Chapter Twenty #7
“I can see by the expression on your face that you indeed wish to,” the priest replied.
She scowled at him, but it was a humorous frown. De Tormo cracked a smile and looked away.
Remington leaned back against the bench of the carriage, letting out a weary sigh.
She was tired of riding and eager to sample the atmosphere of the tavern.
More people came in and out of the business, and she watched them closely.
Most were soldiers, and the women were whores, ready for another night of business.
She watched the women thoughtfully, wondering how a woman could sell her body.
She could not imagine consenting to sex with a man she did not love, paid or not.
But, then again, she had been sleeping with a man she did not love for the majority of her adult life.
Mayhap she was a whore, too, in a sense. After all Guy had called her one.
She shook herself, away from the degrading memories. She would not think on them, although the closer they drew to London, the more terrified she became. To even be in the same city as her husband made her break out in a sweat.
Gaston suddenly appeared at the door of the carriage, his face wet with perspiration. His visor was up as he threw open the door to the carriage.
“Out, my lady, unless you wish to spend the night here,” he said, his mood obviously light. “De Tormo, you will join us.”
“Of course,” the priest slanted him a wry look. “I am my lady’s shadow.”
Gaston raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing as Remington climbed out of the carriage. She turned to look at the inn, her face bright. “Are we truly going to eat at the inn tonight? I have never been to an inn.”
He couldn’t help but grin at her enthusiasm. “Aye, we will be sampling their fare.”
“Are we sleeping there, too?” she asked eagerly.
“Remi, if you slept in the tavern, you would certainly never get any sleep,” as if to prove his point, three loud soldiers and one woman came stumbling out of the door, singing at the top of their lungs. He shook his head in disgust. “You would do much better in camp.”
She looked crestfallen and, to Gaston’s surprise, so did de Tormo. He raised his eyebrows at both of them. “So the two of you would rather stay in a noisy, smelly establishment and not gain a moment’s sleep rather than endure a bit of nature’s canopy?”
Remington lowered her gaze guiltily. De Tormo fixed his eyes on Gaston.
“I could sleep through the return of Christ, de Russe, so noise matters little to me. I am not ashamed to admit that I crave creature comforts, such as a soft bed and a roof over my head. Besides,” he passed a glance at Remington, “I would suspect that you two would spend tonight as you did last night. What better way to be rid of me than to pay for my room at the inn?”
Gaston’s eyes widened slightly. “You would be bribed?”
De Tormo held up a chastising finger. “Not bribe, de Russe. I prefer to call it a gift. After all, you expect my services in London, do you not? My assistance does not come without cost.”
Gaston eyed the short man and Remington held her breath.
De Tormo merely smiled a humorless smile.
“I am not stupid, de Russe. All of the nonsense regarding Guy Stoneley’s devil worship was just that, nonsense.
Young Dane had the consideration to tell me that the tower room was his cousin’s.
I can see that you would go to great lengths to obtain this annulment, and do it any way you can within the legal confines of the church.
Therefore, it would stand to reason that you need me, and you need me badly.
Badly enough to lie,” he looked at Remington; her face flushed, she was staring at the ground.
His face softened somewhat. “I can see the feelings you hold for each other, and I am not so aloof that I did not hear the tales of Guy’s cruelty.
So, in the spirit of true love, I will do what I can for you against the papal counsel.
But I expect to be compensated, and I furthermore expect my advice to be heeded. Do we understand one another?”
Gaston’s smoky gray eyes glittered. “We do.”
“Good,” de Tormo turned for the inn. “I expect a meal fit for a king and the biggest bed in the house. See to it, de Russe.”
Gaston watched the priest walk away, his head spinning with thought.
De Tormo’s manner had been assured, confident, and factual.
There was not the least bit of evil in his tone, and his motives did not appear to be sinister.
He would help them, but he wanted something out of it.
Gaston’s clue as to what that might entail came in the priests own words; creature comforts.
“Oh, Gaston,” Remington breathed, breaking him out of his train of thought. “What have I done?”
He turned to her. “Nothing, angel. In fact, I like his courage. He is not afraid to say what he feels, nor obtain what he desires. I feel we shall have a staunch ally in de Tormo, for he will not give up,” he took her arm, smiling encouragingly.
“Cheer up, love. I have not made a deal with the devil.”