Chapter Fifteen #3
“My lady, will you reconsider awarding prizes tomorrow?” he called. “John is most anxious that you do it.”
Dustin waited for Christopher to answer for her, looking up at him when he didn’t. She could only see his eyes and the bridge of his nose through his raised visor. He was looking at her.
“Do you want to?” he asked.
She was shocked but after a moment, managed to nod once. Christopher turned to Ralph.
“Tell John that my wife will grant his wish,” he said. “She will be most gracious and award trophies and, considering I will win all, she will be awarding them to me.”
They left Ralph standing alone in the stands with a shocked look on his face for a change.
Christopher took her around the other side of the arena where their squires and a few soldiers were camped.
The knights were trailing after them, like a protective group, and Dustin was having a difficult time looking at her husband.
She was incredibly confused as they came to a stop near a horse corral.
“Why?” she finally asked.
Christopher glanced at her. “Why did I allow you to award prizes?” he removed his helmet. “You heard my reasons, I gave them to Ralph.”
She looked up at him a moment, trying to determine his true motive, but could read nothing on his stoic face. She found a stump and sat on it.
“Why are you fighting Marcus?” she asked, quieter.
Christopher looked at her. He had a feeling Ralph had come to gloat. “Marcus is a baron now, a title granted by the prince last night. In return, he is championing the prince in the tournament tomorrow.”
She lowered her head, not uttering a sound and he knew she was deeply upset.
As he gazed at her, he knew he had to tell her the truth of the circumstances.
To keep it from her would further destroy what was already badly damaged between them, and he very much wanted to repair it. He crouched down next to her.
“Dustin, I will not be fighting him,” he said softly. “Marcus had an…accident this morning and he is unable to compete.”
“Accident? What sort of accident?” she looked at him suspiciously.
“He broke his sword hand,” he replied softly.
Dustin was concerned. “Is he all right? How did he do it?”
“He will be fine,” Christopher replied, avoiding her second question. “Tell me, my lady, would you like to go to the Street of the Jewelers later today? I promised you a trip.”
She shook her head. “Nay, I do not feel like shopping.”
He raised an eyebrow. He repressed an urge to leave her alone to her self-pity, instead resorting to a seldom-used tactic; he begged.
“I would like you to come with me,” he said softly, gently. “Please?”
She shook her head again. “Nay, I do not want to go,” she repeated.
That was as much begging as Christopher was going to do. Abruptly, he rose and began fumbling with his armor. There was frustration and disappointment to his movements. Dustin watched him from the corner of her eye first, then more openly, watching his sharp and rather reckless movements.
“Do you really hate Marcus?” she asked.
“Nay,” he replied. “I do not. I never did.”
“Do you hate me?” she questioned.
He came to a halt and looked at her. “Of course not, Dustin. I could never hate you.”
She stood up, her body rigid and her beautiful face intense. “Then tell me you forgive me or tell me you will never trust me again before you take another breath,” she pleaded. “I cannot go on with this any longer, Christopher.”
He stared back at her. “Is it so important that I forgive you? Are you not satisfied to let things pass over?”
“Nay, I am not,” she said passionately. “I will not have this between us, not for the rest of our lives. I will not have a seed of bitterness or a gram of mistrust that you can throw back in my face.”
“Why would I do that?” he asked, puzzled. “But if it is so important to you, then I do forgive you.”
“And Marcus?” she pushed.
He lowered his gaze, pretending to busy himself with his helmet, but she reached out and stopped his hands, her fingers curling around his great mailed gloves. He tried not to look at her but he knew he was fighting a losing battle. Their gazes locked and she lifted her eyebrows.
“Do you forgive him?” she whispered, enunciating each word.
“Would you have me forgive him?”
She nodded firmly so there would be no mistake. Christ, as he looked into the depths of her haunting gray eyes he knew at that moment that there was nothing on earth he wouldn’t do for her.
“Then I do,” he whispered.
“Will you tell him or shall I?” she asked.
“I will when I see him,” he replied, trying to shake off the effect her gaze was having on him.
She shook his hand, trying and succeeding to regain his attention. “Nay, Christopher, you will tell him now.”
“Dustin, I am not yet finished with my bouts and…..”
She cut him off. “The man is crippled, Christopher. ’Twould greatly improve his outlook to know that you do not carry a grudge,” she said softly, her tone honey to his ears.
“And know this, husband; a clandestine relationship takes two people. Even if Marcus were willing, which he was not, I certainly would not jeopardize my marriage to you by taking part. ’Tis you I love, husband, not Marcus Burton. ”
He stared back at her, her words sinking in.
’Tis you I love, husband. Her words filled him more than he ever thought possible, hearing it again from her and knowing that this time, she meant it.
She wasn’t ill or sleepy. She was clear-headed and rational.
When she smiled as if to emphasize her words, he came apart, kissing her happily more times than he could count, listening to her giggles and sighs and, finally, her soft pleas to stop.
Her arms were wound around his mailed neck, her face against his beard.
“I am so glad you do not hate me,” she whispered against his cheek.
He kissed her chin. “Dustin, there is nothing you could possibly do to make me hate you,” he replied. “I am so sorry for the things I said. I didn’t mean them.”
“I know,” she rasped, cuddling against him.
His kisses slowed and he grew thoughtful. “You said something to me last night, something that has irked me ever since.” He relaxed his hold and she slipped down to stand on her feet. “You said that sex is all we have between us. It isn’t, is it?”
She shook her head and put her fingers on his lips to quiet him.
“I just told you I love you, Chris. Obviously, there is more than a physical relationship on my part.” Her smile faded.
“But what about you? When I asked you, you gave me a pretty speech that I still find difficult to understand. You said love was difficult to achieve and that it took time. It took me less than a week to know that I loved you. Is that enough time?”
He grinned and kissed her fingers. “It is.”
She caught his knowing grin, eyeing him. “And?”
“And what?” he said with good-natured evasiveness. “Do you wish me to tell you that I would die for you a thousand times over? That I worship the ground you walk on? That I find myself living simply to see your smile, to hear your laughter, to feel your fist on my jaw?”
She giggled, closing her eyes briefly and drinking in his words happily. “Aye, tell me all that and more,” she breathed. “Tell me you love me.”
His smile faded and his grip tightened, his blue eyes boring into her. “I do. More than anything.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t truly expected to hear him admit it and she was surprised, but at the same time an overwhelming sense of elation swept her and she smiled broadly. She grabbed his beard and shook his head gently.
“Then say it, Chris,” she demanded softly. “I would hear those words from your lips.”
He pulled her to him, nipping at her ear. “In time, sweetheart. But know that I do.”
She would be satisfied with that for now. She did not understand why it was so hard for him to utter the words, but it mattered naught. He admitted his love and she was delirious with joy.
“Now we must go and find Marcus,” she said, pulling away from his probing lips.
“Now?” he repeated, his thoughts lingering more on seeking their bedchamber.
“Now, Chris,” she said firmly. “He feels terrible, I know it.”
Christopher gave her a long look before sighing with reluctance. “Very well.”
He took his wife’s hand and escorted her to the low, squat outbuildings that housed visiting knights.
The knight’s quarters were cool and dark as the two of them entered, the smell of the corridor dank.
As they progressed, she became apprehensive, wondering if Marcus would throw them both out on their ear.
But she had to try; she was sure if she hadn’t hounded her husband then he would not have come. The man’s pride was legendary.
Christopher stopped before an iron-clad door and gave a sharp rap. They heard Marcus’ voice demand identification of the caller.
“ ’Tis me, Marcus,” she said softly before Christopher could respond. “Dustin.”
After several moments they heard the latch to the door lift and slowly, the door swung open.
Marcus’ pale face loomed in the door, his right hand bandaged almost to his shoulder. His eyes were riveted to Dustin, and then with surprise they focused on Christopher. But there was no emotion whatsoever and the silence was uncomfortable.
“We came to see how you are faring,” Dustin offered, feeling the tension rise. “I am so sorry you had an accident. Is it bad?”
Marcus looked at her a moment before opening the door wide and allowing them entrance.
“It’s bad enough, my lady. I will not be fighting in the tournament tomorrow,” he replied politely.
“What did the physician say?” Christopher asked.
Marcus didn’t look at him as he pulled up a chair for Dustin. “That it is broken.”
“How bad?” Dustin asked, concerned, her lovely face upturned to him.
Marcus sat on his bed. “Bad,” he said with a nod of his head. “Very bad.”