Some time later, Nick’s breathing became deep and even, and she knew he slept.
“I love you, Nicholas,” she whispered to the dark room. “And I am sorry.”
Chapter 23
Nicholas led the battle party away from Hartmoore, with Tristan at his side, in the pitch black before dawn. Behind them lay the curling whips of smoke from Handaar’s funeral pyre, drying the dampness on Nick’s face into black smudges.
The rain had stopped, leaving a crystalline damp in the cold air. Nick could smell snow in the frigid wind. They rode slowly, their ranks numbering not quite three hundred, and the party was quiet, the horses’ tack muffled with batting and rags to disguise their approach of the border. The lack of conversation between men was due not to fear but to the early hour and the cold—every man who was riding that morn longed for the impending battle, craved revenge. They would ford the Wye just before daybreak and take Donegal’s village by surprise.
Nick’s own silence, however, stemmed from his thoughts of the time he’d shared with Simone only hours ago. His heart beat a heavy, steady rhythm in his chest—Simone was his. The way she had given of herself, so tenderly, to comfort him after Handaar’s death amazed him. He had wept in her presence, a fact that still brought a gruff heat to his face, but she had not turned from him. She had not looked upon him with pity or scorn for his failings.
Nick had told her clearly that Evelyn was now his responsibility, and she had understood. It was a great relief to Nicholas that there would be no friction between the women until Nick could discover what was to be done with Evelyn. If she wished to return to the priory, so be it. If not, he would secure her release and find her a husband to care for her.
The memories of his behavior the past months shamed him, and he wondered how he could have been such a fool. He loved Evelyn—aye, how could he not?—but he was not in love with her. Had never been in love with her.
As Handaar had said, there was a difference. And Nick saw that difference clearly on this foggy, frigid morning, riding over his marches to battle.
He loved Simone. He wasin lovewith hiswife.After his revenge on Donegal was meted this day, he would return to Hartmoore a new man. Armand du Roche was no more. There was naught to stand in the way of a happy future now. Nicholas mused that he may even become accustomed to his wife’s young ghost—after all, Didier did keep things interesting.
But Nick’s carefree mood was not to last.
“Nick, we should stop,” Tristan said at his side.
“Obny’s ruins lay just beyond the next rise, Brother,” Nick said mildly, slowing Majesty and turning toward Tristan. “We’ll pause there before crossing the Wye and be upon Donegal by sunrise.”
“Nick,” Tristan insisted, “I do think you should reconsider. I—”
Tristan’s argument was cut short as the flaming arrow sunk into the frozen dirt, only the length of a man’s height from Majesty’s hooves.
The watchman called out, too late. “Sire, ahead!”
Nick raised his eyes to behold a line of lighted torches cresting the rise beyond Obny—more than three score, it seemed.
He heard Tristan move closer to his side. “It is what I was trying—”
“Shut up, Brother,” Nick said roughly, his stomach turning. Had he moved Majesty forward, that arrow would have likely ended up in Nick’s chest. He wheeled his horse to face their approaching party of soldiers. The heavy rumble of weapons being drawn, arrows being knocked, caused his heart to pound—the sounds of impending battle.
“Hold, men!” he shouted. “Stand your ground!”
Simone knew Nick had gone before she opened her eyes, feeling his absence from the wide bed they’d shared like a missing limb. She opened her eyes and turned her head.
The bed was indeed empty.
Before she could succumb to the despair she felt, a soft rap sounded on the door, and Simone hitched the covers higher over her thin gown. “Come.”
Evelyn Godewin entered the chamber in her drab habit, and Simone stiffened. How dare the woman intrude on this place, taint the one precious night she’d shared with Nick by the nun’s very presence. Did she expect to begin moving Simone’s things from the room now that Nicholas was gone?
“Lady Simone.” Evelyn curtsied, and her eyes flicked about the room like a pair of birds, taking in Simone’s discarded kirtle, the half-empty tub and wet floor, the gutted candles.
Let her look,Simone thought viciously.Let her see and think what she would.
“Is aught amiss…?” Simone said with frost in her tone. “What are you called now? Sister? Dedicant?” Simone clutched the covers to her and moved to sit on the edge of the bed.
A frown swept across the woman’s pale face. “Evelyn, if you please, my lady.” She took a hesitant step into the room. “I came to apologize for my behavior.” She swallowed. “I knew not that Ni—the baronhad taken a wife, and I have offended you unforgivably. I beg you, though, that you might see the reasons behind my actions and show me mercy.”
Simone stared at the woman, knowing in her heart that she should allay her fears. After all, did she not love Nicholas as well? But Evelyn could not love Nicholas as Simone did, else she would not have abandoned him.
Simone rose from the bed, her coverings draped around her, and crossed to the trunk that held her mother’s journals. She lifted the lid and withdrew the paltry coin and heart-shaped key. She looked at them, lying in her palm, while Evelyn continued to fight the tense silence by further explaining.
