“Ah, the ghost of Rory strikes again,” he said softly. “Really, Remi. I thought you to have better manners than that.”
“I do, of course,” she said crisply. “But I found that woman extremely offensive. I am sorry, Sir Matts, if I chased away your quarry.”
The blond knight with the soft brown eyes smiled faintly. “You did me a favor, I am sure, my lady.”
The evening went on and the occupants of the room proceeded to get disgustingly drunk, all with the exception of Gaston and his men. He refused to allow his men to drink so much that they were reeling of their senses, and they passed their time with pleasant conversation. Remington snuggled upagainst Gaston, listening to his knights recount stories of valor and she was properly enthralled.
Some of the soldiers in the room were singing loud, bawdy songs. One of them had a mandolin and played quite well; it would have been pleasing had the song not been so obscene. Gaston kept an ear cocked, making sure they did not get out of hand in Remington’s presence.
Gaston made it a habit not to socialize with his soldiers; it had long been his routine. To socialize with his knights was a limited occurrence, and he made it clear from the onset that he was not their friend, but their liege. Yet tonight, sitting with Remington, he was actually far more relaxed and amiable than he had been in a long, long time. His men were surprised by his mood, yet they knew the lady had everything to do with it.
There was not one man at the table that had served less than five years with Gaston, and they were all acquainted with the man and his personality. They found it nothing short of astonishing that one small, lovely lady could exert such power over him. And she was not even aware of it. They furthermore realized Gaston was a truly likable fellow with a droll sense of humor, something none but his closest advisors had come to know. They were aware that Gaston and Arik had the very same sense of humor, explaining a good deal of the attachment between the two men.
The singing soldiers were growing louder, and Remington kept turning around, smiling at their disorderly behavior. She thought it was comical, while the knights thought it was distasteful.
A serving wench joined in the singing, an older, well-used woman with pretty red hair. Suddenly, one of the men grabbed her and she screamed good-naturedly, but he began to rip off her clothing and her squeals continued, louder. The soldier hauled her up and threw her roughly on the nearest table, much to thedelight of his comrades, and proceeded to throw up her skirts. The wench laughed and taunted the soldier about his manhood.
Gaston heard the commotion and was up before Remington realized what was happening. The soldier saw him coming and backed away, and the woman did a mad scramble off the table. The entire group of revelers looked at Gaston as if he were the Grim Reaper.
Gaston stopped and planted his feet, eyeing the collection of drunks. He did not say a word, merely raised a menacing eyebrow, before turning around and retreating back to his table.
The party of drunken soldiers called a retreat for the night, and the wench disappeared into the kitchen.
“What was that all about?” Remington asked.
“I was displeased with their entertainment,” he mumbled, passing a glance at Nicolas. “Well, my lady, have you had enough excitement for one evening?”
She nodded. “In truth, I am fatigued. All of this food and ale has made me sleepy.”
“No doubt; you ate as much as I did. Shall I escort you, then?”
She rose stiffly, smiling shyly at the knights and bidding them a good eve. They watched Gaston take her upstairs, their eyes following her until the two of them disappeared from view.
Matts let out a slow hiss. “Jesus Christ, he’s sotted. Have you ever seen any man so overwhelmed with a woman before?”
One of the other knights with a heavy Irish accent concurred. “He’s far gone, lads. I pity Guy Stoneley.”
“Why in the hell would you pity that bastard?” Nicolas demanded with a scowl. “He’s got what’s coming to him, after what he’s done to the lady and her sisters. To Skye.”
“And are you going to marry Lady Skye?” the Irish knight asked with a faint grin. “She’s a pretty little thing, just like a fairy.”
Nicolas sneered and looked away. “None of your damn business, Jacob.”
“He’s touchy, lads.” Jacob nodded to the other knights. “He’s as sotted as the Dark One, I’d wager.”
Nicolas tried to look severe. “One more word and I shall cut your heart out.”
The knights laughed softly at Nicolas’ expense. As they were tossing more insults around the table, the busty brunette sauntered up with a fresh pitcher of ale. “Gentle knights?” she asked, indicating the pitcher.
Nicolas watched her fill his tankard. By damn, if he wasn’t going to be forced into marrying Skye. He never actually slept with her; even though Gaston’s explanations as to how conception could have taken place made sense, how could he be sure? He was too damn young for a wife.
He stood up rapidly, grabbing the serving wench by the arm so hard that she spilled ale on Matts. “With me, woman.”
She almost dropped the pitcher as she set it down, rushing to keep pace with Nicolas as he took her from the hall and out into the night.
He led her into a thicket of trees not far from the inn. She was barely to a halt when he was ripping open her bodice, his mouth clamping down on her tender nipples. She moaned with pleasure, her experienced hands moving to his breeches.
On her back, Nicolas drove into her eager flesh like a rutting bull.This is how you beget a child, Skye. Not with that silly petting and teasing you do. How in the hell can you be pregnant?
