The Truest Heart (17 page)

But you are now the lady of this manor, chided a niggling little voice in her mind.

She was still reacting to the enormity of that knowledge when she heard a jingle of spurs, the clank of steel and armor that heralded King John’s arrival. She longed to look away, as if she would be tainted if she did not. Yet it was almost as if she were riveted by a power beyond her control. A small party of riders cantered beneath the towering arch. Her eyes widened at the array of noisy carts that lagged behind. She wasn’t aware of Gareth anxiously scanning the king’s entourage, skimming the horses and the carts.

It wasn’t difficult to spot the king, though Gillian had never seen him when he’d visited their neighbor, William de Vries. John’s mount was a majestic steed of pure white, but it spun through her mind that he looked neither noble nor kingly. Nay, the man perched atop was far less grand, despite the splendidness of his garb. The ermine-trimmed mantle did little to hide the bloat of his belly over a tasseled silk belt, his frame given to obesity. Matching fur circled the top of his boots. It appeared his wife Isabella and her ladies did not accompany him.

Several men, clearly of some consequence, dismounted first, then moved to aid the king.

“Gillian.”

She glanced up at Gareth.

“Take my hand,” he said tersely.

Gillian instinctively retreated a step.

“Take my hand and smile. And by God, if you want to save your soul, do not argue or disagree with me, no matter what I say or do.”

Their eyes collided. His were fiercely commanding, while hers reflected her uncertainty. When she hesitated, the muscles in his face seemed to tighten.

Within his gaze glimmered a warning she didn’t fully comprehend, yet knew intuitively she dared not question.

Without a word he extended a hand.

Trembling, she laid icy fingers within his. His hand closed around hers. She nearly snatched it away, but didn’t dare. All at once she felt trapped as never before. His palm burned like fire against hers. A stab of anguish shot through her, for it was so very different from those nights at the cottage …

He led her forward. Together they halted before the king. Broad and squat, his black beard framed a square face and concealed some of the heaviness of his jowls.

“Your Highness,” he stated, “your arrival is most fortuitous. I’ve only recently returned to Sommerfield.”

The king’s dark eyes glinted. “Fortuitous indeed, for I have sent several messages to you of late and received no reply. I thought I would see what has transpired since our last meeting.” He gestured to the man who flanked his right, who was slim, with hair of russet brown. “You will recall Lord Geoffrey Covington”—he indicated the other, gray-haired and heavy-chested—“and Lord Roger Seymour.”

“I do indeed.” Gareth gave a slight bow. “My lords.”

The king had diverted his attention to Gillian. His black eyes were gleaming and lust-filled—and abhorrently revolting to Gillian.

“I do not recall this beauteous lady,” he said with a bold leer. “Did you hide her away that night, Sommerfield?”

“Nay, my lord.” Gareth’s laugh was falsely hearty. He held their joined hands high. “I should like to present my wife, Lady Gillian of Westerbrook.”

Gillian envied his calm, yet she could feel every muscle in his body coiled tight. Her stomach churned and her limbs quailed, for this might well be the last day she would see on this earth.

Somehow she willed the tremor from her voice. “Sire.” It galled her to greet him courteously, but she bowed her head and dipped into a curtsy. It was all she could bring herself to say.

There was a suffocating silence. She heard King John’s sharp inhalation of breath, saw the menace that contorted his features as she straightened. Geoffrey Covington and Roger Seymour were clearly startled, then ill at ease. In that moment, she had no doubt of the black vileness that stained the king’s soul, that he was capable of any and all atrocity.

Only Gareth was seemingly unperturbed.

John’s gaze fastened upon her, as scathingly condemning as his tone. “Lady Gillian.” He spoke the name as if it were a vile curse. “You are the daughter of Ellis of Westerbrook?”

Gillian pressed her lips together bravely. Though she quavered from head to toe, she would not cower nor cringe openly before this hateful man. Yet neither would she fall before him, pleading for mercy and begging for her life.

“I am, sire.” She spoke with quiet dignity.

The king’s gaze swung to Gareth. “We must speak in private,” he said brusquely.

“Doubtless we will, my lord … after I see my son.”

Gillian was stunned by his daring.

“Your son is well,” the king said curtly.

“I would see for myself,” Gareth answered easily.

“He is not here.” John dismissed him impatiently.

“Pardon me if you please, Your Majesty, but it would seem that since you are so busy with your affairs, you must have overlooked his presence.” He turned and pointed to the very last cart in the procession. A golden blond head was just barely visible. “I see him there, my lord, with his nurse. I must express my gratitude once again, for allowing the woman to accompany the boy.”

Gillian was both amazed and appalled. Oh, but he was glib. He would give and take almost in the very same breath.

John bared his teeth. “By God’s teeth, you dare much! But since I am feeling particularly generous this day, I will allow it.” He raised a hand, and Roger Seymour stepped away to convey the message to one of the other knights present.

Within seconds, a big, raw-boned woman with a matronly air about her crossed the courtyard, holding the young boy’s hand. When the pair reached them, the woman curtsied and seized Gareth’s hand, pressing a kiss upon it.

“My lord Sommerfield,” she cried, fairly beaming. ” ‘Tis good to be home again.”

“Indeed it is, Edith.” He acknowledged her salute with a faint smile. “You’ll be amply rewarded for taking such good care of my son.” He addressed the woman, but his gaze never wavered from the lad, who peered up at his great height.

His hand fell away from Gillian’s. He sank to his knees before the lad. His gaze roved over golden, silky hair and plump, rosy cheeks. He laid his hands on the boy’s small shoulders.

“Robbie,” he said hoarsely. “My son. My boy.”

The boy stretched out a small hand, just barely touching the raspy hardness of Gareth’s cheek. “Papa?” he said tentatively.

It was a moment before Gareth answered. Gillian saw the way his throat worked, saw the way he struggled to speak. “Aye, lad,” he said rustily. “Aye!”

In the next instant, he’d clasped that small, sturdy body fast against his chest. With no hesitation, the boy laid his head against his father’s shoulder.

“A touching reunion”—the king’s voice resounded mockingly—“but it has gone on quite long enough, Sommerfield. Geoffrey”—he beckoned to first one knight, then the other—“Roger.” His gaze settled on Gillian. “You may as well come, too, girl,” he informed her haughtily, “since it is your fate I’ll be deciding.”

Gareth had swept Robbie high in his arms. Gillian had the feeling he was on the verge of refusing, but then Edith stepped forward.

“I’ll take him, my lord.”

“Thank you, Edith. Perhaps the cook can find some tidbit for him.”

Within minutes, the five of them were closeted alone in a chamber above the hall—King John, Gareth, Geoffrey Covington, Roger Seymour, and Gillian. Covington and Seymour removed themselves to stand at the far end of the chamber near the wall. Gillian hid her hands in her skirts to hide their trembling as the short, stout monarch took the chair that Covington had brought forward to the center of the room.

He wasted no time. Thin lips twisted into a snarl. “Are you a traitor?” he demanded.

“I am not, Your Majesty.”

“Then why didn’t you put her to the sword as I ordered?”

Gillian’s heart pinched. The ground seemed to sway beneath her feet. So it was true. Not that she’d doubted Gareth’s claim that he was to kill her, but to hear the king state her fate so cruelly made her long to plummet to the innards of the earth.

The king continued his fuming. “Why is she not dead?” A disdainful finger flicked her way. “Can you tell me, my lord Sommerfield, why you should not be condemned as a traitor for your failure to slay her?”

Gareth’s smile was taut. “I’ve no desire to see your royal troops surround Sommerfield, my lord, but I pray you, hear me out.”

Oh, but he was clever. He knew just what to say to keep his head from the block.

“Get on with it, then!” snapped the king.

“I was able to indeed hunt down the lady to the place where she had fled. I boarded a ship to hasten the journey, but just as I would have reached her, the ship broke up in a storm. Strange as it may seem, when I awoke, I remembered nothing of my past save my name—Gareth. When I awoke, Lady Gillian was there. She tended me while I recovered.”

“So you married her out of gratitude. Because she rescued you—because she saved you?” John rolled his eyes. “God’s teeth, Sommerfield, what blithering nonsense! I’d heard tales that you’d grown hard and bitter and cruel upon the death of your wife, that you cared about naught but your son. When you lost your past, did you lose your spine as well?” Beneath John’s denunciation laced an acid bite.

Gillian’s eyes flew wide at the king’s scornful affront. She wondered fleetingly how he would respond to the king’s jeer.

She was not given to wonder for long. He erupted into an easy laugh. “Hardly that, sire. I was taken with the wench. I wanted her.”

The declaration was not what she expected. Gillian very nearly swung her gaze upon him in startled surprise. Was it true? The thought had barely skittered across her mind when a hard arm slid around her back. With the other he blatantly ran a trespassing finger along the neckline of her gown, even skimming down—nay, between!—the valley of her breasts.

The impudent rogue! Gillian bristled. She girded herself, for the urge to jab an elbow into his belly was immensely tempting. If not for the king’s presence, by God, she would have! Her lips compressed in mutinous ire. Spying it, Gareth gave a mocking laugh and pulled her tighter against his side.

John slammed a fist against the ornately carved arm of the chair.

“So why didn’t you just bed her and be done with it? Why the devil did you have to marry her? She carries her father’s blood!”

“And my seed,” he said with soft deliberation.

Gillian reeled. A hundred things ripped through her in the mind-spinning aftershock. Horror. Disbelief. In some faraway corner, she marveled that she was able to remain upright; mayhap it was because Gareth’s fingers bit almost painfully into her arm. Her mind was racing. What the devil was he about? Why had he made such a claim? Yet now, she realized numbly, she understood his warning that she was not to argue with him, not to dispute him.

He stepped away. A half-smile lurked upon his lips. His gaze raked down her form, lingering on the swell of her breasts beneath her gown—a brazen insult. Despite her best intentions, Gillian flushed.

“She was a maid when I first saw her,” he said almost lazily. His smile widened. His eyes were hard. “But not for long, eh, lass? Ah, yes, she came willingly into my arms every night while I healed.”

Gillian felt her face flame scarlet. How dare he do this, she railed in furious indignation. She began to smolder inside. He taunted her. He taunted her most cruelly and there was naught she could do! He was aware that she would not denounce him—not before the king. Fear of her life prompted her silence, for she could not predict what the king might do if he knew the truth, that she did not carry his babe. Dear God, his babe!

Nor was he finished. “I daresay you’ve an eye for a fair maid, sire,” he went on blithely, “and so do I. Look at her, my lord. She’s a tempting morsel—and a tasty one, at that.” Slowly he began to circle her. All the while, that maddening smile curled his lips.

“Is it any wonder I took her to my bed? Or perhaps I should say hers …

“I touched her as I pleased,” he continued baldly. “I wanted her—and I had her. And if you doubt me, sire, you’ve only to look at her to see the truth, to know that she lay with me. When I was well again, I discovered I was not yet ready to end such… pleasurable nights. I brought her with me to Sommerfield, and it was then I recalled my mission. But by then, I’d discovered she was with child. I could hardly kill her,” he said with a shrug.

Gillian could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Hot shame poured through her. When, she wondered achingly, would this nightmare end? Oh, but he was a master of cunning … a master of deceit, for the lies poured from his lips with ease. Behind that irksome smile was a man she did not know. Worse yet, she detected a seething current of something dark and dangerous… The teasing rogue from the cottage—the tender man who held her hand throughout the night—might never have been.

He’d halted behind her now, so near she could feel the rise and fall of his chest.

His voice rang out above her head. “You see the dilemma that faced me. To kill her would be to kill my own child, something I was not prepared to do … will not do.” He moved so quickly she nearly cried out. A hand clamped suddenly on her belly, pulling her against him. His fingers splayed wide— as if he owned her, she decided bitterly. As if she were naught but a possession.

Deliberately she held herself rigid, trying to strain away. For an instant, the hand on her belly tightened. Then he abruptly released her.

Gareth had braced his legs slightly apart. “I will have no bastard child, sire,” he said with a distinct undercurrent of steel. “I had no choice but to wed her.”

“What of her brother? Do you know his fate?”

“Nay, sire, I do not.” Oh, but he delivered the words with just the right amount of regret, the snake!

John made no answer. His black gaze had shifted to Gillian. “Your father tried to murder me,” he said flatly.

And your lackey would have murdered me! she longed to screech.

“Did you know of your father’s attempt before it happened?”

Gillian shook her head.

“He did not act alone. Do you know the man who conspired with him?”