“I see,” he said. “Then you know nothing of the destruction of Mari-Elle’s room?”
She continued to play the innocent, lowering her gaze to her needlework. “I heard from Patrick this morning that Lady Mari-Elle has had a most difficult time of it. Ill, I believe he said. So ill she is yellow.”
His eyes narrowed. “How would you know she is yellow, considering I did not tell Patrick?”
Remington’s mouth twitched. “Isn’t it true an ill person usually turns sallow? Yellow, as it were?”
He eyed her a moment, turning his eyes out of the window again. “What did you put in her food that is making her so ill?”
“I did not put anything in her food, my lord,” she said. “I was never near her trencher.”
He pursed his lips irritably. “Fine, then, what did Rory put in her food? Or Jasmine? Or Skye?”
She fixed a delicate stitch before answering. “I do not know, my lord.”
“Remi,” he shifted on his huge legs. “I am growing weary of this game. Simply answer my questions, if you would.”
Her eyes came up, wide and guiltless. He felt as if they were sucking him in. “I am answering your questions. What am I not answering?”
He raised a slow eyebrow and she could read that he was serious. “You are answering, indeed, but you are giving me no answers at all. I want to know who has done this to my wife.”
She felt as if she had been slammed in the chest by his massive fists, for suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Her head went down sharply and her hands fumbled with the material shakily. She had no idea why she reacted so sharply to his words; what had he said? There was nothing to upset her other than the fact that he called another woman his wife.
His wife.
She would never be his wife.I want for you to be my husband!
She suddenly wanted him away, out of her sight, so she could compose herself. Her resolve to keep everything a secret fled and she would tell him everything if he would only go away.
“Rory put crushed apricot seeds into yourwife’sfood,” she said shortly. “’Twas Dane and Charles who vandalized yourwife’sroom. The apricot seeds will make her wish as if she coulddie, but she will recover fully, I assure you.” She emphasized the word “wife” every time, using the term as he had. She couldn’t help the bitterness that filled her, although she had no right to feel anything.
He eyed her, the abrupt manner. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”
He did not leave as she had hoped, but continued to watch her and she rose swiftly, turning away so he couldn’t see her face. The needlework was put aside and she threw open the doors of her wardrobe, anything to occupy her hands, anything not to look at him. She was embarrassed for her outburst, but hurt all the same.
She heard his boot falls behind her and she moved to get out of his way, but he caught her to him fiercely.
“Nay, madam, you are not going anywhere,” he whispered, his face not an inch from her own. He had lifted her off the ground entirely. “You do not like the word wife, do you?”
She pushed against him, succeeding in freeing her arms. She was actually angry; she was usually quite good at controlling her temper.
“I do not like it when you refer to…her,” she admitted.
“She is my wife, Remi, as much as I abhor the fact. I merely use the term to describe her relationship to me and I certainly do not use the term to make you uncomfortable,” his grip relaxed a bit and he lowered her to the ground. “You reacted the same way when the merchant at the faire called me your husband. You loathe the titles of husband and wife, do not you? They mean nothing but heartache to you.”
She stopped struggling and her brow furrowed. “Is that what you think? That I hate the titles?”
“What else am I to think?” he said softly. “You hate the term wife because of what it means to you.”
She shook her head vehemently. “Nay, Gaston, not at all. ’Tis true I hate being Guy’s wife, but I certainly would not hate being yours.”
He looked at her long and hard. Slowly an eyebrow rose. “Isthatwhat this is about, then? You are jealous of a woman I hate because she bears the title and you do not?”
Remington suddenly felt like a fool, a selfish, petty fool. She closed her eyes against his stare, lowering her head. “I am sorry, Gaston. I did not mean to sound like a spoiled child. Please do not be angry with me.”
He took her face between his great hands, forcing her to look at him. Frankly, he was a little stunned; he believed she hated marriage so much that she would never have considered such a thing to anyone else. Obviously, he was wrong. And he was never wrong.
“Angel, I am not angry,” he said gently. “But I had no idea you felt that way. I thought you hated marriage.”
