KISSING THE CHAMPION
“Your words are bold,” Nick said, sidling closer to her until he could feel her heat. “’Tis a shame for a woman of such passion to be paired with one so aged and dwindling—he will never make you burn.”
“Do you think you might accomplish that task if given the chance, Nicholas FitzTodd, Baron of Crane?”
Nick was shocked into silence. Then, reaching out a hand, he laid it alongside the warm, soft skin of her neck, forcing her to look up at him. He heard her soft breath at the physical contact and smiled when she would not meet his eyes.
“Verily, Lady du Roche,” he began, “I—”
“Simone,” she amended in a husky whisper, glancing into his eyes for only an instant. “My name is Simone.”
“Simone,” Nick repeated, drawing out the syllables of her name even as he pulled her closer. “Shall I demonstrate my abilities for you?”
Just when Nick expected her retreat, Simone reached her hand from beneath the confines of the cloak and laid it upon his chest. Her eyes found his, and the invitation he saw there, the raw need, tested his resolve to move slowly.
She licked her lips, a fleeting dart of pink tongue. “Please do…Nicholas.”
He dropped his mouth to hers and pulled her fully against him. She tasted of honeyed wine and autumn’s chill, and the sweetness of her small hands cupping his face shook Nicholas in a way no other dalliance with a woman had…
Books by Heather Grothaus
THE WARRIOR
THE CHAMPION
Published by Zebra Books
The Champion
Heather Grothaus
ZEBRA BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
For John Scognamiglio
It is a pleasure to work with you.
For Diana Belcher
Who told me so.
And for Tim
A hundred lifetimes wth you would never be enough.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Prologue
February 1077
Near the Welsh border, England
“She’ll saddle me like a horse.”
“My lord?”
Nicholas FitzTodd, Baron of Crane, glanced at his riding companion, the bright moonlight allowing him to easily see the curious frown on his first man’s face. The two men were paused atop a rocky promontory where a woodland stream crawled sluggishly from the forest at their backs and ran invisible and black to throw its end waters into the icy Wye below. The winter night itself seemed frozen in its stillness, a thought that pleased Nicholas as he and his man-at-arms rested their mounts and scanned the shadowed hills of the Welsh borderlands.
There would be no raids this night, Nicholas was certain. Not even the most bloodthirsty would risk the Wye’s ice-crusted clutches. King William’s border—and Nicholas’s as well—was safe.
At least from foreign invaders.
Beside him, Randall cleared his throat. “Er…who would have you saddled?”
Nicholas gave a sigh that sounded put-out even to his own ears. “My betrothed, of course.” Majesty had drank his fill at the stream, and so Nick clucked and urged the horse onward.
“Your betrothed?” The towheaded man drew his mount even with Nick’s as the beasts picked their way over the rocky terrain.
“Aye, Randall. My betrothed.” Nicholas had not planned on revealing his true motive for riding to the village of Obny this night until the deed had been done. He didn’t know what had prompted him to speak his black thoughts aloud, but now that he had, it felt rather good to voice his displeasure with the task he’d set himself to. Any matter, the visit itself was no more than a formality, a courtesy to an old friend. As baron, Nick’s right was a bride of his choosing.
“Once I hear Lord Handaar’s report, I will tell him of my decision to take his daughter as my wife.”
Randall’s hoot of laughter echoed off into the inky sky. “God’s teeth! The blasted cold must’ve frozen my ears, Sire, for surely I did not hear you true. It sounded as though you said you were to take a wife!”
Randall’s jest was like a splinter in Nick’s pride, but he held his temper in check. Had any other man dared make light of the decision Nicholas had made, that man would at that moment be lying on his back with a sword at his throat.
“Aye, those were my words.” Nick blew out another stiff breath, the vapor ghostly white and curt in its own manner. “’Twould seem my mother has proven successful in her incessant nagging—she has managed to convince me that I must now provide the barony with an heir.”
Randall’s chuckles mingled with the hardy breeze and were whisked away. “Ah, well. ’Twas inevitable, my lord. And what better maid could you choose than Lady Evelyn?” Nick heard a rustling and then the soft pop of a cork. A moment later, Randall thrust a leather flask into Nick’s shoulder with a gulp and a hiss. “To the next Baroness of Crane, then.”
Nick seized the flask, but paused before bringing it to his lips. “Bah.” He spat on the ground and then drew deeply at the strong spirits. The liquid expanded down his throat and into his guts with a soothing heat. He handed the flask back to Randall and then urged Majesty down the narrow, rocky path that led to Obny.
Randall continued from behind. “You should be relieved to take a bride as well met as Lady Evelyn. Most only meet their wives the day they wed—you’ve known the lady since her birth.”
Nick merely grunted.
“You’ve spent much time in each other’s company. You get on well, hold many of the same views—I fail to see what catastrophic difference making her your wife will