Rise of the Defender (81 page)

     “You almost did,” she said, meeting his
gaze painfully. “I watched you go down in the joust and I thought you were dead
too.”

     He took a deep breath, reaching out
deliberately to clasp her hand. He rolled it over, inspecting it, before
bringing it back to his lips.

     “I will not compete in anymore
tournaments,” he said softly. “I do not want to worry you needlessly. I have a
wife to think of now; 'tis no longer simply me.”

     Dustin's eyes widened. As magnificent as he
was, as powerful and as skilled, for him to make that statement spoke
incredible volumes as a testimony to his devotion to her.

     “But…but you are the champion,” she
insisted, turning the tables in the conversation and focusing on him. “You are
the best, Chris. For you not to compete is a waste of your talent.”

     He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I thought you
would applaud my decision.”

     She lowered her gaze and shrugged. “I
cannot ask you to stop doing what you do, Chris. You are a soldier, and the
very best in the realm. You must maintain that reputation in spite of my
worries. You said yourself that I worry overly, and I do.” She put her hands up
to his face, rubbing his stubble affectionately. “I am very proud of you,
husband. And I love you dearly.”

     He put his hand over hers, dwarfing it. “I
am getting too old to compete, anyway. I would leave it to the younger men who
have not yet established a reputation.”

     She shook her head. “You are not too old.”

     He chuckled at her, remembering what she
had said when she found out how old he was. She grinned, too, remembering her
words as well.

     “Walk with me,” he said in a low tone.

     Her smile faded and she pulled her hands
away. “Nay, Chris. I do not want to.”

     He reached out and pulled her to him before
she could crawl off the bed. “Why, Dustin? You cannot keep yourself locked up
in here the rest of your life. David and Marcus and the others are very
distressed that you will not allow visitors; they miss you. And Deborah is
reduced to tears every time I see her. Why do not you want to see them?”

     “Because I do not.” She struggled against
him, trying to loosen his grip. “I do not want them looking at me, thinking
about what happened, because I will see it in their eyes and I do not wish to
be reminded of it endlessly.”

     “'Tis only their sympathy you will see in
their eyes,” he said quietly.

     “I do not want it,” she said snappishly. “I
do not want their pity.”

     He looked at her but she would not meet his
gaze. She was still clutched against him, stiff and uncooperative, but he
leaned close and kissed her cheek anyway.

     “They do not pity you as a weakling or as a
failure, Dustin,” he murmured. “They simply wish to tell you how very sorry
they are for our loss. They are our friends, our family, and they love us. They
love
you
.”

     Her eyes filled with tears that spilled
over in little rivers down her cheeks. Her angry, defiant stance dissolved and
she relaxed, falling against him. He held her tightly, comforting her, kissing
her, loving her.

     “I cannot,” she sobbed quietly.

     “It's all right, my love, you do not have
to do anything you do not want to,” he assured her. “If you want to stay in
these apartments and rot, then so be it.”

     Her tears turned to choked giggles. “Do not
tease me.”

     He grinned. “I am not. If you want to stay
here and become part of the fixtures, I shall not stop you. But can I bury you
if the dogs start gnawing on your rotting corpse?”

     She let out a cry of disgust and slapped
playfully at him. “That's a terrible thing to say.”

     “So sorry,” he said with mock sincerity.

     She eyed him, wiping her eyes. “You are
not.”

     He stroked her dull hair, watching her
compose herself. “Will you at least bathe this morn and don a clean surcoat? It
might make you feel better.”

     She glanced down at herself, her dirty
shift and robe. She suddenly wondered how Christopher could have stood her
appearance for an entire week.

     “Aye, I shall do that,” she nodded.

     He had the delightful duty of bathing his
wife. She was still rather weak and needed his help to wash her thick hair, but
insisted she was quite capable of soaping her own body. He ignored her
statements and ran soapy hands all over her skin until he was fully engorged
and bordering on miserable. She had lost a substantial amount of weight during
her infirmary, her stomach completely flat and her breasts somewhat smaller,
but her body was as incredibly luscious and desirable as it had ever been.

     The bath did indeed seem to perk up her
spirits and they deteriorated to throwing suds on each other. After receiving
two hefty bombardments of white froth, Christopher grabbed her to him, wet and
all, and kissed her hard. He was miserable when she responded intensely,
pressing her naked breasts against his shirt until he had to let her go or go
mad.

     She smirked at him from her perch in the
tub. “You started it.”

     He raised an eyebrow at her, wiping his
hands on a towel. “Started what? Oh.”

     She was pointing at his swollen crotch and
he turned around so she would not see him. “Get out.”

     She laughed. “No. Turn around.”

     “No,” he said flatly. “Get out of the tub
before you catch chill.”

     She leaned on the edge of the tub, her gray
eyes glittering up at him. “No. Turn around and lower your chausses.”

     His head snapped around and he looked at
her wanly. “No, Dustin.”

     “Then I shall get out and lower them for
you,” she said seductively.

     He gazed at her with disbelief.
“Dustin….no. We cannot you are still weak and....”

     She reached out and managed to grab hold of
his breeches, tugging him toward her. “Come here.”

     He could have easily pulled free of her
grip, but instead found himself responding to her. He didn't want to, but it
was as if some invisible force was pushing him forward, moving for him and he
was powerless to respond. He watched his wife unfasten the stays on his
chausses and release his great organ, helpless to stop her but anticipating her
actions with more excitement that he could imagine.

     Her warm, wet hands fondled his great size
eagerly and when, with an evil grin, her hot mouth plunged down on him, he was
completely lost.

     He never knew he could climax so quickly.
It could not have been more than a couple of minutes and he was erupting
convulsively, his hands entangled in her wet hair and he heard himself
murmuring her name over and over again.

     When it was over, he swept her from the tub
and wrapped her in a giant linen towel. Cradled against him, he carried her
over near the fire and began to dry her off vigorously. She was still grinning
at him.

     “Why are you looking at me like that?” he
asked.

     She shrugged, not answering. He slowed his
rubbing. “Why are you grinning?” he asked.

     Again, she shrugged saucily and he fought
off a grin, returning to toweling her hair. “You will tell me why you are
smirking so or I will wrap you up in this towel and throw you in the hearth.”

     She gave him a look that let him know she
didn't believe him. “I was simply thinking how wonderful you are, that's all,”
she replied. “And how much I like making you submit to me.”

     He gave her his own disbelieving look. “Is
that so? Do you intend to abuse your power, lady?”

     “Never,” she replied, closing her eyes as
he combed out her hair. “Chris?”

     “What, sweetheart?”

     “I would take that walk with you now,” she
said softly. “Can we go into town to the baker's? I have a craving for a sticky
bun.”

     He smiled with relief. “Of course we shall
go. But we will ride if you want to go into town.”

     “Can David and Deborah and the others go,
too?” she asked.

     Mildly surprised at her turn of heart, he
spun her around to face him. “If you wish it, of course. Are you sure?”

     She nodded. “Aye.”

     He smiled and kissed her head. “David and
Edward and Leeton should be at the training grounds,” he said thoughtfully,
setting the comb down. “But I do not know where Marcus is. I shall send
someone....”

     “No,” she said firmly.

     “What do you mean?”

     “I mean that I do not want Marcus to come
with us,” she said, her joviality slipping as she turned away from him and
toward the wardrobe.

     He observed her stiff back. “Why not?”

     Her eyes met his insistently. “Because I do
not…I do not want to see Marcus Burton ever again. I hate him, so leave it at
that.”

     He put his hands on his hips. “I will
not
leave it at that.” His eyes narrowed. “Does this have something to do with your
accident?”

     She didn't answer him as she went to the
wardrobe and began fumbling with a surcoat.  He approaching the wardrobe.
“Answer me, Dustin. Does this have something to do with your fall?”

     Her head snapped up to him, her face dark.
“He was there.”

     “Aye, he was there, at the base of the
stairs,” Christopher agreed. “He is not responsible for what happened.”

     She turned around and ripped a pair of
slippers from the wardrobe. “I do not want to see him ever again, Chris. Tell
him, or I will.”

     “I do not think you are being fair,
sweetheart,” he said quietly. “Marcus is devastated over what happened. He
feels terrible.”

     “He should,” she snapped, but clamped her
mouth shut and pulled her shift over her head.

     Christopher watched her angry, jerky
movements a moment. For some reason, she blamed Marcus for her loss but he
could not understand why other than the fact that the man simply happened to be
there when it occurred. He wondered if she blamed him because he did not, or
more correctly, could not help her.

     Whatever the reason, he knew Dustin to be
somewhat reasonable and knew that with time, she would forgive and forget.

     At least, he hoped so.

***

     They made quite a caravan. Christopher, in
full armor along with David, Edward, Leeton and Dud, escorted Dustin and
Deborah into London simply because Dustin was dying for a sticky bun. To be out
in the fresh air, although quite freezing, was refreshing nonetheless and
Dustin's pale face received color simply from the icy chill that turned her
nose and cheeks red.

     Michaelmas was upon them and the streets
were lined with decorations and happy people. Old snow congregated in the
gutters and stank with the sewage, but Dustin was feeling much better with her
outing. In fact, she actually felt like shopping, much to Deborah's delight.
Christopher would have bought the bloody White Tower for her if she wished it,
anything to raise her spirits.

     David led them all to a delightful bakery
on the outskirts of town. All seven of them entered the small, warm
establishment and Dustin proceeded to eat two sticky buns, two chunks of hot
bread with apple butter, plus a slice of dark bread with butter, nutmeg and
honey. The more she would eat, the more the fat baker would feed her.

     Sick she was so full, Dustin and Deborah
whole-heartedly agreed to visit the popular dressmaker on the other side of the
Thames. Christopher wasn't thrilled about taking a ferry across the frozen
river, but agreed to keep her happy. They proceeded to the river's edge and he
wrapped her in his arms to keep her warm as they waited for the river boat.

     “Now that you are drunk on bread and
sweets, you intend to spend all of my money?” he teased her.

     She nodded firmly. “All of yours, and all
of David's, and all of Edward's, and…”

     Edward shook his head. “I will have my own
wife for that soon enough. Leave me out of this.”

     “But your wife is only three years old,
Edward,” Dustin said. “I must prepare you for what is to come.”

     He snorted. “By the time I marry her, I
will probably die of heart failure the first time she spends an extravagant
amount.”

     They laughed and joked as they waited, but
Deborah seemed distracted. Finally, she turned to her eldest brother.

     “Where is Marcus?” she asked.

     “At Windsor,” he replied, careful of what
he said. “The last I saw, he was working with a group of squires in the
jousting field.”

     “Why didn't he come?” Deborah asked.

     Dustin's mood sank again, but she said
nothing. Christopher felt her press closer against him. “Because I did not tell
him we were going into town,” he told his sister. “He's very busy, Deborah.”