The Dark One: Dark Knight (25 page)

     She blushed prettily and Gaston nearly
exploded.  But he kept his calm demeanor, rounding the chargers to stand next
to Roald, several feet back, scrutinizing the knights, arms crossed to make
their arms bigger and even more imposing.

     Dane scooted to his mother and Remington
took his hand affectionately.  “Dane, do you remember Sir Derek Botmore of
Rainton?”

     Dane shook his head, suddenly shy, and Sir
Derek laughed.  “Thank God he looks like you and not his father,” he said,
leaning forward in his saddle. “Say, I heard a nasty rumor that Guy was thrown
in the White Tower after Bosworth and that Mt. Holyoak is occupied by Henry’s
arm.  What about that?”

     Remington’s smile faded.  “Sir Gaston de
Russe is our lord now,” she said evenly.

     Sir Derek sat back in the saddle, his brow
furrowed in deep thought.  “De Russe?  De Russe?  Christ, Calvin, where have I
heard that name?”

     “The Dark Knight,” the knight on his flank
said assuredly.  “You have heard of him, Derek.  The bastard that betrayed
Richard and turned the tides at Bosworth, among other things. He and Matt
Wellesbourne go hand in hand when speaking of traitors.”

     Derek waved him off. “The White Lord cannot
be grouped with de Russe,” he told him. “There is a reason why they call the
man the Dark Knight. He is pure evil.”

     Remington’s light mood was gone.  She hated
to hear these men speak so callously of Gaston, even though they spoke the
truth.  She had never asked him about Bosworth because she honestly did not
care; she knew him to be a fine, noble man and knew he must have had his
reasons for what he did.  Whatever the reason, though, it did not matter to
her.

     “He is an excellent lord, Calvin, and I
will not hear you say such horrible things about him,” she said firmly,
motioning to the two knights behind Derek and Calvin, as well.  “Surely you are
no angel yourself, any of you.  George, Robert, do not try to hide behind your
visors for I know it to be you.  Cowards who chose to pursue the tournament
circuit rather than fight for your king.”

     Sir Derek put up a hand to silence her. 
“To each his own, Remington. Calvin meant no harm,” he said.  “As to your
accusation of cowardice, I beg to differ.  It takes a good deal of bravery to
fight in tournament after tournament against men who are trying to skin you
alive.”

     “The same as with on the battlefield, only
we get paid for taking risks,” Calvin cut in with a grin.  “If I am going to
risk life and limb, I want to be well-compensated.”

     She shook her head, the mood entirely
broken.  “You are nothing but little boys.  Get out of my sight before I take
you all over my knee.”

     Derek’s face brightened lewdly.  “Me,
first.”

     Gaston had all he could take from the young
idiots.  He stepped forward but was caught off guard when Dane latched onto his
leg as if afraid of the men who were speaking to his mother.  Astonished, he
put his hand on the boy to reassure him but continued forward. 

     “Be gone with you,” he growled.  “You have
taken enough of the lady’s time.”

     The four men were startled by the deep
voice and pure size of the man; Gaston found it hard to believe that they had
failed to notice him until this moment.

     Remington turned to look at him, visions of
him snapping the soldier’s neck on her behalf filling her mind.  She was
suddenly fearful that Derek’s life was in jeopardy, as well.

     “Sir Gaston, this is Sir Derek Botmore,”
she said quickly.  “His father is Lord Botmore, one of the more powerful barons
in Yorkshire.  They have a large fortress just south of Rainton.”

     “Sir Gaston?”  Sir Derek repeated in a
whisper.  “
The
Sir Gaston?”

     “Your father is expected to meet with me
soon.  I do not want to see you with him when he comes to my keep,” Gaston
said.

     Derek’s mouth opened in outrage, and then
quickly shut it again.  “If that is your wish, my lord, then I will oblige
you.”

     Gaston did not reply.  Derek eyed him for a
moment longer before looking to Remington.

     “Remington, always a pleasure,” he said
with a forced smile; he was truly frightened of the massive man with the
legendary reputation.

     “That is Lady Remington to you, pup,”
Gaston took another step forward.  “You will show no disrespect to the lady of
Mt. Holyoak.”

     Derek cleared his throat and slammed his
visor down.  Reining the chargers a wide berth around Gaston, he and his
companions lost themselves in the crowd as they headed for the tournament
arena.  Gaston turned to watch them go, patting Dane again after a moment.

     “Arrogant whelps,” he mumbled.

     Remington was watching him.  He turned to
look at her, seeing an expression he had never seen before; her eyes were
smiling and her face was almost seductive.  There was nothing particular about
her expression for she wasn’t truly smiling; it was simply the
way
she
was looking at him.  His visor went up for the first time since their arrival.

     “What is it?” he asked quietly.

     “Not a thing, my lord,” she replied, a
smile creeping onto her lips.

     He was jolted by the entire action, his
body tingling with excitement.  Before he could press her further, she coyly
lowered her lashes and turned away.

     Dane let go of his leg but slipped his hand
into the great mailed glove.  Gaston held his hand tightly as they followed
Remington along the line of merchants.  Roald, the men-at-arms, and the horses
brought up the rear.

     Woodcarvers tried to sell them items both
useless and common.  A merchant dealing in weapons tried to convince Remington
that she needed an exquisite bejeweled dagger, but she giggled and politely
waved the man off.   There were jugglers and acrobats parading up and down the
avenue to a long pole, and then balanced the pole on his chin as Dane clung to
the chair for dear life.  Gaston firmly indicated for the man to put the lad
down, and he did so.  But then Dane begged to be put aloft again and Gaston
rolled his eyes, moving the child along before he demanded to join the circus.

     Remington watched her son and Gaston
together, the affection that was evident between them.  Dane acted as if Gaston
were the most important person in his life and she completely understood; he
had never had a true father, nor a real male figure to look up to.  He was
completely in love with Gaston as only a little boy could be.

     Her heart warmed at the interaction, at
Gaston’s uncanny ability with the boy.  She could see what a wonderful father
he was and it softened her and hurt at the same time.  She greatly envied
Mari-Elle de Russe her husband, for it was something Remington would never have
the pleasure of knowing.  A man to love her son, and to love her.  Once she
never even thought of such unattainable things, but seeing Gaston with Dane not
only made her think of it, it made her
want
it.  The thought was enough
to bring tears to her eyes.

     A perfume merchant made her forget her
tears as he tried to sell her on everything he had.  She sniffed at a couple of
bottles, but nothing caught her attention.  Gaston pushed his way forward and
picked up one of the bottles, inhaling deeply.  Dane maneuvered between his
mother and the knight, watching them both eagerly.

     “You do not smell perfume like that.”
Remington admonished softly.  “You sniff it delicately, two or three times to
better digest the scent.”

     He looked at her seriously and took her
advice with the next bottle.  His eyebrows lifted with mild approval and he
held it out to her for her opinion.

     “Ah, lady, your husband knows a fine scent
when he smells it,” the merchant gushed.  “See if you do not approve of his
taste.”

     Remington looked at the man in shock; she
could barely smell the vial Gaston was offering to her.  Strangely, her
breathing grew rapid and her insides twisted painfully at the one word the
merchant had used;
husband
.  He called Gaston her husband.

     It suddenly hit her that she wished for it
to be true.  Somehow, in the two weeks she had known him, something completely
wonderful and utterly devastating had happened.  He had endeared himself to her
completely as her savior, her hero, her friend, and her son’s idol.

     She was in love with him.

     She did not want to love him.

     “Ah, I see your son has his father’s
features,” the merchant continued recklessly.  “See if he holds his father’s
good taste, as well.  See if he likes the perfume, too.”

     Remington felt a painful shock go through
her and suddenly she was reeling away from the table, rushing away blindly with
no destination in mind, simply to get away.  She couldn’t control the tears
that were gushing freely now, not even knowing why she was crying, but that she
was.  Every emotion she had ever felt was magnified ten-fold by the merchant’s
words, the slap of realization painful to her soul.

     Gaston tried to catch her as she whirled
away but Dane stood in the way.  Quickly, he set the vials down and passed the
boy off to Roald.

     “Stay here,” he told them.

     She had dashed behind the vendor’s shacks
and he followed, walking quickly but not running because just one of his
strides equaled three of hers.  She was several yards ahead of him, dashing
into a heavily tree-lined park that was surrounded by peasant huts.

     She ducked behind a thick oak.  He could
still see the rose of her surcoat and saw that she had come to a halt, and he
slowed his steps accordingly.  Quietly, he came up on the tree and made sure he
was in plain view as not to startle her.

     She was sobbing against the trunk, her face
pressed into her crooked arm.

     “Remi, what on earth is the matter?” he
asked gently.

     She had heard him approach, knowing that he
would come for her, but she truly wanted to be alone.  She could not comprehend
the myriad of emotions taking their toll on her spirits.

     “Go away,” she cried softly.  “Please,
Gaston, just go away.” 

     “Not until you tell me why you are crying,”
he said.  “Was the perfume really that bad?”

     She choked out a laugh among the sobs, but
it was short-lived.  He waited patiently while she cried, wanting earnestly to
know why her heart was broken.  In the back of his mind he suspected a reason,
but he was reluctant to pursue it.  He was fearful to know if she was crying
because the merchant had called him her husband and she loathed the idea.  But
something inside him needed to know.

     “Are you upset because he called me your
husband?” he said softly, moving closer to her.  “It was an innocent mistake. 
He saw us together, and Dane, and naturally assumed we were a family.  Is it so
terrible?”

     “No,” she burst out, turning her face to
him and stumbling back against the tree trunk.  Her beautiful face was red with
tears and intense feelings.  “It’s not terrible at all.  That is the problem,
Gaston.  I….”

     She stopped dead in her tracks and all
sobbing ceased, her eyes wide at him. Shocked as she was that she had almost
spilled out the contents of her mind, she sniffled and stepped away from him
quickly, wiping at her face.  “I…just do not like being reminded that I have a
husband,” she whispered, although that was not what she was thinking. 
I
want my husband to be you.

     His brows drew together in faint concern
and he removed his helmet, tossing it to the ground.  Slowly, he pulled off one
of his gauntlets.  “Is that all?  There is nothing else?”

     “Aye,” she said, her voice squeaking and
her lip quivering. 

     His gaze devoured her for a moment and she
was positive he could read everything she was thinking.  They were hidden
behind the oak tree, surrounded by undergrowth from prying eyes, and his huge
head came up to her cheek.  “I do not believe you.”

     She burst into tears right then and there. 
He pulled her up against him, sorry for the very first time in his life that he
was wearing armor.  He did so want to feel her against him.

     He cradled her as she bawled like a baby. 
“Tell me, angel.  What is so terrible that you cry as if your heart is broken?”

     Her hand was partially covering her face,
her cheek against his cold armor.  Her sobs were open, painful, and she felt
him kiss her forehead and lay his cheek against the top of her head.  It undid
her even more until she could hardly breathe through the force of her sobs.

     “Slow down, angel,” he whispered against
her forehead.  “You are going to make yourself ill.  Slow down and breathe and
tell me what the matter is.”

     How could she tell him?  She had never been
able to verbalize her feelings because she had so deeply suppressed them.  She
had no idea where to begin, or how to lie to him, because she was terrified to
tell him the truth.  But she had no control over her mouth for a moment.