The Champion. Heather Grothaus

onward. He felt one of his fine leather boots tugged off by unseen hands, but Nick’s vitriolic curses were muffled as his tunic and undershirt were yanked over his head.

      The belt holding his sheath loosened, and Nick sent out a sincere cry of protest. Tristan appeared on the fringe of the crowd, holding Nick’s sword safely aloft as the mob halted before the door to his suite.

      “I’ll wager you won’t be needing this,” Tristan laughed, spurring comments from Nick’s tormentors.

      “Nay—he’ll be thrusting with a different weapon this eve!”

      “And what a comely sheath he’s acquired!”

      Nick’s face reddened, but he could not help himself from grinning. Memories of Simone’s willing lips flooded his ale-fogged brain and he struggled comically to gain his feet, joining the play.

      “Right you are!” he bellowed. “Send me into the fray, then, for I am well armed!”

      The door to his chambers burst inward and the rowdy legion of men flooded through, jostling Nick to the fore and tossing his commandeered attire in after him.

      A crashing silence fell upon the crowd as all took in the scene before them. Simone sat propped in the middle of the wide bed, thick, white furs piled around her. Only her face, framed by long, inky tendrils of hair and one creamy shoulder, could be seen of her. Her green eyes, like beacons, widened at the male invasion of the room and she gasped, sinking deeper into her shielding coverings.

      Nick’s own breath caught in his throat. That he’d had his share of comely wenches was not to be disputed, but this vision of female and ermine filled him with a possessiveness that he had never before experienced. Desire flared within him at the sight of her ruby lips and flushed cheeks. The fire crackling in the hearth like seductive music cast a dreamy glow over her features.

      A female voice shook the invaders from their stupor, and Haith appeared from the shadows of the room. “Yea, you’ve had your play. Be gone with you now—shoo!” She strode toward the group, flapping her hands at the men behind Nick, and they began to trickle back into the corridor, most glancing over their shoulders for one last covetous glimpse of the vision upon the bed.

      Only Tristan remained, and he, not for long. He leaned Nick’s sword against a near wall and joined his wife at the door. “Good eventide to you, Brother,” he said with a grin. “I’m certain we shall see you both upon your arrival at Hartmoore.” He bowed toward Simone. “Baroness.”

      Then Tristan closed the door, leaving Nick alone with Simone. He turned back to the bed, feeling somewhat foolish clothed only in his chausses and one boot. The silence was heavy around the fire’s staccato chant, and Simone’s eyes seemed to burn across his skin.

      He cleared his throat. “How fare thee, Lady Simone?”

      “As well as can be expected, I suppose,” she said, her voice low and wary. “’Twould seem you’ve lost some of your clothing since last I saw you.”

      He was sure she’d meant it as a flip retort, but as Nick let his gaze roam over her bare shoulder, a fire was stoked in his belly. “As have you,” he replied, and couldn’t help but chuckle at the wild blush that colored her face.

      He began to slowly approach the bed, but his seductive advance was hampered by the awkward hitch in his stride, thanks to his missing footwear. He cursed softly as he kicked off the remaining boot. He had composed himself by the time he stood over the bed, forcing Simone to raise her face to meet his gaze.

      “’Tis time for you to claim your prize, my lady,” he said, and began to untie his chausses, his eyes never leaving hers.

      “My prize?” she whispered. Her tongue flicked out over her full bottom lip, and her eyes dared a peek at his busied hands.

      “Yea, your reward for your very well-executed plan.” Nick’s temper flared for an instant as he recalled Simone’s neat scheme to win him, but his anger was a mere flicker compared to the burning want he felt.

      A frown creased Simone’s fine brow, and she looked away as Nick let his chausses fall around his ankles. He picked up a corner of the fur and climbed into bed, his hand shooting out to ensnare Simone’s arm when she would have skittered to the far side of the mattress.

      “Nay, milady—do not flee,” he cajoled. The skin beneath his hand was warm and smooth, like sun-kissed silk, and his fingers met themselves around her slight bones. “I see no reason why we both should not profit from your good fortune.”

      Nick was not expecting the slap that left his already tender lip throbbing. Fury ripped through him so that he seized her with both hands, dragging her to him, her bare breasts flattened against his chest. Simone was no longer meek and nervous but glared daggers into him.

      “That is for humiliating me before my father and Lord Halbrook,” she said. “And if you are my prize, then I would argue that the nature of my fortune is quite otherwise.”

      “Do not toy with me, Simone,” Nick warned, his eyes roaming her face. He could feel the heat of her soft belly against his skin, and his loins responded despite his anger. “We are both full-grown. I know that you schemed with your father to discover us on the balcony, and your neat speech on how you were content to marry an old nanny goat will do you no good now. Better you admit your deception so that we might proceed in this marriage with some semblance of good will.”

      “Rot in Hell, you pompous, selfish jackass,” she hissed, shoving away from him.

      Nick let her go, partially out of shock at being called selfish for the second time that day. Simone took the opportunity to scoot off the edge of the bed, dragging a fur around her body and forcing Nick to scramble to cover his nudity.

      She spun on him. “Pray tell why I would desire to marry the likes of you,” she demanded, looking at him from head to toe as if he were a pile of fresh dung. “No woman would hope to become the wife of a raging womanizer who, on each unfortunate instance of our meeting, has reeked of drink and who entertained not one but a pair of prostitutes on his wedding day! In this very room!” Simone flung out an arm, sputtered, then stomped her foot. “In this very bed!”

      “They weren’t prostitutes,” Nick said, somewhat taken aback at her knowledge of his activities. His erection shriveled.

      One of her delicate eyebrows arched.

      Nick stuttered. “Well, I didn’t pay them.” He, too, stood, dragging a fur about him and mirroring Simone’s pose across the bed. “How did you learn of that, any matter?”

      “Lady Haith thought I should know.”

      Nick growled, marveling at the size of his sister-in-law’s mouth. “’Twas before we were wed. As you can plainly see, you are the only woman in my suite now.”

      “So you will no longer partake of strange women now that we are wed?” she challenged.

      “Most likely none stranger than you.” Nick nearly laughed aloud when Simone’s eyes narrowed. “Yea, I’ve heard the rumors—how could I have not?” He edged around the foot of the bed, causing Simone to retreat. “So, is it true? Are you mad?” he asked, reaching for her.

      She jerked away, but not quickly enough. He pulled her closer, trailed a finger along the ridge of her collarbone. The woman was irresistible. Already, his ire was fading. “Tell me, Lady Simone,” he whispered, “shall I be forced to restrain you?”

      “I’m not mad,” she replied, and Nick could clearly see the gooseflesh his touch raised.

      “Then let us both throw off this insanity that plagues us,” he said, allowing his fur to drop to the floor. He wrapped his arms around her lightly and dropped his mouth to her shoulder. “My desire for you led me to that balcony that fateful eve and, for all your innocent protests, I believe you desire me as well.”

      He tasted her warm skin with his tongue, felt her shiver. “Deny it, then,” he dared. “Tell me you do not