Rise of the Defender (82 page)

     Deborah sighed a regretful, pretty sigh and
looked over her shoulder again as if expecting Marcus to ride up any moment.

     The trip to the dressmaker's had been an
expensive one for Christopher. Dustin had purchased one surcoat that the woman
had ready-made, a surcoat a noblewoman had ordered and neglected to pay for,
and ordered two more for herself and for Deborah. Christopher not only found
himself paying for his wife, but for his sister.

     “When are you going to find yourself a
husband?” he asked Deborah with feigned irritation. “You are an expensive
habit.”

     She grinned coyly. “No one has asked for my
hand yet, my lord.”

     “Hmm,” he eyed her critically. “I believe I
will have to sell you off to the highest bidder to recoup my losses.”

     “I doubt there would be anyone who would
pay such a price for me,” she said.

     “Aye, there is,” Dustin said, knowing
Deborah meant Marcus but not wishing to go into it any further.  “We simply
have to find him.”

     Deborah blushed prettily. “I have a
suggestion.”

     Christopher wasn’t oblivious what his
sister was inferring; he’d known she had her eye on Marcus for months but
Deborah was too much of a lady to broach the subject.  Her latest words had him
eyeing her warily, fearful of Dustin’s reaction if Deborah’s suggestion was
going to be Marcus.  He decided it was best all-around to simply skirt the
subject.

     “You will forgive me if I do not ask for
your suggestion,” he said. “It is my duty to find you a husband and I plan to
select the wealthiest old man I can find so you can spend your days tending his
gout, wiping his dribble, and turning all of his coffers over to me. How does
that sound?”       

     As he’d hoped, the women were properly
distracted. Dustin burst out into laughter while Deborah, grinning, was
mortified.

     “You would not dare do that, would you?”
she asked fearfully.

     He cocked a stern eyebrow. “If you keep
costing me so much money, I will have no choice.”

     Deborah looked worried, eyeing the bundled
dress she held. “Then you can return the dress and get your money back. I do
not want to be a burden.”

     He wasn’t about to return the dress. He
pinched her chin lightly. “You are not a burden,” he told her, “but it is more
than likely that you fear I really will select a fat old husband for you who
lies in bed and farts all night long.”

     Dustin giggled loudly and even Deborah was
smiling. “Like David does?” she asked innocently.

     David, having stayed out of the
conversation to this point, heard her insult. “What is this?” he said,
outraged. “Who told you such lies?”

     “They are not lies,” Edward said from his
other side. “I have seen it for myself. A fearsome and pungent talent you have,
David.”

     David slugged Edward, who nearly toppled
off his charger.  It set the stage for laughing ladies and insults being slung
all around the entire ride back to the castle.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

     Back at Windsor, the hour was rapidly
approaching for supper and Dustin decided that she would attend her first
formal meal in over a week. Christopher was doubtful as to whether or not she
was strong enough, mentally and physically, but he did not want to deny her.
She seemed happy as she and Deborah admired her new surcoat and fussed over
each other as they experimented with different hairstyles, and he was deeply
relieved that she was returning to her happy self.

     There was a knock on the antechamber door
and Christopher left his wife and sister to go and open it. Marcus barged into
the room, dressed finely in his new tunic bearing his coat-of-arms.

     “Well? What do you think?” he demanded,
turning around so Christopher could see the whole thing.

     Christopher was wary of the man's presence
because of his wife's attitude, but he admired the crest just the same.

     “Magnificent,” he said, stepping back to
study it better. The colors were a crimson field with black and gold, the
silhouette of a massive bear with a crown around his right arm and a sword in
his left hand. “Very impressive.”

     “Dud is wearing his tonight,” Marcus said.
“And Sir Stephen Marion had pledged to me this day, of which I am extremely
pleased.”

     Christopher nodded. “The man is a fine
knight, very strong,” he agreed, wondering if Dustin could hear Marcus' voice.

     “And do you know who else has pledged to
me? Sir Dalton le Crughnan,” Marcus said proudly.

     “Le Crughnan? Christ, Marcus, he's the
biggest man in England. How in the hell did you earn his loyalty?” Christopher
demanded.

     “I bested him this afternoon in a fight,”
Marcus said, a huge smile on his lips. “He said he would only serve a man who
could beat him in a fair battle, and I did. He's mine.”

     Christopher shook his head. “Good Christ, I
will never again say a bad thing about you lest le Crughnan come after me to
avenge you. Hell, I do not even know if
I
could have bested him.”

     “He is not such a fearsome animal now that
I have spent some time with him, but Dud is scared to death of the man,” Marcus
said.

     Christopher snorted. “Me, too. He's a
giant.”

     Marcus grinned, glancing past him to the
open bedchamber door. “I hear your wife is up and about. Glad to hear it.”

     Christopher looked quickly at the door and
moved to close it. “She and Deborah are preparing for supper,” he said. “We
shall see you in the grand dining hall this evening.”

     Marcus nodded. “I am relieved she is
feeling better, Chris. How is her mood?”

     Christopher cleared his throat, wondering
how to answer him. “Rotten, at times,” he admitted. “She is still quite
affected by the whole thing, Marcus, so do not take offense too quickly if
she….well, if she isn't acting herself.”

     Marcus agreed, wishing he could at least
speak to Dustin. He had really rushed to their apartments to show her his new
crest and hear her praise, but that would have to wait until supper.

     “Well, I suppose I had better gather my
men,” he said, retreating to the front door. “I shall need them to beat the
women off me now that I have established my own house. I suppose I am
considered quite a catch.”

     Christopher gave him a lop-sided smile.
“Christ, why? Get out of here, you arrogant whelp.”

     “You will help me select my wife, Chris,”
Marcus said. “Considering you landed the most beautiful, desirable woman in the
realm, I will trust your opinion.”

     “Choose your own wife, Burton,” Christopher
opened the door for him. “I shall not be blamed for the poor woman's misery.”

     He closed the door on Marcus and turned to
see Deborah and Dustin exiting the bedchamber. Deborah's face was tight with
emotion.

     “So he wants a wife, does he?” she said.
“Why didn't you mention me? You are so eager to get rid of me.”

     “Deborah, I am not a matchmaker,”
Christopher said firmly. “You and Marcus will have to form your own
relationship without my help.”

     Deborah looked decidedly displeased, but
Dustin's face was cold. Christopher noticed her expression and sought to get
rid of his sister for the moment.

     “Go dress for dinner,” he told his sister.
“Dustin and I will come and retrieve you in an hour or so.”

     Deborah quit the apartments with an injured
ego while Dustin merely turned back for the bedchamber. Christopher followed.

     She was dressed in a long shift, fumbling
with her new surcoat in preparation for wearing it.

     “Are you still angry with Marcus?” he
asked. “He shall be sitting with us at supper tonight.”

     “For Deborah's sake, I will tolerate him,”
she said. “Help me with this surcoat, please.”

     He held the surcoat up for her and she
slipped the luscious gold brocade on, smoothing it over her trim torso as he
did the stays. Christopher stood back a moment, watching her as she observed
herself in the mirror and he let out an appreciative sigh.

     “Christ, you look marvelous,” he said with
approval. “The surcoat was well worth the price.”

     Dustin gazed back at herself; the surcoat
clung to her like a second skin, the wide, scoop neckline barely off her
shoulders and the sleeves long and bell-shaped at the wrist. The skirt was long
and narrow, emphasizing her figure to a fault. She looked like a golden goddess
and Christopher was growing lustier by the minute.

     When she moved to put her hair back, he
stopped her. “No,” he said, putting her hands back to her side. Still looking
at her reflection in the mirror, he ran his fingers through her hair, playing
with it and combing it, until it was a glittering erotic mass. He pushed a healthy
portion of it over her right shoulder, allowing it to cascade over her breast
and hang past her waist, while the rest of her hair hung down her back to her
buttocks.

     She closed her eyes as he touched her, her
heart pounding with excitement and her breathing growing rapid. She loved it
when he played with her hair, relishing his touch. He stroked and touched and
played to the point when he was finished, she was panting for him painfully and
he buried his face in her neck. His arms went about her and she relaxed into
him, feeling his hot mouth kiss and lick at her neck.

     “Chris,” she moaned.

     “What?” he mumbled into her neck.

     “We cannot… well, we cannot
do
anything and you are driving me insane,” she murmured. “Stop this torture,
husband.”

     He stopped only to spin her around to face
him, his hands gripping her arms and his face dark with passion. “Kiss me,” he
demanded.

     She grinned, hearing her own plea in his
words. She kissed him long and hot and feverishly, a kiss of pure desire.

     “Now who is torturing whom?” he asked in a
raspy voice. “I cannot touch you for at least six weeks, the midwife told me
so.”

     “I know,” Dustin replied. “She told me as
well.”

     They looked regretfully at each other for a
moment before he hugged her briefly and pulled away, preparing to dress for
supper.

     “Do not wear that surcoat again until I can
do something about it,” he instructed her firmly, then mumbled more to himself.
“Christ, this will be the longest six weeks of my life.”

***

     William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, and
William Beauchamp, Bishop of Ely, were their supper companions that evening.
Dustin sat between Christopher and David, her husband entirely occupied by the
chancellor and the marshal. David did his best to keep her entertained, but she
was restless and out of sorts. Deborah sat on David's other side and Marcus
next to her.

     Dustin was determined to ignore Marcus. She
could not bring herself to look at him, knowing how he felt, knowing he was the
reason she fell down the stairs. If he had only come up when she had called to
him, she wouldn't have descended the stairs. Aye, she blamed him, although she
knew deep in her heart that it wasn't his fault. Yet she had to find a focus
for her grief, and Marcus made a convenient whipping post.

     All of their friends had made a grand fuss
over Dustin's appearance and she tried hard to be gracious. But her patience
wore thin quickly and she was grateful when the meal commenced. After a fine
supper of meats and winter vegetables, the king's minstrels began the entertainment
with a slow folk ballad and soon the floor was filled with dancing couples.
Dustin watched, remembering her mother had taught her the dance when she was
young, and suddenly wishing her husband would dance with her.

     Marcus made a number of attempts to start a
conversation with her, but she would respond with one-word answers or not at
all. Frustrated, he resorted to conversing with Leeton and Edward, his back to
Deborah, which upset her immensely.

     Ralph was on the dance floor with a very
young, pretty redhead, dancing lightly. Dustin didn't even realize he was there
until he stopped in the middle of the song right in front of her. Christopher,
aware of Ralph's attentions on Dustin, turned menacingly to the sheriff. If the
man so much as mentioned their loss, he would kill him where he stood.

     “I am surprised to see you out and about,
Lady de Lohr,” he said thinly. “From what we had heard, you were near on your
deathbed.”

     Dustin met Ralph's gaze steadily. “Nay,
sire. As you can see, I am well.”

     Ralph had imbibed a bit too much wine. He
pushed his dancing partner away and leaned forward on the table. “Call me not
sire, my lady. Relatives should not be so formal.”

     Dustin looked confused as well as
irritated. “What?”