The Truest Heart (13 page)

Their battle receded. Gareth went absolutely still. Before her very eyes, the color seeped from beneath his skin. “Celeste? I called her Celeste?”

“Aye.” Her knuckles pressed against her lips as a horrified inevitability swept through her. “Oh, God. You said there was no one. But she is your wife, isn’t she? Celeste is your wife.”

“My wife is dead,” he stated without hesitation. “She is dead.”

Her heart twisted. Silently she raged. Ah, but she was a fool! Instinct had warned he was wed; she simply had refused to believe it! She’d been too caught up in the magic wonder of his kiss … “How do you know? How can you be certain?”

“I do. I am. She is dead. I cannot say how or when, but I know she is dead.” Gareth’s head was buzzing. She asked how he knew, but he could not explain. He had only to hear the name … Celeste… and awareness shot through him with the sizzle of lightning, as if some mighty, unseen force pierced him like the shaft of an arrow.

Gillian knew it, too. Her breath caught. “You know who you are, don’t you?”

“Aye,” he whispered. “I am Gareth”—there was a heartbeat of silence—“lord of Sommerfield.”

Chapter 9

It was uncanny, the way it happened. Why it happened—or how—he could never have said. It was as if a single beam of light had slipped through a crack, then opened wide to allow a thousand shimmering rays to pour through him, clear to his soul. The gladness that filled him was indescribable. Yet just as quickly, with the suddenness of a candle being snuffed out, the crack sealed shut. The light inside him was extinguished and he knew no more.

It was enough. He knew that Celeste had been his wife. Dear Lord, his wife! Yet he could not have said how long they’d been wed. If she had in truth possessed hair like summer sunshine, he could not say. He couldn’t even claim that he’d loved her … indeed, that he had not!

Yet he knew his home was Sommerfield Castle, a grand fortress perched high upon a hilltop in the northern shires. Half a dozen shimmering lakes were visible from the south tower, nestled between green hills that swept to the eastern shores.

“Gareth?”

A low, feminine voice drew him from his reverie. His gaze was drawn to the wide-eyed, dark-haired beauty before him. He was Gareth, lord of Sommerfield, he thought, filling his lungs with air, as if for the very first time.

The maid before him was Gillian of Westerbrook, daughter of Ellis.

If only she’d told him earlier, he might have remembered far sooner. But she was right. He’d thought it was just a dream.

Just as suddenly darkness filled his mind anew— but this time it was darkness of a different sort. The clouds in his mind shifted and swirled. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

“Sweet Christ,” he whispered.

Something in his expression must have given him away. “What?” Gillian cried. “What is it?”

“You cannot stay here.”

Gillian stared at him, feeling her insides curl into a cold, hard knot. Her control was tenuous at best. She felt as if she’d been thrust into the midst of a tempest. “What do you mean?”

“You must leave. Now. Tonight.”

A sudden crash of thunder split the air. The walls shivered … as she was suddenly shivering. It was so much like that horrible night her father had come to her room that Gillian could no longer bear it.

She clamped her hands over her ears to shut out the sound of his voice. ” ‘Tis a trick. You mean to frighten me!”

“No, Gillian, no!” He tore her hands away from her ears and held them at her sides. Though his hold was not hurtful, he was adamant. “You must listen to me! You cannot stay here. It is not safe.”

She was trembling from head to toe. “Were you sent by my father’s men?” The question emerged, tremulous and quavering.

“Aye.” Gareth cared not that he lied. In truth he had no idea how or why he had come to be here. Some little known instinct inside him compelled his urgency. “You cannot remain here,” he said again. “We must leave as soon as we’re able, Gillian. With every moment you linger, you risk discovery by the king.”

“You say I should leave, but I have nowhere to go. Brother Baldric brought me here to keep me safe!”

“And I will keep you safe now. I will take you to Sommerfield. I can protect you there.” His hands came up to rest on her shoulders. “You’ve naught to fear from me, Gillian, I swear. I will not harm you.”

He was grim, so very, very grim. Gillian battled a spiraling panic. Never in her life had she felt so helpless, not even the night she’d been forced to leave Westerbrook. God help her, she knew not which way to turn! Always before there had been someone to guide her. Her father. Brother Baldric. Now Gareth was asking her to place her faith in him—a man she’d known but a span of days—a man who, in truth, scarcely knew himself! Though she despised her weakness, all she could do was pray she made the right choice.

She drew a deep, ragged breath. “What about Brother Baldric?”

“He is too ill to travel.” Gareth made the declaration flatly. That Brother Baldric might well succumb to the hereafter was a notion he kept to himself. “Now hurry and gather your things.”

Gillian shook her head. “I cannot leave without seeing Brother Baldric.”

For an instant she thought he might refuse. Finally he capitulated with a nod.

It was close to midnight when they returned to the church. A stub of candle cast a wavering light on the damp stone wall. Agnes was dozing in a chair at the bedside. As the door scraped the floor, she woke with a start.

Gareth gestured Agnes aside. Gillian eased down on the pallet. She clasped Brother Baldric’s gnarled hand between both of hers. His skin was chill as the wind.

“Brother Baldric,” she whispered. He was so pale. Fear struck a chord, for he lay so still and unmoving. For one agonizing moment she thought he was dead.

Heavy eyelids lifted. There was the faintest grasp of gnarled fingers around hers.

“Brother Baldric, something has happened … Gareth believes I am in grave danger if I remain here …” In hushed tones she told him what had happened.

Baldric’s gaze lifted to Gareth, who stood near the door. “So,” he said in a voice that sounded like the rasping of leaves across a cobbled street. “You are the lord of Sommerfield.”

“I am.” Gareth stepped forward. There was that in his tone which sounded as if he expected the old man to contest the statement.

“You will take care of Lady Gillian? You will guard her from the king’s wrath—keep her safely away from the king’s hand?”

“I will.”

“Swear it, for I would have your oath.”

“I swear it.” Gareth’s oath was unfaltering, deeply resonant. “I will guard her from the king’s wrath and keep her safe from his hand.”

“So be it, then.”

Baldric’s gaze returned to Gillian. Gillian could hear his breath waning. Her eyes clung to his as she rubbed his leathery hand against her cheek. He felt the dampness of her tears.

“Do not weep, child.”

She gave a dry sob. “If only you were not ill, then you could travel with us. Oh, I-I hate this wretched illness that plagues you!”

“It will pass,” he said.

“And what if it does not?”

He smiled faintly. “Then it is—”

“I know. God’s will,” she finished bitterly. It was so easy for him to accept, yet not for her. Her tears choked her. There was a crushing heaviness in her chest.

Behind her, footsteps shifted on the floor. Gillian felt Gareth’s presence and sensed his impatience to depart.

“Gillian,” he said.

She ignored him. “Brother Baldric, promise me you will not give in. That you will not go easily. That you will try and best this wretched illness …”

“You have my promise, child.” Baldric’s lips formed a feeble smile as his gaze briefly encompassed Gareth. “A word of warning, my lord. I sense in you a steady purpose, but it may not be wise to cross the lady, for I fear she can be as stubborn as her father.”

Gillian stiffened as she felt Gareth’s gaze drift coolly over her profile. A glance from the corner of her eye revealed a tight smile. “I shall do well to bear that in mind, then,” he said.

Brother Baldric surprised her by offering his hand to the younger man.

“Remember, my lord, I have your oath.”

Gareth briefly squeezed his fingers. “I will not forget,” he said quietly.

Brother Baldric’s hand fell limply back to his chest. He grew weaker by the breath. His eyelids drifted shut, as if he no longer had the strength to keep them open.

“Brother Baldric!” Gillian cried.

“Hurry, child. I should hate to think our ordeal was for naught.”

Gillian bent and pressed a kiss upon his cheek, her eyes streaming. Tears clogged her throat, tears she somehow managed to keep at bay.

An imperious hand cupped her elbow. Gillian knocked it aside, feeling as if she would break apart inside. “Leave me be,” she cried.

Gareth’s hand fell to his side. His lips thinned. “As you wish, lady.”

Her chin angled high, she brushed past him and out into the night.

Outside the wind gave rise to a keening howl, then fell eerily silent. Tears clogged her throat, but she refused to let him see the ripeness of her despair. Her cheeks were wet, whether from tears or rain, she knew not.

They walked until Gillian longed to sink down in sheer exhaustion, ready to declare defeat. When Gareth announced they would sleep for a few hours, she sank down and was asleep almost immediately.

By noon the next day, Gareth’s face was drawn and gray. He was limping badly, yet still he forged ahead. Whether they went east or west, north or south, she knew not. She was too tired to care.

They slept longer that night, but shadows still shrouded the treetops when they set off again. Near dawn, Gareth stopped her with a tug on a fold of her cloak.

“Methinks I’ve just found a way to hasten our travels,” he said.

Gillian glanced ahead. They approached the outskirts of a tiny hamlet. A wisp of smoke curled from the squat chimney of a small, thatch-roofed wooden building. The door was propped ajar, allowing the escape of rowdy male voices and gales of laughter.

Gillian couldn’t hide her exasperation. “We have no coin for such—”

“Not there,” he said. “There.” He gestured to where several horses had been tethered near the back wall of the inn. At the sound of their voices— and perhaps gleaning their scent—a chestnut stallion turned its head. Its ears pricked forward.

Gillian gaped at the sudden gleam in Gareth’s eyes, the smile of pure satisfaction that rimmed his lips.

“He looks to be a fast, impressive steed, does he not?”

It would have served him right if the animal had bolted. It would have served him right if the animal had neighed and raised the alarm. As it was, Gillian could only watch and wait as Gareth crept forward.

The stallion snorted as Gareth eased upright from his crouch. Her breath caught as man and beast beheld each other face-to-face. One lean hand caught the tether. With the other he ran his palm over the stallion’s deep, powerful chest. The animal’s skin quivered as Gareth eased closer. He blew through his nostrils, his tail raised high.

Seconds later, the pair cantered to a halt before her. From his lofty perch high atop the stallion, he gazed down at her with a decidedly rakish grin.

A black brow cocked high. He extended a hand. “Your carriage awaits, my lady.”

Her hesitation was fractional. She swung up behind him. “I do believe you are a thief after all,” she said outright.

“Ah, now she protests!” He lifted his eyes heavenward. “I assure you, the horse will be returned, and with ample recompense.”

“By then the owner will have long since departed.”

“In that case the steed will belong to the innkeeper, and he will have earned a goodly profit for the night.”

‘Twas a point she could not argue against, nor was she inclined to, for he was right—their journey would be completed much more quickly, and with far more ease on horseback than on foot.

Hours later she wasn’t so sure. At a fork in the road, she glanced up just as he brought the stallion to a halt. He looked first to the right, then the left, then back again, a furrow of concentration etched deep between his brows.

She was so tired she could have screamed; her bottom ached abominably and she was certain she’d never been filthier. “What, has the lord of Sommerfield lost his way?” she inquired.

Such shortness did not set well. Gareth was sorely tempted to snap that in truth he’d lost his mind…. He pointedly ignored her, rubbing his jaw in mute consideration. He had the feeling he’d traveled this very same road before. If he wasn’t mistaken, the fork to the right twisted and turned among the hills, while the one to the left was a more direct route to Sommerfield.

Gillian grew impatient. “Perhaps you are not who you claim to be at all. Perhaps you are not the lord of Sommerfield. Indeed,” she went on, “we ride upon a horse you stole—”

Gareth drew a sharp breath. “Lady,” he began warningly.

“—so perhaps ‘tis just as you once said and you are an outlaw, too!”

“An outlaw, eh? If we were to encounter the king’s men this very moment, it would be you and not I who would be thrown into the nearest gaol.”

It was a petty reminder. One look at the shattered defeat in her eyes and Gareth knew it. He cursed himself harshly, for he’d quelled her outburst in a way he’d truly never intended.

Throughout the remainder of the day, she was quiet and subdued. She ate little of the hare he trapped and roasted that night. Afterward she stared into the fire, her eyes downcast, her posture as lonely as the wind. Finally she murmured a goodnight, laid down, and curled into the folds of her mantle. Not once did she meet his gaze.

How long he stared at the slender lines of her back, he knew not. His hands curled and uncurled as he battled the impulse to reach for her, to draw her near. All that stopped him was the way she wielded the acid lash of her tongue—and wielded it well indeed! Nor could he deny the part of him that still smarted at the way she had deceived him and played him for a fool.

At length he stretched out beside her, near but not touching her. It was, he decided grimly, a trying end to what had initially promised to be a fine day.