The Dark One: Dark Knight (47 page)

“Take me now, Gaston,”
she breathed.

His lips tore themselves
away from her neck.  “Not yet.”

“Gaston!” she pleaded.

His mouth moved down her
body, to her delicious breasts.  “Not yet.”

“Why the hell not?” she
panted, crying out softly when his lips engulfed a swollen nipple.

His hands massaged her,
pulling at her breasts and pinching her nipples until she was absolutely
writhing with passion.  His massive hands still splayed on her breasts, his
mouth blazed a trail down the center of her torso, losing himself in her scent
and texture.  Every curve was explored with his tongue, every inch touched or
caressed somehow.  He had to experience
all
of her.

His mouth moved to her
tender groin area, tasting and kissing.  His hands left her breasts and he
moved between her thighs, bringing up both of her legs and spreading them wide.

Remington's head came
up, puzzlement in her passion.  “What are you doing?”

He lowered his head to
her throbbing core, a wolfish grin on his sensual face.  Obviously, she would
not have asked such a question if she had experienced what he was about to do. 
There was no mistaking his intentions.  His gentle fingers delicately traced
the dark curls, tenderly spreading the thick folds and Remington's eyes
widened.

“Gaston,” she breathed.
“What are you...?”

She was cut off when his
hot mouth descended on her very private, very sensitive core.  A moan spilled
forth from her moist lips and she arched her back with the force of her
passion, the top of her head nearly flush with the rug.  Frozen in that
position, she could do naught but feel every lap of his tongue, every suckle,
as if nothing else in her world existed, only Gaston and his amazing touch.

His hands held her
buttocks, trapping her against him as he continued his onslaught.  Her sharp
pants of passion excited him beyond belief, driving him nearly insane for want
of her.  As new as she was to the art of love, he knew her peak was seconds
away, and he did not want to miss it. Releasing her buttocks, he arched over
her and drove himself into her hot, slippery flesh in one great thrust.

Remington was already
climaxing as he came into her, only enhanced by his massive organ filling her
as she had never been filled.  His thrusts were firm and complete, prolonging
her pleasure until tears of pure joy ran down her temples.  The harder he
pushed, the more potent her contractions until she began the inevitable
downslide toward relaxed bliss.

His arms were braced on
either side of her head, his body aloft from hers as he rammed into her again
and again.  She was so damn tight and slick that he could imagine no greater
pleasure, for any man, ever.  There was indeed a heaven and her name was
Remington.

When his release came
shortly, it was with the most violent of blasts.  Her name gushed forth from
his lips as he spilled himself, still moving, feeling her juices and his
combine and making her unbelievably wet.  He continued to move, still wanting
to feel her around him, still wanting to be within her until out of sheer
fatigue, he slowed his pace and finally ceased.

With a great sigh, he
lowered himself on the rug and pulled her with him as he went.  She moved to
unwind her legs but he would only allow her to remove one, so he would not lie
upon it.  The other leg he kept wrapped over his hip.

“Nay, madam, remain
where you are,” he rasped.  “I would still feel myself in you.”

Even semi-flaccid, he
was absolutely enormous and she could feel his manhood throb and twitch as it
diminished further.  But it was the most wonderful, intimate feeling ever and
she absorbed every move.  Her lips, against his chest, moved over him softly.

They lay together,
listening to the fire, for a countless amount of time.  Nothing mattered at
that very moment more than them, together.

“Shall we move to the
bed?” she whispered.

He grunted; he had been
dozing off.  “I suppose.  Are you cold?”

She snuggled up against
him.  “Never.  How could I be?  You are as hot as any fire.”

His hand was gently
touching her hair, caressing it against her back.  “But the bed would be more
comfortable than the hard floor.”

He moved a little but
she stopped him.  “I am comfortable wherever you are, my love.  Stay, stay.”

He did, tightening his
arms about her.  They were both dozing off when there was a soft rap at the
door.

Gaston lifted his head,
wary.  “Who comes?”

“Me,” it was Arik.

He looked at Remington
apologetically, mayhap a bit guiltily.  Still embedded in her, he withdrew his member
and put a huge hand over her mouth to stifle the soft groan. She grinned at him
and sat up as he went in search of his breeches.

“My lord?” Arik called
through the door.

“I am coming,” Gaston
said, his words turning to a mumble as he secured his breeches.

Meanwhile, Remington had
moved to the great bed and had hid herself behind the great silk curtains that
hung from the canopy frame. In front of her on the bed was a lightweight cotton
coverlet; she snatched it and wrapped it about her body as added protection.

Gaston gave her a final
glance to make sure she was settled before opening the door.

Arik's face was grim. 
“You are not going to be happy to hear this.”

Gaston's mouth twitched
with irritation. “What, then?”

“Your wife is demanding
that you attend her,” he said.  “Her physician tried to find his way up here to
inform you personally, but was effectively halted by Nicolas.  He insists your
wife is greatly in need of your comfort.”

Gaston snorted. “Hmpf. A
pity. Was that all?”

“Nay,” Arik raised an
eyebrow in silent request for his lord to brace himself.  “The soldiers you
sent to return young Botmore home have returned.  All but one of them is dead,
and he was spared simply to relay a message to you from Lord Botmore.”

Gaston's face went
tense.  He moved back into the room and pulled on his shirt. Arik followed him
and Remington found herself pressing further into the folds of the curtains to
keep out of sight.

“Apparently Lord Botmore
is completely devastated over the death of his son and is vowing revenge on
you,” Arik said, leaning against the canopy post as Gaston pulled his boots
on.  “He not only killed five of your soldiers, but he damn near hacked them to
death.”

Gaston stood, donning
his mail tunic and sliding into a heavy leather vest.  “Too bad his son was
stupid enough to cause all of this, but of course, his father will not admit
it.  The lad brought it down on himself when he kidnapped the women.”

Arik watched Gaston
secure the vest.  “You mean when he captured Lady Stoneley.  You would not have
killed him had he only abducted the sisters.”

Gaston moved to strap on
his scabbard.  “Since when do you read my mind and know my motives?  'Tis a
dangerous sport, Arik, even for you.”

Arik grinned wryly.  “I
have made my life out of dangerous sport, my lord. There is nothing else where
you are involved.”

Gaston slid his massive
broadsword into the crafted leather and metal scabbard.  “Where is my soldier?”

“In the new troop
house,” Arik replied.

Gaston preceded him from
the room, his boot falls filled with purpose. Arik secured the door behind them
and together they marched down the hall.

“I rather like the smell
of roses and lavender,” Arik remarked.

Gaston did not respond
for a moment.  Then he paused at the top of the stairwell and looked at his
friend.  “What does that mean?”

Arik shrugged
evasively.  “Just that.  It mingles well with the leather and metal in your
room.”

Gaston's eyes glittered
dangerously.  “Not another word, Arik.”

Arik smiled; he found it
amusing to see Gaston cornered.  He had smelled Lady Remington from the moment
he entered the room. “My lord, I would sooner cut out my own tongue than
gossip.  Surely you know that. “

Gaston did not say
anymore, descending the stairs and trying to ignore his second in command. He
was positive Arik knew what he was thinking, and he did not want anyone to
know.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Mari-Elle waited and
waited for Gaston to come to her.  Midnight came and still he did not, and she
waited and fumed.

What more could she do?
She had begged, lied, wheedled and cajoled, and still he had been unresponsive.
She had tried to play upon his sympathies for his son, but he had merely become
angry.

Frustrated, she sat up
in bed and pondered her future darkly.  There was not much time left to lie
with him and then convince him that this child was his, and she was nearly out
of ideas.   The fainting spell, convenient as it was, did nothing to sway him. 
Mayhap ... mayhap something more drastic would.

A light ignited in her
devious mind and she bound from the bed, wincing when her lower abdomen pulled
sharply at the sudden motion.  She made her way unsteadily to her wardrobe and
began to rummage again, tossing things aside in her quest.  After a few minutes
of cursing and grunting, she finally had what she was searching for.

A lovely bejeweled
dagger filled her palm, the blade about three inches in length.  She smiled as
she turned it over, examining it.  What if she were to present herself to
Gaston as a woman desperate to take her life if he did not give in to her
needs?  She was quite good and ranting and hysterics, and surely he would
forget his stubbornness when he saw how very sincere she was.

She clutched the dagger
to her chest, feeling more hope than she had since her arrival.  She closed her
eyes, a picture forming in her mind, her hysterical threats, pleas, Gaston's
soft voice, as he coaxed the blade from her hand.  Defeated and crushed, she
would throw herself in his arms and he would comfort her.  From that point on,
she knew she could seduce him.  Once his guard was down, the rest would be
easy.

Donning her best
dressing surcoat, she went in search of her husband's bedchamber.

Remington was asleep in
the great bed, the soft crackle from the fire the only sound in a soundless
world.  She had been planning on returning to her own room, door or no door,
when she had inadvertently smelled the cotton coverlet that she had clutched to
cloak herself.  Inhaling the pillow and the mattress, she was delighted to
learn that they smelled of him, leather and male musk. Happy and warm, she had
collapsed onto his bed and drifted off to sleep. (here)

Mari-Elle, being an
intelligent woman, had little trouble locating Gaston's room.  She simply asked
the nearest soldier and he directed her gladly, for there was no standing
orders to restrict Mari-Elle to her room.  All orders had been given to her
directly and she had been expected to obey.

She entered the dim
wing, following the directions the soldier had given her, and made her way
silently down the hall.  All of the doors were closed save one, which looked as
if it had been torn off its hinges.  She looked at it a moment, puzzled, and
actually stuck her head inside the room. It was a ladies room, vacant, and
though the open adjoining door, she could see another empty bed.

She clung to the stone
wall as she made her way toward the great double doors at the end of the hall,
knowing upon sight it was her husband's room.  Her stomach twisted with nerves
as she approached, silently beseeching God for help with what she must do in
order to preserve her honor and livelihood.

The torches on either
side of the doors burned low and sooty as she tried the latch quietly;
amazingly it wasn't locked, and she quietly shoved the right door open,
carefully inspecting the room as it was revealed to her, trying to grow
accustomed to the dim light.

The fire was low in the
hearth and the room was dark, but she could make out the massive bed directly
to her left.  Huge, swathed in yards and yards of dark fabric that hung from
the canopy frame, she could also see a figure bunched up in the center of it.

She dashed the faint
smile away from her lips as she approached with the stealth of a cat.  She
would wake him gently, aye, before launching into her tirade, and she was
verily pleased that the element of surprise was on her side.