The Champion. Heather Grothaus

fighting.” Her voice sounded husky and strange to her own ears.

      His expression did not change. He let the reins drop from his hand and raised it to her hip. The contact burned through Simone’s gown, and she drew a wavering breath.

      “Come to me,” he commanded in the strange silence that had descended around them.

      Oddly grateful for the direction, Simone complied, placing her hands on his wide shoulders and allowing Nicholas to swing her easily to the ground. She swayed slightly as her feet found purchase, and Nicholas seized her upper arms in a firm grip, steadying her. He then placed one of her hands atop his forearm, effectively turning them toward the steps, and together they began to climb.

      Simone felt for a moment that perhaps the ordeal would be bearable after all. And then the whispers along the front lines of the crowd reached her ears.

      “—voices in her head—”

      “—drove her mad—”

      “—denied by her betrothed—”

      Simone cringed and glanced up at the baron’s profile, but he was stoic, slowly leading her up the seemingly endless staircase.

      “—father a cripple—”

      “—penniless—”

      “The poor baron. Why, I’d—”

      Simone turned her gaze forward once more, determined to block the hurtful words from her mind, even as her cheeks burned and her throat tightened. The doors to the abbey swung wide, and she saw Nicholas’s brother and his wife standing just inside. It was obvious by the blackness around one eye that Tristan had been involved in the same brawl that had resulted in Nicholas’s injuries, and Simone wondered what kind of family she was marrying into that such violence did not warrant some comment.

      She and Nicholas gained the wide landing before the ornate entrance, and the smile Haith greeted them with caused Simone to feel a pinch of regret for her earlier rudeness. Now more than ever before, Simone knew she would have need of a friend, and she hoped that Didier’s prediction that Lady Haith could be trusted with their secret was correct.

      The startled shrieks of what sounded like every horse in London shattered the silence, and Simone cringed as Nicholas turned her toward the commotion.

      Each beast that occupied the wide street, whether beneath the rump of a traveler or tethered to a cart, was rearing in fright, rolling his eyes and fighting his bonds. Several steps below Simone, Didier clomped up the stairs, a wince on his heart-shaped face and his hands held open beseechingly.

      “Odd,” Nicholas muttered, scanning the scene below before turning them to enter the abbey.

      Simone tossed a warning look over her shoulder for Didier’s benefit and then passed into the darkened interior on the baron’s arm.

      The ceremony was short, and for that, Nick was grateful. His skull had ached since awakening—whether due to his overindulgence or Tristan’s chastising—and Nick had no other wish but to get this ridiculous farce over with.

      The high-ceilinged chamber was crammed with onlookers, making the air close and humid. William and Matilda sat regally on a dais behind the altar, placing the royal couple higher than the aging priest, as if assuming God’s place. Tristan stood at Nick’s elbow like some grim warden, and Haith took a similar stance on the far side of Simone.

      The woman who, but in a few short moments, would become his wife.

      The paleness of her skin seemed to glow above her yellow gown, and Nick could feel her trembling through the sleeve of his undershirt.

      And frightened she should be, he thought. If not for the innocent-looking siren’s trickery, Nick would likely still be abed, having his pains tended to properly. Instead, he listened to the droning Latin of the disinterested clergy as the priest draped a holy cloth over their joined hands, blessing the union.

      If not for the king’s insistent request that Nick and his bride remain royal guests for a fortnight after the nuptials, Nick would perform his husbandly duties and then pack Simone off to Hartmoore and hope that he’d gotten a child on her. Because of Lady du Roche’s beauty, Nick would not balk at their physical relationship, but he vowed that she would never hold his heart.

      Simone’s gaze as the priest spoke the final words joining them for all eternity startled Nick with its solemnity. Her green eyes were wide and glistening with unshed tears, but within those emerald depths, he glimpsed a seriousness that hinted at her understanding of the verses said over them. Her gaze pinned him as if marking him for better or nay, and an odd heat suddenly spiraled in Nick’s gut.

      My wife.

      The echo of the priest’s words still hung in the heavy air as the first wave of guests surged forward, milling around him and Simone and effectively separating them. Nick caught only a glimpse of yellow gown and her panicked, sad face before he, too, was swept into a sea of forced joviality and hollow congratulations.

      The feast lasted well into the night, and the only time Nick was in arm’s length of his bride was at the meal itself. Even then, she was distracted by conversation with Haith, who never left her the whole of the evening. Nick found himself searching the crowd for her more often than he cared to admit.

      His mood had significantly improved since the ceremony, thanks to His Majesty’s generous casks, and Nick brushed off his awareness of Simone as a mere return of his baser appetites. When he did have a chance to glimpse her from afar, he noticed that Simone moved like sunlight through the hall, her gown trailing behind her like a wave sliding from the shore back to the sea. There was a pointed demand for her attention by the male members of court, and jealousy twanged within Nick like the discordant strum of a lute.

      “Easy, Brother.” Tristan appeared at Nick’s side and gestured toward Simone with his chalice. “I doubt any of those dandies are brave enough to usurp your place so soon after you’ve won her.”

      Nick snorted. “You’ve imbibed overmuch of the king’s fine brew, Tristan, if you think me concerned about my wife’s admirers. ’Twas not my wish to win her in the first place.”

      “Ha. Your scowl says otherwise.”

      Nick spied Armand du Roche speaking to Simone, and she raised her head just then, her eyes finding Nick’s briefly before looking away. He saw fatigue there, and worry. Haith appeared at her side, and after a moment, the two ladies moved away from Armand, deeper into the crowd.

      “Any matter,” Nick said, “I shall be quit of her soon enough. Once William releases me from London, I’ll return us to Hartmoore and continue on as I have before.” He tore his searching eyes from the milling crush. “Will you and Lady Haith travel with us?”

      “Nay. We depart for Greanly on the morn. Haith longs for our daughter and worries what mischief Minerva has introduced her to in our absence.”

      Nick ignored his brother’s jest about Haith’s great-aunt—the news that Tristan was leaving him to entertain his new bride alone soured his humor.

      And now he could no longer locate Simone within the hall.

      “So you would encourage my capture and then abandon me to see to my own release,” Nick muttered. Where was she? “My thanks, Tristan.”

      His brother laughed. “I believe you shall endure. Nick?”

      Nicholas started as Tristan shook his shoulder. “What? What is it? You blather senselessly while it seems my bride has absconded without me.”

      ’Twas only then that Nick noticed the large congregation of men gathered around him and his brother. At his side, Tristan grinned like a fool.

      “Fear not, my brother, for we mean to reunite the both of you posthaste!”

      Nick was grabbed and thrown into the air, his chalice teetering drunkenly as he was hoisted along on hands and shoulders. A bawdy song filled the hall as he was juggled from the feast and