The Dark One: Dark Knight (71 page)

     “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, not 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 though 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.”

     She grinned in spite of herself, feeling
very pampered as she sat under the tarp. He had spread out furs and one of her
satchels was serving as a pillow.

     Remington sat and watched as he ate the
entire rabbit, followed by a half a loaf of bread and a bladder of watered
ale.  She leaned up against his back, staring dreamily into the fire, feeling
her fatigue but not willing to give into it yet.

     The conversation was light, and Gaston
actually did most of the talking in between bites.  He said nothing of the
afternoon when he had dealt her a most grievous insult, and she truthfully
forgotten about the incident. Her lids grew heavy as he droned on, lulled by
the rich quality of his voice. It wasn't long before she was dozing against his
back.

     He felt her relax against him and wiped the
grease from his hands, turning slightly to pull her against his chest. She
startled at the jostling, but he soothed her. “It's all right, angel. Go back
to sleep.”

     She was so tired she could barely keep her
eyes open. “But I do not want to. I want to hear more of your trip to Paris.”

     He lay back on the furs, pulling her cloak
tightly about her as she snuggled into the curve of his torso. He was so warm
it was like sleeping against a furnace. “I shall tell you more of Paris
tomorrow night, I promise. Sleep now, love.”

     “What happens when de Tormo awakes and finds
me missing?” she mumbled.

     “He is a smart man and will surely suspect
where you are,” Gaston replied, holding her tightly.

     “Won't he be angry?” she was nearly asleep.

     “Nay,” he shushed her, closing his own
eyes. “Go to sleep.”

***

     She awoke before dawn. The sky above the
trees was a pale gray, as the sun had yet to break the horizon. She was alone
on the furs and stirred a bit, looking around to see where Gaston had gone. He
wasn't far.

     Stripped naked but for his breeches, he was
washing his neck and torso with a rag and a bar of soap. Remington sat up
slightly, her sleepy eyes focused appreciatively on his beauty. Lord, the man
was so well formed that he was nearly too perfect to be mortal. As massive as
he was, everything on his body was well-proportioned and flawless. She watched
him shove his head into the basin of water and lather it with soap before
finally rising to her feet.

     “Here, my love, let me help you,” she said
softly.

     He turned to look at her, upside-down. “Why
are you awake? ‘Tis not dawn yet.”

     She smiled, pushing her sleeves up. 
Batting his soapy hands away, she continued to lather his hair with gentle
fingers.  Without a word, she poured water from the basin on his head until the
soap cleared.

     He shook his head like a wet dog and
grabbed a linen towel, wiping his face and drying his hair. Remington dried her
hands on the towel as he stood straight, drying off his neck.

     “I am sorry if I woke you,” he said softly.

     “You did not,” she replied, admiring his
physique.  “I grew chilly without you beside me and woke up.”

     He smiled faintly, shaking his head again. 
“I slept like a dead man last night.  I cannot remember when I last slept so
well.”

     She took off her cloak; the weather was
temperate in spite of the early hour.  The humidity almost made it cloying.  “I
heard a stream bubbling last night.  Where is it?”

     He tilted his head off to his left.  “Not
merely a stream, but a small lake.  ‘Tis very pristine and calm.”

     A lake. Nature's bathtub. Remington went
back to the tarp and rummaged into her satchel, bringing forth the cake of
scented soap Gaston had brought her. With a faint grin, she turned to him. “I
think I shall have a bath, too.”

     He watched her gather a few things. “'Tis
chilly, Remi. And the lake is sure to be freezing.”

     She simply smiled; she knew she would not
be alone in the water and wasn't worried about the chill.

     He followed her though the bush, still only
half-dressed. When she reached the edge of the lake, she drew in a breath at
the sight; limestone cliffs edged the water nearly halfway around, and the
shore was of sand and not dirt. It looked heavenly.

     Her silk dress came off, as did her
stockings, slippers and shift. Stepping clear of her garments and grabbing her
soap, she plunged into the cool waters of the lake and began frolicking like a
fish.

     He stood on the shore, entranced as he
watched her splash about. She could swim better than anyone he had ever seen,
floating way out in the middle of the lake and lathering an up-stretched leg at
the same time. Her glorious hair was slicked back on her head, making her big
eyes look even bigger. The erotic sensuality of the situation grabbed at him,
flooded him, and the more she swam, the hotter he became.

     Remington heard a splash from the shore and
knew Gaston would soon be upon her. Hands were suddenly touching her legs from
under the water and she giggled as Gaston surfaced an inch from her face.

     “You already had your bath,” she admonished
softly.

     “Aren't you cold?” he asked, his voice
raspy.

     She shook her head and smiled.

     His eyes were smoky with passion. “Give me
the soap.”

     Obediently, she handed it over and he
worked it into a thick froth before massaging it into her hair. She closed her
eyes briefly, his attention sending bolts of fire though her limbs.

     “Hold on to me,” his voice was a husky
whisper.  “You shall tire yourself treading water.”

     She latched onto him, aware that he wasn't
moving in the least; he was standing on the bottom of the lake.

     He washed her hair within an inch of its
life. She submerged herself completely, rinsing her hair, until Gaston pulled
her up to the surface. He brought the wet hair to his nose, inhaling the
special scent and running the strands between his lips. Remington watched him,
forgetting to breathe, only aware of the liquid fire filling her veins.

     She kissed him fully, her hair still on his
lips. The bar of soap floated away on the surface of the lake as he clutched
her fiercely to him, kissing her fully and deeply as that of a man starving. He
couldn't get enough of her.

     Somehow amidst the kissing and suckling and
tasting, they managed to move inshore. When the water level lowered to her
waist, he scooped his huge hands under her armpits and lifted her high, meeting
her breasts with his eager mouth.

     Remington gasped with the raw sensuality of
his touch, his actions.  She brought her legs up, wrapping them around his
chest as he held her body aloft.  Her woman’s center brushed against his
sternum, the coarse hair taunting him into wild arousal.  But he was not ready to
leave the sweetness of her breasts as of yet; they had teased him mercilessly
all day yesterday and he would taste his fill before moving on to more
delightful areas.