Simone didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to destroy the easy peace of the moment. But he deserved a response.
“Nay,” she said quietly. “You did not think it would, did you?”
“In truth, I thought it might.” His thumb drew slow circles around her navel. “Does he make you happy, then? Charles? You can forgive him for what he did to you?”
How could she tell Nicholas that Charles most definitely did not make her happy? That each moment in his presence since he’d arrived at Hartmoore sickened her? ’Twould sound like a plea for Nick’s pity, and Simone was tired of being an object of pity or scorn. A burden. A pawn.
Since her mother’s and Didier’s deaths, she had been naught but a means to an end to each person in her life: Didier’s link to the mortal world; Armand’s leverage to gain England and his mad treasure; Nick’s compromise to placate his family and his king. She had been used not for herself but for others to gain what they truly wished. Didier had wanted Portia; Armand had wanted Genevieve; Nick wanted Evelyn. But no one had seemed to care what Simone wanted, and no one at all wantedher.
Except Jehan. Her father wanted her, wanted what was best for her.
’Twas novel to be desired, valued, finally for herself and not what she could help gain. Nicholas had said he loved her, but could she believe him?
Nicholas nudged her. “Simone? Do you sleep?”
“Nay.” She was quiet a moment longer. “My father needs me.” She felt him stiffen slightly behind her, and she knew her words wounded him. She wanted to apologize, but could not.
Better for her to leave Nick now, perhaps angry with her, than to stay and have him resent her in time. He would forget this little pain, and mayhap even one day remember her fondly.
“Can I fetch you anything?” he asked after a while. “A cup of wine? Something to eat?”
She shook her head. “I think I’ll go to sleep now.”
She felt his lips press her hair, and it made tears well in her eyes. “Good night, Simone,” he whispered, his breath warming her scalp.
Simone swallowed, drew a slow, shallow breath. “Good night, Nicholas.”
Chapter 31
Nick fell into a desperate, exhausted slumber, Simone still in his arms. And he dreamed.
He was in Withington once more, on the journey from London to Hartmoore with Simone.
The damned convent! How could he have forgotten its proximity to the inn?
Because it truly did not matter, his present-self reminded him. You are not in love with Evelyn. You love your wife. When you are with Simone, you think not about Handaar’s daughter. Only when you see aught which reminds you of Evelyn does your pride pinch you.
That made sense to Nicholas, but even so, he was still in Withington in his dream, and he let the memories carry him along until he was once more seated against the ancient oak beyond the inn, wine jug in hand.
A small, white feather circled and swooped toward him.
“Ah, young Didier,” Nick said in the dream. “Chastity itself. I would think you’d be sitting faithfully at your sister’s side, preventing me what little comfort I have in this world.”
The wine jug was dispatched down the hill and into the river, and then the feather began swaying and bobbing, Didier’s first attempt at communication.
Are you a boy…?
Is it about the accident…?
Do you remember what happened…?
And then Didier’s feather fell to Nick’s lap, dripping and matted, and Nicholas was plunged into the dark, icy cold of the boy’s memories, deep, invisible water seeming to close over his face.
Didier, did you drown?
But this time, in Nick’s dream, the details were more vivid. Through the boy’s eyes he saw not darkened countryside but water all around him, dirty, fecund water rippling with red and gold, burning his nose and throat as he choked and gasped.Don’t breathe, don’t breathe…
Horses screamed, from far away it seemed, and the whole world rumbled. Heat was all around him.
