The Devil's Bargain

by Allegra Gray

  “Oui. My poor papa.” Her father was an honest man, a good man, even if they didn’t always see eye to eye. Chillon’s dungeon was the last place he belonged. The man in the black tunic, who’d swept through the cavern with a stare of ice, made her skin crawl. She had to get her father away from him.

  The guard just grunted in acknowledgment.

  Celia frowned. She’d identified her father, as the count had instructed, but the dungeon guard didn’t seem in a hurry to do anything with the information. He stood idly by, picking at his fleabites.

  Would his lordship come find her when his council was finished? Or should she seek him out? First, she should probably figure out what to say to him.

  Before she could come up with anything, though, the sentry she’d kneed came striding up, shooting her a look full of daggers. He jerked his thumb, indicating she should follow him.

  She did, mentally running through her plea as she hurried to keep up with the sentry. They returned to the council room, where the door now stood open.

  “His lordship will see you now.”

  “Thank you,” she answered politely, feeling a twinge of guilt for her earlier treatment of him. She edged toward the door.

  She entered when bidden, and even remembered a curtsy.

  She then took one look at Nicolas of Savoy and forgot everything she’d practiced.

  The authority stamped across his noble features was unmistakable, and the fine clothing covering his tall frame was but a thin mask for the lethal power she’d seen him wield. She found the combination terrifying...and compelling, like an ocean tide pulling her slowly but inexorably into unfamiliar waters. How on earth she could possibly think such things about the man who held her father in that dreadful dungeon, she didn’t know, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

  After just a moment of staring, she came to her senses and began the speech she’d just prepared.

  “My lord, I give you my oath. My father is no warrior. We had no idea when we arrived that Chillon was under attack. We simply saw that the bridge was up, so he went forward to investigate. My family has always appreciated doing trade here, and I promise you we had no reason to participate in any attack.” She paused for breath.

  The count seemed to be considering her words as he sat at his desk, but he said nothing. A half-smile played at his lips as he watched her.

  “Sir, you must release him. ‘Tis unconscionable he should be held in such conditions, without even medical treatment, when there is no proof he has done anything wrong.”

  Still he said nothing. This wasn’t working.

  Fighting her rising fear, she batted her eyelashes, remembering how the maids in her village got the boys to do things for them. The action seemed to contradict the practical tone she’d been trying for, but when else was one supposed to do such a thing?

  “Have you something in your eye?” The half-smile disappeared and he stood up, as though concerned she might faint at his feet.

  Celia flushed. “No, my lord. I’m quite all right, thank you.” Apparently flirting was not her forte.

  He sat again. “My men argue that your father’s arrival and the return of the attackers—they'd come once already, hence the raised bridge—coincided so neatly that ‘tis hard to imagine him uninvolved.”

  Celia felt panic flare at his words, but she tried to hold it in check. Her logic—at least in her opinion—was just as solid as that of his men.

  “My lord, I realize it is your duty to do your utmost to protect Chillon and your people, but you have no proof my father did anything wrong.”

  “Perhaps, but I also have no proof that he didn’t.” The count regarded her impassively.

  So far, her plea was not going well.

  “How can you possibly incarcerate a man on such reasoning? He was nearly hanged this afternoon!” she fumed, forgetting her earlier intentions to argue calmly and even to flirt with him.

  He quirked a brow at her obvious display of ire. “But he was not hanged. And for the time being, he is being held, as you know, because the timing of his arrival and that of our assailants did seem particularly fortuitous for the enemy. You must admit that is sufficient reason to question him.”

  Question him. Interrogations. The image of her father with that hollow look in his eyes, the horrible howl they’d heard echo through the dungeon, flashed into her mind. She could not let her father endure that.

  “No! Please, no. I’ve been to the dungeons and heard what you call ‘questioning.’ You cannot do that do my father. He has done nothing, nothing at all! You—”

  “Mistress,” he cut her off, rising from his desk and coming to stand in front of her, “you are overbold. First you come blazing into my council and mistake me for an old man. I overlook that breach, and even allow you a second audience. And now you stand here, chastising me when I don’t grant your request the moment you ask it of me. Even my closest advisors wouldn’t dare speak to me thus. Who are you to presume to tell me what to do?”

  Celia’s ire collapsed. Desperately she thought for a way to undo the damage she’d done, to make him change his mind. Despite his words, he hadn’t sounded angry... more amused, actually, though it was hard to share his humor.

  To make matters worse, she couldn’t think with him standing so close. Especially as, in her long pause, she watched his eyes slowly rove from her head to her toes and back.

  When his eyes met hers again, admiration and speculation heated his gaze.

  Though his visual appraisal was doing odd things to her insides, she strove for a calm tone as she pressed her case. “My lord, I did not mean to offend, and I apologize. The imprisonment of my father has put me on edge, as you have gathered from my unpredictable behavior. My father is a good man and an honest merchant and deserves to be treated as such.

  “He is,” she tried to keep her voice steady, though it threatened to break, “all I have. He would never attack your chateau, much less with me along.” She had to convince him. Without her father, she would be lost.

  He studied her thoughtfully. “I am not fully decided one way or the other.”

  “But he has traded here before. Your seneschal would know him.”

  “True. Arnaut confirmed that he is a known merchant. But that does not prove anything. He also mentioned that Master Lyndon arrived bearing only a small parcel of wrapped cheese. Hardly worth travelling to Chillon to sell that, unless he had a second purpose.”

  She brightened. “Oh. But we came with much more than that.”

  “Then where are these goods you came to sell?”

  She gasped. She’d forgotten about the cart nearly all day. It was still full of all the cheese and precious wine they’d meant to sell—surely if the count saw that, he would be convinced.

  Her desperation, ire, and fear now turned to single-minded focus on the one solid piece of evidence that stood in her favor.

  “Just down the road by the mountainside, my lord, only a short walk. The wheel of the cart got stuck and I was unable to free it. With the hangings set for this afternoon, there was no time. I had to abandon it in favor of finding, and freeing, my father.

  “If you or your man would come with me,” Celia continued, “I could show you that the Lyndons are honest merchants, intent on selling goods, never on attacking Chillon.”

  She held her breath and waited. Her father had always been the one to do the bargaining, but this was a negotiation of a different sort. This was a matter of life or death, not just of getting the best price on a lump of cheese.

  The count inclined his head. “That sounds reasonable. I will have someone gather your father from the dungeon so that he may accompany us as well. I wish to observe him.” He came from behind the desk and stood over her. He was tall enough so she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze, which was filled with a combination of gravity and amusement.

  To her utter surprise, he reached out, tracing the shape of her cheekbone with one long finger, curving down to her jaw, before
he dropped his hand.

  “You are an unusual sort of wench. In some ways, I find you rather magnificent.” His gaze flitted from her nose down to the tips of her boots, lingering—she was quite certain—just a bit longer where her gown pulled tight across her bosom.

  And then, with a slight shake of the head and no further explanation, he was all business again. “Wait near the gate. We depart shortly.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief and thanked him, then went to do as she was told.

  She stood at the gate, rubbing her hands together for warmth as she waited. Thank the Virgin he’d allowed her this chance. She shouldn’t have lost her temper with him, but for a moment she’d been afraid he was about to refuse her completely. Apparently he was possessed of both good looks and reason, which was more than she could say for several of the men under his rule.

  She raised her hand to her cheek, where the heat of his touch still seemed to linger. She had no idea what to make of that. He’d complimented her…sort of. He’d also called her “an unusual sort of wench,” which made her feel like a strange or foreign animal under his inspection.

  A small group of men bearing torches appeared at the gate, the count among them. Her father was present as well. His chains had been removed, though a guard stood on either side of him to prevent his escape. The group proceeded slowly from the gate, her papa still limping from his burn.

  Though Savoy was obviously the ranking presence, he stayed to one side. Hans, the sallow man Celia had seen in the dungeons, led the way. His long black tunic billowed ominously in the icy wind, and the light from his torch illuminated only a few feet of ground before dissipating into the inky night.

  Even with the trudging pace, it was not long before Celia realized something was horribly wrong. She could see dim outline of the cart, but no sign of the mules. She listened, wondering if they’d somehow managed to free their hobbles and gone to find better grazing. Try as she might, she heard no sound but the tramping footfalls of the men around her.

  Worry set in.

  Her worst fears were confirmed when they reached the cart. Everything, all but a few pieces of straw scattered on the planks, was gone.

  The wheel was still stuck in the rut, just as she’d told the count, but there was nothing left in the wagon to prove that it belonged to them or that it had once held all their goods. A faint scent of cheese lingered in the wood, but for all the men knew, that wagon could have been sitting there, empty, for weeks.

  Bile rose in her throat. She should never have abandoned the cart that morning, but she’d been so worried about her father…and then it hadn’t once occurred to her to come check on it after she’d learned he was still alive, and that she had a chance to save him.

  That chance had just soured faster than milk left out under a hot summer sun. Everything was gone.

  She swallowed thickly. After last year’s bad harvest, they’d needed every bit they could earn from this year’s goods. The loss of everything in the cart was a devastating blow. And the loss of the mules—well, she didn’t even want to think about that.

  Why hadn’t she remembered to check on the cart? With this trip she’d hoped to prove herself a worthy partner, someone who could take over the family trade when the weariness of age settled in his limbs. Instead, she’d proved she couldn’t even be trusted to look after their belongings. She had failed.

  Misery ate at her. Even if, by some miracle, the count gave her father his freedom, they were still ruined.

  She turned to her father and looked up at him, blinking back the tears that threatened to overflow.

  “I’m sorry, Papa. I’ve ruined everything.” He’d been right all along. She was fit for nothing but to stay home and perhaps marry Bernard the shepherd who would expect little from her but to cook his meals and warm his bed.

  “Non. Hush, daughter.” He put his arm around her and drew her close. “We’ve had a string of bad luck, that’s certain, but ‘tisn’t your fault.”

  She didn’t know how he could remain so level-headed, calling this nothing but “a string of bad luck.” She leaned against him, craving the comfort she didn’t deserve. What would they do now?

  “It is, though,” she admitted to him quietly. “It is my fault. I should have come to check on our things.”

  “And what then? What if you’d come to check just when the pillagers were making off with the goods? Could you have fought them all off? What harm might have come to you? They could have abducted you, beaten you, or worse. No, dear one, you were safe in the chateau and I would not have wished you anywhere else.” He squeezed her hand.

  She hadn’t thought of that—that she could have come to harm as well. She still felt guilty, though her father’s reasoning softened the blow.

  “Well, old man,” the black-garbed Hans announced in a tone slick with malice, “your daughter’s ‘proof’ seems lacking. If this old cart is the backbone of your trade, it seems to me you’re in a position where a little extra payoff—perhaps for creating a distraction on the bridge, eh?—would be welcomed. Nice of the wench to try to help you,” he gave Celia a nasty grin, “but you’ll not be freed tonight. Attacking Chillon comes with a price, and I’ve plenty of ways to make you pay. Back to the keep, then.”

  The other men murmured in agreement and began turning back, plunging the empty cart back into merciful darkness.

  So far the count had said nothing.

  Celia shook her head as frustration slowly seeped through her, mixing with her guilt. How could the men be so ignorant? The empty cart was poor proof, but that didn’t make their theory right, either. She turned to follow their escort back to Chillon.

  There had to be another way. Making a run for it? No use—even if her father’s leg was healed, they wouldn’t get three steps before being caught. But she hated to think of him taking even one more breath of that foul dungeon air. She had to convince the men to let them go. She just didn’t know how. She hung her head as they headed back.

  Nicolas walked behind the two Lyndons as they slowly proceeded back to the castle, the daughter holding tightly to her father’s hand. Both had their heads bowed in defeat, and he could see the maiden’s shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

  He’d heard Hans’ threat to make the man pay and knew the zealous dungeon-keeper would waste no time making good on it. Even now, the group moved with as much haste as the old man’s injuries would allow.

  She hadn’t been able to produce the goods she claimed they’d come to sell, but were Mistress Lyndon and her father guilty? She’d known exactly where to find the empty cart, but, of course, she could have encountered it at any time prior to arriving at Chillon. Reason warred with instinct, the first telling him she and her father couldn’t be trusted, the second begging him to show her mercy.

  He considered calling a halt to the group’s progress and letting the Lyndons go, but two things stopped him.

  For one, the presence of an empty cart was not enough to exonerate the elder Lyndon in the eyes of many of the soldiers—or, in truth, even his own. Chillon had been attacked too many times, and the men who defended the castle were quick to judge anyone who endangered it. More importantly, though, both father and daughter had been right outside Chillon at the moment of attack. Anything they’d seen or heard might help him understand his enemy. If he let them depart now, he’d lose that chance.

  Even in her depressed state, Celia Lyndon walked with a natural grace. Her slender hips swayed ever so slightly, turning his mind to lustful images. She’d bound her hair in a thick bun at the nape of her neck, but as the night wind played with it, unruly tendrils threatened to escape. He longed to see the entire mass let down in wild abandon, as it had been when she stormed into his war council—though he’d prefer to see it spread across his bed sheets. The desires this maid unknowingly stirred in him were stronger than any he’d known. She was unorthodox, certainly, but he wanted her.

  The last time he’d been so enamored of a maiden, he’d been but an unt
ried youth. Until today, he’d have sworn the intervening years had cured him of such foolishness—thus making the merchant’s daughter a riddle he felt compelled to solve. Her unwavering loyalty to her father was admirable, and Nicolas felt, ridiculous though he knew it was, momentarily jealous of the man whose hand she currently held.

  She probably hated him. She had every reason to. If he freed her father, they would flee the castle and likely never return. Unless…

  Coming to a decision he wasn’t entirely proud of, he approached his captives. A quick nod to the guards gave them the silent message to go on ahead. Nicolas placed a hand on each Lyndon’s shoulder, slowing their progress and startling them from their misery. He dropped his hands when they were out of the guards’ hearing, though his fingers lingered the merest moment on the curve of Celia’s upper arm.

  “It occurs to me that matters are still not settled,” he said in a low voice.

  Celia hastily wiped her tears and watched him warily.

  “The presence of an empty cart lends some credence to your story, but not nearly enough to be conclusive. I’m inclined to believe you, though, since I doubt any father would involve his daughter in such a nefarious plot.”

  Her lovely eyes were wide and full of hope. Then she sucked in a breath. “Wait.”

  She pulled her father aside and whispered hurriedly in his ear. The older man’s eyes widened and he shook his head, clearly against whatever idea she’d had. She whispered again. Still he shook his head.

  Nonetheless, she turned back to Nicolas. Lifting her chin, she said, “Some of this is my fault for abandoning the cart. Let my father go, and keep me instead.”

  Chapter 3

  Nicolas felt his jaw drop. Mistress Lyndon was brave indeed—and her incredible offer was exactly what he’d had in mind.

  “No!” her father expostulated. “I could not possibly allow my daughter to become your prisoner.”

  Nicolas chuckled. “I assure you she would by no means be treated as a prisoner.” No indeed, he thought. He had other plans for the delectable Mistress Lyndon. Still, it would be best if he made it clear he was the one setting the terms of this particular trade. “I am willing to release Master Lyndon on two conditions—first, that he return immediately to your home, procure another cartload of goods, and return with it to Chillon for trade. Second—that you, Mistress Lyndon, remain here for the time it takes him to do so.”