He went to sit on the bed. He wasn’t leaving until he knew what was upsetting her so, if for nothing more than the simple fact that he would never do it again.
“Tell me, Remington,” he said gently. “Why do not you like to hear of your beauty?”
He used her Christian name with no title, rolling off his tongue as if it were the richest, finest wine. His voice could be incredibly soothing when he wanted it to be, but she was almost immune to it. She had made herself immune to men for so many years she did not know how to act any other way.
Something deep inside of her was curious, wanting to know what it was like to have a man be kind to her. That same element wanted to respond to him, open up to him. But the overwhelming majority of her was terrified.
Her tears spilled over and she started to sob softly. She heard him rise from the bed, relieved he was leaving her alone as requested. But, to her surprise, she felt huge arms wrapthemselves around her shaking body. Instinctively, she bolted like a wild animal.
Gaston did not let go. He held on to her for dear life.
“Nay, angel, do not fight me,” he said gently. “Relax, Remington, relax. Do not fight anymore.”
She shrieked and pushed at him, terrified, but he held firm, speaking to her in even, comforting tones. He never even knew he had it in him. In fact, this woman had succeeded in teaching him things about himself he never realized before. And he thought he knew everything.
He swept her into his arms, struggling and all, and carried her to sit on his lap as he deposited himself on the edge of the bed. Her strength waning, her struggles were lessening, but she was still crying pitifully.
“Don’t,” she kept saying. “Please don’t.”
He held her tightly, soothingly, hoping she would calm. He was afraid if he let her go she would forever be terrified of him. It was like breaking a horse; he had to ride out the storm to the very end. He could not give up if he were going to accomplish anything.
The fact was, he wasn’t even sure just what he was trying to accomplish.
“Do notwhat, angel?” he whispered urgently.
Her fighting dwindled, reducing her to almost hysterical sobs. Her stiff body was relaxing in defeat. He grasped her chin and forced her to look at him.
“Do notwhat?”
Her eyes, wild with fright, gazed back at him helplessly. She did not want to say anything and reveal her shame, but he was so insistent, so genuine in his desire to know, that she felt her barrier crumbling. Dear God, she had too much pride to reveal herself to this stranger but she was so confused and frightened she couldn’t think anymore.
“Do not hurt me,” she choked out in a whisper.
He did not ask her anymore. He pulled her close to him, feeling her body relaxing imperceptibly, but she was still shaking terribly and crying. His hands, of their own accord, caressed her softly. He did not even realize he was doing it.
In faith, he felt wonderful and in spite of her terror and life-long convictions, she wanted to respond. She wanted to enjoy what she had never experienced because his arms, his touch, promised comfort unimaginable. It was disorienting and vaguely thrilling just the same.
Her shaking lessened and her sniffles diminished. He sat and held her to him, smelling the sweetness of lavender in her hair and thinking her to be a soft, warm, wonderful creature. But how could a mere woman be all of those things? How could a mere woman affect him this way?
It was impossible, he told himself. The Dark Knight was omnipotent, unaffected by the whims of mortal man. And especially not weakened by the feel of a woman…right?
Mari-Elle burst into his mind. Thin, dark, coldly handsome. Betrothed at six years of age and married at twenty. He spent thirteen years of his life in a despised marriage, hating the sight of the woman he had married. Hating her because she was an icy, calculating bitch that gave herself to every man who caught her eye. Gaston would have killed them all except there were too many to count. She had no respect for him other than his reputation and station. It was simply her nature.
He assumed most women were like his wife; he even hated the word wife. If they were not cold and ruthless, they were brainless and silly. There was no in-between; there was only black and white to him, as always.
Except for Remington. He did not know quite what to think of her yet, but he knew one thing; she frightened him. And he had never been frightened of anything in his life.
He gradually became aware that she had gone limp against him, her breathing soft and regular. He smiled faintly to realize she had fallen asleep in his arms. Her soft body molded against him like the missing piece of a puzzle and he could feel her sweet warmth radiating against him.
Slowly, he slid back on the bed so that he was leaning against the headboard. Remington sighed ragged in her sleep and snuggled closer to him and he instinctively pulled her tighter. With a long sigh of his own accord, Gaston lounged away the afternoon with the lady of Mt. Holyoak sleeping in his arms.
And he wasn’t the least bit distressed about it.
*
Remington awoke toa gentle shaking. She tried to ignore it, burrowing deeper into the bed, but the shaking was persistent. Dear God, but her bed was warm and comfortable. And it smelled nice, too. Like leather and sandalwood.
… Leather and sandalwood?
