“For if I ever have the opportunity to get my hands on that scamp, Didier, I’ll blister his rump for interrupting us.”
Simone leaned forward, enveloping Nick in her heady, unique scent, and he breathed it in. She kissed him lightly, a devilish gleam in her eyes.
“And I shall hold him down for you.”
Chapter 9
The first day of travel on the journey to her new home passed more quickly than Simone had expected, even though Nicholas had told her it was the longest stretch of the two-day ride. They followed the Thames westward at first light, leaving the closeness and stench of London behind like a fever, gradually acclimating their ears to the quiet of ever-increasing stretches of countryside. They passed through small villages, spread farther apart as the day grew longer, where young children would dart from doorways of humble cottages at the sounds of jingling tack and the rumbling of cartwheels on the packed dirt road.
Nick had warned Simone of the beggars before leaving London and had handed her a weighty sack of coin to dole out at her discretion. More often than not, after depositing a coin into the grubby hand of a child and seeing him sprint away, kicking up dust with bare, blackened feet, a peasant woman would catch up with the group, offering fresh bread or a small sack of dried fruit in thanks for the gift. Simone was touched by the friendliness and generosity shown by these bucolic clusters of the English workforce and marveled at their fortitude. ’Twas never far from her mind that she had been a mere hair’s breadth from such poverty herself, and she wondered if she could have accepted such circumstances with the same no-nonsense contentment.
Simone adjusted in her saddle while the gray beneath her traversed the sloping plains and shallow, green valleys. Wide squares of cropland, intersected by lines of scrubby brush and copses of beech and oak, divided the thick forests the party often skirted. Nicholas had been accompanied to London by only a handful of his men, and their numbers were not increased overmuch by the three hired to transport their belongings in a similar number of carts. Not including Didier—who, of course, kept his distance from the horses and remained unseen by Simone since leaving London—their caravan numbered under a score. Five soldiers each to the fore and aft of the party gave them significant protection, but still the baron preferred to avoid long stretches of dense wood.
Simone was not afraid.
Her mind went briefly to her father. Was he still in London? Or had he departed the city as well that morn? She had heard tales of his treasure since she was a young girl—Armand’s description always cryptic, never revealing the true nature of the prize, only hinting at its enormous value. In truth, Simone doubted the thing—whatever it was—even existed. Perhaps ’twas just a mental game Armand played with himself, to give him the life of adventure his injuries had long-denied him.
Urging her gray over the crest of a low ridge, Simone forgot Armand for a moment to smile at the view below. A small village, nested along the banks of a bright ribbon of water, lay like a gem between the rolling hills. Nicholas brought his horse even with Simone’s and gifted her with a grin.
“Do you tire?” he asked.
“A bit,” Simone admitted, pushing down the grimace brought on by her tender bottom. “What is yonder village?”
“Withington, and the river is the Coln. There is a small inn where we will pass the night before continuing on to Hartmoore on the morrow.”
Simone breathed a measured sigh of relief at the rest she now knew they neared. “And the morrow’s journey—’tis as lengthy as this one?”
“Yea. The distance is less, but the riding more difficult. The land between Withington and Hartmoore is thick with forest. We’ll pass near a band of mountains”—he pointed a long arm to a bumpy shadow crawling across the horizon—“and the River Severn, laying farther west.”
Simone’s excitement grew. Nick had told her tiny bits about his demesne butting the rugged Welsh border, and her imagination toyed with what her first glimpse of Hartmoore and its wild terrain would reveal.
“I can hardly wait for morn,” she breathed, staring off at the faraway mountain range, the childlike exclamation out before she could catch herself. She flushed.
Nick laughed, then reached across the space separating their mounts and seized her hand. He brought it to his lips, kissed it, and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“I’ll send a man ahead to announce us,” he said, and then spurred his horse forward.
Simone watched him ride to the head of the party with an irrepressible smile. ’Twas as if she’d stepped from her miserable circumstances and into a fantasy. Nicholas’s demeanor had changed drastically since their row over Didier on their wedding night, and now he was naught but kind and attentive to her every need. For the hundredth time, Simone wondered if he would be thusly when he finally took her to bed.
She felt slightly naughty at such lurid musings, but her husband’s very presence was driving her to distraction. She could bring to mind vividly now the taste of his mouth, the texture of his palm on her skin, the masculine smell of his dark, curling hair where it met the tan cording of his neck. She knew by heart the order in which the smooth muscles rippled across his back when he bent over a basin to wash, and the way his arms—
Good heavens! Simone shook herself from her rapidly deteriorating thoughts. Perhaps Didier had been correct in his innocent guess. Maybe shewasin heat.
But nay, ’twas not only Nick’s physicality she admired. It was also his wit, his rumbling laugh, his generous nature.
Simone’s thoughts turned in comparison to Charles, the man she’d been slated to marry since girlhood, and her perception of him now surprised her. She recalled his yellow hair, pleasant if not exotic features, and his soothing manner. For years, Simone had regarded Charles as a shining example of manhood, the perfect model of a noble husband. But now, she guessed her early opinions of him had been colored by her lack of worldly experience and few others besides Armand to measure her betrothed against.
Charles had lacked fortitude and passion. But Nicholas—oh, Nicholas!—he had plenty of both.
There was no more time for lurid thoughts as Simone halted her gray before the inn. A two-story, daubed structure snuggled beneath a steep, thatched roof, the inn squatted at the head of the dusty track that led through the village. A handful of similarly constructed dwellings lined the road, with more cottages sprinkled over the fields beyond. A large, stone edifice lay some distance beyond the village, the tall, square towers topped with crucifixes clearly indicating the building’s holy purpose. While the priory was certainly meant to house those whose lives were slated for a pure, higher service, Simone could not help but shiver at the compound’s bleak appearance.
Nicholas was at her side then, and Simone noted the strained expression on his face as she pulled her gaze from the priory. She rested her hands atop his shoulders gratefully as he lifted her from the horse and set her on her feet. Her lower back, buttocks, and thighs groaned as they were forced to perform.
“Merci,Nick.” She smiled up at him. “I fear I’ll not prove an attractive sight in the days to come, hobbling about in my stiffness.”
“You look fine,” Nick said abruptly. He took her arm and led her through the darkened doorway of the inn, leaving the dismal view of the convent behind but causing a worried frown to crease Simone’s forehead all the same.
He led her straightway up a steep, narrow stair along the inn’s common room and into a chamber directly at the top. The room was cramped, a narrow bedstead pushed under the sloping ceiling; the only other furnishings consisted of a basin on a small table and a chipped pot. A tiny window afforded a view of the wood behind the inn, and Simone was oddly relieved that she would not be forced to look upon the forbidding priory.
