The Champion. Heather Grothaus

Nick reaffirmed to himself, the blame is to be laid at the tiny feet of my betrothed. If only she had not been quite so shapely and soft in that green velvet gown which had matched her eyes to perfection. If she had not smelled of warm lavender and touched him in ways that made his heart pound and caused him to forget his wits…

      “Nicholas?” A frown wrinkled Tristan’s brow. “Are you injured overmuch?”

      Nick’s head snapped upward, causing his ears to ring, and he winced. “Nay, Brother. I scarcely felt your affectionate scratching.” Nick chose to play off their altercation as meaningless, although his pride stung at Tristan’s rebuke. Nick had already had one father—he’d no need of another. “You, however, are quite fetching. That violet hue rather enhances the color of your eyes.”

      Tristan laughed, but after a moment his face grew solemn. “This is the right choice, Nick. ’Twas time you wed, and left to your own devices, you may have never settled on a bride. Mother will be pleased.”

      “Yea, I suspect she will be,” Nick answered mildly, but to himself, he railed, As is Lady Simone, Lord du Roche, King William, Haith, and Tristan. Perhaps even Evelyn would be pleased to know I am taking a wife—she certainly did not want me.

      “I’ll fetch you when ’tis time to depart,” Tristan said, and then left the chamber.

      Nick pulled the cloth from his tender lip and viewed the bright red blood that stained it. “I’m certain all will be pleased, save for myself.”

      Nick was glad to have his brother in his life after years of separation, but he would not be bullied—after all, Nick outranked him by several stations. He may be obligated to wed Simone du Roche, but he did not have to claim to be happy about it, nor would he break his back attempting to please his new wife as his brother did with Haith.

      If Simone du Roche fancied the Baron of Crane as her lord and master, then she would have him—but on his terms.

      And then Nick did smile to himself.

      Chapter 5

      Outside the dwelling in which their rented rooms were housed, Armand assisted Simone in mounting the dappled gray that would carry her to the ceremony. She had done naught but cry bitterly the past two days, and now, dressed in her finest saffron kirtle, the effects of her misery were clearly felt.

      Her entire skull throbbed and her eyes ached from the near-continuous flow of tears that had plagued her. Her nose was red and raw, and her chest and neck were mottled with angry blotches. She sniffed and dabbed a wadded kerchief at her nose. The tears had finally ceased this morn, although Simone suspected the reason was not because she no longer felt like crying but that her body was exhausted.

      Inside, her heart still wailed.

      As her father conveyed orders to the man hired to transport their few belongings, Simone looked at her surroundings numbly.

      Busy merchants called out to passersby, hawking their goods; the squawking of birds and the rumbling of hooves thrummed in her ears. Smells of cooking meat warred with an underlying sickly stench that caused Simone’s empty stomach to spasm. All around her were people, scurrying to and fro like a churning sea, intent on their daily lives and the business thereof.

      A glimmer caught her eye, and Simone turned her head to spy Didier dangling by his knees from the roof of a vendor’s stall. On the ground beneath him were two mongrel hounds, painfully thin, sitting on their haunches and eyeing the boy with interest, their heads cocking first one way then the other. Didier saw Simone watching him and gave an impish, upside-down smile and wave before knocking a pile of dried meat strips to the street below.

      The dogs attacked the charitable windfall with snarls and yips, causing the ruddy-faced merchant behind the stand to screech in rage. He chased the mutts away, but not before each had filled his jowls with venison. The man stomped and cursed as he surveyed his ruined goods, and Simone could not help but smile when Didier thumbed his nose at the fattened peddler.

      Simone’s horse lurched forward, signaling that Armand had mounted and was now moving, as her horse was tethered to his. She grabbed at the pommel and glanced back at Didier, who was now sitting beneath a large cart filled with apples. The boy was valiantly trying to eat one, but the fruit only fell to the ground with each attempt to cram it into his mouth.

      Simone faced forward once more, unconcerned that they left Didier behind. She and her brother had discovered shortly after his death that horses could sense the boy’s presence intensely and would go into fits of wild kicking and screams should he venture too near—a fact that broke Simone’s heart; Didier so loved the beasts.

      She knew that her brother would eventually find his way to their destination, and the thought gave her some comfort. His would be the only sympathetic face at the ceremony, she was certain, even if Simone would be the only person in attendance who could see him.

      Panic seized her once more as they drew near the abbey and the throng of people crowded around the entrance, packed tightly along each side of the wide steps and even spilling out into the street. Simone gave her horse a gentle kick and drew alongside Armand.

      “Papa, who are all those people?” she asked under her breath.

      “Guests of the king, I presume,” he replied nonchalantly. “Mayhap ’tis not often a wedding is held at his command. They are merely curious.” Then, to her horror, her father raised his good arm and actually waved to the crowd, as if they had been awaiting an audience with him. “Bonjour! Good day! Thank you for coming!”

      Simone felt as if a million eyes were picking her apart as they neared the base of the steps. The crowd stared openly at her, and she saw more than one pair of ladies with their heads bowed together, whispering to each other and smirking in her direction. Some women even openly glared at her.

      But then the critical bystanders were wiped from her mind as her gaze traveled up the broad steps, and there he was.

      Nicholas FitzTodd’s eyes never left Simone as he descended to meet them. Armand had dismounted and was now standing at the head of Simone’s gray, reins in hand. As her betrothed drew near, she could not help but be stunned once more by his appearance.

      His tunic eerily complimented Simone’s gown—cut from a fine, ivory cloth and embroidered heavily at the neck and hems with shining gold thread. His chausses were brown, as were his soft leather boots, and the tip of his broadsword fairly grazed the ground with its massive length.

      She allowed the weapon to lead her gaze upward once more, traveling the length of its gilded sheath to the sparkling sapphire that adorned the hilt. Up his arm, clothed in a creamy undershirt, his shoulder, the tanned skin of his neck, brushed by raven curls…

      “Du Roche.”

      The baron’s voice hummed with animosity as he acknowledged her father, and Simone could not bring herself to meet his eyes.

      “Baron,” Armand replied robustly, and from the corners of her downcast eyes, Simone saw her father hand her horse’s reins to Nicholas. “May you be blessed with much prosperity.”

      Simone heard Nicholas’s answering grunt, and then Armand’s lower half disappeared from her field of vision. An ivory tunic brushed against her knees. Simone realized she was shaking terribly and did not know how to proceed. She could not bear to look at him, could not—

      “Lady du Roche,” Nicholas said, his voice so low and deep that its timbre seemed to increase her trembling.

      Simone closed her eyes briefly and steeled herself before slowly turning her head and meeting her fate directly.

      He stared at her for a long moment, and Simone thought she might scream from the tension. His eyes gave nothing away, sparkling like jewels in the bright afternoon sunlight. Just as it was upon their first meeting, Simone felt mesmerized by the blue depths. She noticed with an odd pang of concern his scraped cheek and the swollen cut on his lower lip—almost reached out to touch it before catching herself and clenching her fists tightly.