Simone wondered if she and Nicholas would even remain married after she told him the truth about Armand. After Evelyn.
Genevieve looked tired this morn, her eyes puffy and glassy, but she shook off some of her apathy and was entertaining the younger women with a scandalous anecdote about a particularly amorous male guest and a kitchen maid when a horn sounded, heralding the baron and his party’s approach of the town.
Simone’s stomach fluttered as Haith and Genevieve each gained their feet. Today was the day, then. In a few short moments, she would know if Evelyn still held Nick’s heart. And Simone would tell Nicholas that it was Armand whom his mother had thought she’d killed in France, Armand who had sought to rid Genevieve of Tristan. It was very likely that Nick would set Simone from him, but for Lady Genevieve’s safety, Simone knew it was a risk she must take.
She rose from the table as a soot-covered soldier burst into the hall and raced to Genevieve’s side. In an instant, the lady had lifted her skirts and flew into a run across the hall and out the door to the bailey, leaving Simone and Haith without so much as a word.
Simone increased her pace, Haith close at her heels, and dread gripped the back of her neck. She called out to the soldier. She shortened her strides into a skipping trot and drew near the filth-covered knight. “What is it? Where is the baron?”
The soldier seized Simone’s elbow and pulled her along as he spoke. “Obny was under attack when we arrived, my lady. Lord Handaar is wounded most dire—we don’t think him to live.”
Simone could only comprehend that there had been a battle.
Nicholas!
She shook free from the hand that sought to steady her and flew from the hall in much the same manner as Genevieve.
Once in the bailey, Simone saw the party of Nick’s men crowding through the gate, leading a ramshackle cart. Genevieve had already reached the men and had thrown her arms about one—Simone now knew for certain that Nicholas was safe, and her throat convulsed in hysterical relief. But as she neared the somber cluster of soldiers, her pace slowed.
Genevieve drew away from her son, sniffling and framing his face with her hands as she spoke to him, but Simone could not hear her words over the roar in her own skull. She vaguely noticed Lady Haith running past her, following Genevieve as the lady stepped away from Nick to Tristan, who stood near the cart. Simone could now view Nicholas’s battered appearance fully.
His hair was dull and stiff-looking, creases of black filth streaking his face and neck. His ivory undershirt was missing, revealing Nick’s tanned arms turned crusty with mud and debris through the sides of his tunic—once a vivid blue and silver, now stained an ugly brindle. His chausses were in tatters around his boots, and resting near his toes was the tip of Nick’s gilded sheath, now caked with—
Blood.
Simone’s heart hitched in her chest, and her gaze rose to meet Nick’s. The usually sparkling blue orbs were dimmed as Simone stared at him, aware that she had stopped several paces short but unable to command her feet to move closer. It was as if she could feel an energy radiating from him, and it was not good.
He looked ten years aged from when Simone had seen him last, and he faced her with no expression, his long, muscled arms hanging limp at his sides.
“Nicholas?” she whispered around the jagged rock in her throat. “Are you injured?”
Still he stared at her, motionless save for the tic in his cheek.
“Nick?” Her voice had risen to a barely audible squeak around her sob, and she took a step forward. A breeze sprung up around the bailey, stirring the sick, metallic stench of dried blood. It stung Simone’s nostrils and caused her to sway on her feet.
And then, because she could stand it no longer, she flew to him, wrapping herself completely around him and pressing her face into his chest, uncaring of the prickly stench and filth that caked him. His arms did not come around her, but still she held him tight, tighter.
“Oh, Nick. Oh, my love,” she whispered into his chest, uncaring whether he heard her or not, but speaking in gratitude to the heavens for sparing this man. “Thank God, thank God.”
Nick could not help but inhale deeply of the warm clean scent of her, tucked into his chest. He heard her mumbled ramblings, but the meaning of her words did not reach him. The feel of her tiny body, her unique fragrance so familiar to him now, caused him naught but shame.
She is the reason I return to Hartmoore with Handaar’s body. If not for Simone du Roche, I would have returned from London weeks ago.And still, the scent of her, the sound of her soft weeping, caused Nicholas to almost wrap his arms around her, hold her close, take greedily of her warmth.
Instead, he took hold of her shoulders and held her away from him, conscious of the black smudges his hands left on her gown. Her pale pixie’s face was awash with tears.
“What happened?” she wailed.
Nick had no desire to explain the tragedy at Obny to her—it would humiliate him to admit that he had been too late to save his border town. And besides, guests and their soldiers now crowded the bailey, shouting curses upon the barbaric Welsh, moving the cart that carried Handaar’s body toward the great hall. Many hailed Nick, seeking his direction. The town had grown to deafening chaos swirling around them.
“I must see to my men.” He stepped around her.
“But,” Simone turned and fell into step beside him, swiping at her tears, “Lord Handaar…is he—?”
“He lives,” Nick said succinctly, striding toward the stables and soldiers’ quarters. “But for how long, I know not. If he regains consciousness, I must discover the name of Obny’s attackers.”
She was nearly running now to keep pace with him. “You will retaliate?”
Nick could not look at her as his anger boiled precariously close to the surface again. To see her, remember lying in bed with her in London, escorting her to markets and shops, laughing with her, dining in lavish halls on fine food, while all the while the Welsh had stalked his lands, made their plans. He wanted to wipe the memories of her, his tender feelings, away.
