Chapter Thirty
Gaston and Remington slept past dawn the next morning, unusual for both of them. The babes were taken care of by a wet nurse throughout the night, giving the exhausted parents time alone.
A stray beam of sunlight pierced thought the gap in the heavy curtains, hitting Gaston right in the eye.
He twitched, rolled away from it, but by that time he sleepily realized Remington was out of his arms and he rolled back over to correct the situation.
The bright light was annoying and warm on his eye once again.
He muttered a curse and burrowed down into the covers, burying his face in the back of Remington’s neck. Unfortunately, all of his fidgeting awoke her and she sighed heavily.
“Gaston, stop moving,” she mumbled into her pillow.
He grumbled something into her hair, pulling her tighter. She lazily opened her eyes, noticing how radiant the room was and wondering what time it was. She reached behind her and touched him.
“Wake up, Gaston. It’s late.”
He did not say anything for a moment. Then, he blew out a heavy breath and raised his head, squinting in the brightness. “Too damn brilliant. My eyes hurt.”
She sighed contentedly and he pecked her on the cheek, propping himself up on an elbow.
“It is going to be warm today,” he murmured, seeing the deep blue sky beyond the windows.
Then he looked down to Remington’s dark head.
“When will you be ready to leave? If we depart before noon, we should reach Oxford just after nightfall.”
“I can pack within an hour or two,” she said, rolling on her back to look up at him. “How long can we visit Dane and Trenton?”
“Not long,” he brushed away a wild strand of her hair. “Just for the day, angel. The sooner we get to London, the better.”
She nodded reluctantly, feeling the warm breeze already wafting through the windows. “I am not looking forward to the interrogation, Gaston.”
He played with the same strand of hair. “I know. But you and your sisters are excellent students. You know your story, and you will stick to it. As long as you do not waiver, we will have your annulment by next month.”
“I hope so,” she murmured. “But I am still afraid.”
“Of what?” he tossed back the coverlet, revealing a body as large and tanned as hers was petite and white. “You worry overly, Remi.”
She watched him sit up, the rippling muscles in his broad back. Vaguely, she shrugged. “There is much to worry over.”
“Not for long,” he said, pulling on his breeches with a grunt. “We will be over and done with this madness before the end of summer, hopefully. And then we will be married.”
He dressed efficiently, quickly, as soldiers do. She sat up in bed to watch him finish with his boots, tugging at his tunic and strapping on his sword. He was not wearing any armor at all, an extremely rare state for him.
“What do you do now?” she asked.
“I have an entire keep I have not seen in over a month,” he said.
“I intend to make my rounds before our departure, just to make sure Antonius and Nicolas have not run Deverill into the ground. And since they are accompanying us to London, I want to make sure the keep is in excellent hands before we leave.”
She hugged her knees, smiling. “Uncle Martin will be surprised to see Skye and Robert, won’t he? I wish I could stay with him until this is over.”
“No,” he said flatly. “Uncle Martin is in love with you. You will never be alone with him again.”
Her eyes widened. “Do not jest with me like that. ’Tis a terrible accusation, teasing or not.”
“’Twas no jest, I assure you,” he paused a moment when he saw her outraged expression, hands on his hips.
“Remi, why do you think he trailed you to St. Catherine’s, intent on following you to your end destination?
I nearly had to wrestle him from the convent, and with the mood I was in following our argument, I nearly tore his head off.
I would not be surprised if he refuses to speak with me for the rest of his life. ”
She looked at him with uncertainty, feeling vastly uncomfortable at the new knowledge. “You must be mistaken, Gaston. On both accounts.”
He gazed at her a moment before bending down and depositing a sweet kiss on her lips.
“Mayhap on the latter, I am. I would hope so. But as far as my original allegation, I most certainly am not. Even Nicolas agrees with me.” He moved for the door.
“Rise and pack, love. And tell your sisters to pack hurriedly,” he stopped and pointed a finger at her as he opened the door.
“And limit the trunks we must carry. One per lady, please.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Impossible, my lord. Have pity.”
“No,” he said firmly. “We are not a merchant caravan. One trunk for each of you.”
He winked at her and shut the door.
Remington sat a moment, a faint smile playing on her lips. Without another wasted minute, she bound from the bed and called for a bath.
*
Nearly two hours later, bathed, hair washed and drying, Remington scurried down the hall to Skye and Jasmine’s rooms to make sure they were almost complete with their packing.
She knew Gaston would return shortly and she wanted to be able to leave as soon as possible.
The sooner they left, the sooner she would see Dane.
She supervised the men-at-arms who had come to take the trunks down to the waiting wagon. As promised, each lady had only packed one large trunk, but that did not prevent them from packing several smaller bags and satchels to carry a myriad of other necessities.
Jasmine and Skye were thrilled to be going to London.
Dressed in the finest surcoats they owned, they chattered like magpies while the soldiers took their baggage.
Remington, dressed in cream satin and gold, shushed them in between relaying orders to the soldiers; that bag on top, do not turn this one on end, and whatever you do, do not let that one fall.
Gaston lumbered up the stairs, eyeing his soldiers as they descended, laden down like porters. The first person his gaze fell on was Remington.
“I told you one trunk,” he said with a cocked eyebrow.
“Aye, you did,” she met him evenly. “And we only packed one trunk a piece. But you said nothing of traveling bags, Gaston. Not one word.”
Jasmine and Skye cowered behind Remington as Gaston drug a hand wearily over his face.
“By God, madam, you know exactly what I meant,” he jabbed a finger at her.
“If all of the bags do not fit within the confines of the wagon, that is your misfortune. Those that do not fit will be left behind, for I will not consign another wagon. Do you understand?”
She smiled, taking hold of his arm and softening his harsh stance. “Perfectly, my love. Not to worry.”
He tried to remain stern, but she won out and he cracked a smile. He patted her hand as they walked toward their chambers. “I would take a bath before we leave. I fear I am smelling as badly as de Tormo.”
“Not that bad,” she slanted him a glance. “But I think a bath is a fine idea.”
Shortly, the huge copper tub was brought and filled with steaming water.
Gaston complained that it was too hot for a hot bath, but Remington insisted and ordered him into the water.
Careful as to not muss her fresh dress, she donned a heavy apron and washed him from his head to his feet.
Gaston was scrubbed, rinsed, and rubbed until his body was weak with pleasure from the attention.
Had they not been on such a tight time frame, he would have ripped Remington’s clothes off and bedded her that moment.
As it was, he was sorely distended and she laughed at his discomfort.
“Hmpf. You laugh, madam,” he grumbled, standing up in the tub as water rushed off him.
She giggled, helping him dry off with a heavy linen towel. He dried his hair vigorously, watching her as she selected his clothes. Something she was holding caught his attention.
“What is that?”
She turned to him, holding up a lightweight linen tunic of an off-white color. “A new tunic I made for you. Do you like it?”
He blinked. Did he like it? He always wore black. Always. This was… white. “It’s… nice, Remi.”
She lowered the tunic, eyeing him with a slight smirk. She knew exactly what he was thinking. “I am tired of seeing you in black, Gaston. Black, black, black! There are other colors, you know.”
He shrugged, throwing the towel down and moving to his breeches. “I have never thought so. I have never worn anything other than black, even as a lad. Why do you think they call me the Dark Knight?”
“Because you are blood brothers with Lucifer?” she teased, holding the tunic out to him. “Please try it on. I want to see how it fits you.”
He took it from her, hesitantly. He turned to the polished glass mirror, holding the tunic up in front of him. “It looks as if it will fit well enough. What did you use for a model?”
“Your horse,” she quipped, motioning impatiently. “Put it on.”
He pulled it over his head, straightening it just as Remington had. She ran her hands all over his chest, tugging at the shoulders, pulling at the hem. A slow smile spread across her face as she observed her handiwork. “Put your sword on. I want to see how it looks belted.”
He strapped on his sword, the studded black leather belt and the matching scabbard.
The entire time, he watched himself in the mirror, thinking he looked terribly strange in the light color.
It was peculiar, as if he were looking at another person.
He wasn’t at all pleased until he looked at Remington’s expression.
She was smiling the most wonderful smile. “Oh, Gaston, you look magnificent. I have never seen you handsomer.”
Her expression, her obvious delight, made him take a second look. “Truly?”
“Yes!” She rushed to their chamber door and before he could stop her, she was calling eagerly to her sisters. He started to protest weakly, but almost instantly Skye and Jasmine were rushing in, exclaiming favorably at his new tunic.