you're out of bed. Yves!"
Simon's deep, rich voice, full of faint amusement along with genuine concern, was the most comforting
thing Diane had ever heard. She hated it. Hated the yearning to hear his voice that had made her brave
the world outside the shelter of the curtained bed. She hated the comfort she'd craved, and gotten, from
his momentary embrace. She'd woken up wanting him. Wanting him to hold her, to comfort her. To
protect her.
She hated that longing. It made her feel weak and stupid and inadequate. She hated needing him. She
hated the blind trust and faith in the power of Simon de Argent that had been born in her while she
watched him kill a man. She should have been frightened of him. She was, but not because he was a
murderous bastard with a long, bloody sword. She was frightened because she'd woken up wanting to
run to him and hadn't been able to fight that longing for more than a few minutes.
What was wrong with her? She used to be strong, capable, independent. Now she had this deep
feeling that she needed Simon to make everything all right. Just because he'd saved her. Just because
he'd taken care of her. Just because. Now she watched him with hungry eyes while he ordered his
servant about, and longed for him to turn a reassuring smile on her. He did finally, and she basked in the
warmth his attention brought her.
Humiliation for her own weakness twisted inside her. She couldn't give in to the weakness. She had to
fight Simon de Argent's hold on her emotions. She had to stay strong.
It took a great deal of effort for her to turn her gaze to the fire rather than continue to stare at him like
he was the sun, or God, or somebody she could trust.
This place is hell, she reminded herself as the memories of what Thierry had done, and what he'd
promised to do, forced their way to the surfape. They're all monsters. Even Simon's kindness is a
trap. He can't hurt you if you don't care about him.
She hated being weak and vulnerable. She hated herself, and she hated him because of how she felt.
But hatred was good. If she could just hold onto it, she'd survive.
"I've ordered you a bath. It seems I'm always ordering you a bath." He laughed.
She drank in the sound, but she would not let herself turn back to look at him.
"I'll send a serving woman up to help you bathe and dress," he went on. "Come along, Jacques. Let's
leave Diane some privacy."
She heard the old man get up. She heard the two of them move toward the door. She wanted to
chase after them, after Simon, to tug on his sleeve like a child begging a grownup not to leave her alone.
She wasn't a child. She didn't move from where she sat but she did draw her knees up and shake with
terror after he'd left. Fortunately, by the time the servants came in with the water she had managed to get
herself under enough control to get in the tub and try to wash the memory of Thierry's touch off of her.
CHAPTER 11
He'd seen the look on her face. He'd never wanted anyone to look at him like that. Fortunately,
she seemed to be well aware of her actions, and didn't like them any better than he did.
Simon realized that it would be easy to make her love him.
It would be for her own good.
But dependence born out of gratitude had nothing to do with real love.
He couldn't do it.
Simon sighed with relief when the decision was made. He sat back in his chair on the dais and
surveyed the doings of the hall, and tried to decide what he could do. The main room of the castle was
distinctly quiet this morning. People were watching him furtively as they went about their business, trying
to gauge his mood, no doubt. He wished someone would tell him if they decided just what it was,
because he wasn't sure himself. A moment before he'd felt relieved, but now that the decision was made
he was beginning to feel irritated. At least his usual sense of melancholy hadn't had any time to settle on
him since his return to Marbeau.
"Futility, yes," he murmured
Simon's deep, rich voice, full of faint amusement along with genuine concern, was the most comforting
thing Diane had ever heard. She hated it. Hated the yearning to hear his voice that had made her brave
the world outside the shelter of the curtained bed. She hated the comfort she'd craved, and gotten, from
his momentary embrace. She'd woken up wanting him. Wanting him to hold her, to comfort her. To
protect her.
She hated that longing. It made her feel weak and stupid and inadequate. She hated needing him. She
hated the blind trust and faith in the power of Simon de Argent that had been born in her while she
watched him kill a man. She should have been frightened of him. She was, but not because he was a
murderous bastard with a long, bloody sword. She was frightened because she'd woken up wanting to
run to him and hadn't been able to fight that longing for more than a few minutes.
What was wrong with her? She used to be strong, capable, independent. Now she had this deep
feeling that she needed Simon to make everything all right. Just because he'd saved her. Just because
he'd taken care of her. Just because. Now she watched him with hungry eyes while he ordered his
servant about, and longed for him to turn a reassuring smile on her. He did finally, and she basked in the
warmth his attention brought her.
Humiliation for her own weakness twisted inside her. She couldn't give in to the weakness. She had to
fight Simon de Argent's hold on her emotions. She had to stay strong.
It took a great deal of effort for her to turn her gaze to the fire rather than continue to stare at him like
he was the sun, or God, or somebody she could trust.
This place is hell, she reminded herself as the memories of what Thierry had done, and what he'd
promised to do, forced their way to the surfape. They're all monsters. Even Simon's kindness is a
trap. He can't hurt you if you don't care about him.
She hated being weak and vulnerable. She hated herself, and she hated him because of how she felt.
But hatred was good. If she could just hold onto it, she'd survive.
"I've ordered you a bath. It seems I'm always ordering you a bath." He laughed.
She drank in the sound, but she would not let herself turn back to look at him.
"I'll send a serving woman up to help you bathe and dress," he went on. "Come along, Jacques. Let's
leave Diane some privacy."
She heard the old man get up. She heard the two of them move toward the door. She wanted to
chase after them, after Simon, to tug on his sleeve like a child begging a grownup not to leave her alone.
She wasn't a child. She didn't move from where she sat but she did draw her knees up and shake with
terror after he'd left. Fortunately, by the time the servants came in with the water she had managed to get
herself under enough control to get in the tub and try to wash the memory of Thierry's touch off of her.
CHAPTER 11
He'd seen the look on her face. He'd never wanted anyone to look at him like that. Fortunately,
she seemed to be well aware of her actions, and didn't like them any better than he did.
Simon realized that it would be easy to make her love him.
It would be for her own good.
But dependence born out of gratitude had nothing to do with real love.
He couldn't do it.
Simon sighed with relief when the decision was made. He sat back in his chair on the dais and
surveyed the doings of the hall, and tried to decide what he could do. The main room of the castle was
distinctly quiet this morning. People were watching him furtively as they went about their business, trying
to gauge his mood, no doubt. He wished someone would tell him if they decided just what it was,
because he wasn't sure himself. A moment before he'd felt relieved, but now that the decision was made
he was beginning to feel irritated. At least his usual sense of melancholy hadn't had any time to settle on
him since his return to Marbeau.
"Futility, yes," he murmured
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