Her eyes dropped to his chest, and she was surprised to see her hands resting there, her fingernails skimming the dusty embroidery. He did not trusther.That was clear.
“Simone,” he commanded softly, “look at me.” She raised her face. “I will never lie to you.And I have had no woman since we were wed.”
“I know that we have much to learn of each other, Nicholas,” she said, her heart fluttering with need and not a little hurt. But she believed him, God help her. “But I hope that, one day, you will have want to seek my council with your burdens. Already, you hold my highest regard for believing in Didier—even if you do not understand that I cannot foresee or forestall his impetuous actions.”
Nick huffed a breath of laughter and cupped her cheek in one large palm. He kissed her softly. “Your highest regard?” he asked against her mouth.
Simone swallowed, her eyelids sliding closed and her knees trembling. His touch was…intoxicating. “And affection,” she whispered.
“That is much more to my liking.” Then he kissed her again, slowly, while pulling her closer. Simone wanted to melt into him, be absorbed by his masculine scent, his solid presence. Even though she knew ’twas folly, she felt safe in Nick’s arms. Safer than she’d felt for many, many months.
But then he drew away abruptly and stared into her eyes, his desire sparking icy blue flecks within his own. “I have spoken with Lady Haith.”
Simone frowned. It seemed an odd comment for such an intimate moment. “Lady Haith, my lord?”
Nicholas turned her chin gently with one long finger, and Simone saw Didier marching in circles around the perimeter of the wide mattress, his feather held above his head. She was more than a little shocked that Nicholas had noticed her brother’s presence before her. In truth, she had forgotten about Didier completely as soon as they’d entered the chamber. Simone sighed.
Didier paused in his play to look at her. “Oh, do carry on, Sister. I’ll not make a peep.” He took up his happy march once more, humming a jolly melody.
“As I said,” Nicholas continued, “I’ve spoken with Lady Haith. You’ll soon have assistance with our young mischief maker here.”
Simone’s eyebrows rose. “Really? How?”
“Minerva is coming,” Nick said simply.
Chapter 12
The next morning found Nick seated at a wide, planked table in the small ground-floor chamber under the stairwell where he conducted Hartmoore’s business. He’d spent the remainder of the previous evening with Simone, settling her into his chamber, and except for the awkward moments after Didier’s enthusiastic arrival into Hartmoore’s great hall, it had been a most relaxing homecoming.
His new wife had two distinct personalities it seemed to Nick: open and caring when shown tenderness, but reserved and defensive at mention of Didier or Nick’s actions. Surely his life would assume some semblance of normalcy after the arrival of the old healer, Minerva, and after he was rid of all the blasted guests infesting his home. What had his mother thought, inviting that bastard Bartholomew? Nick grinned to himself as he recalled Didier’s antics with the man.
Rat, indeed.
Now a steady stream of laborers and overseers flowed in and out of the chamber, pressing Nick for decisions or reporting on the state of Hartmoore’s various industries during his recent absence. His crops had flourished and were harvested, calling for another storehouse to be constructed; several head of sheep had been lost to wolves due to a less-than-vigilant—and now disposed—herd. One birth, two deaths of old age, and one handfasting were chronicled in the clerk’s ledger, and by midday, Nick had grown weary of accounts and chores. His mind wandered once again to the dark-haired beauty who was his wife, while Randall droned on about weaponry repair.
Nick had left Simone early this morn in his—nay,their—chamber, dressed in a pretty rose kirtle and surrounded by the precious stacks of her mother’s journals. He’d itched to pull her from the dusty pages and steal away for a ride through the countryside, even as Didier’s swooping feather had chased him from the room. Nicholas had the, admittedly juvenile, urge to do the things Simone had spoken of doing with Charles Beauville—he wanted to erase any memories of the man from his wife’s mind, replacing them with his own presence.
Today though, he must ride over his lands without her, to Obny—a journey he did not relish—to learn firsthand of the ineffective Welsh raid on Handaar’s keep. He had neglected his duty for far too long, and was shamed. Evelyn was gone. So be it. Nicholas was married now, and ’twas past time for him to renew his vow of protection and service to his father’s closest friend. And besides, with Bartholomew in residence at Hartmoore, ’twas impossible for Nick not to have heard the insinuating rumors of why Handaar had not answered the invitation to the wedding feast.
“And so, my lord, by spring we could be equipped with newly fashioned vests, in the latest style of weave,” Randall said, winding down his lengthy lecture on chain mail and stroking a sample of the new armor. He sat across the wide table from Nicholas, casting the frowning clerk a warning glare. “The cost will surely be accounted for by lives saved.”
Nick leaned back in his chair with a sigh and rolled his head to relieve his stiffening neck. “Very well, Randall. You’ve made your case. What say you, clerk?”
The thin, wiry man grimaced and peered down at his ledger, his nose fairly brushing the page. “I know not, Sire,” he muttered. “It seems a large sum for new armaments when we yet have useable—”
Randall stood abruptly, knocking his chair backward. “And what do you know of proper battle gear, you spineless scribbler? ’Tis my men who fight to keep this hold secure, and they warrant only the best protection!”
The clerk sat up and sniffed in Randall’s direction. “And ’tismyduty to manage the lord’s accounts. If not for me, your spending would surely—”
“I’ll have your arse for a saddlebag, you—”
“Enough!” Nick’s command cut the argument before his very capable clerk incurred physical harm. “Randall, you may have your new equipment, but only by half. Give it to the first line archers and send any mail past its prime to the apprentices.” Nick shook his head at the smug smiles on the faces of his clerk and first man. Apparently, both felt victorious in his decision.
Randall righted his toppled chair. “My thanks, Lord Nicholas.”
“Yea, Sire,” the clerk chimed in. “If that’s all, I’d be off to the mill.” He bowed in Nick’s direction and scurried from the chamber, passing Genevieve in the doorway. “Good day, m’lady.”
“Good day, clerk,” she replied. Genevieve entered the room, and Nick immediately noticed the folded squares of parchment in her hands. He groaned to himself.
