Haith only smiled prettily and fluttered her eyelashes.
But Tristan was obviously intrigued. “What mission could the ghost of a young boy possibly have?” he murmured, then looked to Nicholas. “Revenge? How did he die?”
Nick shrugged. In truth, he knew not the first thing about his wife, other than her name, that of her father, and where she’d come from.
“’Twas a terrible accident—a stable fire,” Haith supplied, easing herself onto her husband’s lap.
Nick gave a short bark of dark laughter as he recalled Simone’s rebuke about arson to the vacant room. “Fire. Of course.”
“But perhaps ’twas no accident at all,” Haith said thoughtfully, “and Didier is trying to protect his sister from the same fate that befell him and his mother.”
Nick frowned. “The two of you spoke at length this eve. Did you learn naught else of import?”
Haith shook her head, and her lips formed a thin line. “But that I cannot help her. If you wish to know of Lady Simone’s plight, you should hear it in her own words.”
Nick sighed. Was he losing his mind as well to even consider returning to his chambers?
Tristan wagged a finger at his brother. “Beyond the fact that Lady Simone may be in need of a champion, an annulment would reflect very badly on you, Nick. Already there is talk at court of your recent rash behavior. Wallace Bartholomew and some of the other lords think you too young, unstable, and the king is listening keenly. ’Tis why he had want to see you wed—in hopes that it would settle your wildness.”
“That’s rubbish,” Nick scoffed.
Tristan merely shrugged.
Nick did not want to return to his chamber, but what choice did he have? Did he request a dissolution, the king may take it as a further sign of his incompetence. Besides, William might merely be moved to find Nick another—less attractive—bride.
Nick decided that no real harm could come from indulging in Simone’s tale for a short time more. “Very well.” He set his empty chalice on the table and walked to the door. “I shall see the pair of you when I return to Hartmoore.”
“Good night, Brother.” Tristan gave a sly smile. “Sleep well.”
“Good night, Nick,” Haith called. “Mayhap I will have some answers for you when you arrive at your home.”
Nick paused on the threshold, the door latch in his hand. “But you said you could not help her.”
“I cannot,” Haith agreed. “But there is one at Greanly who can.”
“I’m sorry, Sister,” Didier said for the tenth time since the baron had left. “I’ve ruined it all, have I not?”
Simone sighed and straightened from the trunk she’d been packing. She pressed the heels of both hands to her pulsing eyes. She hated to cry, and she’d wept so often the past three days that she had no tears left to offer. Her skull ached.
“I don’t know, Didier.” She’d donned a light underdress after Nicholas’s hasty retreat and now tried to smile at the boy, perched atop the dressing screen she’d vacated.
“Papa will be furious,” Didier whispered.
She could think of no comforting reply. Armand would indeed be furious if her marriage to the baron failed. Her father would be forced to search for another wealthy match, if any would even consider her after tonight’s tale was told. And all because Simone had not heeded Armand’s warning at the marriage feast.
Make no mention of your penchant for the absurd, Simone. No mention of Didier, no apologies for your failed betrothal or the reasons thereof. With luck, FitzTodd will get you with child this night. I will have my coin, and the past will be behind me.
But Simone had not listened. She did not know why she had not taken the escape offered to her by the baron himself. Although a humiliating condition, experiencing her monthly cycle was a completely believable and reasonable excuse not to consummate the marriage. Instead, she’d felt it necessary to reveal Didier’s presence to a man she barely knew and did not trust in the least. Why had the man warranted her confidences?
“Perhaps you are in love with him,” Didier suggested.
“Stop plucking at my thoughts,” Simone snipped.
“You won’t speak! How else am I to know what will happen to us?”
“Didier, I do not know what our future holds, so invading my mind will do you no good. And, any matter, ’tis rude—I forbid you to do it again.”
“Do youlove him?”
