Page 148 of Stardust Child

“Ophele,” he whispered, and this time he lifted his chin first, baring his throat to her. Both of them would struggle to learn they were loved, and so he would do this over and over, as many times as it took to teach his body that he was hers. His breath, his heart, his voice, his skin, he would deny her nothing, not even the smallest measure of his pleasure or his love. It was a miracle toknowhis heart was safe when it rested in her.

Her fingers laced in his as she moved over him, her thighs settling on either side of his hips, and in a smooth stroke her body swallowed his to the root. The sinuous contractions of the molten heat inside her made him suck in a breath, thrusting helplessly upward.

“Do you like it when I do this?” she whispered, her eyes hot and glowing, glorying in her feminine power over him.

“Yes,” he rasped, his hands caressing her hips as she began to move.

As birthday surprises went, he would have been hard-pressed to name one he wanted more. Remin would have been happy to spend the rest of the day in bed with her, and the night too, perhaps with a delivery of supper later. But as the light turned to November gold outside the windows, she kissed him and sat up, her disheveled hair falling in cloudsaround her naked body.

“We have to get ready,” she said, reaching for the chemise that had been kicked to the foot of the bed. “I told Lady Verr we could manage ourselves tonight. Magne even repaired your blue brocade doublet to match my gown.”

Clearly, she had planned this with care. Remin allowed himself to be swept along, helping her with the laces of her blue and bronze gown just as he had in their cottage a night not so long ago, the same night when he had realized that he loved her.

How many things had changed since then.

“Look,” she said as he straightened beside her, pointing to the mirror in the corner, the two of them resplendent in blue and bronze. Her eyes were filled with admiration as she looked up at him. “My husband is so handsome.”

He could count on one hand the number of times she had called himhusband.

“I must be, or I would be ashamed to stand beside you,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips. He might enjoy fine clothing after all, if it pleased her so much to see him so. And he was not at all surprised that her next request was to be taken into town for supper. He imagined everyone who had been in on these surprises had wanted him off the roads for a few hours.

But he still drew Lancer up automatically as they approached the cookhouse and he saw the lights glowing ahead, torches to illuminate the night and bonfires to chase away the November cold, a mass of people far greater than he expected. There were over three thousand people in Tresingale now, and surely that could not be all of them, but he could guess their number at a glance.

And he knew almost every face he saw. His craftsmen, his farmers, hunters, builders, soldiers, and as they came nearer, he saw his own knights and guards, cautious as always of his safety in a crowd. Remin dismounted his horse and reached to lower Ophele down, feeling both touched and foolish that so many people were here just for him.

“Come,” Ophele said, taking his arm, and tugged him into the gathered mass of his people.

* **

Remin loved his new chair.

He had to be persuaded out of it with difficulty, applauding and clapping Master Sharrenot on the back so enthusiastically he nearly knocked the old man to his knees. He was eloquent in his thanks for the new bed draperies, given by the town’s resident weaver. He actually laughed out loud at the gift from his soldiers, a sturdy new armor stand shaped like the ugliest horse Ophele had ever seen and still somehow recognizably Lancer. Master Didion had had strong opinions about the aesthetics of Remin’s current armor stand, which was admittedly a bit battered, and looked utterly horrified at its replacement.

She did feel a little conspicuous, standing with Remin in the center of the cookhouse as the line of gift-givers and well-wishers approached, but more than anything else she was so happy to see it. Remin wasn’t actually smiling, but that warm, soft glow was in his black eyes, even when he was rolling them at the shield Auber and Tounot presented to him, emblazoned with the head of a snarling wolf demon. The black bearskin cloak was welcomed with much more enthusiastic approval, and he turned and immediately dropped it over her head.

“It won’t warm you so well as I do,” he murmured, making her face flame so that she elected to remain under the cloak for a bit.

He was larger than life. There were so many stories about Remin Grimjaw, so many names for him. Remin who had no House, the son of traitors. Sir Remin, the savior of Lomonde. Supreme Sword of the Court of War. Vanquisher of Valleth, Shield of Argence. Remin, the Duke of Andelin, with his Knights of the Brede.

But here in the cookhouse, surrounded by his people, he was just their young lord. Everyone in town saw him go by a dozen times a day on his big black horse, off on some errand, and as they came up one after another, almost all of them offered him thanks. Thanks for offering his hands or his sturdy back when they needed it. Thanks for offering them a safe place behind high walls. Thanks for giving them a chance at a new life. Thanks for making their troubles his own.

And Remin was trying to be many things too, Ophele realized as she watched and listened. She had heard Sir Edemir and Sir Justenin scolding him for not behaving like a nobleman. His soldiers expected him to be their general. The world expected a hero. Sousten Didion expected a legend.

Remin was all those things. But more than any of those other grand titles and accomplishments, he was a good man.

“We brought these from Engleberg, Your Grace,” said brown-haired Thiry Conbour, with Amise, Elodie, and Pirot behind him. All of Sir Auber’s family was there, mild and peaceful and solid as the earth. “It’s seed we cultivated for a kitchen garden, radishes, carrots, cabbage, and the like. For your kitchen garden, when you have it.”

“That’s very generous of you.” Remin accepted the string of small pouches, examining the label on each with pleasure. “I like radishes. We may ask your help in planting them.”

“It would be our honor,” replied Thiry, and behind him all the Conbours bowed and curtsied. Ophele was pleased when Amise caught her eye and offered a small smile; Elodie’s mother had been so practical and unflappable with the people of Meinhem, and Ophele would like to know her better.

The Benkki Desans were next, a tall and elegant contingent that came bearing one of the fancifully formed flowering trees Ophele had seen in the women’s bathhouse. Despite the season, it was still blooming with tiny purple and silver flowers like bells.

“This traveled with us from our home, noble lord,” said Master Balad, his shaven head gleaming in the torchlight as all of them bowed together.

“Every flower is a blessing, and there is virtue in its scent,” said Madam Sanai. Her long fingers traced a gracefully arching branch. “Its shaping is a matter of time and patience. We would be pleased to tend it for you, or teach you how, as you like. We give it as a blessing for your new home.”

“Thank you,” Remin replied, frowning as he stepped back to examine it. “You said these were old, Master Balad. There was a red one like this in the men’s baths.”

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