The three men crowded into a copse of old, thick cedars, and Nicholas strung a small tarp between the branches to give them a modicum of shelter. The fire they so desperately needed was a failure, doing little more than smoldering in the wet needles and mingling its acrid smoke with the chilling fog.
None of the men spoke, uneasy and reluctant allies each, but settled against the crumbling trunks for what little rest they could gain in the crashing fury of the storm. Neither Jehan nor Charles had bothered to inquire as to how Nicholas knew which direction to go, and Nick had not volunteered the information.
They would not believe him any matter.
Oh, Simone, how I have wronged you,Nicholas thought.
Armand du Roche was the man who had condemned Tristan to a youth of hell. The very man Genevieve had fled France for, believing she had killed him. And now, years later, Armand had come for Nick’s mother, his deluded mind holding the woman as some fantastic prize—his treasure.
The two women Nick valued most in his life were in the clutches of a madman. A murderer, who had killed his own wife and the boy he’d thought was his son.
Nick felt he had wronged Didier as well—the boy who was no longer a boy. And Tristan. And Evelyn. Was there no one his selfish pride had not battered? In the instant he had witnessed what he’d believed to be Tristan’s death, Nick had realized that his brother had been correct in his chastising those many months since Evelyn’s betr—
Nay, not betrayal,Nick corrected himself. Since Evelyn had honored her mother’s dying wish.
What a fool I have been.He readjusted himself against the tree. When he’d first seen Simone, he’d known that never had there walked upon the earth a more beautiful woman. She had enchanted him, confounded him, frightened him, and ignited within him a passion so deep that he had never felt half its equal in his life. And yet, when it was commanded that they should wed, Nick had railed at her, at Tristan. He’d kept prostitutes on the eve of their wedding.
He’d not believed her when she’d confided in him.
He’d abandoned her, with no explanation, time and again. In London, in Withington, at Hartmoore.
He’d ignored her pleas for help, when her mother’s journals had warned of the very disaster they now faced.
And while he’d been so determined to be offended by the way others perceived him, he’d lost Obny and Handaar.
He’d nearly lost Tristan in battle, without telling his brother how much he valued his guidance and support. His friendship.
Nick looked back on the man he’d been the past several months, his faults and misdeeds spread out before him like a soiled cloth. It was not the man his father had raised to succeed him, and Nicholas was shamed.
But no more,Nick thought, a fire struck deep in his belly.I will right this. I will make amends. I will be the man my father would have me be, the son my mother deserves, a worthy brother.
Before Nicholas had departed Hartmoore, Tristan had seized his arm as the men readied to move him to an upper chamber.
“Avenge me, Brother,” he’d whispered, and Nicholas had been shaken to see the glassy wetness in his brother’s eyes, the pain of a young boy still hiding deep within the fierce warrior. “Make Armand du Roche pay for what he has done and bring our mother home.”
Nick had sworn it.
He thanked God for Jehan Renault’s and Charles Beauville’s arrival, for bringing the truth so that Simone could be freed from the guilt she carried, so that Nicholas could strive to rid his family, once and for all, of the specter of gloom that dogged their memories.
But he also feared the Frenchmen’s presence, knowing full well they planned to persuade Simone to return with them to France. His blood ran cold, not from the sleet that pelted him but from fear. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed.
Simone, please give me the chance to be the husband I should have been all along.
Nicholas felt a fluttering against his right fist, holding the wet blanket around his shoulders.
Didier’s white feather.
“Wake me in a pair of hours, lad?” he whispered, and the feather bobbed heavily, up and down.
Yea.
Nick opened his fist and rested the back of his palm on the sodden ground. The feather fell down into his upturned hand.
Nicholas gently closed his fingers over the small, weightless drift of fluff and felt a queer tingle against his shoulder, just above his elbow. He closed his eyes.
The man slept, not knowing—or mayhap he did—that Didier du Roche kept vigil at his side, his small hand in Nick’s, his head pressed against his arm.
Haith shooed the soldiers from their chamber and now sat near Tristan on the bed, laying their daughter against his unwounded side.
