Remington let out a small cry of disbelief, wiping at her eyes. “Dane, take my flowers back to the castle,” she told her son. “I shall come later. Go now.”
Dane, still thinking mightily on the Dark Knight’s words, did as he was told and disappeared through the bramble. When Remington heard the last of his footfalls, she turned to Gaston.
“How dare you make promises like that,” she hissed. “I forbid you to give my son false hope.”
“’Tis no false hope I give, madam,” he replied. “I never make promises I cannot keep.”
Remington’s face flushed. “So you intend to always be at my son’s beck and call to protect him from his father? It is simply not possible. Sir Guy is my husband and has every right to do with us as he pleases. The contract of marriage forbids you to interfere.”
Gaston let out a heavy sigh and leaned against the tree. “Mt. Holyoak is my property now. If I keep you on, you are technically my property, too.”
“That is ridiculous,” she snapped softly. “I am Guy’s wife, to do with as he pleases. And Dane is his son. You cannot own us.”
“Mayhap not,” Gaston said, meeting her incredible sea-crystal eyes. “But I can protect you.”
Remington shook her head and turned away from him, embittered and confused. Gaston studied her miraculous hair and the myriad of colors within, wondering if it were as soft as it looked.
“Has he always beat you?” he asked quietly.
Remington thought a moment. She couldn’t remember when he had not; there had never been a time during her married life that she had not lived in daily fear. She found the question ludicrous.
“If you only knew,” she whispered.
“I want to know,” he said. “Tell me.”
She simply couldn’t talk about it. This man was a stranger, a feared stranger at that, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell him her most terrible secrets.
She took a deep breath and faced him. “I would return to the keep now, my lord,” she said with forced bravery. “I have gathered enough flowers for the day.”
He looked back at her, seeing the terrible vulnerability underneath the beauty. How could Stoneley abuse something as tremendously fragile as this woman? He couldn’t fathom the reasoning and that, in turn, angered him.
And then the strangest feeling swept him, a sort of pity for Lady Remington, yet it was deeper than mere pity. It was broader, softer and by far more unsettling. He did not realize that for the first time in his life, he was feeling compassion.
“If that is your wish, angel, we shall return,” he said. “I am anxious, for God only knows what my cousins have done to my keep in my absence.”
Remington blinked. Had she heard right? Had he called her angel? She was so stunned she couldn’t answer him and he caught her stare.
“What is wrong?” he asked, pushing himself off the tree.
She managed to shake her head unsteadily. “Nothing, my lord.”
She moved past him and onto the path, acutely aware of his massive presence behind her. Much to her surprise, he did not mount his destrier but instead chose to walk beside her. She fell silent as they passed through the thickness of the trees and emerged onto a wider path used by the peasants.
Gaston’s booted steps were heavy beside her, like great stones crashing to earth in rhythm. She stole a glance from the corner of her eye and watched his powerful gait, thinking the size of his hands to be bigger than her head. A heady sense of pleasure filled her to think this man had pledged to protect her against her husband, although she did not believe it for a minute.
She was so intently studying the size of his hands that she failed to realize the destrier was plodding along behind them without benefit of a lead, following Gaston like an obedient dog. When she finally did become aware of the fact, she was impressed.
“Your horse is well trained, my lord,” she said softly.
He grunted. “Taran is my other self. We have been together for many years.”
“Taran? I like that name.” She turned to look at the destrier, whose head was as long as her torso. “He seems docile enough now.”
Gaston glanced back at the horse. “Taran is Welsh for ‘thunder.’ And I assure you, my lady, his mood is temporary. He seems to be quite interested in you.”
She looked at the horse more fully, his rich charcoal-gray color and black, intelligent eyes. “He is beautiful.” Before Gaston could stop her, she reached out to stroke the animal’s muzzle.
Gaston tried to shout for her to halt her actions, but the words did not come fast enough. As soon as she stroked the silky fur, he had visions of Taran biting off her hand and he reached out to pull her away. But, to his amazement, the horse did not make a move against her. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it.
