by Allegra Gray
Nicolas eyed Celia as she listened to the harpist. Her eyes held a look of far-off wonder and her generous lips turned up in a smile. How would it feel to kiss those lips, and to be kissed in return? Lips like those promised a warmth and passion he hadn’t known he craved until this dark-haired maiden had come bursting, literally, into his life.
He’d been so busy with his soldiers and councilors all day that he’d barely seen her, catching only a brief glimpse of her strolling about the courtyard that afternoon. He’d smiled, but she’d apparently been lost in thought and hadn’t seen him. Now, as exquisitely plucked chords swelled and filled the air around them, she was once again lost in thought. Her once-stormy eyes had taken on a dreamy look. He smiled as the minstrel began a familiar song of courtly love.
Ce fut en maiAu douz tens gaiQue la saisons est bele,Main me levai,Joer m'alaiLez une fontenele.En un vergierClos d'aiglentierOi une viele;La vi dancierUn chevalierEt une damoisele.
Like so many others, this song told a story of unrequited love. While he could appreciate the sentiment, Nicolas had found that in real life, there was little comfort in desiring from afar. If he could get Celia alone, if he could taste those soft lips and make her respond with the warmth he’d seen within her, then, maybe, just maybe, he could be the one to inspire those languorous, dreamy eyes.
But she was not a sophisticated courtier who would arrange such a liaison on her own. A blatant request from him would confirm her tenure here for the devil’s bargain her father had so astutely suspected.
He needed a subtle invitation...perhaps an offer to show her the castle. Surely there were areas she hadn’t seen. What would interest a woman like her? The weaving room? He hardly knew how to find it himself. The armory? He didn’t want her mind on weapons. The bedchambers? Too tempting. Wait. She was the daughter of a merchant—perhaps the spice cellar would intrigue her.
When the men at the table began to excuse themselves, he stood and moved to her end of the table. Leaning over, he voiced his offer just loudly enough so she could hear him over the music, but not so loudly that the others were privy to his request.
Sure enough, her eyes lit up. “A whole cellar full of spices? I should very much like to see that.”
He smiled. He’d known she was unlikely to outright refuse an offer made by the lord of the castle, but he’d expected a half-hearted response, not the smile that lit up her face with an almost desperate happiness.
Perhaps this would be easier than he’d thought.
Chapter 4
Nicolas signaled for the meal to officially end, and people slowly began to leave. He and Celia exited the great hall together, a fact that would not go unnoticed by anyone remaining. He refrained from pointing that out to her.
They weren’t far from the kitchen cellars. The castle’s location on a major trade route meant the storerooms held an impressive array of spices and delicacies from distant lands. He took pride in the fact that meals served at Chillon were unparalleled in the region. He led Celia down a flight of stairs and around a corner.
When it was clear they were alone, she turned to him.
“Why did you do that to me?” She sounded confused, hurt.
“Do what?” A moment ago she’d seemed happy.
“Ask me to sit there, at your table, where everyone would stare. They know I do not belong.”
Ah. Maybe her happiness had stemmed not from the opportunity to be with him, but from the fact that he’d offered an excuse to escape the inquisitive stares in the great hall. This might not be simple after all.
“You do belong, if I say you do,” he argued. “Asking you to my table allows the others to see you are an accepted guest.”
“A guest who is not noble, nor one of your councilmen, makes an odd addition to the high table. I am not your guest, I am your prisoner.”
“You are not my prisoner, nor have you been treated as such. You know this, Mistress Lyndon. Your stay here may be compulsory, as it seemed an excellent way to ensure the honesty of your father, but that does not make you a prisoner.” Women. They were far more complicated than battle plans, Nicolas thought.
“It also does not make me free,” she muttered, not quietly enough to avoid being heard by Nicolas’s keen ears.
He pressed his lips together in unwilling amusement at her spirit. His “tour” was not proceeding as smoothly as he had hoped. She was speaking to him openly now they were away from the great hall, yet she was obviously frustrated. He needed to distract her.
The servant stationed outside the spice cellar started when he saw the count, then unlocked the heavy wooden door. Nicolas pushed it forward, then stood aside, indicating that Celia should precede him in. The servant handed her a candleholder with three lit tapers, then quietly retreated from sight.
The air inside was cool and dry, and the candlelight flickered mysteriously over walls lined with shelves. A hushed, exotic atmosphere filled the small chamber. It was packed floor to ceiling with pots, jars, sacks, and tied bundles containing everything from the purest sugar to such expensive spices as cinnamon and cardamom. The heady scent of all these seasonings filled the air, and Nicolas watched as Celia inhaled appreciatively.
“There are so many! It’s wonderful. Where do they all come from? Tell me about them,” she pleaded, her eyes aglow.
Pleased, he told her of the trade routes from Asia and Africa, the salt mines away to the north, the many regional specialties, and watched her eyes grow wider and wider.
The spices now surrounding them cost more than most people would ever see in a lifetime. A single pound of sugar was more costly than all the grain it took to make a poor man’s pottage for a year. Only in a truly terrible year would anyone living or working at Chillon go hungry.
He wondered if Celia had ever gone hungry. Yes, she probably had. He’d seen her glance longingly at the trencher of hardened bread as they left the table. It had soaked up all the juices from the meal and was now quite edible, but after a moment’s hesitation, she’d left it at the table as the others at the table had done.
He knew many of the country folk went without as a matter of routine, but thinking of the beauty before him hollow-cheeked and pinched with hunger brought Nicolas an almost physical pain. The servants of Chillon distributed the castle’s leftovers to their own poor families or to the nearby convent so that food rarely went to spoil, but that bounty never reached the farms and villages nestled into the mountains.
Suddenly, he no longer wanted to elaborate on the magnificent stores surrounding them. It seemed cruel to emphasize the vast gulf between his wealth and her lack thereof. He wanted to draw her closer, not push her away.
Celia, however, still appeared fascinated. She edged further into the room, eyes wide in wonder. Her hands were clasped behind her back as though she dared not trust herself to touch anything, yet the rapt expression on her face and the way she inhaled the scented air made her desires clear.
Nicolas watched her closely, then shoved aside his own guilt. Yes, this had been the place to bring the merchant’s daughter.
“It is an important job in a castle, being the spicekeeper,” he told her. “The door to this cellar is kept locked to all but he and I. The spicekeeper is responsible for measuring out the spices, ensuring that none go missing. The kitchen chefs come to him with their menus ahead of time when they require his ingredients. He must be familiar with the ways of cooking, else an unscrupulous cook might request more of a spice than was necessary, using the rest to their own profit.”
“I can imagine,” she murmured. She clasped her hands even tighter behind her back and glanced at him warily.
“I did not bring you here for intimidation, Mistress Lyndon. I trust you are not a thief. You may explore to your heart’s content. Touch what you like.”
“Truly?” At his nod, she tentatively lifted a piece of sacking, peering inside. It contained hazelnuts...nothing exotic. She carefully refolded the top of the sack and set it back on the shelf, continuing
to look around.
Nicolas lifted a different sack from the shelf and held it open for her.
“Salt?” she frowned in the dim light.
“Nay,” he chuckled. “Hold out your hand.”
She did so, and he saw that small brown calluses lined the inside of her palm—a forcible reminder of the vast gulf between their stations in life. Ignoring that, he poured a few precious grains of sugar into her outstretched hand.
“Taste.”
He swallowed hard as she obeyed—the sight of her delicate pink tongue darting against her palm did strange things to his insides. He tried to ignore the heat building in his loins and focus instead on her reaction of delight.
“Sugar! A whole sack full?”
“Yes.” He did not mention that there were several other sacks full as well. Most sweets in the castle were still made with honey, which was far cheaper, but the pure grains of sugar were coveted for treat-making on special occasions.
He took down a small ceramic pot, lifted the lid, and held it to her. She did not take it from him but stepped closer, peering curiously at the contents. She sniffed appreciatively. “I do not know this one. Some kind of tree bark?” she asked, looking up.
In the candlelight her eyes seemed to sparkle from unfathomable depths. Nicolas’s hands nearly shook with the desire to reach for her. Quickly he set the ceramic pot in a safe place. “Saffron threads. ‘Tis grown further south. Saffron adds a wonderful flavor to meats or grains, and turns the food a golden color.”
She nodded and did not move away. Nicolas took down a small tin, anxious to keep her close. This one was filled with small brown sticks.
“Oh, these are heavenly!”
“Cinnamon,” he said roughly. He broke off a tiny piece and held it before her lips.
If it was possible, her eyes grew even darker as she took it from him, never breaking eye contact as her lips brushed his fingers. The brief contact was enough to make Nicolas wish for a place to sit down. Or continue this “tour” in a place that was more comfortable for both of them.
Tension hovered between them, but neither stepped back. Celia took a deep breath, drawing Nicolas’s eyes to her bosom.
Finally he broke the connection. With a strained gesture, he indicated she should leave the spice cellar ahead of him. She did, and he indulged himself by admiring the gentle sway of her hips as he followed her out. The soft linen of her gown moved with her body, emphasizing her narrow waist and draping over the curve of her bottom.
Nicolas frowned. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so besotted. Rarely did he make a decision without considering all sides of the situation, yet when it came to the woman before him, he’d been going mostly on instinct.
He didn’t know anything about her, other than she came from the country and was loyal to a father who purported to sell wine and cheese. And that she had eyes that sparkled like the sun on the deepest part of the lake, framed by a riotous mass of velvety dark hair that simply begged a man to run his fingers through it, to imagine it draped across her naked torso. Better yet, across his naked torso.
He frowned again. He didn’t even know if she was married. No, he realized, she went about with her hair uncovered, and he’d never known a married woman or a widow, even one unfamiliar with the ways of the court, to do that.
Since she wasn’t married, why not? Maybe she was betrothed? Or maybe her family was holding out for a better match—an alliance with a wealthier merchant family? Had she been touched by some scandal that had rendered her unmarriageable? Was that why she traveled about the countryside with her father? She could even, he thought, be a widow already.
It didn’t matter, though—she was going to be his. He could feel the inevitability of it. Never had a woman so captured his imagination, drugged his senses, and inflamed his desire with every innocent glance she cast his direction. It was disconcerting. He didn’t like for others to have power over him. And not since he was a tiny tot in short clothes, looking to his mother, had a woman held such sway over him. He’d feel more comfortable when the roles were reversed…when she was beneath him in bed, begging for more.
He could all but feel himself thrusting inside of her, see her luxurious tresses spread in wild abandon beneath him as her full breasts rose to meet his anxious fingers.
Belatedly he realized Celia had asked him a question. She was now looking at him expectantly as she waited for an answer. He’d been so caught up in his lust-laden daydream that he hadn’t the faintest idea what she’d said.
“Pardon?”
“I asked where you wished to go next,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye, and Nicolas wondered if she’d guessed at the direction of his thoughts.
Bed. He wanted to go to bed. With her. Wisely assuming she wouldn’t accept such a blunt invitation, he offered the next best thing, which would at least bring them closer to his chambers, and perhaps allow them a moment alone.
“I thought you might like to one of the most exquisite tapestries in the region?”
She looked wary. “Where is this tapestry?”
“It hangs in the suite my sister-in-law stays in when she is at Chillon.” That lady’s chambers were not too far from his own, and if they happened to make a detour on the way back...
Her face relaxed. “I imagine it must be quite beautiful.”
“She wouldn’t have it any other way.” He took her arm again and led the way.
Celia studied the count through her lashes. It was obvious from his decision to single her out at dinner, and now from this “tour,” that he intended something to happen between them. Perhaps the others in the castle were not so far off in their gossip.
Did the great lord of Savoy expect her to sleep with him as part of their arrangement? So far he’d not touched her, but with the tension she sensed building between them, she didn’t expect that state of affairs to last.
What would she do if—no, when—he did? Could she say no? Did she even want to say no?
Celia nearly stopped in her tracks, surprised at her own thoughts. She stumbled to catch up, and the count looked down at her.
“I’m all right,” she hastily assured him. “Just clumsy.” And apparently a wanton. There were a thousand questions she wanted to ask him about the spices she’d just seen, but she’d sensed his mood change as they’d left that room behind. There were other things on his mind...more intimate things, if her intuition was correct.
Heaven help her, but she was intrigued. She shouldn’t trust him. After all, he’d nearly had her father hanged, and even now she was not free to leave Chillon, even if he refused to come right out and call her a prisoner. She had no business being alone with a man who moved in worlds so far above her own. But she was hardly immune to his looks or the impressive, yet reasonable, way he wielded his authority. This was a man used to getting what he wanted. If he wanted her, he would have her. The only real question was on what terms.
He’d shown her treasures from afar in the spice cellar, as though he were somehow privy to her dreams of adventure.
Her traitorous body responded with heightened awareness every time he drew near, and her wanton mind wondered what it would be like to kiss such a man.
Was that so wrong? Certes, it was. But his lips looked so firm, the lines of his mouth so stern. Would they soften at her touch?
Oh, and his eyes. Deep green and sharply intelligent. Knowing. Celia searched her memory for something in nature that could compare to that arresting color. The green of the mountains in spring was too light, yet the dark, waxy color of the holly bush lacked luster in comparison. She came up empty. That unique shade belonged to him alone.
They continued walking, side by side, down the hall toward the bedchambers. The heat of attraction flowed between them as though it were a tangible thing. Surely he could feel it too. Yet he still made no move to touch her. Could it be possible he was waiting for some sign from her?
Could she be bold enough to actually give him one?
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br /> She’d been kissed before, but only a quick, fumbling press of the lips in the woods after a church picnic. Neither she nor the boy involved had ever attempted to repeat the experience. Never had she felt this trembling sense of anticipation that left her feeling as though every last part of her was vibrantly alive and she couldn’t quite catch her breath. Never had she wanted a kiss before, to touch and be touched. If she wrapped her arms around this stern, powerful man and pressed her lips to his, she knew it would be different. Vastly different.
Perhaps she ought to just focus on maintaining her modesty. Surely that was the approved thing. But, Celia asked herself wryly, when had the approved thing ever determined her behavior in the past? She usually rushed headlong into things—so much so that her father joked she should have been born a boy. If she’d done the approved thing when she first came to Chillon, her father might still be imprisoned.
Now, though, the master of the castle was leading her toward a set of, by his own admission, unoccupied bedchambers. He was an attractive and powerful man—surely an alliance with him could not but help her. If she had, in fact, traded her virtue for her father’s freedom, then she’d be a fool not to get what she could from it. If by some miracle, her father’s business was not ruined by the loss of their mules and their goods, they would need any and every kind of help to rebuild. The count could help them immensely, if he felt moved to do so.
A quick tumble would not serve her, or her honor, well. But if he took a true interest in her…such thoughts made her uncomfortable. She found Nicolas of Savoy compelling, but as a man, not a means to an end.
If only she’d had more time to glean the gossip from Marie. Was the powerful lord of Chillon the sort of man who bedded a woman and then tossed her aside? Or did he dote on the object of his affection, for however long she held it? Having grown up in the country, Celia understood matters of breeding. She did not, however, understand games of courtly love. How long would an untutored girl like herself hold his interest?