Chapter Twenty #2
He chuckled low and kissed her tenderly, a kiss that suddenly ignited a passionate response and it was no time before their tongues were tussling erotically. From the trees, they heard a polite cough.
“The men are assembling, Gaston,” Nicolas said.
Gaston glanced at his cousin. “Nicolas, tether her palfrey. The lady will ride with me.”
Surprised, Nicolas bowed and strode away. Remington smiled, stroking Gaston’s face.
“He told me you always ride alone,” she said softly. “Except for Arik, sometimes.”
Gaston lost some of his mirth then. He kissed her again and let her go, handing her a hunk of sweet bread before wadding up the food sack.
Remington ate the bread slowly, watching his distant movements.
It only reaffirmed her ideas that he was terribly torn by Arik’s death.
But Gaston was a man of few words, and other than his declarations of love, she had never heard him voice any other emotion.
Anger, hatred, sorrow; he kept them well concealed.
It was sticky in the trees, even with the canopy cover. She could hear the voices of the men on the road as they came to order and she knew the time for departure was close. Gaston turned to her, adjusting his helm.
“Any necessary business before we leave, madam? I shall not stop again until after sundown.”
She nodded, shoving the last of the bread in her mouth and gathering her skirts. After relieving herself in the bramble, she rejoined Gaston.
He was gazing down at her, his expression returning to the stone-cold facade she had first encountered the very first time she had met him.
It was the frontage of the Dark Knight, the perfect warrior, and the man who intimidated the hell out of her.
It was almost as if there were two different personalities in one man.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded her head and he took her elbow gently, leading her back to the road.
“De Tormo has appointed himself your guardian until we reach London,” Gaston said quietly.
“Do not be alarmed if he seems solicitous. After we reach London, our visits together are likely to be closely watched and I want you to prepare yourself for the reality that the church might not allow me to see you at all at some point.”
She looked stricken. “But…why? Why would they keep us apart?”
He kept his voice down. “Because you are another man’s wife, Remi. The church must do what is morally right until this can be resolved. I told you this would not be easy, love, but we will have to do what they dictate until the proceedings are over.”
She frowned, greatly distressed at the prospect of being separated from Gaston. “Why did not you tell me this before we left for London? You never mentioned any of this.”
He shrugged. “I saw no harm in keeping certain facts from you. After all, you were suffering tremendously and I did not want to add to your distress. But know it now, Remi, and prepare,” he paused by Taran and faced her.
“You must be strong, as I know you are. No complaints, no tantrums. Just be a good girl and do as you are told, and we shall overcome. Very well?”
She made a face. “I shall try. I do not like any of this, but I shall try.”
He smiled and lowered his visor with a clang. Just as he was preparing to lift her aboard Taran, de Tormo came bustling up.
“What are you doing?” he demanded of Gaston.
Gaston turned to the priest, nearly half of his own great height. The imposing helm was closed, rendering Gaston most fearsome, but de Tormo wasn’t deterred. He wanted an answer to his question.
“The lady is fatigued and asked to ride with me,” Gaston replied, knowing even as he said it, de Tormo would refuse the request. And he would have to obey.
“She may ride with me in the carriage if she is tired,” de Tormo replied. He held out his hand to Remington. “Come, my lady. We shall play a card game if you are well enough.”
Remington had never been stubborn a day in her life. She had always done what was asked of her, no matter what it was. Refusal was only met with pain, she had learned, and therefore had learned never to balk at an order.
She looked at the priest, wanting so terribly to ride with Gaston that she almost slapped the hand away.
But she could not; it was not her way. She would have liked to reason with the priest but she knew he would have his way in the end.
She could think of nothing to say, and the man was waiting for her expectantly.
She did not want to ride with him; she wanted to ride with Gaston.
Whether it was the heat, or her still-tender emotions, or her pregnancy, she did not know. But suddenly her instincts told her to play on the priests’ sympathy, and play she did. She burst into a flood of pathetic tears.
Gaston put his hand on her back comfortingly as she sobbed, perhaps a bit exaggeratedly.
De Tormo started to speak to her, but she cried louder and blotted out his words.
Her pretty hands were on her face, shielding her expression from the men.
De Tormo tried to speak to her again, but she wailed loudly and turned her back on him, sobbing her heart out.
It was a fine display of hysterics, she thought, and hoped the priest would give up and leave her alone.
She was getting a headache with all of her forced wailing.
Much to her pleasure, the priest did indeed give up. Exasperated, he waved at Gaston and made his way to the rear of the column. Only when he was well out of range did Remington cease her tears. With a sly glance at the figure of the priest a distance away, she turned back to Gaston.
“I am ready,” she said without so much as a catch in her voice.
He stared at her through his lowered visor. “Are you…what did you do?”
She smiled brightly, wiping at the moisture around her eyes. “I believe I just gained permission to ride with you. Are you going to lift me up or must I mount myself?”
He let out a hiss. “Remi, you little devil. I ought to take a switch to you.”
She rubbed at her bum. “It is already sore. Lift me up, my love.”
He did, and mounted behind her. Lifting her a bit so she was seated on his thigh armor instead of the saddle, he lifted his fist in a silent gesture to move out.
Remington snuggled back against him, unaware of how uncomfortable he was to have her riding in front of him.
He liked to be totally focused on his surroundings, keeping his eyes and ears open for any dangers.
Were he to be attacked at that very moment, both he and Remington would have been extremely vulnerable.
He found he was actually nervous as they continued along the road.
“Where will you be staying in London?” she asked softly.
“My family has a manse along the Thames,” he replied. “And do not talk while you are riding with me. I must not allow my attention to be diverted.”
“Diverted from what?” she asked curiously.
He sighed sharply. “From any threats. Please, Remi, do as I ask. If you wanted to talk, then you should have ridden with the priest.”
Offended, she stiffened. “Next time I will.”
He smiled faintly behind his visor, hoping she would indeed ride to the rear tomorrow and not ask to ride with him again. He would rather slit his own throat than tell her he did not want her riding with him, but he was truly uncomfortable with her sweet body seated in front of him.
She did not say anything for the rest of the ride.
The army stopped well after dark near the small town of Featherstone and Gaston ordered a perimeter established and sup to be prepared.
Dismounting, he pulled Remington down after him and held her steady while she regained her footing. Still, she did not speak.
De Tormo came and escorted her away, and Gaston’s gaze lingered on her a moment before he immersed himself in camp preparations. It wasn’t until very late that he sought her out again.
She was swathed in her silk cloak by the fire, the flames playing off of her colorful hair. De Tormo and a few other papal servants had drifted off to sleep on the ground, while three other men played a game of dice several feet away.
Remington glanced up when she heard the noise of his approach, but looked away when she saw who it was.
“Did you eat?” he asked, his voice low like distant thunder.
“I did, my lord,” she said stiffly.
He moved closer to the fire, removing his mail gloves. He had taken off the heavy armored gauntlets long ago because they were difficult to work in.
“Are you ready to sleep, then?” he asked, his voice softer.
She refused to look at him. “I will go to sleep when I am ready, my lord. On the bed my guardian prepared for me.”
He glanced over by the carriage; de Tormo had fashioned her a very nice bed out of cushions and cloth. But she would not be sleeping there tonight; he had pitched a comfortable, private tent for the two of them and he was anxious to be alone with her.
He reached down and pulled her to her feet. “With me, madam.”
She yanked free from his grasp. “I think not. You told me to be good and obey and….”
He clapped a hand over her mouth, his eyes intense. “You shall wake the priest if you do not keep your voice down.”
He pulled her with him into a thicket of dense brush.
Somewhere, Remington could hear water bubbling and knew a brook was close by.
He continued to lead her further away from the camp until Remington could see a small fire flickering in the distance.
The closer they came, she could see a neat tarp strung up among the bushes and the fire had a spit over it, roasting some sort of animal.
Her annoyance with him fled. Suddenly, she was very eager to be alone with him, to cuddle the night away.
“Did you make this little camp?” she asked softly.
“I did,” he tossed his mail gloves to the ground and unlatched his breast plate. “I even caught the rabbit.”