, then drew his own tunic over his head. She ran her hands over him, rubbed her cheek against his chest and inhaled deeply. Yes, this was the man she loved, the man she’d taken risks for, the man she’d worried over, even the man she’d quarreled and reconciled with.
And, as of today, the man she’d promised her life to.
Celia tilted her head up for a slow, lingering kiss. Her husband’s skin was warm on hers and she snuggled closer to the protection he offered from the cool evening air. Still, she was unable to suppress a light shiver.
Nicolas looked down at her, breaking the kiss long enough to scoop her into his arms and carry her towards the large bed, settling her on the sheets as he came down over her.
Her head fell back on the pillows as she delighted in the weight of him, the contact extending her full length. He kissed her brows, nipped at her ear, then flicked his tongue over the steady thrum of her pulse at her neck. Need took over, heating her blood like a fever, spreading and coiling where she wanted his touch.
She gasped as he drew her nipple into his mouth, suckling lightly while teasing the other breast with his fingers. She ran her hands over the silky hard muscles of his back, pulling him ever closer. He drew tight on her nipple and she arched up, plunging her hands into his hair.
Need pulsed through her now, insistent, demanding. Appallingly, her husband showed no signs of removing his chausses. She loved it when he tormented her like this. Rolling to the side, she kissed his throat lightly, then trailed a hot, wet path down his chest, pausing to lave his flat male nipple with her tongue and grinning as it tightened in response. She continued inching downward, following the path of his flat belly to where it disappeared beneath fabric, then continuing on. She felt the full length of him pressing against the fine wool, and she kissed him through it, delighting in his moan of approval. She stroked him with her hand as she worked her way back up as though she, too, were in no hurry.
She’d gone no more than a few inches before Nicolas, impatient now, set her aside so he could undo the laces. He shucked the chausses with amazing speed, then came back, stretching out atop her, bracing himself to keep from crushing her.
She’d expected him to enter her the moment he returned to bed, but he did not. His arousal pressed insistently at the junction of her thighs as he took her in a deep and tender kiss.
Something was different now, Celia realized in a haze of desire. There was still the same urgent need to touch and be touched, but within that urgency was an infinite tenderness—an unspoken understanding. No longer was there anything to worry about between them—no gaps of rank or intention between them. They could take their time, for tomorrow when they woke they would still be man and wife, joined for all their lives.
She’d begun by teasing, but now she sank into the sensual, gentle spell her husband seemed intent on weaving over her.
His long fingers stroked slowly, bringing her to a hovering point of need as the world around them melted and drifted away. His touch lingered as he drew back for a moment to simply gaze at her. He came back, touching, nibbling, caressing until she could think of nothing but becoming one with this glorious man she had married. He pressed a loving kiss to her lips and clasped her hands.
“Celia. My wife, my love. Tell me what you want.” His eyes were dark and questioning, his hardness pressing into her.
The intimate contact, his honest request, elicited a moan of longing from Celia. It became imperative that he put that, there.
“Only you, Nicolas. Only, always you,” she managed.
Still holding her hands, eyes open as both watched the other’s expression, he slowly slid into her. He moved within her, measured, deep strokes that had her gasping and holding him close as he drove them slowly, inexorably, to the peak of pleasure and then over. She came in a golden flood of sensation as he poured his passion, his love, into her.
They lay still afterwards, drifting slowly down from that peak, neither one willing to be the first to move and break the spell that hovered around them. Finally, Celia sighed and turned to him, trailing her fingers up the taut skin of his chest. He responded to her unspoken need and they made love again, unashamedly glorying in pleasing each other before collapsing, exhausted now, in one another’s arms. Celia saw her new husband’s lips curve into a satisfied smile just before she closed her eyes and fell into a sound sleep on his shoulder.
Dawn spilled around the edge of the heavy curtains, bringing just a hint of light to their wedding bed. Celia propped herself on one elbow, gazing down lazily at Nicolas’s head on the pillows. His dark lashes fluttered as he opened his eyes, catching her in the act.
“And what are you thinking now, my sweet countess-merchant?” he asked.
“I think, Nicolas,” she replied slowly, “that loving you is more intoxicating than any wine I will ever sell.”
“Is that so?” he asked with a grin as his hand came up to cup her breast. “Well, it’s a bit earl
y in the morn to be intoxicated, but as we are newlywed, I’m sure we can make allowances...”
“It must be intoxication, for I seem to be losing my inhibitions.”
“Perhaps you’ll demonstrate what you mean.”
She bent her lips to his. “Oui. That I will, my lord, and gladly.”
Also by Allegra Gray:
Nothing But Scandal
Nothing But Deception
Nothing But Trouble
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About the Author
I grew up in a creative family. Musicians, entrepreneurs, poets, you name it. I dabbled in all of it, and read books so avidly that I think my parents viewed the local bookstores and libraries as the equivalent of babysitters. In some misguided attempt to get away from the fold, I then attended college at the U.S. Air Force Academy. The Air Force, and working defense contracts later, actually did give me a lot of opportunities to learn new things and travel. But ultimately, my creative side demanded to be let loose, and I began writing the kind of stories I’ve loved for so long.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
