Still standing on the steps, Remington watched and waited, waited and watched. The man outside on the huge armored destrier continued to remain stationary and the tension and confusion in the bailey rose. They were the victors and obviously they had met with no resistance– why did they not come in?
“What are they waiting for?” Jasmine whispered.
“I do not know,” Remington shook her head, apprehensive as well as confused. “Mayhap they expect me to go to them.”
“Do not go to them.” Rory snapped. “Make the bastards come to you, Remi.”
Jasmine shushed her younger sister harshly as Remington gathered her skirts. “I suppose there is only one way to find out. If they trample me with their chargers, bury me in my gold silk, will you please?”
Jasmine gave her sister a wry smirk, watching her closely as she crossed the outer bailey. Her strides were confident and proud, not at all timid as was her mood. The eyes of the young and old were on the straight, elegant back and the cascades of rich, colorful curls.
Remington’s eyes were trained on the largest knight. She could only assume he was the leader and walked directly for him. She let go of her skirts because her palms were sweating so badly she was positive she would leave stains on her coat, but she held her head high and tried not to maintain any sort of an expression. She had grown very good at masking her emotions and she drew upon the practice. But, in faith, she was fairly terrified by the time she crossed the drawbridge with soft, dainty footfalls.
In the distance, thunder rolled like the devil laughing and a chill shot up Remington’s spine. Icy wind whipped harsher about her, lifting her hair as if it had a mind of its own. The force of the gale met her head on, plastering her surcoat to her body and outlining every curve and flare blatantly, giving the knights full views of her round breasts and womanly hips.
Her green surcoat streamed out behind her like a wildly waving banner. She came to a halt several feet in front of the men, her heart pounding in her ears and fighting the urge to sway in terror, but she lifted her face expectantly. Patiently, she waited for the monstrous man to speak.
Gaston looked down at her. From the moment she had exited the castle in the brilliant green dress, his eyes had been drawn to her. When she crossed the bailey toward him, her body erect and proud, he had been riveted to her as he had never been riveted to anything in his life. Her hair was magnificent and her body, outlined by the wind, was beyond description. Pleasing was a grossly inadequate word. But it was her face, when it came into full focus that hit him hardest of all.
An angel, was his very first reaction.I am looking into the face of an angel!
The angel was waiting respectfully for him to speak, but in faith, he did not trust himself to. He forced himself to cool as unhappy confusion swept over him. Why did he react like that to her? By God’s Bloody Rood, he’d never reacted to a woman in his life! They were nothing more than breeders of men, the inferior sex with minimal intelligence. True, some could be beauties, but they were a worthless lot for the most part. No woman warranted attention beyond a night of relief, and he was positive this woman in front of him was no exception.
… then why couldn’t he catch his breath?
The woman continued to wait and he let her, allowing his eyes to rove over her delicious body under the veil of his visor. He shouldn’t have, but he found himself so damn curious about his reaction to her that he couldn’t stop himself. What was different about her other than her obvious beauty?
Nothing, he told himself sharply.She is a simple woman, like all the rest.
“Who are you?” he finally asked, his tone cold.
Remington felt herself jump at the sound of his voice. It was as deep as the thunder in the distance, echoing out of his mouth like the voice of God. Her breathing started to quicken but she forced herself to calm.
“I am Lady Remington Stoneley,” she replied. “My husband is lord of Mt. Holyoak. I bid you good knights welcome.”
Gaston looked at her. Hard. Her voice was seductive, sweet, and melodious. It matched her appearance. Welcome, did she say? “I have six hundred soldiers waiting not a quarter mile below,” he rumbled. “I would enter the keep and secure it myself.”
Her eyes, like crystal sea-green stars, gazed back at him. “Mt. Holyoak is yours now, is it not, my lord?” she asked, resignation in her voice. “You may do as you are so inclined.”
“How many people are in the keep?” he asked.
“We have twenty-two men-at-arms, the same amount of servants, and my family, my lord,” Remington replied.
“How many is in your family?”
A wild thought flashed through Remington’s head at that moment. My God, did he intend to rape her sisters, too? And what of the other knights? They were entirely at their mercy, but she knew better than to lie to him.
“My three sisters, my husband’s male cousin, and my son,” she answered, her voice quiet.
“How old are the males?”
More panic shot through her. He wasn’t planning on killing her son and Charles, was he? Utter terror swept her and to her dismay, she felt her eyes start to sting with tears. Dear God, she was trying so very hard to be brave.
“My husband’s cousin is ten and four, my lord, and my son is seven years,” she answered, her voice shaking.
He heard her quiver and imagined what she was thinking. As hard as he was, as completely professional, something buried deep inside him wanted to reassure her that he had not come to kill them, but it was far too soon. For all he knew, she was harboring a company of men just inside the gate to spear them all.
“Very well,” he mumbled in reply. He motioned to the two knights to his right to move forward into the keep before addressing Remington again. “My name is Sir Gaston de Russe. I claim this fortress in the name of King Henry VII. You, your family, and your household are now my vassals. Is this clear?”
