Simone could not coax her lungs to draw breath as she stared across the settling dust to Didier. The boy returned her appraisal with no expression, his often merry green eyes blank. Blurry, black spots danced around the edges of Simone’s vision, and she felt the ground beneath her tilt precariously. A great gasp filled her at last, relieving her straining lungs but doing naught for her dizziness.
Simone stood with care, dusting herself off and waving away a pair of approaching guests, concern and curiosity lighting their faces. “I’m fine, thank you. Really.”
Her eyes found Didier once more. The boy no longer stared at her but directed his gaze to the hills rolling away in the distance. Not certain it would work, but desperate to try, Simone called to her brother with her mind.
Come inside with me, Didier. We must talk about this.
He was still for several beats, so that Simone thought she had failed to reach him. Then he turned his face toward her, a flickering yellow glow like a sickly fire filling his green eyes. The voice Simone heard in her head was deeper, guttural, and quite unlike Didier’s tone.
Lord Nicholas does not return on the morrow. Papa does not leave Hartmoore. He waits for you in your chamber.
Simone’s flesh seemed to turn to stone beneath her clammy skin. What did Didier mean? That Nicholas would never return? That she would forever be saddled with Armand? And why would her father wait for her in her and Nick’s own chamber?
The journals!
Simone spun on her heel and raced toward the hall at a run.
Chapter 15
Simone skidded to a halt before her chamber door, not caring that she’d left a string of shocked manor staff in her wake. If Didier was correct—and he always was in regards to Armand’s whereabouts—her father lurked just beyond the thick door, dangerously close to Portia’s writings.
Her chest heaved from her flight and also her fear, and she stared at the door handle, curving toward her like a serpent poised to strike. She fought back a wave of nausea and opened the door.
Simone’s breath caught high in her throat at the scene before her: Armand stood at the foot of Nick’s intricately carved bed, his back to her. In his left hand was a stack of creased parchment, and he quickly scanned the sheets and then flicked the topmost away with his clawlike right hand, where it floated to land on the thick mattress. The bed and floor around Armand’s feet were littered with the discarded pages. Tens of them—a hundred, it seemed.
“Papa?” she croaked. “What are you doing?”
Armand did not jump at the sound of her voice, merely turned slightly, tossing her a self-satisfied smirk.
“Ah, Simone. I was looking for you.”
Simone stepped fully into the room, sending the door closed behind her. How much of the journals had he read? Would he try to take them from her?
“What are you doing in my chamber?” she demanded, her brave words tainted by the warble in her voice. “You have no right to go through my personal belongings.”
Armand chuckled. “Do not chastise me so soon after your husband has evicted me from your home, Simone. ’Tis quite offensive.”
Her fists clenched at her sides. “Get out.”
“Besides,” Armand continued, ignoring her command, “these do not actually belong to you, do they? You certainly did not pen them, nor do I think they were ever meant for your eyes.”
He tossed the sheaths still in his hand onto the bed, and some slid off the side like a waterfall. “Although, having read their contents, I can understand why you would be interested in them, and why you also found it necessary to hide them away.” He flipped a small metal object in the air, and it arced and spun before also falling to the bed. He tsk-ed. “I did not think you so foolish as to leave the key alongside the prize, though.”
’Twas only then that Simone caught sight of the corner of the small chest poking from beneath the flood of pages, the fine-tooled leather nearly causing her to sob in relief. ’Twas the small box Randall had given her charge to destroy, and the letters were not Portia’s, but some other written account.
She couldn’t help but glance to the other, larger trunk, still closed and resting near the hearth, just as she’d left it. With a quick prayer of thanks, she crossed the room to stand between Armand and the bed, crisp pages crackling beneath her feet. Her courage increased a bit, and she tossed him a glare before bending to sweep the discarded pages into a pile.
“These belong to my husband. The baron would be much displeased.”
An incredulous bark of laughter drew her attention up to her father. Armand stared down at her in disbelief, a frighteningly pleasant smile on his thick mouth.
“Mon dieu,” he breathed. “Could you be so naïve as to have taken possession of the trunk without knowing its contents?”
“Of course I don’t know its contents,” Simone replied tightly, gathering up the pages and rising. “It is not my affair. In fact, I was given the task of destroying it.”
After a long moment of staring at her in amazement, Armand threw his head back and laughed so loudly that Simone jumped. He hooted and chuckled his way to a chair near the bed, collapsing into it in his mirth.
“I fail to see the humor in my respect for others’ privacy,” Simone bristled.
