The Truest Heart (16 page)

“John did not foresee that Ellis would take his own life before surrendering another. A messenger came here that night, Gilbert of Lincoln, to pass along the news that Ellis had killed himself. He relayed how the king’s men discovered Westerbrook was deserted when they arrived there. I was present, along with Gilbert, and two of the king’s advisors, Geoffrey Covington and Sir Roger Seymour. I remember watching Gilbert from that very corner.” He gave a slight nod. “As he delivered the message, the poor man quaked so badly his knees knocked together. And aye, the king fell into a vile rage—‘tis true what is said about his vicious rages—for he’d been duped … duped by a dead man. Now he might never know the identity of the man your father protected.”

Gillian froze inside. Her father had shielded someone; she recalled distinctly the shadow of a man behind the curtain that long-ago day in the counting room.

“He cursed Ellis. Reviled him over and over. He ordered that Westerbrook be burned to the ground. No matter that he was dead, he charged that Ellis would pay for having cheated him out of carrying out his death—of discovering the other assailant. I’ve never seen such blackness in a man’s heart. Death was not a great enough punishment, John raged. Ellis’s treason must be punished. He vowed that no sons or daughters would be born to his son and daughter. Only then would he be avenged.”

Gillian shuddered. The king was surely a monster, to plan such a despicable act upon two innocent people! Yet even as the certainty crossed her brain, she wondered … who was the more despicable? The king … or the man who would carry out such a despicable deed?

Her chin lifted. “And that is when you offered your services?” The question was uttered in a tone of near frigid politeness.

At that moment, Gareth could have cheerfully throttled her. He gritted his teeth. “I did not offer my services,” he refuted with icy precision. “I was chosen because I was present—because the king chanced to spend that wretched night here at Sommerfield—because the king would not sully his own hands with such an abhorrent task, nor the hands of his ministers!”

“Yet you agreed, my lord Sommerfield.”

“Only because he took my son hostage to the completion of the deed. Regardless of what you may think, my Lady Gillian”—he mocked her as surely as she had mocked him—“my knights are no match for the forces of the king. And should you chance to find it in your heart to care, King John still holds my son hostage!”

Gillian’s conscience stabbed at her, but she ignored it. “And what of my brother?” she demanded. “Is Clifton alive? Or did you hunt him down and murder him before you came for me?”

There was an endless, hollow silence. “I think not,” Gareth said at last.

The truth? Another lie? Or simply that he didn’t remember? Gillian searched his face, his very heart—but could find no answer. “Don’t you know?” she asked scathingly.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. Color seeped beneath his skin. “Nay,” he said.

“You don’t know! Your memory serves you most conveniently, my lord.” Gillian hurtled upright from the chair, unable to disguise her ire. “I cannot help but wonder if you recall how you were able to find me!”

“It was not an easy task. Your father’s people scattered far and wide, for they feared the king’s wrath might be directed at those who served beneath him as well. I could hardly reveal my intent, and so I spent days searching for anyone willing to speak with me.

“Finally I paid a fat purse to a former stableboy at Westerbrook. He saw your father, your brother, and you depart that night, and all in different directions. In time I came to learn of an aging friar who had served your father—and a woman who had been seen with him.” Levelly he met her gaze. “The memory is not sharp, but I believe I was near a port on the North Sea. I boarded a ship to hasten the journey to Cornwall where Brother Baldric had taken you.”

“The men on board the ship. Were they the king’s men, too?”

Something flickered across his features, something she might have deemed regret had she been inclined to feel generous toward him.

“They were the ship’s crew,” he said quietly. “I traveled alone. I acted alone. Only the king and two of his advisors were aware of my mission. Not even my knights know the full truth.”

His acknowledgment had rendered her pale as winter’s first snow, yet her chin climbed aloft.

“I do believe you are right, my lord. One does not refuse the king. So what is to stop you from finishing your task here and now—now that you have me at your mercy?”

Gareth’s lips tightened. “You know me better than that, Gillian.”

“I do not know you at all! You are not the man who woke in my cottage.” Her tone was blistering. “This is what I know. You are Gareth, lord of Sommerfield, defender of King John, a puppet to do his bidding. It seems your son has great reason to be proud of his father.”

Gareth was incensed. “Puppet bedamned!” he swore. “I was his pawn!”

A rallying anger pounded within her. “And still are!” she declared bitterly. “Why should I believe anything you say? You deceived me. You said you would not harm me. You said you would not desert me. Oh, and to think I defended you to Brother Baldric. I touted you as a man of honor and truth!” In her desperation, she had believed him. But no more. No more! “You said I had naught to fear from you, when in truth I have everything to fear from you. And by God, I will not stay here!”

Her announcement met with a snort of disdain. A brow quirked high.

“Where would you go?” he challenged baldly. “Brother Baldric is most likely cold in his grave. Westerbrook is burned to the ground.”

Gillian caught her breath, for his words lacerated her very soul. “What!” she said in a tone of acid sweetness. “Will you hunt me down anew? In that case, I would be a fool to tell you, wouldn’t I?”

This time she suspected it was she who wounded him. His gaze flickered and he made no reply. Squaring her shoulders, Gillian picked up her skirts and stepped deliberately around him.

Or tried to. Long arms reached out and snatched her up against him.

“Release me!”

“So you can run again? I think not.”

Gillian’s head came up. His half-smile grated. Her fists came up between them as she sought to twist away. His arms merely tightened their steely hold until her breasts were crushed against the solid plane of his chest.

Her eyes blazed her fury. “Oh, I knew it. I perceived it that very first day while you slept. You are a lout—an arrogant lout!”

“Arrogant, perhaps. But a lout?” He shook his head. His smile turned devilish. “Never in this world.”

Why, the braggart! She could almost believe he was enjoying this. Her lips parted as she prepared to heap upon his head the full measure of her wrath.

“My lord! I must speak with you!” The shout was accompanied by an insistent banging.

Gareth’s smile vanished. “Not now,” he called over his shoulder. His gaze never wavered from her face. Desire unbidden cut through him, an arrow of shooting fire that veered straight to his loins, leaving him uncomfortably full and straining.

Sweet Jesus, he thought, but she was just as beautiful angry as when she was not. Color bloomed high on her cheeks. Her eyes flashed like twin sapphires. Her lips—ah, her lips—were tinted with the first pink blush of summer roses. His heart pounded. He longed to drag her into his hungry embrace, cradle her hips against his so that she could feel the pulsing of his rod. He wanted to smother those pouting lips with his, kiss away her fiery resentment and melt her anger into heat of a far different sort.

His head lowered.

Again the pounding. “My lord, methinks this cannot wait!”

With a muttered curse, Gareth released her. He strode to the door and threw it open. “Not now, Marcus!”

Marcus flushed, but held his ground.

“I thought you would want to know, my lord, that a message was just delivered to the guards at the gate. The king sends word that he will arrive within the hour.”

Gareth hesitated but an instant. “Wait for me in the hall,” he directed tersely. He swung around to face Gillian, only to find she stood just behind him.

Never in all his days would he forget the terror he glimpsed in her eyes.

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

It was odd, he reflected later, how the bleak vulnerability etched in her soul were revealed in but two simple words … ‘twas as if she’d been run to ground. The breath she drew was ragged and belabored. Before his eyes, she swayed giddily. She would have fallen had he not reached out and caught her. It was almost as if he could feel everything collapsing inside her.

His mind was racing. Christ, this was his fault! He’d thought to save her by bringing her here. Instead he’d led her straight into the mouth of the lion himself.

All at once she surged upright, as if she’d been stabbed in the back. Her gaze darted to the door. “I must leave before the king arrives!”

Gareth sensed her rising hysteria. Winding his fingers around the narrow span of her wrists, he pulled her close. “No,” he said. “There is no need.”

“There is every need!”

“I can help you, Gillian.”

“Help me? Oh, I think not. I came with you to Sommerfield because I thought you meant to help me. Instead you mean to hand me over to the king and save your son.” As soon as the words spilled forth, Gillian despised herself. It was selfish and small, petty and wrong to envy the life of a small boy, yet she couldn’t deny the terror that burned in her heart at that moment.

Gareth’s mouth tightened. “You cannot spend the rest of your days in hiding.”

“Better to spend them in hiding than to lie cold and lifeless in a grave like my father!” The words echoed her desperation.

“There is another way.”

“There is no other way!” It was a choked, stricken cry.

“There is.” He tugged her into the passageway. “Marcus!” he bellowed.

The young knight came toward them. He halted before Gareth, crisply alert. “Yes, my lord?”

“Fetch a priest, Marcus. And hurry!”

“Aye, my lord.” Marcus broke away at a dead run.

It was the last thing in the world Gillian expected him to say. A sickly dread spilled all through her. All she could think was that he intended to kill her after all; out of some misguided sense of honor, he wanted the priest to administer last rites. Through sheer effort of will she forced her lips to move.

“Why do you call for a priest?”

“Why else?” he said grimly. “You’re going to marry me.”

Chapter 12

For the veriest heartbeat, Gillian could neither move nor speak. She was caught squarely between laughing hysterically and sinking to the pits of hell. She wrenched free of him with a cry of rage, infuriated by his pronouncement.

“I will not,” she said fiercely. “I will not marry the man who sought to murder me!”

Gareth’s jaw locked. His hands clamped down on her shoulders. “If you do not,” he said harshly, “your life will surely be forfeit. Is that what you want?”

Tension charged the air.

His voice prodded her, stabbed at her.

Gillian swallowed. Her throat burned as she struggled to speak. She hated her helplessness, her inability to fight back … to fight the king. But he had stated it well and true. He was lord of this sprawling, grand castle, but even he could not fight the king.

“Nay,” she said raggedly.

“As your husband, I can protect you in a way I cannot otherwise.” He spoke with brittle truth. “Now make your choice, for there is no time to ponder. Will you marry me or not?”

Gillian’s breath came unevenly. A violent tug-of-war was being waged deep in her chest. He was right. Where would she go? Mama and Papa were dead. She knew not where Clifton was. Westerbrook was gone. She had no one—no family, no home. Her throat burned rawly as she blinked back tears, blinked back a wrench of despair. She would not cry, she told herself. She would not weep.

She withstood the cold demand in his eyes as long as she could, then dragged her gaze away, unable to bear it any longer. “Aye,” she said tonelessly. “I will marry you.”

It happened in a daze. Almost before she could clear her mind of the enormity of what was about to happen, she stood in the great hall. The priest—she discovered his name was Father Paul—appeared just a trifle harried as he smoothed his hand over his portly belly and gave a nod, signaling that he was ready to begin the ceremony. If he had any opinion as to Gareth’s hasty compulsion to be wed almost immediately after his arrival, he kept it to himself. Sir Marcus and Sir Godfrey stood near as well. A bevy of onlookers, all agog, watched from a doorway.

She stood woodenly as Gareth took his place beside her. Staunchly upright, she sensed in him the same gripping tautness that had driven him but a short time ago. Father Paul cleared his throat and began to speak.

His words were but a blur. Panic swamped her. Dear God, she thought frantically, what was she doing? Was she mad? If she could have escaped, she would have. An inner tremor shook her. She quelled it with stringent effort, then stole a glance at Gareth, an act instantly regretted. Their eyes caught and held. His regard was cool, almost distant.

Hers was the first to slide away.

When it was time for the vows, Gareth displayed no hesitation; he spoke his with utter conviction.

Hers could barely be heard.

Then it was done. It was no accident that Gillian turned away from Gareth. She didn’t notice the way his lips creased with displeasure.

Marcus stepped into her line of vision. “On behalf of all my lord’s knights, we wish you well, my lady.” The words were accompanied by a slight bow. Sir Godfrey was not so shy. He seized her hand and carried it to his lips.

Her head was still spinning. From the corner of her eye, she saw a young knight approach Gareth. “My lord, the king and his party are nearly at the gates.”

Gillian’s head jerked up.

“Well, then, my bride and I should welcome them.” His gaze encompassed Gillian. “Come,” was all he said.

At the bottom of the wide stone steps that descended to the courtyard, they stopped. The lord of the manor awaiting his king! she reflected bitterly.