Page 119 of The Champion

“Nay,” was all she said.

She heard his shrill scream and the great splash as his body hit the water. And although she did not watch as Charles drowned in the cold, vast sea, she listened eagerly to every gasping breath, each gurgle and cry to the very last, wrapped in Nick’s arms with her eyes closed, Didier’s face clear in her mind, until Charles was no more.

Epilogue

Christmas Day, 1077

Hartmoore

The feast was superb—all of Hartmoore gathered in the great hall to the sounds of music and laughter, the smells of holly and tallow candles, roast bird and savory pies. Simone sat at Nick’s side at the lord’s table, her hand resting on her still-flat belly beneath her kirtle. To the other side of her sat her father, laughing and talking with Lady Genevieve, as was his habit the past two months.

Only Tristan, Haith, and Isabella were missing from the festivities, having gone back to Greanly shortly after Nick and Simone’s wedding. Nick’s brother had healed remarkably quickly from his wound, and Haith had been anxious to return to their home. Simone noticed a distinct change in her sister-in-law since Minerva’s…departure? Death? Simone was still unsure as to what exactly had become of the old woman. But Lady Haith was different now. Still the same caring, intuitive woman, but now with a rather intense air about her.

And her eyes, Simone noticed right away, had changed from a clear, crisp blue like Nick’s and Tristan’s to that of a deep night sky—almost black.

Any differences Nicholas and Tristan had between them were put to rest upon Nick’s return to Hartmoore, and the large blond man had actually wept in his mother’s arms when he learned that Armand was at last dead. Nicholas had played a major role in accomplishing what Tristan, in all his years of battle and wars, could not. Simone knew that the brothers’ bond was tempered now and would never be broken.

Evelyn Godewin was nowhere to be found at Hartmoore, causing somewhat of an awkward moment when the monks from the priory returned for the dedicant. Simone felt a twinge of remorse at the way she’d treated the poor lost woman, but Nick had assured her that Evelyn was searching for her own destiny—something that had always seemed just beyond her reach. It could not be had at Obny, or with Nicholas, and certainly not at the convent.

Simone hoped the woman found it, whatever it was she sought.

As for Jehan Renault, Simone’s father had decided to stay on in England with his daughter and son-in-law. France now held too many dark and painful memories and he hoped to start anew, building a life with his daughter and her family, and possibly—Simone and Nick suspected—with Lady Genevieve as well.

With her father’s help, Simone had slowly begun to forgive Portia for her duplicity. She better understood now her mother’s motives—Portia had simply tried to give Simone and Didier respectable lives and had fully planned to reunite her children with their father and the man she loved with all her heart. She had never expected Armand to live out the year when she’d wed him, and would not have, Jehan assured Simone—ill health or nay—had she but known what a madman he was. Portia had done her best, and Simone could not fault her for that. Her mother’s journals and gowns were now lovingly tucked away.

“Do you tire?” Nicholas leaned over and whispered in her ear.

She turned to nod at him. “A bit. Would you mind?”

He immediately stood and helped Simone to her feet. They called their good nights to all as he led her up the curving stone stairs. Once in their chamber, they undressed and climbed into bed to nestle in each other’s arms.

“’Twas a lovely feast,” Simone sighed, snuggling her nose into Nick’s chest.

“Mmm,” Nick murmured. “You are lovely.”

Simone smiled. She could never have imagined herself so happy. Blissful. Complete.Wanted.

She thought Nick may be falling asleep, but curiously, she was no longer tired. “Have you given any more thought to a name for this babe, husband?”

Nicholas stirred, kissed her collarbone, and his words were deliciously muffled against her skin. “How do you fancy Olivia for a girl?”

She tilted her head back and kissed his mouth. “I like it very much. And if it is a boy?”

Nicholas looked into her eyes. “I was thinking”—he kissed her again, his hands roaming her back—“perhaps”—his hands moved lower—“Didier.”

“Do you not think that may be a bit confusing?” She ran her hands through his hair.

“How so?” Nick murmured, dropping his mouth to her neck.

“Well,” Simone broke off, tapping Nick on his shoulder. When he raised his head, she pointed a finger behind him, and he craned his neck to look.

A single white feather bobbed around the end of the bed.

Up–down–pause. Up–down–pause.

Nicholas groaned, and Simone couldn’t help but giggle when her husband said, “Didier, we canseeyou.”

She listened for a moment and then laughed aloud before saying, “My lord, Didier rather fancies the name Willy for a boy.”

Nick looked toward the feather warily and then back at his wife, as if he suspected a bit of mischief was afoot.

Simone didn’t have the heart to tell the poor man he was correct.