The Truest Heart (19 page)

Without a word he curled his fingers around her elbow and led her to the high-backed chair in the center of the dais. A hush had gone over the assemblage when they mounted the steps. He did not seat her immediately, but reached for her hand and held it high.

“The lady of Sommerfield,” he said simply. A cheer rang out and shouts still echoed throughout the hall when Gillian took her seat.

Gareth had thought it best to send Lynette up for her, for the lady had been rather contrary when they parted. He had no wish to enjoin another battle. As he’d approached her, he noted that her eyes were not red-rimmed and swollen—‘twas a vast relief to know she hadn’t spent the afternoon giving in to tears. In truth, Gareth was still smarting from their last stinging encounter. She’d made her feelings about this marriage—and him—abundantly clear. He would not play the love-sotted fool who doted on a wife who had nary a care for him.

The day had taken a turn he’d never expected. In the back of his mind, he’d had the feeling John would swoop in when the king discovered he was back. What he hadn’t expected was that it would be so soon.

He didn’t know how the solution had come to him, only that it had. In that shattering instant when Marcus announced the king’s arrival, his gaze cleaved straight to Gillian’s stricken features. He seized upon the first thing that spun into his head.

There had been no time to consider, to weigh and ponder. There was much he had to learn about himself, but somehow Gareth was aware he was a man of decisiveness, a man who would act upon his instinct and stand behind his commitment.

Nay, there could be no regrets. Indeed, as they stood before the priest, an odd elation had swelled his chest. The king’s arrival had forced his hand, yet Gareth was almost glad. He wanted her. He’d wanted her from the beginning, when he woke in her bed. He wanted her and what better way to have her in his bed than as his wife? Yet earning her trust would not be easy.

God knew he did not wish to be beholden to the sway of the king’s will, but so be it. He had accepted the fact that he had done what was right. He’d had no choice but to fall in or run afoul of King John. Though he was now consigned to do John’s bidding, it was a trap of his own doing. He disliked having to submit to the presence of two of John’s men—Stephen and Alexander now sat near the fire—but that, too, had been his choice. Yet he would also be wary of the king’s tactics. That John had tried to trick him into handing over his coin made him furious!

But he’d kept Gillian safely within reach. He uttered a fervent prayer that now would see an end to John’s vengeance toward her father.

And he’d managed to regain control of his son. He couldn’t describe what he’d felt in that moment when he’d first laid eyes on Robbie. He’d felt… as if his innards had turned to mush. As if someone had reached inside and grabbed at his heart. He could neither speak nor move nor breathe. The feel of that small body against his chest, the shining green of the eyes that were but a reflection of his own. Guilt rampaged through him like wildfire. He would never forget the wrench of shame that slammed through him, shame that he’d spent the last weeks wholly oblivious that he had a son.

There had been shame, too, on the journey here, the same deep, scalding shame he felt with Robbie, for his mind had dwelled often on Celeste. To his unending frustration, he could recall nothing of her, not even when he’d seen Robbie.

Was it because she was dead? The king had said he’d grown hard and bitter after Celeste’s death. He must have loved her then. He must have mourned her, so why couldn’t he remember? He berated himself harshly, for he couldn’t even recall how she’d died! Some might have called him too prideful, and perhaps he was. Yet he couldn’t even ask how she’d died, for he was ashamed to admit such a memory had fled.

Ashamed that he could feel no sadness. No pain.

In time, such remembrances might return. Aye, perhaps now that he was home.

Yet no matter that he couldn’t remember his past, he could not afford to dwell on it, he acknowledged silently. He must first see to his future.

And that meant seeing that Gillian and Robbie were kept safe. On that note, he returned his attention to his wife.

As soon as they were seated, servants swarmed from the kitchens. Supper proved a sumptuous affair. There was roast capon with cumin, huge platters of fish, loaves of bread, and an array of cheeses. Gareth ate and drank heartily, his appetite keen. The day had certainly not started off well, but it had ended reasonably well, and he had no aversion to enjoying it.

A maid offered another serving of pigeon pie, but he declined. Sated, he leaned back in his chair. It was no accident that his gaze drifted to his wife. Silently he studied her. Pale and still, she sat stiffly in her chair, sparing him neither thought nor glance nor word. She had eaten little, merely picked at her food, moving it around on her trencher.

He tipped his head to the side. “Is the food not to your taste, wife?”

Wife. The word was laced with mockery; his barb struck home. She longed to retort that it was not the food which was not to her taste, but the husband to whom she’d been shackled!

Her gaze cut to him sharply. Her rebellious aspirations must have shown. He propped an elbow on the lion head carved into the chair’s arm, and bent his head to hers, so that only she could hear. “Sulk if you wish, Gillian, but do it in private—do not convey your ill humor to my people. They believe there is cause to rejoice and you will indulge them.”

Their eyes locked in combat.

“And you?”

“And me,” he reiterated flatly.

“I see,” she said sweetly. “You wish me to be merry and gay?”

“Aye,” he said shortly. “You’ve sat beside me like a stone. Perhaps a dance might be in order—”

“I do believe you are right.”

Satisfaction rimmed his smile. Perhaps she was thawing. Perhaps her coolness was not coolness at all, but a shy reserve. After all, she knew no one but him. And perhaps this night would not bring about the cold reception he’d fully expected to receive. But before he could rise, she’d flounced from her seat.

In truth, Gillian despised him for his arrogance … his calm, for her stomach was twisted in knots at the prospect of what lay ahead this night. She much preferred to keep such thoughts at bay. Her gaze lit on Marcus, who had just stepped away from a group of knights. He had been kind, and she liked his gentle manner.

She stepped before him, her irritation at Gareth lending her courage. “Forgive my boldness, Sir Marcus, but it would please me if you would dance with me.”

She didn’t miss the surprise that sped across his handsome features, but he quickly set aside his ale.

“You honor me, my lady. I should be glad to accompany you.” With a winsome smile he offered his hand, palm up. Gillian laid her fingers within his.

He spun her to where some of the others were dancing. Before long, a faint frown appeared on his brow. “What is it, Sir Marcus? Come, tell me,” she encouraged lightly. “I will not bite, you know.” His lord might, she decided tartly, but she would not.

“My lady,” he said earnestly, “I do not mean to intrude upon your affairs—either yours or my lord’s—but knowing that you are the daughter of Ellis of Westerbrook, I want to assure you that all here welcome you.”

Dismay shot through her. She could barely find the courage to meet his regard. “So it’s common knowledge—that my father tried to kill the king.”

“Aye, my lady.”

There was a sharp stab in her breast. Even if she were to somehow find a way to leave Sommerfield, would she be ostracized? The prospect lent her no ease.

” ‘Tis not what you think,” Marcus said quickly. “My lord told his knights of your circumstances, that you ran from your home fearing retribution from the king. I simply wanted you to know you may trust me. I am loyal to Gareth… and to you. As I am sworn to my lord’s protection, so I am to yours. ‘Tis the same for all of his knights.”

Gillian was touched beyond measure. “Thank you, Marcus,” she said softly. “That truly means a great deal to me.” She smiled up at him in gratitude.

Marcus smiled, displaying two deep dimples. “Excellent,” he murmured, and now his eyes were sparkling. “Now, ‘twill not do that you look so sober, my lady …” He dipped her so that her eyes flew wide and she had to clutch at his shoulder, and then suddenly she was laughing…

Watching the pair from across the hall, Gareth straightened in his chair. Why, the little vixen! He wanted to grind his teeth in sheer frustration, march over and pry Marcus’s fingers from the narrow span of her waist. God’s blood, but he had not foreseen this side of her, never dreamed it might exist! The chit was flirting with Marcus—and Marcus appeared to be quite receptive to it and, indeed, quite admiring of her!

Not that he could blame him. With her hair upswept, it revealed the long, graceful arch of her throat, the fragile-looking sweep of her nape. All the while she’d sat beside him, he longed to reach out and caress the soft, baby-fine hairs that curled on her nape. As irresistibly tempting as it was, as flattering as the regal coronet atop her crown was, Gareth preferred it down, an ebony curtain tumbling about her shoulders in wanton disarray, much like the morning when each had gazed in startled surprise at the other. He longed to comb his fingers through the silken mass, tug her close and bring her mouth into his.

Her skirts swirled high, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of trim ankles. Even from here, Gareth discerned the worn fabric of her gown, the tattered hem. He frowned. Her wardrobe was pitifully limited. He would have to see that it was remedied, for he couldn’t have his wife looking like a waif. And he needed to fatten her up a bit…

The dance ended. But Marcus had barely stepped back when another man took his place; before long, still another and another. Gareth fumed. Leeches, every one of them! A smoldering anger reared its head, anger fostered by her indifference to him—and her attentiveness to his men!

But she belonged solely to him now. He was the only man who had the right to claim this beauty, he reminded himself. And claim her he would …

And very soon now.

Her maiden state might prove a slight hindrance, but it pleased him mightily. He would see to it that she had little pain. He would ease the way with melting kisses and molten caresses. It was a heady sensation, knowing she was innocent of all men but him. He’d felt for himself the frail, delicate barrier of her maidenhead—her heat and tightness—and they had not been apart but for last night. Though she knew it not, he’d posted a guard at her door. Oh, aye, knowing she was a virgin—that she’d been bedded by no other man—made him burn inside. His blood began to simmer and his loins began to heat.

He craved the feel of her against him, small and soft and delicate, lithe and firm. The night spent apart from her had only sharpened his desire a hundredfold. Erotic images of the night ahead danced in his mind. She would be naked this time, as naked as he … But his mouth turned down as he discovered the object of his thoughts bestowing a charming smile upon Sir Bentley, ever the clown—but nearly as handsome as Sir Marcus.

“You do seem to enjoy the company of my knights,” he remarked pleasantly.

Gillian resumed her seat. “You told me to make merry with your people, so I did.” A tiny little smile flirted at the corner of her lips. “But I must admit, I did enjoy the company of your knights—no doubt because I’ve had so little company for so many months.”

Gareth swore beneath his breath. She’d just deliberately dismissed him, as if their time together had never happened.

He quirked a brow. “You wound me, lady,” he stated mildly. “Do you not recall that we spent every hour of the day—and night—together these many weeks? You cried upon my chest. You slept with your cheek nestled against my shoulder, the curve of your breast against my side.” He shook his head. “A pity it’s now your memory which fails you. Indeed, ‘tis just as I told the king. You came willingly into my arms every night while I healed.” His eyes bored into hers. “Or am I mistaken?”

Gillian glowered at him. Oh, but he was so damnably smug! And why shouldn’t he be? He was home, reunited with his son … while hers had been burned to the ground. She wanted nothing more than to snatch the pitcher of wine from the table and toss it into his lap—to see him toppled from his lofty perch. Perhaps that would dampen his intentions!

She would not dignify him with an answer. Instead she said levelly, “I’ve done what you asked. May I be excused?”

She had already started to rise. A steely hand clamped about her wrist. “You may not.”

If the chilliness of his features were anything to go by, his pleasantness had been deceptive.

She sat down again, so hard her teeth hurt. Gareth had already leaned back in the chair. His pose was indolent, almost lazy as his unhurried gaze surveyed the swarm of people. A fresh surge of outrage shot through her. Oh, but he looked every inch the master of the castle!

“You appear to be feeling rather proud of yourself.”

His eyes flickered to her, but did not linger. “Why shouldn’t I? I am home, and I have my son back.”

“And you also have a wife.”

His hand moved, trapping hers where it rested upon the arm of the chair. His fingers moved, his fingers tracing hers from the tips of her fingers to her knuckles.

“Do not fear, Gillian. You’ll not be slighted.”

His tone was almost one of silky menace. To those who might have chanced to look upon them, it might have appeared a tender caress between lovers. But Gillian knew better. It was but a way to goad her. It was not banter, but war—and he played the game far better and with far more subtlety than she.

She wrenched her hand from beneath his. “This marriage is a travesty!” she hissed.

“Nonetheless, it is a valid marriage,” he observed coolly. “We are bound as one, and I look forward to the birth of our first child. Indeed, it’s good of you to remind me … I do have a duty to discharge this night if we are to beget that child.”

Oh, the lout! “Perhaps you shouldn’t have lied,” she shot back.

“If I hadn’t lied, you wouldn’t have lived. Indeed, your gratitude overwhelms me.” His lip curled. His eyes hardened to green chips of ice. “And now, I do believe it’s time to begin.”