The Truest Heart (23 page)

It was longer than Gareth expected before he was able to excuse himself and take his leave. At least a dozen urgent matters were left in limbo, but they had waited this long; they could surely wait until the morrow. He was too impatient to concentrate anyway. The day had been long and tiring. There had been little sleep the night before.

He pushed himself away from the table with feigned reluctance, not wanting to appear too eager. But of a certainty it was not the matter of the night’s rest that filled his mind as he announced his intention to seek his bed.

It was the lady who was in it.

His knights cast knowing glances and grins between themselves. A few were frankly envious. They well knew just why their lord was so eager to say good night and retire.

Ah, but what would he find? Gareth wondered. A spitting, defiant she-devil? Was this but one more chance to refuse him? Such was the turning of his mind as he mounted the stairs that would take him to his chamber; he was afraid the answer would hardly be to his liking. With a stab of black humor, he advised himself that he’d best be ready to duck when he opened the door—she would heave whatever was in reach to keep him out.

Cautiously he opened the door a crack, then stepped within. The chamber was dim but not completely dark. A few candles still sputtered.

As he closed the door, his heart skidded to a halt. His narrowed gaze riveted to the bed. It was empty, by God! He was ready to explode. Christ, where the devil had the wench gone? Mayhap he should have kept her under lock and key after all!

Embers from the fire burned, aglow with a miserly heat, for the fire needed to be replenished. It was then he spied her, there before the fireplace. Her head was propped on her arms. Her legs were tucked beneath her, her skirts swirled all about her. Her hair was a wild, ebony waterfall around her, spilling rich and thick and swirling upon the floor.

There was a half-empty goblet near her hand.

Four steps took him to the table near the hearth. Lifting it, his brows shot high. He glanced from the decanter, to Gillian, and back again. Slowly he lowered it to the table. Hmm. She had partaken freely of it, it seemed, very freely.

His mind was suddenly circling. Bedamned! he swore darkly. What was this that she must fortify herself with spirits in order to lie with him?

He disliked the notion. Disliked it intensely.

What do you expect? The voice of admonishment echoed in his brain. You hardly played the tender lover. Would you bring her unto you with harshness and fear between you? ‘Tis no way to begin a marriage.

He very nearly had… He cursed himself roundly. Alas! No wonder she’d felt the need for wine, he admitted slowly. His mood had been stormy last eve.

Stormy? chided the voice. ‘Twas a veritable tempest!

But she had surprised him. Oh, aye, she had surprised him indeed …

Gareth had felt badly that there had been little time to speak with Robbie, to tell him of his new life. What with his wedding yesterday, the king’s arrival, and everyone clamoring for his attentions, there had barely been time to think. And last eve before the celebration, when he went to Robbie’s room, the lad was already fast asleep—thus, he’d searched out the boy this afternoon after he’d returned from inspecting his lands.

He’d felt rather sheepish when Robbie informed him that he already knew of his wife—that he had already met Gillian, as he called her. Robbie spoke of her with shining eyes. Then later, he’d seen Gillian sitting with him near the hearth. Her arm slid about the boy’s shoulders, and Robbie had laughed up at her. It seemed there was a bond between them already, and for that, he was vastly relieved, his concerns nearly banished.

For he knew how she felt about him. She resented him fiercely, and he hadn’t been entirely sure how she would feel about his son. He’d been foolish to worry, he decided. For despite her tumultuous emotions about him now, she had tended his wounds with the utmost gentleness and attentiveness. He’d sensed her capacity for love and caring long ago, felt in her gentle touch when he lay ill. Such a woman could hardly turn aside his son. And if the pair held each other in affection already, ‘twas surely a good sign that all would be well by the time the babe came along.

Ah, yes, the babe … the babe that had yet to be conceived.

Aye, he was pleased with her. But if only there were more time to gain her trust.

He drew a slow, deep breath. Time, he thought.

She had asked for more time last night. He’d countered that there was none to give—and how he suddenly regretted that there was not! For then he might have gained her trust…

Dear God, he could never have killed her. Never. And what of her brother? What of Clifton? That part of his memories still eluded him. When all had settled, Gareth decided, he would send several men in search of the boy. But he would keep this to himself, for he could not bear to give rise to Gillian’s hopes, only to see them dashed yet again.

He crossed to the fireplace and sat down upon his haunches, very near but not touching her. A strong wrist dangled from one knee as he looked at her for the longest time. Her beauty struck him like the butt of a sword, low in the belly, robbing him of both his breath and his senses.

Dark, silky lashes, the color of smoke, rested upon her cheeks. The wine had stained her mouth a lush, deep crimson; a drop still lingered, there upon the swell of her lower lip, catching the flame of the fire and turning the ruby bead translucent. They were parted now, her breath deep and rhythmic. Almost reverently, he traced the delicate plane of her cheek. With the pad of his thumb, he blotted the drop of wine and carried it to his lips.

Her eyes fluttered open, still hazed with the blur of sleep—and wine.

She stirred. “Gareth?” she murmured.

“Aye,” he said huskily.

Dainty fingertips touched his mouth—a startling caress that made him reel.

“I fed you,” she whispered.

“Gillian—” He spoke her name with an uncharacteristic hesitation.

Her gaze roamed his features, as if she saw him for the very first time. His pulse began to pound, for he glimpsed neither fear nor resentment.

“When you were ill, I fed you”—her voice was but a wisp—“like this.”

Before he could utter a sound—before he gleaned her intention—she filled her mouth with wine from the goblet.

A hand upon his chest, she pushed him back to his elbows. She leaned over him, her hair cocooning them in a curtain of silk. When her lips met his, he needed no urging to part his own. When he did, a warm drizzle of wine trickled from her mouth to his.

Comprehension dawned in a flash. Gareth was shocked. Humbled that she had gone to such lengths to save his life.

It might have been a dream. Sweet Christ, some wanton, erotic dream. Desire churned his gut and he smothered a groan. It was the wine, he knew, that was responsible. It had wiped away her inhibitions. Yet at the same time, something in him soared giddily.

His hands tightened almost convulsively a dozen times. He had to fight to keep them from closing around her and fusing her mouth to his in a boundless kiss. But he sustained the impulse, and didn’t withdraw. He swung to the heavens, then plunged back to earth. The urge to take what she offered so freely was strong in him.

For there was fire in her, the same fire he’d felt when first they kissed. Oh, she could pretend resistance. She could spout her outrage until the end of the earth. But she’d unwittingly given him a glimpse of the heat beneath the icy cold facade.

She kissed him until there was no more wine to give. Only then did she slowly relinquish the sizzling contact of their lips. Leaning back, she reached anew for the goblet. Gareth quickly set it aside.

“Oh, no,” he said with an uneven laugh. “You’ve had enough wine for tonight, Gillian.”

Rosy lips pouted up at him. A faint disappointment puckered her brow.

He lifted her to her feet. She swayed unsteadily, and he caught her. An arm beneath her knees, he swung her into his arms and carried her to the bed. She slipped an arm around his neck with a sigh. For a moment, Gareth stood unmoving at the bedside, selfishly reluctant to free her.

At last he eased her down. Her head turned into the pillow. Her lashes fanned across her cheeks. He stared. She was asleep once more!

So much for his dreams of a night well-pleasured.

He divested her of her gown and slippers, tossing them aside, heedless of where they landed. A slow curl of heat unfurled in his belly as he stared down at her with undisguised yearning. Moonlight gilded her limbs, smooth and gleaming and ivory. He longed to wake with her slender legs deliciously entwined with his. Coral-hued nipples stood out against the cool night air; they begged to be kissed and sucked. He wanted to bend low and take those luscious peaks into his mouth, feel them grow hard and erect against the glide of his tongue.

She shifted. She angled one knee away from her body. ‘Twas a pose that left the font of her womanhood open and unguarded, vulnerable to his boldly seeking gaze. He knew that, were he to reach out and explore those soft, pink folds, her internal heat would cling damply to his fingertips.

He had to force himself to look away, a stream of low, vivid curses on his lips. His head was pounding; an answering pulse throbbed heavily in his loins. Ah, but he was a fool, to torment himself so! She was here, naked and bare, with a sensual allure that beckoned to everything that was primitively male within. Before God, she was his wife …

But she was not yet his.

His laugh held a trace of self-derision. She tempted him beyond measure, almost past bearing. But he dismissed the scalding rush of desire that flamed in his veins, testing his willpower to the limit.

Oh, aye, her stubbornness taunted him. Her beauty of face and form held a fascination too strong to resist—nor did he wish to.

But he would not take her, not like this. He wanted her fully awake and aware. He wanted to make her moan into his mouth and feel her body cling to his, the velvet clasp of her secret cove clasped tight about his rigid member.

So it was that he shed his clothes and climbed into bed beside her. It was like their time in the cottage, only now they were naked. And she was his wife. Gathering her close against his side, he twined his fingers into her hair and tipped her face to his. He had to have just one more sampling of her lips…

In her sleep, she kissed him back. In her sleep, she surrendered what she would not have in the cold light of day.

In time, he drew back. He was far from sated. But for now, this would do.

Chapter 16

Gillian woke to the feel of swords clanging inside her skull and an incredible thirst. Trying to think was like slogging through a marsh. Lord, but she felt dreadful. And her mind was all amuddle. The events of last evening were vague. She remembered supper in the hall, coming upstairs and pouring wine … dear God, it was the wine!

Still half-asleep, she brought her hands up beneath the pillow and eased to her side. Though she was careful, pain shot through her forehead like a lance. She moaned and dragged her eyelids open.

She beheld the last thing in the world she wanted to find—her husband stretched out beside her.

Words were impossible to come by. They were lying face-to-face. Lazy amusement glimmered in those sea green depths.

“And how is milady feeling this morning?” he inquired.

His knowing smile was infuriating. He knew well indeed precisely how she felt, the goat.

“Your head aches abominably, does it not?”

“Aye.” She fixed him with a venomous eye. She suspected he was enjoying this, and she thoroughly detested him! She had a sudden urge to deliver a blow to his nose and bloody it with her fist, as youths were wont to do when they were raucous and anxious to prove their mettle. Indeed, she told herself, she would have if she had the strength. He’d not be so smug then! Yet in the very next instant she was appalled. She was neither a youth nor raucous nor intent on proving anything. Never in her life had she been compelled to do anyone bodily harm as she had with him. Oh, but he was making a madwoman of her!

“Does your belly feel like a ship on a storm-tossed sea?”

“Nay,” she muttered crossly. “Now go away.” Her eyes closed. She didn’t want to think, didn’t want to deal with him when he chose to be difficult.

“Certainly,” he said in all pleasantness.

He left the bed, hauling the sheet and coverlet with him as he rose. Even as his nudity struck her, chill wintry air washed over her like the brine of the sea.

She glanced down, then stared in horror as her gleaming flesh confronted her. ‘Twas a calculated move, she realized, for she wore not a stitch. In her misery, her comprehension was muddled and slowed by several degrees.

She dove for the coverlet. Alarm flooded her. Her gaze swung to Gareth, who still stood at the side of the bed. Judging from his expression, he was awaiting her reaction.

Gillian balked. Cold fingers latched onto the fur coverlet. “Dear God,” she said faintly. “Did you … did we …” Her heart was hammering. She couldn’t go on, but she searched frantically through her string of memories of the night gone by. If they had … wouldn’t she have remembered?

“Nay,” he said softly. “I would have you an active participant, sweet.”

Gillian gulped. “Then why am I…”

“Naked?”

She was right. He was enjoying this. That he had taken her clothing from her was obvious—and vastly disturbing. Save these past two nights, she’d never slept unclothed before in her life.

“Aye,” she quavered.

Those green eyes gleamed. “My castle. My bed—” his smile was utterly wicked—“my way.”

Gillian eyed him warily. She didn’t like the sound of that.

“What do you mean?” she asked nervously.

The mattress dipped as he sat, nearly tugging the fur from her desperate grip. “Only that from now on you will sleep without benefit of clothing in this bed, as will I. In a word … naked. Indeed, perhaps we should leave our clothing outside the door.”

Gillian gaped. Surely he wasn’t serious!