The Dark One: Dark Knight (72 page)

     Remington was melting like fat on the fire.
Her entire body was liquid, molten, begging for him to relieve her. His
strength was unbelievable; he simply held her aloft while his mouth moved
relentlessly. She wasn't even supporting herself against him; her hands wound
in his thick, dark tresses, encouraging him to ravish her.

     Suddenly he lowered her against him,
bringing his mouth to bear on her sweet, fragrant lips. Their kisses were
feverish, demanding in the coolness of the lake, and Remington wrapped her legs
tightening around his hips, feeling his huge arousal brushing against her buttocks,
seeking.

     He was kissing her so hard she nearly
forgot her own name. His rock-hard shaft was driving her insane, for she could
feel it bobbing and twitching against her as it sought her tender core. She
wanted him in her, his solidity filling her, and she shifted her hips until his
rod found the opening it was looking for.

     She was so hot and wet that he slid into
her easily, stretching wide her walls. They both groaned with the unbelievable
pleasure of it and his hands moved to cup her buttocks.

     “My God, Gaston,” she breathed, arms
winding around his neck. “Surely God is jealous of our bliss.”

     His breathing was ragged, heavy. “I thought
you did not believe in God.”

     She plunged herself down on him and he
growled. “Only God could create you, my love. There is no other explanation.”

     He growled again, latching onto her neck as
he began to move of his own accord. His huge hands covered her buttocks
completely, holding her to him as he slid in and out of her. The friction, the
carnal pleasure, was beyond believing.

     Remington held onto him for dear life,
unable to move because he was holding her so tightly. She gave herself over to
him, the power he aroused in her, and the liquid fire he sparked. The harder he
pumped, the hotter the fire burned until it flared wildly and her muscles
convulsed in an explosion of passion.

     Gaston felt her walls throb, draw at him,
demanding his own release. He tried to prolong his pleasure, but he could not
refuse her demands. He spilled himself with a violent shudder, filling her with
his life. Remington clutched him as if she were drowning, feeling every last
throb with complete ecstasy.

     The water cooled their overheated bodies as
the sun peeked from the eastern horizon, turning the sky pinks and blues. They
held each other as if time had no meaning, though in the back of Gaston's sated
mind, he knew the priest would come looking for them both shortly. His men were
already up.

     “Remi,” he whispered. “Finish your bath and
get dressed. We must be moving on shortly.”

     She pulled her head out of the crook of his
neck, her damp hair curling wildly and her face flushed. She smiled.  “Finish
it for me.”

     His huge hands washed her completely.  From
her head to her toes, she was clean, soft, and sweet smelling of roses and
lavender, and lily-of-the-valley.  For a man of his incredible size, his hands
were gentle as a woman’s and by the time Remington was bathed and dried on the
shore, she was absolutely limp. Never had she felt so completely relaxed or
satisfied.

     He wrapped her up in her dress and carried
her back to their camp, setting her down gently on the furs. Somewhat
recovered, she donned a fresh surcoat from her satchel, a sturdy cotton the
color of a ripe peach. It would wear better on the journey than the standard
silks and satins and was far cooler. It was a simple dress with a rounded
neckline and short sleeves, but the skirt was full and luxurious.

     Gaston dressed silently, glancing at her
every so often. She put a simple gold and topaz belt around her hips and pulled
the front of her glorious hair back, securing it at the crown of her head.
Wispy little tendrils framed her sweet face and he felt like a gushing, silly
fool as he watched her. His heart was liquid, his limbs like mush. He was
absolutely besotted with her.

     They dressed silently, for in truth, there
was no need for words. They were both speechless with their joy.

     Behind them, off to the right, they heard
the bushes moving harshly and a muttered curse now and again. Gaston turned,
quite calmly, to greet whoever was approaching and was not surprised to see de
Tormo propel himself through the brush. His fat face lit up with mild outrage.

     “I thought to find you two together,” he
announced. “Truly, my lord, I thought I made myself most clear regarding the
lady's reputation.”

     “You did,” Gaston answered evenly.  “As you
can see, the lady is not ravished or compromised in any way.”

     The priest rolled his eyes in exasperation.
“Please, de Russe. Do not try and fool me into believing that you spent the
entire night at a proper distance, watching the lady sleep.” he put up his
hands to prevent any explanation. “I do not want to know what happened. Just...
give the lady to me. She will ride with me in the carriage until we reach
London.”

     “Agreed,” Gaston turned to look at
Remington. “Is that satisfactory?”

     She remembered the words they had had
yesterday, how he did not want to speak to her when they were riding together.
A day playing games and chatting sounded pleasant, even if it were with the
priest. Moreover, she would not spend the day irritated with Gaston because he
did not want to talk to her.

     “Aye, it is,” she secured her satchel and
rose, the peach color of the dress emphasizing her beauty magnificently. In
fact, she presented such a beautiful picture that even de Tormo softened his
huffing.

     He held out his hand, taking her bag. “I
have brought several games along.  I hate to travel; it bores me.  Do you play
cards?”

     She passed a glance at Gaston as the priest
took her by the elbow to escort her from camp.  “Aye, I do. But do you have any
dice?”

     De Tormo was shocked.  “Dice?  What does a
lady know of dice?”

     She smiled, amused.  “My sister taught me. 
The sister you buried.  Mayhap your prayers will admit her into heaven, in
spite of her gambling vice.”

     Gaston frowned. “Rory taught you to gamble?
Really, Remi, how uncouth.”

     She laughed softly. “I could probably win
everything of value from you, my lord. She taught me well.”

     He raised a reproving brow. “No future wife
of mine will gamble. Not even with a priest.”

     De Tormo shook his head. “I do not gamble,
not even for fun. Besides, I am not very good at it.”

     Both Remington and Gaston looked at the
priest in surprise and Remington even laughed. “So you have gambled? A man of
God? I am shocked.”

     “Do not be,” de Tormo mumbled. “I have not
lived as piously as some. Come, now, milady. Allow the Dark One to see to his
men and be free of your burden.”

     A huge, armored arm suddenly shot out,
blocking both Remington and the priest. They looked up in surprise to see that
Gaston's face was as cold as ice. The pleasant expression from not a moment
before was vanished.

     “Never, ever think that she is a burden to
me.” His voice was as low as thunder. “She is the reason I am willing to take
on the church. I would walk through fire for her, and I would kill an army of
thousands single-handedly if she were to ask it of me. Never believe that Henry
holds true power over me; this lady that you touch is my reason for living, and
'tis only she who holds my true power.”

     De Tormo was perfectly calm; Gaston had not
offended him. In fact, he was coming to like the Dark Knight a good deal for
his devotion to Lady Remington. So many knights were immoral and corrupt, and
he found it refreshing that the greatest knight in the realm was capable of
deep feeling. He also knew that de Russe expected complete confidence with his
declarations, and de Tormo would see that he got it. He would not betray the
man.

     “I know,” the priest said simply.

     Gaston's gaze lingered on him a moment
longer before he lowered his arm and allowed them to pass. Remington's eyes
were searching and their gazes locked a brief second before she turned away,
paying closer attention to the path ahead of her. But he continued to watch her
as the priest led her off in the direction of the road.

     He had an army to assemble. Emitting a
piercing whistle between his teeth, a scant few seconds later there were
squires and soldiers pouring into his little encampment and the tarp and the
furs were hastily gathered. His squires helped him with his sword and
gauntlets. Readied, he met up with Nicolas and they began to structure the
troops.

***

Remington actually
enjoyed the ride. She and de Tormo spent the entire morning playing a card game
from France, something called Hearts. She loved the game and beat the priest
every hand. To put a little fun into it, she demanded that they play for little
crabapples and the loser had to eat the apples. When the column stopped for the
nooning meal, de Tormo had eaten several under-ripe crabapples and was
literally green himself.

     Nicholas met Remington as she exited the
carriage and he looked stricken to see the ill priest. Remington laughed at
them both, especially Nicolas. As young as he was, he was very emotional and
God-fearing.

     “Do not look so upset, Nicolas,” she said
with a smile. “Where is Gaston?”

     “Busy at the moment,” Nicolas replied. “He
asked that I see to your meal.”

     She sighed, happy to be out of the carriage
and light of heart. She took his armored elbow. “I would like to walk a bit, if
I may. I shall eat standing up.”

     He fed her cheese and dried beef, and a
grand hunk of bread with cinnamon and raisins baked into it. He ate sparingly,
alternately looking over his shoulder for Gaston and watching the lady.
Remington watched his face; he seemed so young, although he was only a year
younger than she.

     “Do you miss Skye?” she asked. “I know she
shall miss you terribly.”

     He cleared his throat uncomfortably and a
faint pink appeared around his ears. “I….aye, I shall miss her.”

     Remington smiled.  “She thinks a great deal
of you, you know. In fact, she's quite smitten.”

     Nicolas looked as if he were going to die
from embarrassment. He had no idea how to respond and Remington was enjoying
his discomfort. She wondered if her sister had told the knight he was going to
be a father.  In her opinion, the man had a right to know.

     “And what, may I ask, are your intentions
toward my sister?” she asked pleasantly.

     His eyes widened and he looked at her.
“Intentions? I…I do not know what you mean, my lady.”

     “What are your plans?” she clarified as if
he were a simpleton. “When do you intend to wed her?”

     Nicolas went from bright pink to sickly
white. “Wed….wed her? We have not talked of marriage, my lady.”

     Remington's frivolity was fading. “Why not?
Surely she has told you of her condition?”

     Nicolas went from a quivering, embarrassed
human to a suspicious, cold man. “What condition?”

     Remington saw at that moment that Skye, nor
Gaston for that matter, had bothered to inform the knight of the pregnancy. She
was suddenly angry at their lack of consideration. “She's pregnant,” she said
flatly. “Did you not know that?”

     Nicolas reeled; he stepped back from
Remington as if he had just discovered she carried the plague. His eyes bugged
and his face was void of all color as he stared back at her. Instead of the
pleasure she expected, a spark of rage ignited behind his dark eyes.

     “If she is, then it is not my child.” he
spat.  We never...I mean, we never actually…Oh, bloody hell.  I never actually
slept with her.”

Remington matched
outrage with outrage of her own.  “What do you mean by that? How dare you
accuse my sister of…of being a trollop!”

     Nicolas was livid. “I did not say that,” he
said. “And what business is our relationship to you, anyway? 'Tis between us.”

     “Oh!” Remington shrieked. Her open palm met
with the skin of his cheek and his head snapped back. “My sister's welfare is
my concern, Sir Nicolas de Russe, since obviously I am the only one who cares
anything about her. And I will not forgive you for slandering her in such a
manner. Of course the child is yours; she says it is yours and she should
know.”

     “And I say I have never... we have never...
I have never truly bedded her in the literal sense!” he exploded.

     Remington froze, her face wide open with
shock and dismay. Her fury was deeper, more powerful, and much less
superficial. The tone of her voice dropped to something low and threatening.
“How dare you speak of her as if she was a whore!”

     “I did not say that.” His voice lowered,
too, but he was still raging. “I never said that.”

     “You did,” Remington shot back with
seething fury. “You said her child is not yours. You may not have called her a
whore in words, but you intimated it.”