Читать книгу The Champion - Heather Grothaus - Страница 8

Nick’s heart thudded in anticipation as he steered the diminutive Lady du Roche through the mazelike passages. He’d been correct at guessing her size—her complicated coif barely topped his shoulder as she glided along silently beside him. His mind filled with the possibilities of how their differences in size would play out within the confines of a bed.

He guided her through a gilded doorway and across a sparsely furnished chamber to a set of double doors. A private balcony lay beyond, sheltered on three sides from the brunt of the night’s brisk breeze. Lady du Roche left Nick’s side to stand at the carved stone railing and gaze across the night-soaked gardens below, her chalice gripped tightly in both hands.

And so the hunt begins. Nick grinned in the shadows as he shrugged out of his cloak and moved to stand behind the shapely woman.

“Are you chilled?” he asked softly, swirling his cloak about her.

She glanced at him over her shoulder and pulled his cloak closed with one hand, her cool flesh just grazing the insides of his palms. “Merci.”

The warm scent of musky lavender wafted up from the delicate curve of her neck, and Nicholas moved away a step. The combination of her heady fragrance and the sight of her enveloped in his cloak was prompting his baser instincts, and Nick knew it was necessary to cool his urges if he was to woo the lady properly. He could not lift her onto the railing and disappear beneath her skirts, where the scent of lavender would surely be—

He took a deep gulp of the cold air and sent her a friendly smile. “You did not seem to be enjoying the celebration as I imagine most ladies do,” he offered, attempting to set her at ease with light conversation.

Lady du Roche shrugged and sipped from her chalice before speaking. “What is to be enjoyed? Dancing with fat old men whom I hold no liking for while they grope me to determine my worth as a brood mare? ’Tis barbaric.”

Nick’s eyebrows rose. Such fire! He never would have guessed from her cool exterior. “The rumors are true, then?”

Her head swung to face him, green eyes flashing in the dim light of the balcony. “Of what rumors do you speak?”

“’Tis said you come to London to find a husband,” Nick explained, wondering at her hostility.

“Oh.” Lady du Roche visibly relaxed and then looked away from him again. “Oui. ’Twould seem that search is nearly at its end—even now, my father makes arrangements with my future husband.”

“Halbrook?” Nick asked, remembering the aging lord whom he’d seen speaking to the lady’s father. “He has grandchildren older than you!”

“But he is very wealthy,” Lady du Roche sighed. “And that is the only criterion on which there seems to be no compromise.”

“Have you an affection for him?”

Nick was surprised at her laugh—clear and bubbling, like water tumbling over rocks. “Nay, my lord. I have learned that affection plays no part in this business of marriage.” She glanced at him again. “If I were in love with him, why would I be here with you now?”

Her words were painfully honest and brought to Nick’s mind Evelyn’s betrayal. Perhaps this woman had been burned as well—hadn’t Lady Haith mentioned a broken betrothal?

“Ah, beautiful and wise,” he murmured, his eyes roving her delicate features. “You do not dread living out your days with a doddering ancient?”

“As you said, he is old. With luck, I will outlive him and one day be left in peace.” She turned to him, leaning her hip against the railing, her features shadowed by the moon over her shoulder. “Perhaps he is not so old that he might yet give me a child to keep my company.”

“Your words are bold,” Nick said, sidling closer to her until he could feel her heat. “’Tis a shame for a woman of such passion to be paired with one so aged and dwindling—he will never make you burn.”

He saw her smirk in the intimate space between them, and she chuckled. “Do you think you might accomplish that task if given the chance, Nicholas FitzTodd, Baron of Crane?” It was almost as if she mocked him.

Nick was shocked into silence for a moment. He tugged the chalice from her grip and set it on the railing. Reaching out a hand, he laid it alongside the warm, soft skin of her neck, forcing her to look up at him. He heard her soft breath at the physical contact and smiled when she would not meet his eyes. Nick thought it best to teach the girl to what ends teasing would gain her.

“Verily, Lady du Roche,” he began, “I—”

“Simone,” she amended in a husky whisper, glancing into his eyes for only an instant. “My name is Simone.”

“Simone,” Nick repeated, drawing out the syllables of her name even as he pulled her closer. “Shall I demonstrate my abilities for you?”

Just when Nick expected her retreat, Simone reached her hand from beneath the confines of the cloak and laid it upon his chest. Her eyes found his, and the invitation he saw there, the raw need, tested his resolve to move slowly.

She licked her lips, a fleeting dart of pink tongue. “Please do…Nicholas.”

He dropped his mouth to hers and pulled her fully against him. She tasted of honeyed wine and autumn’s chill, and the sweetness of her small hands cupping his face shook Nicholas in a way no other dalliance with a woman had.

He slipped his free hand beneath the cloak to find her waist, then wrapped his forearm behind her, lifting her slightly. Simone’s hands smoothed to the back of his head, holding him to her mouth as tightly as Nicholas himself clung.

Nick wrenched his mouth from hers. “Lady Simone, have a care. I am not known for my restraint,” he said, giving her opportunity for escape.

He could feel her breasts pressing against him with each breath as she looked up at him. “Then why did you stop?”

The sight of her lips parted like wet rubies and the innocent impatience flashing in her eyes destroyed any thought of return for Nicholas. He pulled her head to his to once more seize her mouth. His hand dropped to her collarbone, smoothed over her shoulder, and down to cup her breast.

Simone gasped at the intimate touch, and he raised his head slightly. “I should warn you,” he whispered, “if this is some intricate plot to ensnare me as your husband, ’twill not work. I do not yield to feminine trickery.”

Simone’s eyes sparkled and one delicate eyebrow arched. She even huffed a short breath of laughter. “Fear not, Lord Nicholas. My betrothal is all but sealed, and any matter, you would not be a suitable match for me.”

She leaned forward and closed her eyes as if eager for the kiss to continue, but Nick avoided her lips.

“Why do you say that?” he demanded, feeling a frown pull at his mouth and brow. She opened her eyes with a sigh of impatience, and he continued. “Because I am younger than four score?”

“Nay.” Simone blinked, as if surprised. “’Tis because I think you a drunkard and a braggart and, most likely, you do not possess the wealth my father requires of my husband.” She leaned in once more, but Nicholas retreated further.

“What in God’s holy name led you to those conclusions?”

“Simple observation,” Simone said, quite matter-of-factly. “When first you approached me, you stumbled on your feet and your tunic looked as though it had been used to clean a privy.” She bowed her nose to touch his chest and sniffed. “You smell of cheap woman and drink. What else am I to assume but that you are a penniless womanizer?”

She must have mistook the choked sound Nick made for a different emotion, for she placed a silencing finger across his lips and continued.

“Be not shamed, mon cher,” she whispered. “I care not for your wealth.”

Nick shook his head to rid himself of her pitying touch. Was he not good enough for any woman? First Evelyn, and now this pixie of a girl thought him unworthy? Mayhap his costume was a bit bedraggled from his earlier festivities, but God’s teeth! Cecil Halbrook was one of Nick’s own underlords and he could buy the old codger a hundred times over.

“’Tis well then, my lady,” he growled. “For on this night, I will leave you with such memories that even all the king’s riches could never erase me from your mind.”

He seized her again, this time roughly, grabbing her upper arms in viselike fists and dragging her against him. Simone’s head reeled from his assault on her mouth. There was not a spot within that remained untouched by his hot tongue, and when he pushed her back against the railing, his hands roaming her body freely, she could not stifle her groan.

It was so very exciting! Sensations flooded Simone beyond her expectations—her legs were heavy and weak, and a warm ache began to wind in her midsection. Charles had kissed her before, even touched her leg on occasion, but not like this.

Never like this.

“Simone!” The whisper hissed directly in her ear—Didier’s voice—but Simone only squeezed her eyes more tightly shut and willed him to disappear.

“Sister!” Didier implored. “You must listen to me!”

“Not now,” Simone groaned against the baron’s lips.

Nicholas raised his head slightly. “Of course,” he breathed, his gaze devouring her face. “I will take you to my private rooms.”

Simone shook her head and pulled his lips back to hers.

“Sister—”

“Go away,” she mumbled.

“What say you, Lady du Roche?” Nicholas demanded, his voice ragged. He made as if to draw away from her. “Would you now refuse me after leading me on your merry chase?”

Simone made a small mewing sound in her throat and pulled the baron’s hand beneath the cloak. “Nay, my lord. I—”

“Papa is coming!” Didier shrieked.

The double doors to the balcony burst outward and Armand du Roche stepped through, Lord Halbrook close on his heels.

The blond man from the ball and his wife also appeared, the red-haired woman looking decidedly worried. Her husband, however, seemed not at all surprised.

“Simone!” Armand hissed, causing her to realize she was still pressed intimately against the Baron of Crane. She started, pushing away from Nicholas and frantically straightening her gown. She shrugged out of the borrowed cloak and shoved it at its owner.

“Papa, I—”

“Non!” Armand shouted. The right side of his face spasmed beneath his age-whitened scar, and his right arm was drawn against his side. He continued his rebuke in rapid-fire French. “No excuses! You were to remain in the hall and yet, the instant I am gone, you abscond with this…this”—he sneered in the baron’s direction, spittle flying from his lips—“rogue to play the harlot!”

Simone dropped her eyes to the flagstones beneath her slippers, a hot sweep of embarrassment burning her ears. “I am sorry, Papa.”

“And you!” Armand switched to English as he addressed Nicholas. “You should be whipped for assaulting a lady in such a manner!”

“I do beg pardon, Lord du Roche,” Nicholas said easily, donning his cloak and fastening it with care. “But perhaps you should know ’twas your daughter who propositioned me.”

Simone gasped and whirled to face him. “Liar! You lured me here!”

“Ha! I had to run to keep up with you!”

The red-haired woman turned to her husband. “Can you not do something?”

The man shook his head and chuckled. “Ah, Nick. So you strike again.”

“And with my betrothed, no less.” The portly lord elbowed his way into the midst of the fray.

Armand turned to look down at the old man. “You know this fop, Halbrook?”

“Yea, the baron and I are acquainted.”

Nicholas extended his hand to the old man. “Cecil, you’re looking well. My deepest sympathies on your impending nuptials.”

Simone shrieked in wordless rage.

Halbrook released Nick’s forearm with a flustered look at Simone. “Ah, er…my thanks. Good to see you again, my lord.”

Nicholas then turned to Armand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Nicholas Fi—”

“I heard who you are,” Armand ground out, cutting Nicholas short and ignoring his proffered hand. He spoke to Simone over his shoulder, as if he could not bear the sight of her. “Fetch our cloaks and wait for me.”

Simone reached a hand toward her father’s back. “Papa, you must not believe a word he says! He—”

“Go now, Simone!”

Simone dropped her hand and turned toward the doors but, in her fury, paused long enough to toss at Nicholas, “You are naught but a…a cowardly beggar, and I shall hate you forever!”

Nicholas growled and took a menacing step toward her, but the redheaded woman intervened, taking firm hold of Simone’s arm and dragging her from the balcony.

Once inside the chamber, Simone jerked her arm free and stormed toward the corridor, the woman close on her heels.

“Lady du Roche, wait,” she called as Simone gained the doors.

Simone spun around, her arm pointing toward the balcony. “That man,” she said, “is a bastard!”

The woman gave her a sheepish “I know” smile. “I am Haith D’Argent, the baron’s sister-in-law. Might I walk with you to retrieve your things?”

“Non. I wish to be alone.” Simone wrenched the heavy chamber door open and disappeared into the passageway.

“Didier!” she hissed as she made her way—she hoped—toward the hall, trying to recall the correct turns. Right or left here? Her cheeks flamed when she realized she’d been too caught up in the baron’s attentions to notice the way they’d come. “Didier, where are you?”

“Who is Didier?”

Simone jumped at the sound of Lady Haith’s voice directly behind her. “I said I wish to be alone,” she said over her shoulder before turning left and stalking in that direction.

“Very well,” Haith called down the corridor, “but you’re going the wrong way.”

Simone stopped and closed her eyes, taking deep breaths and trying desperately not to cry. When she had composed herself, she turned to see Lady Haith still waiting, a sympathetic smile on her lips.

And Didier stood right beside the woman, staring up at the redhead as if she were some Celtic goddess of old.

Simone quickly made her way back to the intersecting passages, trying not to glance in her brother’s direction. “Please forgive my rudeness, Lady Haith,” she said. “I’ve had a trying evening and wish only to return to my rooms.”

“Of course,” the woman said kindly. “This way.”

“I’m sorry, Sister,” Didier said, falling into step between the two women. “But I did try to warn you.”

“Wait.” Haith stilled and looked to Simone. “Did you hear that?”

Simone’s heart skipped. “Hear what?”

Haith frowned. “Naught, I suppose.” To Simone’s relief, they began to walk once more.

“Can you hear me?” Didier asked, his voice incredulous.

“There it is again!” Haith again halted and turned wide eyes to Simone. “Did you not hear it? ’Twas almost like a whisper!”

“Non,” Simone said, a trifle loudly for the close space. “I heard naught.”

“She can hear me, Sister!” Didier cried.

“Please,” Simone said to Haith. She could feel the panic begin to creep up. “If you could but point me in the direction of the entry hall, I really must go. My father will be along and he is already quite angry with me. I—”

“But, Sister—”

“Lady du Roche—”

“Non!” Simone interjected, cutting off both the woman and the boy. “I’m sorry. I heard naught.”

Haith stared at her for a long moment. So intently, in fact, that Simone fancied the woman was trying to discern her very thoughts. She could feel cold beads of sweat blooming along her hairline and upper lip.

Finally, the woman sighed and gestured down the passageway. “A left, and then a right turn.”

“My thanks,” Simone breathed and moved away as quickly as she could without running. But she was not to escape before hearing Lady Haith’s parting words called down the corridor after her.

“I do hope to see you again, Lady du Roche,” she said. “And Didier as well!”