The Dark One: Dark Knight (35 page)

    
His wife
.

     She would never be his wife. 
I want for
you to be my husband!

     She suddenly wanted him away, out of her
sight, so she could compose herself.  Her resolve to keep everything a secret
fled and she would tell him everything if he would only go away.

     “Rory put crushed apricot seeds into your
wife’s
food,” she said shortly.  “’Twas Dane and Charles who vandalized your
wife’s
room.  The apricot seeds will make her wish as if she could die, but she will
recover fully, I assure you.”  She emphasized the word ‘wife’ every time, using
the term as he had.  She couldn’t help the bitterness that filled her, although
she had no right to feel anything.

     He eyed her, the abrupt manner.  “Thank you
for telling me the truth.”

     He did not leave as she had hoped, but
continued to watch her and she rose swiftly, turning away so he couldn’t see
her face.  The needlework was put aside and she threw open the doors of her
wardrobe, anything to occupy her hands, anything not to look at him.  She was
embarrassed for her outburst, but hurt all the same. 

     She heard his boot falls behind her and she
moved to get out of his way, but he caught her to him fiercely.

     “Nay, madam, you are not going anywhere,”
he whispered, his face not an inch from her own.  He had lifted her off the
ground entirely.  “You do not like the word wife, do you?”

     She pushed against him, succeeding in
freeing her arms.  She was actually angry; she was usually quite good at
controlling her temper.

     “I do not like it when you refer to…her,”
she admitted. 

     “She is my wife, Remi, as much as I abhor
the fact.  I merely use the term to describe her relationship to me and I
certainly do not use the term to make you uncomfortable,” his grip relaxed a
bit and he lowered her to the ground.  “You reacted the same way when the
merchant at the faire called me your husband.  You loathe the titles of husband
and wife, do not you?  They mean nothing but heartache to you.”

     She stopped struggling and her brow
furrowed.  “Is that what you think?  That I hate the titles?”

     “What else am I to think?” he said softly. 
“You hate the term wife because of what it means to you.”

     She shook her head vehemently.  “Nay,
Gaston, not at all.  ‘Tis true I hate being Guy’s wife, but I certainly would
not hate being yours.”

     He looked at her long and hard.  Slowly an
eyebrow rose.  “Is
that
what this is about, then?  You are jealous of a
woman I hate because she bears the title and you do not?”

     Remington suddenly felt like a fool, a
selfish, petty fool.  She closed her eyes against his stare, lowering her
head.  “I am sorry, Gaston.  I did not mean to sound like a spoiled child. 
Please do not be angry with me.”

     He took her face between his great hands,
forcing her to look at him.  Frankly, he was a little stunned; he believed she
hated marriage so much that she would never have considered such a thing to
anyone else.  Obviously, he was wrong.  And he was never wrong.

     “Angel, I am not angry,” he said gently. 
“But I had no idea you felt that way.  I thought you hated marriage.”

     “I hate my husband,” she whispered,
drinking in her fill of his sensual face.  “But I love you.  I always will love
you, wife or no.”

     God, if it could only be.  His lips
descended on hers, sweetly, achingly, hungrily.  He had to taste this woman
until all he could taste was her.  He’d never known he was capable of such
powerful emotion as he clutched her to him, feeling her warmth in his hands and
her fragrance in his nostrils.

     He had not realized he was pushing her
backward with the forcefulness of his actions until she bumped into the wall
and he trapped her, ravishing her lips, her neck, the swell of her white
breasts.  Remington gasped, her hands bracing themselves against his wide
shoulders, her heart pounding a thousand beats a minute.  What the man couldn’t
do to her!

     “Mummy?” Came a distinct yell on the other
side of the adjoining door.  “Mum-
MY
?”

     Gaston’s head came up and he stepped away
from her, adjusting his swollen groin.  Dane burst into the room a split second
later.

     “Charles isn’t playing fair.” he accused. 
“He says knights always lead a siege, but it’s the men-at-arms.  Isn’t it, Sir
Gaston?”

     Gaston gazed over the boy’s head into the
room beyond; he could see small wooden figurines all over the floor and knew a
battle when he saw it.

     “That depends, Dane,” Gaston put his hand
on the boy’s shoulder and walked with him through the adjoining door.  The
ever-elusive Charles stood nervously, his arms crossed, as Gaston entered.

     “Depends on what?” Dane wanted to know.

     “On who is leading the siege,” Gaston said,
looking at the placement of the soldiers.  The “castle,” a wooden box in the
middle of the floor, was surrounded by rushes that acted as the moat.  “Now see
here; you have your troops placed incorrectly.  If you are going to lay siege,
then by all means lay one.  Surround them, boy; do not simply walk up to the
door and knock.”

     Charles crouched down, observing the
layout.  “But is it not correct, my lord, to approach the weakest point in the
fortress?  The drawbridge?”

     Remington stood in the doorway, leaning
against the jamb, listening to the realm’s mightiest soldier discuss tactics
with two young boys.

     “Not always,” Gaston put his hands on his
hips as if he were deep in a war conference. “Each situation is different and
you must evaluate it accordingly.  Tell me; how deep is the moat?”

     “Deep?” Dane and Charles looked at each
other.  “Eight feet, my lord,” Charles replied with a shrug.

     “Good,” Gaston said firmly.  “Not much of a
moat, the fools.  How tall are the walls?”

     “Uh…twenty feet?” Dane said timidly,
sitting cross-legged on the floor.

     “An easy breech,” Gaston said confidently. 
“See here, you must surround this castle and delegate at least thirty men to
build ladders, and begin commencement of flame arrows on the drawbridge.  You
will seize the fortress from all sides.”

     Remington smiled, as Dane and Charles were
terribly engrossed in his instructions, acting as if they were the real
things.  Gaston stood over them, issuing orders without being the least bit
threatening and they ate it up.  She watched as troops were repositioned and
Charles broke up kindling for ‘ladders’ to top the ‘walls.’

     Gaston crouched down as he directed the
boys.  When everything was placed, Dane suggested that Gaston be the lord of
the castle and defend the keep.  Gaston grinned and sat on his bottom, picking
up a wooden man and placing him on top of the box.

     “Make your move, good knights,” he said.

     It was vicious battle.  Blood spurting,
limbs hacked off, all incredibly graphic as Remington watched and listened with
great amusement.  Absently, she wandered up behind Gaston and put her hand on
his shoulder.  He put his huge hand over it.

     “Not now, Remi,” he said, his eyes on the
movements in front of him.  “I am trying to defend my fortress.”

     “Die.  Die.” Dane cried, launching an
effective projectile at Gaston’s lord.

     She smiled at all three of them; scarcely
believing he was actually playing their games.  This man, the Dark Knight, who
never played games but played to win; was by far, the mightiest knight in the
realm.     

     She was deeply touched and warmed by the
sight and decided to leave them to their battle.  But not before she planted a
kiss on Gaston’s head and tousled her son’s sandy hair.  They both ignored her,
as did Charles.  Gaston did not even think to scold her for being indiscreet in
front of the boys.

     Wandering back to her chamber, she left the
door wide open so she could hear them as she sewed.  Not strangely, she did not
get much further on her needlework; her eyes were glued to the massive man with
the soul of an angel.

***

     By the time the nooning meal had come
around, it was unbearably sticky.  Remington and her sisters ate in their room
as ordered, fanning themselves in an attempt to seek some relief from the
humidity.

     Patrick joined them for the meal, sharing a
chunk of bread with Rory.  The tomboy sister was unused to feminine games and
blushed furiously when he complimented her in the least.  Remington watched the
two of them, wondering where Gaston had gone.  She did not want to ask his
cousin, fearing that she would appear too attached to the master.  She knew
theirs was not a public game.

     Jasmine made the suggestion that a swim was
quite in order and everyone agreed except Remington.  She looked to Patrick,
knowing Gaston’s orders had been quite firm, but Rory began to pester him until
he relented and promised to ask.  He quit the room in search of Gaston, but not
before depositing a kiss on Rory’s hand. Rory tried to slap him but he was too
quick for her.

     Gaston was in the outer bailey; one hundred
new recruits had arrived two weeks early from London and he was highly
irritated.  Could no one do as they were supposed to?  Mari-Elle was
supposed
to stay at Clearwell, and these raw soldiers were not
supposed
to be
here for another ten to twelve days.  His mood darkened as Arik, perturbed as
his lord, directed the settling loudly.

     Patrick came upon them, giving the new men
the once-over before turning to his cousin.  “Gaston, I come with a request?”

     Gaston’s face was taut with irritation. 
“From who?  If it is Mari-Elle, tell her to go to the Devil.”

     “Nay, not from your wife,” Patrick replied
with a smirk.  “I come from the masses.  They want to go swimming, with your
permission.”

     “Swimming?” he tore his attention away from
the problem at hand and looked down at his cousin.  “The ladies?”

     Patrick crossed his arms, smiling.  “It is
terribly hot.  Besides, there is no danger of them running into your wife
outside of the keep.”

     Gaston rubbed his chin.  “You have a
point,” he let out a sigh of pure exasperation, his mood irritable.  “Assign a
few knights to go with them; I want you here with me right now.”  He slugged
Arik in the arm, suddenly, pointing to something that had just caught his
attention in the ranks.  Arik was off and shouting at the novice soldiers.

     Sir Roald and two other knights appeared at
Remington’s door not a half hour later.  “I have come to take the fish to the
pond, ladies,” he announced with a wide grin.

     Amid all shrieks and sighs of thanks, the
sisters practically crashed into one another as they hastened to gather linen
towels and other supplies.  Two large wicker baskets were thrust at Sir Roald
and another older knight as the ladies, along with Dane and Charles, preceded
them from the room.

     They had to pass the baileys on their way
to the lake, baileys filled with fresh recruits.  One look at the four women
and the whistles and wolf-calls abounded.  As much as the knights tried to
shield them and they tried to hurry through, it wasn’t quite fast enough to
avoid their attention.

     Gaston heard the whistles and hoots and knew
what had happened.  Taking the ladder to the inner wall two rungs at a time, he
mounted the wall in time to catch a glimpse of Remington scurrying from the
outer bailey with Sir Roald’s arm grasping her protectively.  He did not blame
the men; they were only human and knew a beautiful woman when they saw one. 
But he would have to explain things to them rapidly or there would be more than
one dead soldier.

     The heavy trees were thick with moisture
and everyone was sweating rivers, including the knights in armor.  Rory and
Jasmine broke through the trees first and took off on a dead run for the relief
of the lake, while Skye and Dane bounded after them.  Charles stayed with
Remington and the three knights as they made their way to the huge oak tree, their
usual spot.

     Sir Roald spread a large woolen blanket to
protect the ladies from the ground and sent one knight into the trees to
patrol.  He smiled at Remington chivalrously, backing away to a discreet
distance to keep watch.

     Remington noticed Charles seemed to be
infatuated with the knights.  The lad had never shown any interest in warring
arts and for him to show interest was unusual.  Remington suspected it had
something to do with Gaston’s mock battle that morning.

     “Did you enjoy your time with Sir Gaston
this morning?” she asked.

     Charles nodded.  “Aye.  He’s an intelligent
man.  For a knight.”

     “Then you are not afraid of him anymore?”
she said, arranging her skirts.

     “Nay,” Charles insisted.  “He’s not like I
expected after all.”

     “What did you expect?”