Chapter Ten #2
Remington’s mouth twitched. “Isn’t it true an ill person usually turns sallow? Yellow, as it were?”
He eyed her a moment, turning his eyes out of the window again. “What did you put in her food that is making her so ill?”
“I did not put anything in her food, my lord,” she said. “I was never near her trencher.”
He pursed his lips irritably. “Fine, then, what did Rory put in her food? Or Jasmine? Or Skye?”
She fixed a delicate stitch before answering. “I do not know, my lord.”
“Remi,” he shifted on his huge legs. “I am growing weary of this game. Simply answer my questions, if you would.”
Her eyes came up, wide and guiltless. He felt as if they were sucking him in. “I am answering your questions. What am I not answering?”
He raised a slow eyebrow and she could read that he was serious. “You are answering, indeed, but you are giving me no answers at all. I want to know who has done this to my wife.”
She felt as if she had been slammed in the chest by his massive fists, for suddenly she couldn’t breathe.
Her head went down sharply and her hands fumbled with the material shakily.
She had no idea why she reacted so sharply to his words; what had he said?
There was nothing to upset her other than the fact that he called another woman his wife.
His wife.
She would never be his wife. I want for you to be my husband!
She suddenly wanted him away, out of her sight, so she could compose herself. Her resolve to keep everything a secret fled and she would tell him everything if he would only go away.
“Rory put crushed apricot seeds into your wife’s food,” she said shortly.
“’Twas Dane and Charles who vandalized your wife’s room.
The apricot seeds will make her wish as if she could die, but she will recover fully, I assure you.
” She emphasized the word “wife” every time, using the term as he had.
She couldn’t help the bitterness that filled her, although she had no right to feel anything.
He eyed her, the abrupt manner. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”
He did not leave as she had hoped, but continued to watch her and she rose swiftly, turning away so he couldn’t see her face.
The needlework was put aside and she threw open the doors of her wardrobe, anything to occupy her hands, anything not to look at him.
She was embarrassed for her outburst, but hurt all the same.
She heard his boot falls behind her and she moved to get out of his way, but he caught her to him fiercely.
“Nay, madam, you are not going anywhere,” he whispered, his face not an inch from her own. He had lifted her off the ground entirely. “You do not like the word wife, do you?”
She pushed against him, succeeding in freeing her arms. She was actually angry; she was usually quite good at controlling her temper.
“I do not like it when you refer to…her,” she admitted.
“She is my wife, Remi, as much as I abhor the fact. I merely use the term to describe her relationship to me and I certainly do not use the term to make you uncomfortable,” his grip relaxed a bit and he lowered her to the ground.
“You reacted the same way when the merchant at the faire called me your husband. You loathe the titles of husband and wife, do not you? They mean nothing but heartache to you.”
She stopped struggling and her brow furrowed. “Is that what you think? That I hate the titles?”
“What else am I to think?” he said softly. “You hate the term wife because of what it means to you.”
She shook her head vehemently. “Nay, Gaston, not at all. ’Tis true I hate being Guy’s wife, but I certainly would not hate being yours.”
He looked at her long and hard. Slowly an eyebrow rose. “Is that what this is about, then? You are jealous of a woman I hate because she bears the title and you do not?”
Remington suddenly felt like a fool, a selfish, petty fool. She closed her eyes against his stare, lowering her head. “I am sorry, Gaston. I did not mean to sound like a spoiled child. Please do not be angry with me.”
He took her face between his great hands, forcing her to look at him. Frankly, he was a little stunned; he believed she hated marriage so much that she would never have considered such a thing to anyone else. Obviously, he was wrong. And he was never wrong.
“Angel, I am not angry,” he said gently. “But I had no idea you felt that way. I thought you hated marriage.”
“I hate my husband,” she whispered, drinking in her fill of his sensual face. “But I love you. I always will love you, wife or no.”
God, if it could only be. His lips descended on hers, sweetly, achingly, hungrily. He had to taste this woman until all he could taste was her. He’d never known he was capable of such powerful emotion as he clutched her to him, feeling her warmth in his hands and her fragrance in his nostrils.
He had not realized he was pushing her backward with the forcefulness of his actions until she bumped into the wall and he trapped her, ravishing her lips, her neck, the swell of her white breasts.
Remington gasped, her hands bracing themselves against his wide shoulders, her heart pounding a thousand beats a minute. What the man couldn’t do to her!
“Mummy?” came a distinct yell on the other side of the adjoining door. “Mum-MY?”
Gaston’s head came up and he stepped away from her, adjusting his swollen groin. Dane burst into the room a split second later.
“Charles isn’t playing fair,” he accused. “He says knights always lead a siege, but it’s the men-at-arms. Isn’t it, Sir Gaston?”
Gaston gazed over the boy’s head into the room beyond; he could see small wooden figurines all over the floor and knew a battle when he saw it.
“That depends, Dane,” Gaston put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and walked with him through the adjoining door. The ever-elusive Charles stood nervously, his arms crossed, as Gaston entered.
“Depends on what?” Dane wanted to know.
“On who is leading the siege,” Gaston said, looking at the placement of the soldiers.
The “castle,” a wooden box in the middle of the floor, was surrounded by rushes that acted as the moat.
“Now see here; you have your troops placed incorrectly. If you are going to lay siege, then by all means lay one. Surround them, boy; do not simply walk up to the door and knock.”
Charles crouched down, observing the layout. “But is it not correct, my lord, to approach the weakest point in the fortress? The drawbridge?”
Remington stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, listening to the realm’s mightiest soldier discuss tactics with two young boys.
“Not always,” Gaston put his hands on his hips as if he were deep in a war conference. “Each situation is different and you must evaluate it accordingly. Tell me; how deep is the moat?”
“Deep?” Dane and Charles looked at each other. “Eight feet, my lord,” Charles replied with a shrug.
“Good,” Gaston said firmly. “Not much of a moat, the fools. How tall are the walls?”
“Uh…twenty feet?” Dane said timidly, sitting cross-legged on the floor.
“An easy breech,” Gaston said confidently. “See here, you must surround this castle and delegate at least thirty men to build ladders, and begin commencement of flame arrows on the drawbridge. You will seize the fortress from all sides.”
Remington smiled, as Dane and Charles were terribly engrossed in his instructions, acting as if they were the real things.
Gaston stood over them, issuing orders without being the least bit threatening and they ate it up.
She watched as troops were repositioned and Charles broke up kindling for “ladders” to top the “walls”.
Gaston crouched down as he directed the boys. When everything was placed, Dane suggested that Gaston be the lord of the castle and defend the keep. Gaston grinned and sat on his bottom, picking up a wooden man and placing him on top of the box.
“Make your move, good knights,” he said.
It was vicious battle. Blood spurting, limbs hacked off, all incredibly graphic as Remington watched and listened with great amusement. Absently, she wandered up behind Gaston and put her hand on his shoulder. He put his huge hand over it.
“Not now, Remi,” he said, his eyes on the movements in front of him. “I am trying to defend my fortress.”
“Die. Die,” Dane cried, launching an effective projectile at Gaston’s lord.
She smiled at all three of them; scarcely believing he was actually playing their games. This man, the Dark Knight, who never played games but played to win; was by far, the mightiest knight in the realm.
She was deeply touched and warmed by the sight and decided to leave them to their battle. But not before she planted a kiss on Gaston’s head and tousled her son’s sandy hair. They both ignored her, as did Charles. Gaston did not even think to scold her for being indiscreet in front of the boys.
Wandering back to her chamber, she left the door wide open so she could hear them as she sewed. Not strangely, she did not get much further on her needlework; her eyes were glued to the massive man with the soul of an angel.
*
By the time the nooning meal had come around, it was unbearably sticky. Remington and her sisters ate in their room as ordered, fanning themselves in an attempt to seek some relief from the humidity.
Patrick joined them for the meal, sharing a chunk of bread with Rory.
The tomboy sister was unused to feminine games and blushed furiously when he complimented her in the least. Remington watched the two of them, wondering where Gaston had gone.
She did not want to ask his cousin, fearing that she would appear too attached to the master. She knew theirs was not a public game.