Читать книгу The Champion - Heather Grothaus - Страница 9

Simone sat curled in the upholstered armchair in her chamber, awaiting her father’s return with no little trepidation.

After what had seemed like hours in an empty receiving hall, a footman had arrived to see her to her father’s rented rooms and told her that Armand would join her later.

That had been near midnight, and now, dawn wavered on the horizon.

She wondered for the hundredth time what could be keeping him. Any number of scenarios she crafted in answer struck fear in her, and she sank deeper under the robes piled over her.

The small fire in the hearth crackled and popped as it devoured the stout wood lengths and sent a cozy glow creeping across the rug, but Simone’s tiny bedchamber was frigid. Didier was highly agitated following the evening’s events and whenever that occurred, a deep chill descended around his presence.

The boy paced the room in his own strange manner, flitting from one corner to the next—appearing first on the wide, canopied bed and then, in an instant, seated cross-legged before the hearth. His darting about grated on Simone’s already-worn nerves, and she scrubbed her hands over her face before giving a frustrated shriek.

“Didier! Can you not be still for one moment?”

Her brother said nothing, merely sent her a glare from his seated position in front of the—

No, now he scowled at her from the window ledge.

“You are making my head spin,” she pleaded, noting with bad temper that she could now see her breath when she spoke. “Do you not calm yourself, I’ll likely freeze to death before Papa returns.”

“Good,” the boy spat. “Mayhap then you will know what it’s like.”

“What what is like?” Simone sighed, rubbing her arms vigorously beneath the robes as another icy blast curled around her chair.

“Being ignored!” Didier now stood before her, his small fists planted on his hips. “Why did you not explain to the lady that the whispering she heard was me?”

Simone shook the fine layer of frost from her blankets. “Is it your wish to see me locked away for madness?”

“How could she accuse you of madness if she could also hear me?” Didier reasoned. “The moment I saw her, I felt she might be able to help us.”

The temperature of the room had risen slightly, signaling to Simone that Didier’s fit of pique was subsiding. Her teeth no longer chattered, and she could almost feel her fingers.

“How do you mean?”

“I know not, exactly,” Didier said, a frown wrinkling his face. He flapped a hand at Simone’s robes. “Let me sit with you.”

Simone lifted the covering aside with a grimace as Didier climbed into the chair beside her, bringing a little extra chill with him.

“I’m sorry ’tis so cold,” he offered, snuggling as best he could to Simone’s side.

“No matter.” Simone tried to give him a reassuring smile. “’Twill soon pass, as it always does.”

Didier was silent for several moments as the pair stared into the hearth, waiting for the room to warm. When he did speak, his tone was filled with concern.

“What do you think Papa will do now?”

“I have no earthly idea,” Simone sighed. “I suppose ’twill depend on Lord Halbrook’s reaction.”

“Will he still marry you?”

“For all our sakes, I hope so.” Simone’s mouth thinned as she thought of the scene on the balcony and the baron’s blunt admission of her willingness to yield to him. Her ears burned once more as she recalled the wanton embrace the pair had been caught in.

Cad. Traitor. Drunken, selfish fop!

But, oh, how she’d felt in his arms! Free and treasured and desirable. Simone wondered if she was incredibly naïve for a man’s attentions to affect her so. She also wondered if Lord Halbrook’s embrace would elicit the same reaction, but the possibility was squashed as a vision of the fattened elder filled her mind.

She shuddered.

When she had been betrothed to Charles Beauville in France, she had, over time, granted him certain privileges with her person: a kiss here, an embrace there. She had known Charles her entire life and, if not passionate, his touch was comforting and safe. If there had been one person besides her mother that Simone felt she could trust with her greatest confidences, it had been Charles Beauville.

And still, he had betrayed her.

Tonight, the Baron of Crane—a veritable stranger—had kissed her and touched her and made her feel terrifying sensations. He had been crass and painfully blunt in stating what he wanted from her. He did not love her, would not court her, yet she would have given herself to him readily.

And he had betrayed her as well.

“Do you care for the baron?” Didier asked in a small voice, interrupting Simone’s visions of blue eyes and damnably soft, masculine lips.

“What?” Simone sent her brother a frown. “Of course not. Why would you ask such?”

“I’ve not seen anyone kiss like that.” He grinned up at Simone before adding, “Save for the tavern wench in the village at home.”

“Didier! That woman was a prostitute!”

The boy giggled. “I know.”

“So you would liken your sister to a common harlot?”

“Then explain why you went off with him,” Didier demanded. “Why risk Papa’s plans with a man you care naught for?”

When Simone hesitated, Didier offered her a sympathetic smile. “Sister, are you in heat?”

“Didier du Roche!” Simone shrieked and bolted from the chair. She stalked to the bed, and her cheeks throbbed as she crawled upon the mattress.

“Well, are you?” Didier appeared, seated, on the bed. “That’s how horses and dogs—”

“I am neither a horse nor a dog and I most definitely am not”—she sputtered—“in heat!”

“Very well—calm yourself, Sister. ’Twas merely a question.”

“If I could, I would smack your backside for asking it.”

Didier guffawed and stretched out alongside Simone. “So then, tell me: why Lord Nicholas?”

Simone stared up at the canopy in the flickering quiet for a long while. How to explain her reckless impulses to an eight-year-old boy who was, in truth, no longer a boy, but a ghost. She could not grasp the reason herself why she chose to behave with such reckless abandon on the eve of what could possibly have been the most important night of her life.

Of all their lives.

After her mother’s and Didier’s deaths and Charles’s betrayal, rumors of Simone’s descent into madness had quickly spread. Portia du Roche had been quite liberal with the funds of Saint du Lac, and after her death it was discovered that there was no coin left to solicit a family of even modest means. Should she not marry well in England—and soon—she and her father would be paupers at the mercy of a foreign people.

With this weight resting solely on her shoulders, that she would jeopardize her father’s efforts for a few moments in the arms of a known seducer baffled her.

The Baron of Crane is not worth the dust on my slippers, she reasoned. So why? Why?

“I know not, Didier,” she finally sighed. Her answer seemed to leave the boy unsatisfied, so she reached for any possible explanation. “Perhaps ’twas because he was so handsome and I was so miserable at the feast. Perhaps, for once, I merely wanted to do and say what I pleased.”

“You chose a poor time to do so.”

Simone sent her brother a wry smile.

Didier gazed thoughtfully at her. “Would you do the same if given another chance?”

“Oui.” The answer passed her lips before she’d taken time to think on it properly, and Simone was surprised by the truth of it. “Oui, I would do the same. I cannot explain it to you, or even to myself, really.”

The memory of the baron’s kisses flooded her mind so that she rose up on her knees and began untying the bed curtains to distract herself. She could feel Didier’s gaze on her back as she struggled with a knot.

“Perhaps you needed his touch,” Didier offered in a small, uncertain voice.

“What do you mean?” Simone let the freed curtain fall and crawled to the next post at the end of the bed.

“’Twas something Maman used to say,” he replied. “When she was feeling sad or out of sorts, she would hold me very tightly.” Didier’s voice grew wistful. “She would say, ‘Come here, my lovely boy, and sit upon my lap.’ She told me that, oft times, when a person is lonely, they need only the touch of one they love to make them feel happy again.”

Simone let the second curtain fall and sat back on her heels, tears welling in her eyes. She turned and crawled back to Didier, the remaining ties forgotten, and slid beneath the furs. She held up a corner of the coverings, and Didier joined her.

“Didier, I do not love the baron,” she explained softly. “He was merely…convenient.”

“I know.” He avoided her gaze, smoothing his hand across the soft fur. His small fingers disappeared as they passed through a fold and reappeared on the other side. “I miss her.”

“You will see her again, chéri,” Simone encouraged. “We must simply bide our time until we can learn why she passed on and you did not.”

“Do you think I’ll go to Hell, Sister?” he asked in a small voice. “Is that why I am still here? Because God does not want me in Heaven?”

“I most certainly do not!” Simone whispered fiercely. “God and Maman will welcome you into Heaven, into their arms, one day very soon. You must believe that.”

Didier nodded half-heartedly and then looked into Simone’s eyes. “I think Lady Haith can help us. Truly. She is…different.”

His gaze was so earnest, so hopeful, Simone was tentatively won over. “Very well, Didier,” she acquiesced. “If I happen to encounter her again while we are in London, I will confide in her, if ’twill make you happy.”

Didier’s answering smile was radiant.

“But I hope you realize the danger telling another of your presence holds for me,” she warned, thinking of Charles and his disgusted horror at her confidence.

“Lady Haith will not betray you, Sister,” he promised solemnly. He looked as if he was going to say more, but then thought better of it as a rap sounded at the chamber door.

“’Tis Papa,” he whispered. He placed an invisible kiss on Simone’s cheek and then, in a blink, was gone.

Simone’s stomach clenched when she heard the key scraping in the lock. She sank down into the soft mattress and pulled the furs to her chin as the door swung open and her father stepped inside the room, carrying a single candle.

“Simone? Do you sleep?” Armand asked in a low voice.

“Non, Papa.” Her heart raced as he shut the door quietly behind him. His full, ruddy face was etched with fatigue, the ever-present tic around his eye jumping wildly as he limped across the chamber and placed the candle on a small table.

He is too calm, Simone thought as Armand came to stand at the foot of her bed. His arm was drawn against his side and he stared at her intently. Something is terribly wrong.

Her imagination ran unchecked: Lord Halbrook had called off the betrothal and they would be forced to leave London because of her scandalous behavior. Where would they go now? The meager funds Armand had managed to gather for the journey were nearly depleted and they could not return to France.

“Simone, have you an explanation for your behavior?”

She swallowed, and the hairs rose on the back of her neck. “Non, Papa.”

Armand rubbed his withered arm and rocked on his heels. His lips moved soundlessly as he stared at her, forming inaudible words.

And Simone stared back, too frightened to look away for even an instant. Armand was eccentric, and not a little intimidating. His one quest since Simone could remember had been to find some mysterious treasure, its worth reported by Armand to be quite priceless. Her father was largely a stranger to her, always away searching for his elusive prize while Simone was growing up. When he was in residence at Saint du Lac, he was brusque and moody, and not unlikely to punish a misdeed with his fists. Even now, in his advanced age, he was large and strong. Simone knew her rash behavior this evening was beyond forgiveness, and she wondered if he would whip her.

Finally he spoke. “You cannot reason to me why you deliberately disobeyed me? Why, the instant I left your side, you sneaked away with a known seducer to let him fondle you for any who may pass by to see?” He moved around the end of the bed toward Simone.

Her voice was barely a whisper. “Non, Papa.”

“Come to me,” he commanded, standing at the bedside now and beckoning to her with a finger.

Simone’s entire body shook as she crawled from beneath the covers and sat on her heels before her father. She was eye level with him now, and she couldn’t help but flinch when he raised his good hand to grasp her chin.

“I have an idea as to why you behaved as you did,” he said.

Simone’s throat barely allowed her to reply. “You do?”

“Oui.” The corner of his mouth not frozen into place crept upward. “’Tis because you are very, very clever.”

Simone’s eyes widened. “I am?”

Armand abruptly kissed both of Simone’s cheeks and then crushed her to him with one arm. “So very clever!” he repeated with a laugh. He held her away again, beaming at her in a way Simone could not recall him doing the whole of her life. “When Halbrook saw you in the arms of the young baron, he tripled the amount he’d offered for you!”

Simone closed her eyes, her relief dizzying. “Oh, thank God.”

Armand chuckled again, and when Simone opened her eyes, she saw him hovering over her dressing table. He searched among the items scattered there, mumbling to himself, before selecting one and returning to the bedside. He perched on the edge of the mattress and held up the item he’d chosen from her toilette.

A small, silver reflecting disc.

“Look, and tell me who you see.”

Simone frowned and then glanced at her miniature reflection—her hair hung down in black sheets around her near-colorless face.

“Me?” she offered weakly.

Armand shook his head with a sly smile. “Who is ‘me’?”

Simone gave a frustrated sigh. He father was eccentric to the point of exasperation. “Simone du Roche of Saint du Lac. Papa, I do not understand—”

“Say au revoir to this girl,” Armand interrupted, “for she will soon be no more.”

“Papa?”

Armand rose from the bed awkwardly, leaving Simone with the mirror. He limped to the window and looked out over the soft dawn, washing the rather seedy street where their inn was located in flattering light, and then he smiled.

“I have done it, Simone—England is mine!” He turned to her, shaking a fist in the air and laughing as if he could not help himself. “In two days’ time, you will become the Baroness of Crane!”

Simone’s world tilted. “What?”

“You are to marry Nicholas FitzTodd, here in London, with William’s own blessing!” Armand clarified, obviously pleased.

“Non,” Simone whispered, horrified. She instantly recalled with startling detail the warning Nicholas had whispered in her ear: If this is some intricate plot to ensnare me as your husband, ’twill not work. I do not yield to feminine trickery.

Armand beamed. “This is better than I ever could have hoped for!”

“But…but Nicholas FitzTodd is penniless!”

“Oh, not so, not so! Although he may appear to be a ne’er-do-well, the baron is actually one of the wealthiest nobles in England. His demesne stretches the whole of the Welsh border and he is one of the king’s most trusted men.”

Simone could barely think. “But how, Papa? Lord Nicholas himself told me he had no desire to marry.”

Armand poured a cup of watered wine and sat in the upholstered chair with a contented sigh. He raised the cup to his lips as he answered, his words sounding oddly hollowed as they echoed into the vessel. “He simply has no choice.” He took a sloppy gulp and swiped his lips with his sleeve. “I petitioned the king on behalf of your tarnished virtue, and ’twould seem that William has a desire to see the baron wed.”

“My tarnished virtue?” Simone cried. “Papa, how could you? Naught of consequence occurred!”

“How am I to know that?” Armand held the cup out to her, his useless arm resting in his lap. “Or good Lord Halbrook, for that matter? You were wrapped up in the man’s clothing, for God’s sake—”

“His cloak! ’Twas cold!”

“—and he looking as though he’d just crawled from a brothel. Smelling like it, as well.” Armand added, giving her a pointed look. “What else would I think?”

“But,” Simone sputtered, “’tis your word against his!”

“Ah-ah,” Armand corrected. “You forget that the baron’s own brother was also witness to your display.”

“Of course his brother would not condone this farce,” Simone reasoned. “Surely he will speak to the king on the baron’s behalf.”

“He already has,” Armand offered easily. “Although what was said is a mystery to me—the man spoke in private audience with William.”

Simone sat dumbfounded for a moment. “Well, I care not. I’ll not marry him, Papa.”

Armand looked amused. “Don’t be ridiculous—of course you’ll marry him.”

“Non!” Simone shrieked and beat a fist into the soft bedclothes. “He is vile and I hate him!”

“Ah, quel dommage, ma petite fille.” Too bad, my little girl. “Would that you had thought your plan through more fully, eh?”

“There was no plan,” Simone cried, frustration and panic causing her to feel nauseated. “I was merely trying to escape for a time—to gain a reprieve from being traded like an animal at market!”

“Have a care for your tongue, Simone,” Armand warned. “You seem to have forgotten that had you not convinced the Beauvilles of your madness, claiming my dead son spoke to you, we would have had no need to come to this barbaric city.”

Simone knew it was of no use arguing yet again over Didier. Truthfully, Armand was right—had Simone not trusted Charles Beauville with her grief-stricken confidences, she would most likely be his wife now, and Armand would be far away, on another leg of his grand quest. Didier may have frozen them all to death by now, but that fate seemed infinitely preferable to the future she now faced.

“Please, Papa,” Simone said, resorting to begging. “The baron will hate me for this. I will be miserable as his wife.”

“You’ll make the best of it, I am certain.” He stood, signaling that the discussion was over. He limped toward the bed. “I will make arrangements for your possessions to be delivered to the baron’s suite.”

“Why there?” Simone asked, thinking of the tens of trunks that held the precious belongings of her mother’s and Didier’s. She had begged her father to allow those most personal items to accompany her to England, at the sacrifice of leaving most of her own possessions behind. Armand had complied, although now, the impoverished estate could not afford the considerable added cost. The trunks were still being held at the docks for payment until the time Armand could sell her to the highest bidder.

“Because, enfant,” her father spoke to her as if she were once more a small child, “after you are wed, you will stay in your husband’s apartments before you journey to his home. You do wish to have your things with you, non?”

Simone nodded.

“Bon. Now, go to sleep.” Armand crossed the chamber and opened the door, pausing to speak to her once more over his shoulder. “For once, you have served me well, Simone.”

And then she was blessedly alone.

Simone knew ’twould be impossible to convince Nicholas that she’d had no intention whatsoever of trapping him into marriage. He had suspected it from the first, and although she’d thought she’d made it clear that she was resigned to wed the elderly Halbrook, these new circumstances would do much to persuade him to believe otherwise. She could only hope that the baron had not yet heard the rumors that had chased her from France.

’Twas as if fate were out to thwart her at every turn.

Simone let the candle gut out on its own as she lay alone in the early morning light and cried herself to sleep.