“Aye, you did,” she met him evenly. “And we only packed one trunk a piece. But you said nothing of traveling bags, Gaston. Not one word.”
Jasmine and Skye cowered behind Remington as Gaston drug a hand wearily over his face. “By God, madam, you know exactly what I meant,” he jabbed a finger at her. “If all of the bags do not fit within the confines of the wagon, that is your misfortune. Those that do not fit will be left behind, for I will not consign another wagon. Do you understand?”
She smiled, taking hold of his arm and softening his harsh stance. “Perfectly, my love. Not to worry.”
He tried to remain stern, but she won out and he cracked a smile. He patted her hand as they walked toward their chambers. “I would take a bath before we leave. I fear I am smelling as badly as de Tormo.”
“Notthatbad,” she slanted him a glance. “But I think a bath is a fine idea.”
Shortly, the huge copper tub was brought and filled with steaming water. Gaston complained that it was too hot for a hot bath, but Remington insisted and ordered him into the water. Careful as to not muss her fresh dress, she donned a heavy apron and washed him from his head to his feet. Gaston was scrubbed, rinsed, and rubbed until his body was weak with pleasure from the attention. Had they not been on such a tight time frame, he would have ripped Remington’s clothes off and bedded her that moment. As it was, he was sorely distended and she laughed at his discomfort.
“Hmpf. You laugh, madam,” he grumbled, standing up in the tub as water rushed off him.
She giggled, helping him dry off with a heavy linen towel. He dried his hair vigorously, watching her as she selected his clothes. Something she was holding caught his attention.
“What is that?”
She turned to him, holding up a lightweight linen tunic of an off-white color. “A new tunic I made for you. Do you like it?”
He blinked. Did he like it? He always wore black. Always. This was… white. “It’s… nice, Remi.”
She lowered the tunic, eyeing him with a slight smirk. She knew exactly what he was thinking. “I am tired of seeing you in black, Gaston. Black, black, black! There are other colors, you know.”
He shrugged, throwing the towel down and moving to his breeches. “I have never thought so. I have never worn anything other than black, even as a lad. Why do you think they call me the Dark Knight?”
“Because you are blood brothers with Lucifer?” she teased, holding the tunic out to him. “Please try it on. I want to see how it fits you.”
He took it from her, hesitantly. He turned to the polished glass mirror, holding the tunic up in front of him. “It looks as if it will fit well enough. What did you use for a model?”
“Your horse,” she quipped, motioning impatiently. “Put it on.”
He pulled it over his head, straightening it just as Remington had. She ran her hands all over his chest, tugging at the shoulders, pulling at the hem. A slow smile spread across her face as she observed her handiwork. “Put your sword on. I want to see how it looks belted.”
He strapped on his sword, the studded black leather belt and the matching scabbard. The entire time, he watched himself in the mirror, thinking he looked terribly strange in the light color. It was peculiar, as if he were looking at another person. He wasn’t at all pleased until he looked at Remington’s expression.
She was smiling the most wonderful smile. “Oh, Gaston, you look magnificent. I have never seen you handsomer.”
Her expression, her obvious delight, made him take a second look. “Truly?”
“Yes!” She rushed to their chamber door and before he could stop her, she was calling eagerly to her sisters. He started to protest weakly, but almost instantly Skye and Jasmine were rushing in, exclaiming favorably at his new tunic.
Gaston was embarrassed as they fawned over him, laughing and touching and tugging at the material. He managed a thin smile at Remington, who laughed at his humiliation and patted him sweetly on the cheek. He eyed her sisters, thinking their praises to be well rehearsed.
When they were gone, she turned to him, still smiling.
“Now, you see? You look wonderful in white. I think I shall make you several more of the same.”
He shrugged; resistance was futile. If she thought he looked handsome in white, then he would humor her. He leaned over and pecked her cheek. “I will wear white. But I will not wear pink, or blue, or green, or yellow, or any other pastel color. I do not care if you make the tunic with your own hands or not; I shall burn it before I wear it.”
She giggled as he pulled on his boots. “Agreed, my love.”
He took her hand and led her from the room. “Now I am going to ruin this lovely tunic by putting my armor on.”
“I expected as much. But thank you for wearing it anyway.”
They paused in the corridor and he kissed her sweetly. “And I thank you for thinking enough of me to make it. I shall always cherish it.”
They gazed lovingly at each other a moment, warm silence between them. A door opened down the hall, the door to the nursery, and they both turned to see Eudora exiting into the corridor with a bucket in hand. Remington sighed.
