He was going to throw the little redheaded vixen in the vault and throw away the key. How he dealt with troublemakers would reflect greatly on how he was perceived, especially with this first offense. But with the lady’s soft pleading, he reconsidered and was shocked at himself for doing so.
“Nicolas,” he said, his eyes moving to his cousin. “Do what you will with her. Yet I would see no blood, bruises, or broken bones on her person. Do you comprehend me?”
Nicolas was unhappy with the command but had better sense than to voice it. He closed his outraged mouth and grabbed Rory by the hair. She began to screech and kick, swinging her fists and making contact with his abdomen. Nicolas grunted, grabbing one of her arms and twisting it behind her back to control her, but not before Rory bit him and almost took off his finger.
“You bloody little witch!” Nicolas roared. “That damn well hurt!”
“Let go of me, you brute,” Rory spat. “Let go of me and I shall give you a fair fight.”
The entire population of the hall was greatly entertained by the spectacle, laughing and encouraging Nicolas with bawdy comments. They lifted their tankards in respect of a good battle and turned back to their food as the shouting faded from the room.
Remington was horrified. She was still focused on the archway hearing the faint yells of her sister and sickened to the bone. It occurred to her that the practical joke on Nicolas might not have been random. Terrified of what her sister was capable of, she raced to the end of the long table where Gaston and his knights were sitting and thrust herself forward in the space that Nicolas had occupied.
“Forgive me, my lords,” she said quickly, checking under bowls, shaking out napkins and generally disrupting their meal. Yet instead of being perturbed, they watched her curiously. Especially Gaston.
“What are you doing?” he asked over the rim of the goblet.
She paused, suddenly aware of a host of faces looking at her. Her cheeks flushed pink.
“I…Rory is fond of practical jokes, as you can see,” she offered apologetically. “I was making sure that no more of you good men fell victim to her havoc.”
Arik snorted and wiped his mouth with a crimson napkin. There was a huge red streak across his face and Patrick and Antonius erupted into fits of laughter. Arik knew something humiliating had happened and looked at Gaston.
“What now?” he asked.
Gaston wasn’t smiling, although he wanted to. “Someone has put red color in your napkin, I believe. The liquid you just mopped from your mouth activated it.”
Arik closed his eyes a moment, silently beseeching the gods for strength and patience. “Am I to assume I look as if I am wearing rouge on my lips?”
“Aye,” Gaston took a healthy sip from his cup.
Remington was looking at the knight as if she expected him to draw his sword at any moment and run her through. Anger at her sister and complete terror were running neck and neck.
“My lord,” she croaked. “I am so terribly sorry. I shall punish Rory severely for her transgressions. Pray forgive, my lord.”
Arik looked at her, picking up his napkin to wipe his mouth and then suddenly remembering the dye in it. He tossed it to the floor and ripped Antonius’ napkin from his hand, daintily dabbing at his lips.
“Nay, madam, I am sure that will not be necessary,” he said steadily. “If I know Nicolas, and I do, your sister will have punishment enough.”
Remington’s eyes widened with fright but she said nothing. Her gaze shifted once again to the archway her sister had disappeared through, wondering what was transpiring. Was he raping her, or worse? She tore her gaze away, moving to Jasmine and Skye plastered against the wall by the hearth. Quickly, she moved to them.
“Get out of here,” she whispered. “Go find out where that knight has taken Rory.”
“And then what?” Jasmine whined. “We can do nothing against him.”
“Shush,” Remington hissed sharply, glancing over her shoulder towards the Dark Knight to make sure he had not overheard. “Just do as I say. Go find Rory.”
Like blond wispy fairies, Jasmine and Skye slipped from the room, leaving Remington and the servants to deal with the hoard of men rapidly drinking themselves happy. Remington was glad to be rid of them for that latter fact, as well. She did not want her sisters to fall victim to drunken soldiers.
The meal progressed to empty trenchers and a good deal of loud, wet belching. Remington continued to stand in the corner and direct servants, making sure goblets were kept full. Oleg emerged from the kitchens and stood silent watch with her, fully aware of what had happened with Rory. He, too, was concerned for the spirited sister but did not voice his concerns. It would only upset Remington.
As the evening rolled toward midnight and the knights had taken to singing and games to entertain themselves, Remington decided it was time for her to retire. She’d had enough of men in armor and merriment in their fashion. She was weary to the bone and worried for her sister, and only wished to vacate the hall to see to her own needs. Leaving Oleg in charge, she moved quietly to the Dark Knight’s table.
As she came closer she was aware of her twisting stomach, anxiety for the mountainous man. She was positive that after this evening he would banish them all with good riddance, and she furthermore did not blame him. But she prayed, just the same, that he would be merciful.
“My lord,” she curtsied by his chair. “I would ask your permission to retire for the eve.”
He glanced disinterestedly at her. “The night is young, madam. Are you not planning on eating?”
