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 through a maze of interior corridors.
“Release me!” he roared, struggling futilely against his captors. His chalice found purchase against one abductor’s thick skull, but still they carried him 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
