Donegal had played him well. When Nick’s battalion had formed and moved over the rise, they were presented with the sight of well over two hundred Welshmen, in battle gear and crude war paint. His stomach clenched for a moment, and he wondered that he had not made a deadly mistake in sending the king’s soldiers away.
Their numbers were nearly even now.
As if Tristan could read his thoughts, he said, “No help for it now, Nick. We shall triumph.”
Randall drew his horse even with Nick’s. “Any final orders for the men, my lord?”
Nick stared at the milling Welsh forming their ranks for several moments. He thought of Simone, her warm smile, her scent, how her arms had held him. Yea, they would triumph, for he had his love to return to, at last. A life to build.
He looked to his first man. “Fight like hell, Randall.”
“Aye, Sire.” Randall’s horse sidestepped away, and Nick turned Majesty to face his men, raising his sword in the air. The ranks quieted, the sounds of nervous mounts and shushing mail dissipating, and Nick waited until all the men mirrored his pose. Majesty pranced anxiously beneath him, then whinnied and gave a half rear, ready to be away. Nicholas drew a deep breath.
“For Obny!” he cried.
His call was met with the blast of a horn and the return battle cry of his men. Nick felt his blood rush into his ears as he wheeled Majesty about, and he and Tristan raced toward the border, the D’Argent sapphires sparkling in the dull sunlight.
Genevieve had awakened and was well enough to sit her own mount for the day’s long, slow journey, her horse tethered behind Armand’s. He’d bound her feet, a clear indicator that he suspected she would attempt escape should the opportunity present itself, but he’d left her hands free, a courtesy of his deluded mind. Genevieve swayed from time to time upon the beast, giving Simone a fright, but Armand constantly twisted in his saddle to monitor the lady’s condition and seemed genuinely overjoyed to be able to look upon the woman.
Simone enjoyed no such liberties. Both her ankles and wrists were bound beneath the long cloak, but Simone gave it no thought.
She could not keep Nicholas from her mind—was he well? Unharmed? Had he triumphed over the Welsh? Horrifying images of Nick lying on some cold battlefield, covered in blood, kept prying at her mind, but she would not allow them entrance. Could not. She had to have faith that Nicholas would return to Hartmoore, safe and whole.
Any alternative was unthinkable.
By late afternoon, the weather had improved to a balmy breeze, with brief splashes of sunlight spilling through broken clouds. They had passed no other travelers on the forest road to their right, and the crisp crackling of leaves and the sweet titters of the gray and brown birds overhead were the only sounds accompanying the horses’ footfalls.
Then Genevieve broke the silence.
“Armand, how…how did you find me?”
He was quiet for a long moment, so that Simone thought he would not answer. When he did finally speak, ’twas not to address the lady’s question but to pose one of his own.
“Do you recall the night we met, my love?”
Genevieve stuttered. “O-of course I do.”
Armand chuckled indulgently. “Non.I think not. You were too enamored with your young viscount to pay me any heed that eve.”
Genevieve glanced over her shoulder at Simone with a look that seemed to say,Listen, and you shall learn what I had not the chance to tell you.
Armand continued. “You were…rapturous.I had never seen hair so golden, like spun silk. Your blue, blue, blue eyes,” he sighed, and his shoulder jerked spasmodically. “I vow I fell in love with you that very night. You were kind enough to me when we were introduced, but I was only a lowly under-lord and had not the title or riches of your paramour.” His voice turned bitter, cold, and his slur increased. He looked back at Genevieve, the skin around his mouth drawn tight. “He fathered your son, did he not?”
Genevieve held her head high. “He did.”
Armand faced forward again. “I had better fortune when next we met, weeks later. Your viscount was absent, and ’tis this instance that you most likely recall.”
“At my parents’ home,” Genevieve supplied. “My father brought you to me.”
“Oui,” Armand said, obviously pleased that she remembered. “You were at the age that he would soon see you wed, and I, cocky youth that I was, pressed my suit with him. I told him that I would make my wealth in service to the king.” He looked back at her again, and this time his face was happy, lost in the memory of that night. “You wore gold that eve; you were radiant—like a small sun, or a star…” His eyes took on a faraway look, and he turned back in his saddle. “I was overjoyed when your father gave me his permission to present myself after I had earned my worth. You did not seem displeased with this either.”
“I was not,” Genevieve admitted, to Simone’s great surprise. “My father was a hard man with a heavy hand. Although I indeed had pinned my hopes on…another, he was to be married soon. I longed to be away from my father.”
“Ahhh…” Armand said quietly. “It makes sense now. Your actions. But you can understand why I was so enraged when I returned.”
“You were gone nearly nine years, Armand.”
“Through no fault of my own!” he bellowed, his voice sending the birds overhead scattering to safety. “I had…I was…I—” he paused, shook his head violently. “I risked my life to earn enough wealth that your father would grant me your hand.”
