The Champion. Heather GrothausЧитать онлайн книгу.
sputtered and tossed her head—“whores on the very day of your wedding!”
A timid tap sounded at the door, and one of the displaced women—Nicholas thought it might have been the blonde—called from the other side, “Milady, if ye please, we ’ave need of our clothing.”
Haith never turned, but after an agitated sigh, the door swung open of its own accord and a pile of garments skittered across the floor and through the portal to land at the women’s feet. Nick only glimpsed their shocked expressions before the door once more crashed to.
“Well?” Haith demanded of him.
“Tristan, I beg you,” Nick said, tucking the furs around his nude body, “control your wife. Should she be allowed to continue this tyranny, I fear I shan’t have any friends left brave enough to entertain me.”
“Nay, Haith is correct.” Tristan came to stand next to his wife, and the pair peered down at Nick. “Today you wed, or have you so quickly forgotten?”
Nick grunted. Of course he hadn’t forgotten. How could he? That green-eyed minx, Simone du Roche, had lied through her pretty teeth while teasing him with her willing lips and warm hands. She had sworn she was content to marry Halbrook—right before her father had caught them enflagrante in what Nick had been certain was a suitably secluded location.
The wench was unbelievably clever, Nick had to admit. She had laid a nearly undetectable trap, and Nick had offered himself up like a calf to the slaughter. Now he was fully obligated by William himself to wed the chit in order to placate her father and avoid yet another uproar at court.
“I still fail to see how my impending nuptials warrant the both of you bursting into my rooms like common thieves.” Nick looked to his brother accusingly. “And just how did you obtain a key to the door?”
Tristan shook his head with a wry grin. “’Twas not I, Brother. I tried to break the door in.” He raised his eyebrows and glanced pointedly to Haith, who was now flitting about the chamber. She mumbled crossly to herself while retrieving articles of clothing and emptied wine jugs from the floor.
“Of course,” Nick groaned. “How could I have forgotten Lady Haith’s clever escape from Greanly’s dungeon?” He instantly recalled the tale of how his sister-in-law had used her magical Scots talent to unlock her cell door and escape Tristan—a move that had very nearly led to disaster.
“Never you mind about that,” Haith said briskly, a flush tinting her cheeks. She bent to capture a rent length of embroidered cloth. “Had we not admitted ourselves to your apartment, ’tis likely you would have missed your own—oh, Nicholas!”
Nick winced when he saw the ruined tunic Haith held. He must have been further into his cups last eve than he realized.
Haith turned wounded blue eyes to him. “Your mother and I labored over this piece while I carried Isabella—you were to wear it when you wed. And now look at it!” She held the tunic toward him, the wine stains and unraveling hem clearly visible.
“I am sorry, Lady Haith,” Nick said, rising from the bed on unsteady legs and wrapping a fur about his middle. “Truly, I do not know what came over me. I had naught else to wear last eve and…” His voice trailed off at the sight of the tears in her eyes. “’Twas not my intention to hurt you.”
“Enough,” Tristan said, his voice hard. Nick turned to face him, and the tic along his brother’s jaw indicated that he was struggling to keep control over his temper.
“Brother, I—”
“Nay, hold your tongue.” Tristan approached his wife and steered her gently toward the door. “Wait for me in our rooms, my love. I’d have a word with Nick.”
Haith’s meek nod sent a pang though Nick’s heart, and when she spoke, the hitch in her voice made him feel like a complete fool. “I shall see what can be done to repair this before the ceremony.”
While his brother saw Haith through the portal, Nick hurriedly donned his chausses—an exercise that increased the pounding in his skull tenfold. He was trying to focus on the tangled laces when he heard the sharp click of the lock being engaged, and he chuckled half-heartedly.
“’Tis rather pointless to attempt to lock your wife from my chamber, Tristan. Should she desire entry, she will merely—”
Tristan’s blow caught Nick squarely in the mouth, sending Nick flailing onto his back and releasing a myriad of colorful starbursts before his eyes. Reality wavered as he rose up on one elbow and stared at his brother. Tristan stood over him, the picture of serenity save for the jumping muscle in his cheek.
“You selfish, spoiled child.” 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