She smiled, her eyes still closed as his huge hands massaged her sensually. “I missed you last night. ’Twas the first night we have spent apart in many weeks.”
“I do not think I slept but an hour or two,” he confessed, teasing her nipples into taut buds. “I found myself on the battlements before the sun rose, gazing across the river at Braidwood.”
She was rapidly losing her control with his attentions. His hot hands were working her into a frenzy. With a grunt of pleasure and frustration, she sat up quickly and tore off the shift. In a flash, she was supine again, her back to his taut chest. He buried his face in her neck as his hands roamed freely.
He wanted to go slow with her, gentle, but his passion overwhelmed him and grasped her knees and pulled her into a fetal position. Knees almost into her chest, he thrust into her from behind and she cried out, clutching at the bedclothes as he drove in his long, hard length. Withdrawing, he lurched into her again deeply.
Remington pulled the sheets into her mouth to keep from screaming with passion. In the small quarters, she was positive someone would hear her.
He held her tightly as he thrust into her, again and again, building the heavenly friction. She whimpered over and over, her mouth stuffed with sheets, feeling his hot breath rapid on the back of her head.
She felt herself approaching the familiar, exquisite release and she silently urged him onward, her entire body aching with want of pleasure. One arm unwound itself from her and he reached between her legs, closing in on her wet heat and feeling the junction where their bodies were joining in passion. It was too much; he released himself with a violent eruption and she joined him as his fingers found her taut nub.
He had manipulated her into a stupor. When their convulsions died down, Remington was limp. Eyes closed, she could only lie there and feel his body still within her, hearing his soft laughter.
They lay together, sweating in the humidity of the afternoon, dozing occasionally. Truth was, neither one had slept well the night before and they were tired. Now that things were as they should be, as they were together once again, the comfort was overwhelming.
They fell asleep in the huge bed, the lazy afternoon waning away in a haze of heat and thickness. Just before sunset, Gaston awoke and found himself staring at the back of Remington’s head, studying the curls in her hair leisurely and his mind wandering to silly, unimportant things. It was in moments such as this that he felt they had all of the time in the world.
A loud rap echoed on the heavy oak door and Gaston’s head shot up, looking at the panel as if he could see through it. “Who comes?”
“Me!” de Tormo called out sharply. “Let me in.”
Remington woke, rolling onto her back and she and Gaston passed wry glances. He was the first one to climb from the bed, reaching for his trews. “Hold a moment, priest.”
Remington tossed her legs over the side of the bed, slowly moving for her shift and grunting softly with the effort. He smiled at her. “You move like an old woman.”
“I feel like an old woman,” she agreed, pulling the shift over her head. “In fact, I am old. I am almost twenty-seven years old.”
He snorted. “And I am thirty-seven. What does that make me? Ancient?”
She looked sharply at him. “Are you really that old? Good lord, Gaston, did you know Socrates personally?”
He laughed deeply. “Really, Remi; how heartless you are.”
She grinned, pulling on the surcoat. He pulled his shirt on and helped her with the stays. Outside in the hall, de Tormo knocked again.
“Open the door, de Russe.”
“I am coming,” Gaston mumbled, jerking on a boot. The other boot slipped on as Remington straightened her hair and tried to look unruffled. Gaston waited until she was seated by the window before he obliged the priest’s request.
De Tormo breezed in, smelling so foul that Remington could smell him from where she sat. The man obviously did not believe in bathing.
Even Gaston wrinkled his nose. “What is it, priest?”
“I knew I would find her here,” he said shortly. “Gaston, I come with news.”
“What news?”
De Tormo looked at Remington. “Peter Courtenay has ordered that Lady Remington be placed in the custody of the church,” he watched her face go pale. “It would seem that after the lady’s meeting with her husband, Guy summoned Courtenay personally and convinced the man that she was being forcedinto requesting an annulment against her will. He managed to persuade the bishop into believing the lady is somehow in danger and Courtenay has placed all further annulment proceedings on hold until the matter is clarified.”
Gaston’s face was beyond grim. He was stunned. He gazed at Remington, who could only stare back helplessly.
“Oh, Gaston…,” she breathed.
But de Tormo wasn’t finished. He threw up his hand to prevent any further conversation.
“There’s more, Gaston,” he said. “Remington is to be taken away to a place of the church’s choosing and you will not be allowed access to her. In fact, they will not tell you where she will be sequestered. They seem to think that time and separation might clear the lady’s mind.”
