“The lady is fatigued and asked to ride with me,” Gaston replied, knowing even as he said it, de Tormo would refuse the request. And he would have to obey.
“She may ride with me in the carriage if she is tired,” de Tormo replied. He held out his hand to Remington. “Come, my lady. We shall play a card game if you are well enough.”
Remington had never been stubborn a day in her life. She had always done what was asked of her, no matter what it was. Refusal was only met with pain, she had learned, and therefore had learned never to balk at an order.
She looked at the priest, wanting so terribly to ride with Gaston that she almost slapped the hand away. But she could not; it was not her way. She would have liked to reason with the priest but she knew he would have his way in the end. She could think of nothing to say, and the man was waiting for her expectantly. She did not want to ride with him; she wanted to ride with Gaston.
Whether it was the heat, or her still-tender emotions, or her pregnancy, she did not know. But suddenly her instincts told her to play on the priests’ sympathy, and play she did. She burst into a flood of pathetic tears.
Gaston put his hand on her back comfortingly as she sobbed, perhaps a bit exaggeratedly. De Tormo started to speak to her, but she cried louder and blotted out his words. Her pretty hands were on her face, shielding her expression from the men. De Tormo tried to speak to her again, but she wailed loudly andturned her back on him, sobbing her heart out. It was a fine display of hysterics, she thought, and hoped the priest would give up and leave her alone. She was getting a headache with all of her forced wailing.
Much to her pleasure, the priest did indeed give up. Exasperated, he waved at Gaston and made his way to the rear of the column. Only when he was well out of range did Remington cease her tears. With a sly glance at the figure of the priest a distance away, she turned back to Gaston.
“I am ready,” she said without so much as a catch in her voice.
He stared at her through his lowered visor. “Are you…what did you do?”
She smiled brightly, wiping at the moisture around her eyes. “I believe I just gained permission to ride with you. Are you going to lift me up or must I mount myself?”
He let out a hiss. “Remi, you little devil. I ought to take a switch to you.”
She rubbed at her bum. “It is already sore. Lift me up, my love.”
He did, and mounted behind her. Lifting her a bit so she was seated on his thigh armor instead of the saddle, he lifted his fist in a silent gesture to move out.
Remington snuggled back against him, unaware of how uncomfortable he was to have her riding in front of him. He liked to be totally focused on his surroundings, keeping his eyes and ears open for any dangers. Were he to be attacked at that very moment, both he and Remington would have been extremely vulnerable. He found he was actually nervous as they continued along the road.
“Where will you be staying in London?” she asked softly.
“My family has a manse along the Thames,” he replied. “And do not talk while you are riding with me. I must not allow my attention to be diverted.”
“Diverted from what?” she asked curiously.
He sighed sharply. “From any threats. Please, Remi, do as I ask. If you wanted to talk, then you should have ridden with the priest.”
Offended, she stiffened. “Next time I will.”
He smiled faintly behind his visor, hoping she would indeed ride to the rear tomorrow and not ask to ride with him again. He would rather slit his own throat than tell her he did not want her riding with him, but he was truly uncomfortable with her sweet body seated in front of him.
She did not say anything for the rest of the ride. The army stopped well after dark near the small town of Featherstone and Gaston ordered a perimeter established and sup to be prepared. Dismounting, he pulled Remington down after him and held her steady while she regained her footing. Still, she did not speak.
De Tormo came and escorted her away, and Gaston’s gaze lingered on her a moment before he immersed himself in camp preparations. It wasn’t until very late that he sought her out again.
She was swathed in her silk cloak by the fire, the flames playing off of her colorful hair. De Tormo and a few other papal servants had drifted off to sleep on the ground, while three other men played a game of dice several feet away.
Remington glanced up when she heard the noise of his approach, but looked away when she saw who it was.
“Did you eat?” he asked, his voice low like distant thunder.
“I did, my lord,” she said stiffly.
He moved closer to the fire, removing his mail gloves. He had taken off the heavy armored gauntlets long ago because they were difficult to work in.
“Are you ready to sleep, then?” he asked, his voice softer.
She refused to look at him. “I will go to sleep when I am ready, my lord. On the bed my guardian prepared for me.”
He glanced over by the carriage; de Tormo had fashioned her a very nice bed out of cushions and cloth. But she would not be sleeping there tonight; he had pitched a comfortable, private tent for the two of them and he was anxious to be alone with her.
