“Evelyn,” Nick called to her, and his voice sounded rusty and worn. She continued to shake her father, and Nick reached for her. “Evelyn, stop. He’s gone.” His hand grasped her shoulder.
At his touch, Evelyn stiffened as if doused with icy water. An animalistic squeal came from her, and then, in an instant, she was on her feet, snarling and screeching and flailing at Nicholas with her claws spread wide.
“You son of a bitch!” she screamed, and the nails of her right hand dug into his cheek. “He loved you and you killed him!” Her hands were small iron fists now, and she swung at Nick, her blows landing on his face and chest.
Nick struggled to take hold of Evelyn’s arms, and he pulled her against him.
“I hate you! I hate you!” She jerked within his embrace, but Nick held firm, her words doing more damage than the trio of gouges in his cheek, now leaking warm blood.
“I hope you die,” she sobbed. “I hope you die and burn in Hell for what you have done.”
Nick closed his eyes as Evelyn’s forehead dropped to his chest and she sagged against him, a keening wail drawing from her open mouth. Nick tried to swallow against the crushing weight in his throat. He held Evelyn up, his chest spasming, and dropped his chin to the crown of her head.
Simone stood elbow to elbow with the group gathered around Handaar, tears rolling down her cheeks as she witnessed the grief of the people before her. Her heart ached—yea—from seeing the tender way Nick held the woman, how he’d accepted her blows. But the tears on Simone’s face were not from self-pity but from a sadness, so deep, for Nicholas.
Simone knew what it felt like, losing someone you loved so dearly. And then being blamed for the death. She could taste Nick’s pain, thick in her mouth, like a rancid honey.
And Simone realized how much she truly loved him. It did not matter now that he loved Evelyn. It did not matter that he chose Evelyn over Simone. Nicholas had brought Simone to Hartmoore, shown her what happiness could be like, if only for a few short days. If she was not destined to live her life as his wife, to give him all the love she had until her last breath was drawn, she would give him what she could, while she could. After what Armand had done, she owed him that much.
She turned to the maid, Rose, at her side. Drawing the girl close, she whispered, “Have water sent to the lord’s chamber for his bath.”
“Aye, mum.”
Then Simone stepped forward and, as if Nicholas sensed her, his head turned. Evelyn still cried weakly into his undershirt. Nick’s red-rimmed eyes locked on hers, and she could feel the pull of him, the hungry, insatiable grief eating away at him.
Genevieve approached the couple. “Oh, my darling,” she said, her voice hitching. She seized one of Evelyn’s arms and pulled her from Nick into her own embrace. Evelyn went willingly, clinging to the dowager baroness, her sobs renewed. “Oh, Evelyn, I am so sorry.”
Nicholas faced her now, his arms hanging limp at his sides.
“Did you learn of Obny’s attackers?” Simone asked softly.
He nodded, his eyes searching her face. His shoulders were slumped, the corners of his full mouth sagged, and the curling locks of damp hair trembled against his cheek. He was in shock, standing amidst the disaster in his own hall, and Simone knew that, at any moment, he would falter.
It would not do for his people to see him in this state. Nicholas would not want that. And so neither did Simone.
Within the circle of mourners, Tristan and Haith began to take control. Haith gave low commands to several maids, calling for supplies to be brought to prepare Handaar’s body. Tristan ordered several of the soldiers to prepare a pyre. On the morn, Handaar would burn in a warrior’s glory.
Simone drew a deep, silent breath and took Nick’s hand. To her surprise, not only did he let her seize him, his fingers curled around her own tightly. She tugged. Nicholas followed.
They did not speak as Simone led Nicholas through the maze of corridors to his chamber. The few servants they passed stepped to the side with their eyes downcast in deference to the sorrowful event below. Some bowed, some whispered quiet blessings as Simone pulled Nick along. He acknowledged none of them, walking a half step behind Simone, and she was left to smile reassuringly and murmur thanks for the both of them.
Once she had opened the chamber door, Nick released Simone’s hand and walked to the huge four-poster bed to sit on the edge of the thick ticking. His forearms were braced on his thighs, his hands dangling between his knees, and he stared at the floor. Simone closed the door and leaned back against it for a long moment.
What was done could not be undone. Her heart squeezed at the sight of him, so distraught and quiet. She remembered with bittersweet sadness the night they’d met at the king’s birthday celebration—how reckless and handsome he’d been. How sure of himself, bold and without a care for propriety. To see him so beaten hurt her worse than the inevitability of losing him.
Simone straightened and crossed the wide chamber to Nick’s formidable carved wardrobe. She removed his long, fur-lined gown and then turned toward the bed. He had not moved.
“My lord,” she said softly, laying the robe at his side. When he did not respond, Simone reached down on either side of him and grasped the hem of his undershirt. He looked up, puzzlement creasing his forehead.
“Lift your arms,” she commanded, pulling up on the shirt.
He looked at her blankly for a moment longer, then raised his arms, and Simone slipped the snug garment from his body.
The servants bearing water came soon enough, and Nicholas walked behind the dressing screen, his robe crushed in one hand. As they filled the tub, thunder rumbled beyond the keep and lightning stuttered on the walls. Simone busied herself by helping Rose light two braces of candles, turn back the bed coverings, and stoke and feed the hearth until it blazed.
When the servants filed out, the chamber was filled with dark corners, flickering candlelight. The crackling hearth backlit the copper tub before it, steam rising lazily and carrying with it the scent of sandalwood. Rain crashed down on Hartmoore. Simone threw the bolt on the door.
When she turned, Nicholas was stepping out from behind the dressing screen, his deep blue robe clutched shut with one fist. Simone crossed to him and took his hand once more, leading him to the tub. She walked around behind him, reached up on her toes, and grasped the collar of his robe.
