Tristan’s voice dripped disgust. “Get yourself up so that I may have the pleasure of putting you on your pampered arse once more.”
Nick spat to the side to clear his mouth of the metallic-tasting blood, lest his already turbulent stomach revolt. He slowly gained his feet, straightening with great care.
“Brother, I have no wish to quarrel with you, but I will not tolerate—”
Tristan was upon him again in an instant, driving a ham-like fist first into his stomach and then his ribs. Nick grunted and doubled over before charging headfirst into Tristan’s midsection, sending both men crashing to the floor.
Nicholas garnered strength from somewhere deep within his abused and wine-soaked body and returned his brother’s punches blow for blow. The two men rolled the width of the chamber, crunching over broken pottery, toppling a table and sending splintered wood flying. When they collided into a halting wall, Tristan was atop Nick, and he braced a massive forearm against his brother’s throat while glaring down at him through an eye that was rapidly swelling shut.
“What is wrong with you?” Nick choked out, and shoved at his brother’s form.
“Listen well, Nicholas,” Tristan growled, forcing Nick to hold his position. “You will marry this day, willing or nay. These childish piques of rebellion the past two days have clearly done you no good purpose.”
Nick strained against his brother’s bulk, trying not to admit to himself that he was now truly behaving like a wet lad. “Get. Off. Me!”
“Quiet!” Tristan thumped Nick’s head soundly against the wall. “Once you have wed Lady du Roche, you must forget Evelyn—she is not returning to you.”
“Evelyn has naught to do with this,” Nick croaked and silently cursed the amount of wine he’d consumed last night—it had stolen his strength and effectively left him at Tristan’s mercy.
“And you’re a liar. Now, get yourself up, wring the drink from your addled brains as best you can, and prepare yourself for the ceremony.” Tristan’s voice brooked no argument, and he leaned even closer to Nick’s face. “And should you ever, ever”—he emphasized with another thud to Nick’s skull—“dare to cause my wife tears again, you will have no need to concern yourself with whom you’ve wed, because I vow to you that I will soon after make Lady du Roche a very eligible widow.”
With those words, Tristan released Nick and dragged him to his feet. Nick gasped and choked as the air rushed into his lungs, and he glared at his brother.
“I should kill you for that,” Nick wheezed. “Brother or not, you have no right.” He spat on the floor again.
Tristan walked calmly to a basin in the corner of the room and splashed water on his swelling face. “I have every right—and an obligation.” He straightened from the bowl and tossed a soaking wet cloth to Nick. “You’ll realize it once you emerge from this self-pitying fog you’ve created.”
Nick touched a corner of the rag to his distended lip and winced. Had he been in a fog? Perhaps he’d been a bit rash in some of his recent actions, but—
’Twas all Simone du Roche’s fault. If not for her conniving to ensnare a baron for a husband, there would have been no cause to worry over a simple tunic, and Tristan would not have felt it necessary to take him to task for what was very typical behavior for Nick.
Yea, 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
