Chapter Nineteen
Two days after the burial of Rory and Arik, Gaston ordered the wagons readied for the trip to London.
The priest had been cooperative regarding the delay, showing a small amount of consideration for Remington’s loss.
Her two extra days were spent with Jasmine and Skye, and Gaston made himself discreetly distant as the sisters came to grips with their grief.
But the fact remained that she was expected in London and they could delay no longer.
While she spent her remaining hours with her sisters, Gaston made all necessary preparations including all of Remington’s packing.
Eudora packed everything but the bed and he found himself filling an entire wagon with her belongings.
He could have been more firm and demand she lighten the load, but he did not have the heart.
With everything that had happened and everything that she was preparing to face, he would not cause her additional grief.
Gaston found that keeping exceptionally busy helped him deal with the loss of Arik.
Every time he entered the bailey or strode into the dim depths of the knight’s quarters, he expected to be greeted by the familiar face and it cut him deeply that Arik was never to return.
Patrick, fortunately, had come around quickly and had admirably stepped into the post vacated by the second in command. Keeping busy helped him, too.
He had missed Remington terribly these past two days, but he felt strongly that she needed the company of her sisters.
They had slept together at night, not making love but merely holding each other.
When dawn would break, they would eat together silently and Gaston would go about his duties.
She was sad and distant, but her soft body and caressing hands told him how glad she was that he was with her.
With all of his concerns, he still had a keep to run and training grounds to oversee.
Dane and Trenton were becoming used to their role in the scheme of Mt.
Holyoak and the boys were becoming inseparable.
Dane still slept with Arik’s sword, feeling very badly at the deaths of his aunt and mentor.
But he was a brave boy, wise beyond his years, and he found the inner strength to carry on when others around him were preparing to give up.
Gaston knew, one day, he would have an excellent knight in Dane Stoneley.
On the third morning after the funeral, Remington awoke in Gaston’s arms and knew this would be the day she left for London. He had not so much as said a word, but in her heart she knew still.
She was sad to leave her sisters and son after what had happened, but she was eager to face what she must. She was eager to gain her annulment so that she and Gaston could return to Mt.
Holyoak and await the birth of their child.
She did so want the child to be born at her home, not the cold, impersonal rooms of Windsor.
She raised herself, gazing at Gaston’s closed eyes. Delicately, she began to trace his sensual face, delighting in his masculine beauty. It was the first time in days she felt like focusing on something other than herself and her grief.
“If you keep that up, you are going to put me back to sleep,” he mumbled.
She smiled as he opened his eyes. “I do not believe that you sleep at all. You are awake when I drift off at night, and then you are awake when I rise in the morning.”
He sighed wearily, scratching his scalp. “I sleep as a soldier sleeps; aware of every sound and every movement. I do not think I have slept deeply since I was a child.”
She flopped back down, snuggling next to him in the morning chill. “I sleep like the dead,” she felt his hands caressing her, relishing the last few moments of peace before the day began. “When do we leave for London this day?”
He stirred slightly. “When will you be ready?”
“As soon as I bathe and dress, and gather the few things that Eudora did not pack,” she replied. Then she was quiet a moment.
“Might I say good-bye to Dane?”
“Of course, Remi. I’d not be so cruel as to not allow you to bid farewell to your son.”
“I simply did not want to break protocol,” she sat up with a bit of irritation, the coverlet clutched to her breast. “God only knows I would not want to disrupt your military formalities.”
“And you were correct to ask permission,” he saw her annoyance and his lips twitched. “Being most gracious, I granted your request.”
She pursed her lips wryly and he smiled, reaching out to stroke her beautiful hair. “I am sorry we have to leave for London so soon after the funeral. Are you up to this?”
“Do I have a choice?” she shrugged. “I can face this. As long as we are together, I can face anything.”
He sat up beside her, kissing her head quickly as he vaulted from the bed. “That’s my girl,” he found his breeches and pulled them over his massive legs. Remington’s delicious view of his taut buttocks was abruptly cut short as he pulled the trousers to his waist and secured them.
Clad only in his breeches, he moved to the door and summoned a serving wench to bring food and a bath. Remington sighed contentedly, watching his half-nude body parade about. There were few more pleasurable sights in this world.
The tub was brought in by three hearty soldiers and quickly filled. Gaston stood silent watch as the task was completed, his massive arms folded across his chest. Remington simply pulled the covers over her head until the duty was complete and the soldiers vacated the room.
“’Tis safe to reveal yourself,” he told her, reaching for his shirt tossed carelessly over a chair. “I have duties to attend to this morn, but I shall return shortly.”
She bound out of the bed, her sweetly curved body catching the early morning light as she rounded the bed.
He eyed her as he tucked his shirt in, thinking her to be most perfect.
He fought off the urge to grab her as she passed close to him en route to the tub, but he allowed himself the weakness of a distended groan.
His boots went on as she sunk into the tub and he paused, putting his hands on his hips and scrutinizing her closely.
“Madam, if I had any less control, I would join you in your bath,” he said.
She grinned and submerged herself completely, coming up like Venus rising. She wiped water from her eyes, eyes that glittered at him. “Coward.”
His control slipping, he backed away from the tub and strapped on his sword. “Aye, I confess. I am.”
She giggled, splashing water at him and laughing with delight when he scowled threateningly. It was the first time he had seen her laugh in days and he was relieved.
“Any more of that and I take you over my knee,” he said sternly, but they both knew he wasn’t serious.
Gaston moved to the door, passing a lingering glance at Remington. “I shall send Eudora to you.”
“Thank you, my lord Coward,” she said flippantly. “My lord Coward Dark Knight.”
He shook his head at her disregard for his title. “Saucy wench.”
*
Since Gaston had already made all of the necessary preparations for their trip to London, only a few scattered duties remained. He took Patrick with him as he went on his rounds.
“And make sure the men move on to hand-to-hand combat by early next week,” Gaston told him as they moved upon the inner wall.
Down below were nearly a thousand recruits, listening to Antonius lecturing them on the great art of sword-to-shield warfare.
“They’ve completed their shield work and ’tis time to move on.
I have left a schedule to be followed precisely in the solar.
With my absence, you are their trainer now. ”
“I will not fail, my lord,” Patrick replied.
Gaston slanted his cousin a glance, but his face was emotionless.
Since Rory’s murder, Patrick had been the consummate warrior.
He breathed, ate and slept his profession and had kept a distance from Remington and her sisters.
Gaston knew he was hurting, but he was at a loss as to what to say to him.
He had never been very good with expressing personal emotion.
“I will expect weekly updates sent to my manse in London,” he continued after a moment. “I do not know how long I will be in London and wish to be kept abreast of the progress at home.”
“Aye,” Patrick nodded as they paused on the wall, gazing down at the troops. “How long has it been since you have returned to Braidwood?”
Gaston inhaled thoughtfully. “Not since the last we were there together,” he replied. “Shall I give your father a message?”
Patrick’s father was Gaston’s father’s first cousin; their mothers had been sisters. Sir Martin de Russe was a large, loud man who had given up fighting a long time ago. He preferred to stay in London at the de Russe manse, enjoying his wine collection and the ladies.
“Nay,” Patrick shook his head. “No message. And for God’s sake, do not tell him I have command of Mt. Holyoak. He shall insist on coming out of retirement and riding up here to assist me. The last thing I need is my father hanging over my shoulder.”
Gaston’s mouth twisted wryly. “He was the very best when he was young, Patrick. My father and your father were invincible.”
“That was a long time ago. I heard rumor once that the enemy would turn and run at the sight of my father simply because they were afraid to be captured by the most obnoxious man in England,” he snickered softly, looking at his cousin.
“At least Uncle Brant’s reputation was based on his skills and not his mouth. ”
Gaston returned the grin. “Brant de Russe was a terror. I oft admired him for his restraint with Martin. My father must have had the patience of Job not to run his cousin through at times.”
“Do you remember your father, Gaston? I remember very little of him; I must have been five or six when he died,” Patrick asked, pondering his childhood memories.