Читать книгу The Champion - Heather Grothaus - Страница 11

Outside the dwelling in which their rented rooms were housed, Armand assisted Simone in mounting the dappled gray that would carry her to the ceremony. She had done naught but cry bitterly the past two days, and now, dressed in her finest saffron kirtle, the effects of her misery were clearly felt.

Her entire skull throbbed and her eyes ached from the near-continuous flow of tears that had plagued her. Her nose was red and raw, and her chest and neck were mottled with angry blotches. She sniffed and dabbed a wadded kerchief at her nose. The tears had finally ceased this morn, although Simone suspected the reason was not because she no longer felt like crying but that her body was exhausted.

Inside, her heart still wailed.

As her father conveyed orders to the man hired to transport their few belongings, Simone looked at her surroundings numbly.

Busy merchants called out to passersby, hawking their goods; the squawking of birds and the rumbling of hooves thrummed in her ears. Smells of cooking meat warred with an underlying sickly stench that caused Simone’s empty stomach to spasm. All around her were people, scurrying to and fro like a churning sea, intent on their daily lives and the business thereof.

A glimmer caught her eye, and Simone turned her head to spy Didier dangling by his knees from the roof of a vendor’s stall. On the ground beneath him were two mongrel hounds, painfully thin, sitting on their haunches and eyeing the boy with interest, their heads cocking first one way then the other. Didier saw Simone watching him and gave an impish, upside-down smile and wave before knocking a pile of dried meat strips to the street below.

The dogs attacked the charitable windfall with snarls and yips, causing the ruddy-faced merchant behind the stand to screech in rage. He chased the mutts away, but not before each had filled his jowls with venison. The man stomped and cursed as he surveyed his ruined goods, and Simone could not help but smile when Didier thumbed his nose at the fattened peddler.

Simone’s horse lurched forward, signaling that Armand had mounted and was now moving, as her horse was tethered to his. She grabbed at the pommel and glanced back at Didier, who was now sitting beneath a large cart filled with apples. The boy was valiantly trying to eat one, but the fruit only fell to the ground with each attempt to cram it into his mouth.

Simone faced forward once more, unconcerned that they left Didier behind. She and her brother had discovered shortly after his death that horses could sense the boy’s presence intensely and would go into fits of wild kicking and screams should he venture too near—a fact that broke Simone’s heart; Didier so loved the beasts.

She knew that her brother would eventually find his way to their destination, and the thought gave her some comfort. His would be the only sympathetic face at the ceremony, she was certain, even if Simone would be the only person in attendance who could see him.

Panic seized her once more as they drew near the abbey and the throng of people crowded around the entrance, packed tightly along each side of the wide steps and even spilling out into the street. Simone gave her horse a gentle kick and drew alongside Armand.

“Papa, who are all those people?” she asked under her breath.

“Guests of the king, I presume,” he replied nonchalantly. “Mayhap ’tis not often a wedding is held at his command. They are merely curious.” Then, to her horror, her father raised his good arm and actually waved to the crowd, as if they had been awaiting an audience with him. “Bonjour! Good day! Thank you for coming!”

Simone felt as if a million eyes were picking her apart as they neared the base of the steps. The crowd stared openly at her, and she saw more than one pair of ladies with their heads bowed together, whispering to each other and smirking in her direction. Some women even openly glared at her.

But then the critical bystanders were wiped from her mind as her gaze traveled up the broad steps, and there he was.

Nicholas FitzTodd’s eyes never left Simone as he descended to meet them. Armand had dismounted and was now standing at the head of Simone’s gray, reins in hand. As her betrothed drew near, she could not help but be stunned once more by his appearance.

His tunic eerily complimented Simone’s gown—cut from a fine, ivory cloth and embroidered heavily at the neck and hems with shining gold thread. His chausses were brown, as were his soft leather boots, and the tip of his broadsword fairly grazed the ground with its massive length.

She allowed the weapon to lead her gaze upward once more, traveling the length of its gilded sheath to the sparkling sapphire that adorned the hilt. Up his arm, clothed in a creamy undershirt, his shoulder, the tanned skin of his neck, brushed by raven curls…

“Du Roche.”

The baron’s voice hummed with animosity as he acknowledged her father, and Simone could not bring herself to meet his eyes.

“Baron,” Armand replied robustly, and from the corners of her downcast eyes, Simone saw her father hand her horse’s reins to Nicholas. “May you be blessed with much prosperity.”

Simone heard Nicholas’s answering grunt, and then Armand’s lower half disappeared from her field of vision. An ivory tunic brushed against her knees. Simone realized she was shaking terribly and did not know how to proceed. She could not bear to look at him, could not—

“Lady du Roche,” Nicholas said, his voice so low and deep that its timbre seemed to increase her trembling.

Simone closed her eyes briefly and steeled herself before slowly turning her head and meeting her fate directly.

He stared at her for a long moment, and Simone thought she might scream from the tension. His eyes gave nothing away, sparkling like jewels in the bright afternoon sunlight. Just as it was upon their first meeting, Simone felt mesmerized by the blue depths. She noticed with an odd pang of concern his scraped cheek and the swollen cut on his lower lip—almost reached out to touch it before catching herself and clenching her fists tightly.

When he spoke again, his words were meant only for her. “You’ve been weeping.”

“You’ve been fighting.” Her voice sounded husky and strange to her own ears.

His expression did not change. He let the reins drop from his hand and raised it to her hip. The contact burned through Simone’s gown, and she drew a wavering breath.

“Come to me,” he commanded in the strange silence that had descended around them.

Oddly grateful for the direction, Simone complied, placing her hands on his wide shoulders and allowing Nicholas to swing her easily to the ground. She swayed slightly as her feet found purchase, and Nicholas seized her upper arms in a firm grip, steadying her. He then placed one of her hands atop his forearm, effectively turning them toward the steps, and together they began to climb.

Simone felt for a moment that perhaps the ordeal would be bearable after all. And then the whispers along the front lines of the crowd reached her ears.

“—voices in her head—”

“—drove her mad—”

“—denied by her betrothed—”

Simone cringed and glanced up at the baron’s profile, but he was stoic, slowly leading her up the seemingly endless staircase.

“—father a cripple—”

“—penniless—”

“The poor baron. Why, I’d—”

Simone turned her gaze forward once more, determined to block the hurtful words from her mind, even as her cheeks burned and her throat tightened. The doors to the abbey swung wide, and she saw Nicholas’s brother and his wife standing just inside. It was obvious by the blackness around one eye that Tristan had been involved in the same brawl that had resulted in Nicholas’s injuries, and Simone wondered what kind of family she was marrying into that such violence did not warrant some comment.

She and Nicholas gained the wide landing before the ornate entrance, and the smile Haith greeted them with caused Simone to feel a pinch of regret for her earlier rudeness. Now more than ever before, Simone knew she would have need of a friend, and she hoped that Didier’s prediction that Lady Haith could be trusted with their secret was correct.

The startled shrieks of what sounded like every horse in London shattered the silence, and Simone cringed as Nicholas turned her toward the commotion.

Each beast that occupied the wide street, whether beneath the rump of a traveler or tethered to a cart, was rearing in fright, rolling his eyes and fighting his bonds. Several steps below Simone, Didier clomped up the stairs, a wince on his heart-shaped face and his hands held open beseechingly.

“Odd,” Nicholas muttered, scanning the scene below before turning them to enter the abbey.

Simone tossed a warning look over her shoulder for Didier’s benefit and then passed into the darkened interior on the baron’s arm.

The ceremony was short, and for that, Nick was grateful. His skull had ached since awakening—whether due to his overindulgence or Tristan’s chastising—and Nick had no other wish but to get this ridiculous farce over with.

The high-ceilinged chamber was crammed with onlookers, making the air close and humid. William and Matilda sat regally on a dais behind the altar, placing the royal couple higher than the aging priest, as if assuming God’s place. Tristan stood at Nick’s elbow like some grim warden, and Haith took a similar stance on the far side of Simone.

The woman who, but in a few short moments, would become his wife.

The paleness of her skin seemed to glow above her yellow gown, and Nick could feel her trembling through the sleeve of his undershirt.

And frightened she should be, he thought. If not for the innocent-looking siren’s trickery, Nick would likely still be abed, having his pains tended to properly. Instead, he listened to the droning Latin of the disinterested clergy as the priest draped a holy cloth over their joined hands, blessing the union.

If not for the king’s insistent request that Nick and his bride remain royal guests for a fortnight after the nuptials, Nick would perform his husbandly duties and then pack Simone off to Hartmoore and hope that he’d gotten a child on her. Because of Lady du Roche’s beauty, Nick would not balk at their physical relationship, but he vowed that she would never hold his heart.

Simone’s gaze as the priest spoke the final words joining them for all eternity startled Nick with its solemnity. Her green eyes were wide and glistening with unshed tears, but within those emerald depths, he glimpsed a seriousness that hinted at her understanding of the verses said over them. Her gaze pinned him as if marking him for better or nay, and an odd heat suddenly spiraled in Nick’s gut.

My wife.

The echo of the priest’s words still hung in the heavy air as the first wave of guests surged forward, milling around him and Simone and effectively separating them. Nick caught only a glimpse of yellow gown and her panicked, sad face before he, too, was swept into a sea of forced joviality and hollow congratulations.

The feast lasted well into the night, and the only time Nick was in arm’s length of his bride was at the meal itself. Even then, she was distracted by conversation with Haith, who never left her the whole of the evening. Nick found himself searching the crowd for her more often than he cared to admit.

His mood had significantly improved since the ceremony, thanks to His Majesty’s generous casks, and Nick brushed off his awareness of Simone as a mere return of his baser appetites. When he did have a chance to glimpse her from afar, he noticed that Simone moved like sunlight through the hall, her gown trailing behind her like a wave sliding from the shore back to the sea. There was a pointed demand for her attention by the male members of court, and jealousy twanged within Nick like the discordant strum of a lute.

“Easy, Brother.” Tristan appeared at Nick’s side and gestured toward Simone with his chalice. “I doubt any of those dandies are brave enough to usurp your place so soon after you’ve won her.”

Nick snorted. “You’ve imbibed overmuch of the king’s fine brew, Tristan, if you think me concerned about my wife’s admirers. ’Twas not my wish to win her in the first place.”

“Ha. Your scowl says otherwise.”

Nick spied Armand du Roche speaking to Simone, and she raised her head just then, her eyes finding Nick’s briefly before looking away. He saw fatigue there, and worry. Haith appeared at her side, and after a moment, the two ladies moved away from Armand, deeper into the crowd.

“Any matter,” Nick said, “I shall be quit of her soon enough. Once William releases me from London, I’ll return us to Hartmoore and continue on as I have before.” He tore his searching eyes from the milling crush. “Will you and Lady Haith travel with us?”

“Nay. We depart for Greanly on the morn. Haith longs for our daughter and worries what mischief Minerva has introduced her to in our absence.”

Nick ignored his brother’s jest about Haith’s great-aunt—the news that Tristan was leaving him to entertain his new bride alone soured his humor.

And now he could no longer locate Simone within the hall.

“So you would encourage my capture and then abandon me to see to my own release,” Nick muttered. Where was she? “My thanks, Tristan.”

His brother laughed. “I believe you shall endure. Nick?”

Nicholas started as Tristan shook his shoulder. “What? What is it? You blather senselessly while it seems my bride has absconded without me.”

’Twas only then that Nick noticed the large congregation of men gathered around him and his brother. At his side, Tristan grinned like a fool.

“Fear not, my brother, for we mean to reunite the both of you posthaste!”

Nick was grabbed and thrown into the air, his chalice teetering drunkenly as he was hoisted along on hands and shoulders. A bawdy song filled the hall as he was juggled from the feast and through a maze of interior corridors.

“Release me!” he roared, struggling futilely against his captors. His chalice found purchase against one abductor’s thick skull, but still they carried him onward. He felt one of his fine leather boots tugged off by unseen hands, but Nick’s vitriolic curses were muffled as his tunic and undershirt were yanked over his head.

The belt holding his sheath loosened, and Nick sent out a sincere cry of protest. Tristan appeared on the fringe of the crowd, holding Nick’s sword safely aloft as the mob halted before the door to his suite.

“I’ll wager you won’t be needing this,” Tristan laughed, spurring comments from Nick’s tormentors.

“Nay—he’ll be thrusting with a different weapon this eve!”

“And what a comely sheath he’s acquired!”

Nick’s face reddened, but he could not help himself from grinning. Memories of Simone’s willing lips flooded his ale-fogged brain and he struggled comically to gain his feet, joining the play.

“Right you are!” he bellowed. “Send me into the fray, then, for I am well armed!”

The door to his chambers burst inward and the rowdy legion of men flooded through, jostling Nick to the fore and tossing his commandeered attire in after him.

A crashing silence fell upon the crowd as all took in the scene before them. Simone sat propped in the middle of the wide bed, thick, white furs piled around her. Only her face, framed by long, inky tendrils of hair and one creamy shoulder, could be seen of her. Her green eyes, like beacons, widened at the male invasion of the room and she gasped, sinking deeper into her shielding coverings.

Nick’s own breath caught in his throat. That he’d had his share of comely wenches was not to be disputed, but this vision of female and ermine filled him with a possessiveness that he had never before experienced. Desire flared within him at the sight of her ruby lips and flushed cheeks. The fire crackling in the hearth like seductive music cast a dreamy glow over her features.

A female voice shook the invaders from their stupor, and Haith appeared from the shadows of the room. “Yea, you’ve had your play. Be gone with you now—shoo!” She strode toward the group, flapping her hands at the men behind Nick, and they began to trickle back into the corridor, most glancing over their shoulders for one last covetous glimpse of the vision upon the bed.

Only Tristan remained, and he, not for long. He leaned Nick’s sword against a near wall and joined his wife at the door. “Good eventide to you, Brother,” he said with a grin. “I’m certain we shall see you both upon your arrival at Hartmoore.” He bowed toward Simone. “Baroness.”

Then Tristan closed the door, leaving Nick alone with Simone. He turned back to the bed, feeling somewhat foolish clothed only in his chausses and one boot. The silence was heavy around the fire’s staccato chant, and Simone’s eyes seemed to burn across his skin.

He cleared his throat. “How fare thee, Lady Simone?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” she said, her voice low and wary. “’Twould seem you’ve lost some of your clothing since last I saw you.”

He was sure she’d meant it as a flip retort, but as Nick let his gaze roam over her bare shoulder, a fire was stoked in his belly. “As have you,” he replied, and couldn’t help but chuckle at the wild blush that colored her face.

He began to slowly approach the bed, but his seductive advance was hampered by the awkward hitch in his stride, thanks to his missing footwear. He cursed softly as he kicked off the remaining boot. He had composed himself by the time he stood over the bed, forcing Simone to raise her face to meet his gaze.

“’Tis time for you to claim your prize, my lady,” he said, and began to untie his chausses, his eyes never leaving hers.

“My prize?” she whispered. Her tongue flicked out over her full bottom lip, and her eyes dared a peek at his busied hands.

“Yea, your reward for your very well-executed plan.” Nick’s temper flared for an instant as he recalled Simone’s neat scheme to win him, but his anger was a mere flicker compared to the burning want he felt.

A frown creased Simone’s fine brow, and she looked away as Nick let his chausses fall around his ankles. He picked up a corner of the fur and climbed into bed, his hand shooting out to ensnare Simone’s arm when she would have skittered to the far side of the mattress.

“Nay, milady—do not flee,” he cajoled. The skin beneath his hand was warm and smooth, like sun-kissed silk, and his fingers met themselves around her slight bones. “I see no reason why we both should not profit from your good fortune.”

Nick was not expecting the slap that left his already tender lip throbbing. Fury ripped through him so that he seized her with both hands, dragging her to him, her bare breasts flattened against his chest. Simone was no longer meek and nervous but glared daggers into him.

“That is for humiliating me before my father and Lord Halbrook,” she said. “And if you are my prize, then I would argue that the nature of my fortune is quite otherwise.”

“Do not toy with me, Simone,” Nick warned, his eyes roaming her face. He could feel the heat of her soft belly against his skin, and his loins responded despite his anger. “We are both full-grown. I know that you schemed with your father to discover us on the balcony, and your neat speech on how you were content to marry an old nanny goat will do you no good now. Better you admit your deception so that we might proceed in this marriage with some semblance of good will.”

“Rot in Hell, you pompous, selfish jackass,” she hissed, shoving away from him.

Nick let her go, partially out of shock at being called selfish for the second time that day. Simone took the opportunity to scoot off the edge of the bed, dragging a fur around her body and forcing Nick to scramble to cover his nudity.

She spun on him. “Pray tell why I would desire to marry the likes of you,” she demanded, looking at him from head to toe as if he were a pile of fresh dung. “No woman would hope to become the wife of a raging womanizer who, on each unfortunate instance of our meeting, has reeked of drink and who entertained not one but a pair of prostitutes on his wedding day! In this very room!” Simone flung out an arm, sputtered, then stomped her foot. “In this very bed!”

“They weren’t prostitutes,” Nick said, somewhat taken aback at her knowledge of his activities. His erection shriveled.

One of her delicate eyebrows arched.

Nick stuttered. “Well, I didn’t pay them.” He, too, stood, dragging a fur about him and mirroring Simone’s pose across the bed. “How did you learn of that, any matter?”

“Lady Haith thought I should know.”

Nick growled, marveling at the size of his sister-in-law’s mouth. “’Twas before we were wed. As you can plainly see, you are the only woman in my suite now.”

“So you will no longer partake of strange women now that we are wed?” she challenged.

“Most likely none stranger than you.” Nick nearly laughed aloud when Simone’s eyes narrowed. “Yea, I’ve heard the rumors—how could I have not?” He edged around the foot of the bed, causing Simone to retreat. “So, is it true? Are you mad?” he asked, reaching for her.

She jerked away, but not quickly enough. He pulled her closer, trailed a finger along the ridge of her collarbone. The woman was irresistible. Already, his ire was fading. “Tell me, Lady Simone,” he whispered, “shall I be forced to restrain you?”

“I’m not mad,” she replied, and Nick could clearly see the gooseflesh his touch raised.

“Then let us both throw off this insanity that plagues us,” he said, allowing his fur to drop to the floor. He wrapped his arms around her lightly and dropped his mouth to her shoulder. “My desire for you led me to that balcony that fateful eve and, for all your innocent protests, I believe you desire me as well.”

He tasted her warm skin with his tongue, felt her shiver. “Deny it, then,” he dared. “Tell me you do not want me. Mayhap you now regret making me your prey, but it cannot be undone. Let us seek a little pleasure in each other.” His mouth moved to her neck. “I still find you very, very beautiful, Simone.”

He heard her sigh, felt her yielding to him, but only for a moment. A freezing chill raced up his spine, and Simone went stiff. Nick raised his head and peered down at her, confused.

“Simone?”