“Nick! I’ve found—” But ’twas not Nicholas who stood in the corridor beyond, only an old, stooped woman bearing a tray.
“Good eve, milady.” The woman smiled, and Simone noticed that she had only three front teeth. “The lord bade me bring ye yer supper an’ tell ye he’s takin’ a cup or two before retirin’.”
“Oh.” Simone blinked and then stepped back, admitting the inn’s mistress. The woman placed the tray of dark stew, bread, and wine on the bed, carefully avoiding the pages strewn across the coverlet.
She straightened with a grunt and showed Simone all three of her teeth once more. “Is there aught else ye be needin’, milady?”
“Non. Merci,” Simone said, shaking off her disappointment. She gave the woman a smile before closing the door after her.
Apparently, Nick was indeed in a foul humor again, and if the episode in London was any indication, he would not return to the chamber until dawn. Simone wished that her husband would trust her with his troubles, but she felt that pressing him now would only cause him to further withdraw. She hoped that, in time, he would not retreat from her when burdened, but to her.
Simone sighed and walked to the bed. After climbing upon it, she pulled the tray of food to her side and picked up the remaining pages from the first bundle. At least with the bulk of Portia’s journals lying unsampled, she would not pass the eve entirely alone.
Chapter 10
Night settled around Nick like a heavy cloak as he sat on a knoll some distance away from the small inn, his back pressed against the gnarled skin of an ancient oak and a wine jug pressed against his thigh. He felt foolish and angry at himself as a handful of darkened windows on the convent’s south side were lit from within the thick stone walls. A bell tolled, each deep, echoing clang reaffirming his recklessness.
He lifted the jug and drank deeply, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve when cool rivulets ran down his chin. How could he have forgotten the close proximity of Evelyn’s chosen haven to the route his party traveled? Silky dark hair and glittering green eyes sprang into his mind, but he pushed the vision of Simone away. He could not think of his pixie bride in this place, not when Evelyn had him once more in her grip. Though, in truth, thoughts of one woman were as damning as thinking upon the other.
Evelyn, with her face and disposition like a calm, sunny afternoon, whom he’d known her entire life. She, who had abandoned him and removed herself from his reach in yonder, dismal walls.
Simone, as sparkling and deep as the midnight sky, who gathered her fear of Armand and her love and mourning for those long dead around her like a fortress as impregnable as any stone keep.
And was Nick partly to blame for her sporadic aloofness? He knew she wondered about his late-night excursion in London. She’d been awake when he’d returned, although she’d feigned sleep well. He would not allay her fears—could not. How could he explain his weakness, his need to be alone with his black thoughts? Had he assured her that he’d been quite without intimate female companionship, she might have probed deeper. And he would not humiliate himself further by trying to explain a situation he himself did not understand.
He drank again. ’Twould be easy enough to retrieve Majesty from the stables and ride to the priory under the cover of night. His station would demand admittance. He could seek Evelyn and have his answers. But what good would it be? ’Twould not change the fact that she’d left him without word, that she had thrown their friendship and Nick’s offer of marriage back in his face.
Bah. Foolish fantasies. Nay, he would not seek Evelyn but hope that the memory of her betrayal would fade in time. As it were, Nick had not been to Obny since that fateful visit with Handaar, a fact that caused him deep shame and made him consider the validity of the rumors circulating with the other lords. He vowed to himself that he would make amends to the old warrior as soon as he returned to his home. Perhaps he should also call a meeting of all the marcher lords, to solidify their defense and make clear to all that he was in control of his demesne.
The wine jug was nearly empty now, and the windows of the convent were finally dark. The silence of the night around him was soft and comforting in his self-enforced solitude, and he didn’t even mind the frigid breeze that washed over the knoll, causing his hair to lift and the few dried leaves above his head to whisper conspiratorially. A glimmer of white danced in his peripheral vision, and he turned his head to see a small white feather circling and swooping toward him.
“Ah, young Didier,” Nick said, noting with dark humor the slur in his words. “Chastity itself. I’d think you’d be sitting faithfully at your sister’s side, preventing me what little comfort I have in this world.”
The feather neared Nick and sank to the dried grass at his hip. “You’d rather torment me directly? Very well, I have naught else to occupy my time.”
Nick reached for the wine jug, but it toppled over abruptly as if kicked, sending the last dark trickle of Nick’s anesthetic bubbling down the knoll.
“Ay!” Nick cried. “That was mine, you little meddler. Now I shall have to return to the inn to get it filled.” He started to roll to his feet, but the jug gave a violent start as his fingertips grazed the handle, and it tumbled down, down the hill. It disappeared into the night before a faint splash was heard.
“And who are you to tell me I cannot?” Nick demanded, his voice rising. Then he felt his face warm. He must truly be pissed, carrying on an argument with a ghost who was unable to argue back. He settled against the tree once more with a sigh.
The feather rose up from the ground and swooped in front of Nick’s face, tickling his nose. He swatted at it and growled.
“Cease, Didier. I’m in no mood.”
The feather wiggled before his nose again insistently.
“What?! What is it, then?” Nick asked, frustration and drink making his words sharp. “Why do you not float back to London, or however it is you travel, and torment your father so that I can be alone with my wife, for God’s sake?”
The feather stilled briefly and then the tip moved slowly, deliberately, in a side-to-side motion.
Nick paused, eyeing the bright piece of fluff warily. “You do not wish to visit Armand?”
The feather moved up and down.
“Heisrather poor company, is he not?” Nick tried to shake off the wine-induced sluggishness that mired his thoughts. Either he was hallucinating or the boy was trying to communicate with him. He cleared his throat and glanced about the knoll, as if any were about to spy on him.
“Didier, are you a boy?”
