The entire room came to a grinding, startled arrest. All eyes turned to him, including the soldiers fighting on the stairs. From back down the upstairs corridor, Nicolas appeared, his sword gripped in his hand. His eyes were questioning on his cousin.
Gaston put his huge hands on his hips, eyeing the combatants. Then he gazed up at Nicolas. “Where is the young lord?”
Nicolas jerked his head. “With Matts. Truly not a problem, my lord.”
Gaston raised a slow eyebrow, refocusing on the lord’s men. “You do not wish for me to enter this fight, do you? Then lay down your weapons and return to your drink, or I will make it so that you will never drink nor fight again.”
After a brief, hesitant second, the four soldiers who had been fighting Gaston’s three knights slowly sheathed their swords. Looking properly subdued and respectful, they stumbled back to their table as Gaston’s men took the stairs to see if they could assist Nicolas and Matts.
Timidly, the room began to return to normal. Fights were not unusual with a roomful of soldiers and no one was overly ruffled.
Gaston sat back down, looking at Remington. “There. Happy now?”
She blinked at him, a bit overwhelmed by what she had seen. She had nearly forgotten the fear she held for him when she had first seen him, the abject terror of the man and his reputation. Obviously, she was not the only person who had a healthy respect for Gaston.
She turned her back to her meal, befuddled. He watched her closely, afraid her gay evening was already damaged beyond repair.
“What’s the matter, angel? Are you angry?”
She shook her head. “Nay….I am not.” What was she feeling, anyway? Confusion, surprise, and a new respect for Gaston? She wasn’t sure. Light-hearted moments before, she felt somewhat subdued.
The innkeeper was still standing behind them. “Thank you, my lord. I shall always consider your intervention a great favor.”
“Do not,” Gaston said; the tone he had used with Remington vanished in favor of an icy one. “I did it so as not to upset my… wife. She does not like fighting.”
De Tormo, in his trencher, lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. He was afraid if he did that Gaston would cut his head off.
The innkeeper was not put off by Gaston’s insult and his jovial mood was returning. “A room for you and your wife, then? No charge.”
Gaston looked at Remington, who looked at the priest. De Tormo felt their gazes but did not look up. Instead, he shrugged faintly.
“I accept,” Gaston replied quietly, his eyes still on Remington. She deserved a bed to sleep on, not the cold ground. She deserved anything and everything his reputation could obtain.
De Tormo coughed loudly, quickly drinking from his tankard. As the innkeeper strode away, Gaston put his hand on Remington’s knee under the table. “Eat up, angel. You have had a long day.”
She forced herself to eat at first, but quickly realized she was famished. The beef was excellent, the vegetables tasty, and she stuffed herself silly. With her appetite returned, so did her mood.
She ate and watched, watched and ate, paying little attention to what she was doing so that ale dripped on her dress. Gastonsmiled and wiped it away, relieved to see she was brightening again. Nicolas and Matts, as well as the other knights, returned to the table a short time later and resumed their meals with gusto.
De Tormo excused himself, retreating to his recently commandeered room with pleasure. Traveling with the Dark Knight had its advantages, he thought. Of course, he should have been troubled that he was allowing such adultery to go on in his presence, but it was more than carnal lust. Much, much more, and he did not believe God would fault him overly. God had, after all, created man and woman to love one another.
He retreated up the stairs, forcing his disturbing thoughts down. He could not prevent de Russe from sleeping with Lady Stoneley, and he would not try. Adultery was such an ugly word.
Remington enjoyed her meal, talking in between bites, pointing at groups of soldiers and demanding to know their seat. She would make snide comments about the serving wenches, especially the ones who served their table. Gaston, amused, drank warmed cider and listened to her rattle on. He’d imbibed quite enough for the night and did not want to muddle his senses.
Nicolas found himself the object of attention from a particularly busty brunette wench, pretty enough, but Remington was shooting silent daggers at him every time he made necessary conversation with the girl. He would flush and stammer through his request or question, glad when the girl swished away. He did not want to rile Remington, especially in light of their conversation earlier that day.
But the woman seemed intent on luring him for the night. Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, he let Matts take over the conversation and kept his head buried in his trencher. He had no desire to take the woman to bed, curvaceous as she might be,and did not want to encourage her. He had his own woman at home.
The wench was talking to Matts, laughing loudly with him and the other three knights. Gaston ignored her completely, focused on the room and on Remington, while Nicolas wished she would simply go away. Remington continued to eat, fuming, and watched the girl.
Finally, she’d had enough. Her sisters’ jokes and mischievous ways had apparently sunk in more than she realized, because she discreetly began to pile a load of food on her spoon with the sole purpose of flicking it at the wench. Keeping her eyes on the woman, she turned the spoon and took aim.
The food when sailing, smacking the girl on the neck. She screeched, jumping back from the table and wiping the mess from her skin. Her accusing eyes flew to Remington.
She smiled sweetly, licking some of the goo from her finger. “I am terribly sorry, sweetheart. How clumsy of me.”
The girl had better sense than to say anything at all, considering the woman sat next to the Dark One himself. Without a word, she scampered away and Remington smirked victoriously. Gaston slanted her a glance.
