The tense look darkening his mother’s face dissipated, leaving an odd wash of relief in its place. “Nay, I’m sorry. The family I knew had no married offspring—and certainly no children of your age.” Genevieve looked from Simone to Nicholas. “But why do we stand about in the bailey? I’m certain you have want to refresh yourselves before seeing to your guests.”
Hartmoore’s great hall was as grand and intimidating as the castle’s exterior. Beyond the thick double doors lay a cavernous, square room with a gigantic hearth opposite the entrance to warm the lord’s table on its raised dais. Two additional hearths commanded a wall each to the left and right, garlands of dried oak leaves and fall flowers snaked over and around the armament and banner displays decorating the hearths, adding a crispy, tangy fragrance to the acrid smell of woodsmoke and aroma of roasting meat billowing from the room.
Ten long trestle tables were divided to each side of the hall, their benches nearly half-full of celebrants. Loud chatter punctuated with shrieks of laughter, and good-natured barbs echoed in the empty space above the tables, the guests washed in easy evening light by the windows set high up in the walls. In the far left corner of the room, Simone saw the curling end of a set of stone steps twisting away to an upper floor. Everywhere, the hall sparkled and shone with the light from what seemed to be a thousand candles.
Everyone quieted and stared as Simone entered the hall on Nick’s arm. For one awful moment, the room was as silent as a tomb.
“Brother!” Tristan shouted, raising a chalice high from his seat at the lord’s table. Simone spotted the red-haired Lady Haith to his left, and the woman sent Simone a friendly smile. “The miscreant baron returns! Huzzah!”
The rest of the crowd erupted with echoing cheers, and Simone could feel Nick’s laughter at her side. Several of the lesser nobility who had greeted them at the bridge flowed into the hall behind the couple, finding their seats once more. Nicholas led her through the center aisle created by the tables, and as they passed, Simone surveyed the guests, responding to greetings and calls of congratulations. The hall seemed mostly composed of strangers until they neared the rear of the room and she saw Lord Cecil Halbrook, the old man she was to have wed, and several other lords from King William’s feast. An aching void grew in Simone’s stomach as they neared, and her ears burned as she remembered the vile whispers she’d endured in London.
“Lady FitzTodd.” Lord Halbrook gave her a kindly smile and shallow bow as she passed. “A pleasure to be in your home.”
She nodded to him and smiled, thankful for his graciousness. And even more thankful she was not being addressed as Lady Halbrook.
“FitzTodd.” A skinny, gray string of a man angled his chin toward Nicholas. “I suppose I should extend my congratulations, as you were gracious enough to have me in your home.”
Simone felt Nicholas tense under her hand. “Bartholomew. ’Twas not my doing, I assure you. You may give your thanks instead to my mother.”
Simone could almost smell the animosity between the two men and was relieved when Nick guided her past the table before Bartholomew could respond to the slight. He brought her to stand before his family, where Lady Genevieve had already taken a servant in hand and was quietly giving instructions.
Nick released her then, and she felt chilled by the removal of his steady presence. He clasped forearms with his brother before leaning down to peck Haith’s cheek. Simone thought Haith may have whispered something in Nick’s ear and waited for his inaudible answer, but it happened so quickly that Simone couldn’t be certain. Simone smarted for a moment when faced with the easy intimacy of the close group. She felt like an intruder.
Finally, Nick turned his attention to her. “Simone, of course you remember my brother and Lady Haith,” he said.
“Of course.” Simone forced her lips into a smile.
Nick looked to Haith. “But where is young Lady—”
His question was cut off by a child’s delighted squeal, and Haith laughed. “Speaking of the little minx, she’s playing under the table, as usual.”
Nick turned to Simone, a grin on his face, and she couldn’t help but note how different Nicholas seemed here—other than the encounter with Lord Bartholomew, she hadn’t seen him scowl once.
“Lady Isabella is a lover of caves and hidey-holes.” Nick crooked his finger at her and squatted down.
Simone hesitated for only a moment before following suit, one hand grasping the table’s edge for balance. A striking infant under a year old, with coppery curls and creamy skin, sat happily in a white gown, her fists clasped together, squealing in amusement—
—at Didier’s feather swooping in circles before the child’s face.
“Hallow, Isabella,” Nick called. “Have you a kiss for your uncle?” Nick’s smile faded when he too saw evidence of Simone’s brother. He looked to her accusingly.
Didier chortled in French at the baby and glanced at Simone. “Isn’t she keen, Sister?” He tickled Isabella’s nose with the feather. “Was I ever this small?”
“Would youdosomething?” Nick whispered to Simone.
“What would you have me do?” she hissed in return. “Paddle him?” She looked at her brother. “Didier, shoo!”
“I beg your pardon.” The boy looked highly offended. “I’ll not hurt her, Sister.”
Simone looked back to Nick, helpless.
Nick growled, snatched the baby from the floor, and rose. Simone followed, pasting a smile to her face.
“What are you about, my girl?” Nick laughed and tossed the babe into the air until she giggled. “Staying out of mischief?”
“How rude!” Simone heard Didier’s offended cry and felt a rush of cold air whoosh around her ankles.
“Lady Simone,” Haith asked, her eyes narrowing, “are you unwell?” She leaned back on the bench slightly and glanced under the table. She straightened quickly, her face blank.
