The Truest Heart (30 page)

With that Gillian found herself hustled toward the bedchamber. Gareth paused only to order that two sentries be posted outside Seymour’s door.

In the bedchamber, she raised her brows. “Sentries, my lord, and two of them. Could it be you do not trust him?”

“Nay,” he said curtly. He frowned, his gaze sliding over her. “Did he harm you?”

“Oh, so now he thinks to ask! As much as you will leave with him in the morn, would it matter if he did?”

His eyes narrowed. “Tell me, Gillian.”

“Nay.” It was her turn to be curt.

Folding his arms across his broad chest, he gave her a long, measuring look. “Will you see me off in the morning?”

“See you off? With the king’s men at your side?” She turned away, unable to withhold her brittle condemnation.

Without a word Gareth pulled her around to face him, his displeasure unconcealed.

“Do you think I’m in league with the king?”

“I know that you are!” she said bitterly. “You are one of them! ‘Tis just as Seymour stated—you will ride beneath his banner!”

“What would you have me do?” he demanded. “Deny him and bring his wrath down upon us both?”

“You have a point,” she conceded stiffly. “Yet I wonder if you will ever remain his humble servant.” It was unfair of her. Deep in her soul, Gillian knew it. But the bluster of emotions inside her would not be quieted. “It would seem as much as Seymour and Sommerfield, you are the king’s pupp—”

“Do not say it,” he warned through his teeth. “By God, Gillian, do not dare—”

She dared. “You are!” she flung at him recklessly. “You are the king’s—”

His mouth crushed hers. Hot, demanding lips smothered the scathing denouncement ‘ere she could finish. A sense of weightlessness assailed her as she felt herself lifted and borne to the bed. His big body followed her down.

With a gasp Gillian twisted her head away. His mouth slid down the slender column of her neck, dwelling with lingering awareness on the throbbing pulse at the base of her throat. Then his mouth was on hers again, reclaiming with stark possessiveness the kiss she would have withheld, boldly consuming. She made a sound of mute despair. Why was it always thus with him? He had only to touch her to make her his own—to make the world fall away and ignite a blistering heat that raced through her veins like wildfire. And he knew … he knew! For only when he felt the answering tremor of her lips beneath his did he raise his head.

He stared at her with burning eyes. She inhaled, the sound deep and jagged. “Why do you do this?” she asked with quavering voice and quivering heart. “You’ve accomplished what you set out to do—what had to be done. Your seed flourishes in my womb. I carry your child, Gareth, yours! So now there is no need for you to—”

His eyes darkened. “Need, she says. Why, she asks.” His tone was utterly fierce. “Fever once raged throughout my body, Gillian. But now that fever is you. It blazes inside me, alight in my very soul. I would stay if I could, but I cannot. Do not deny me, for I would have this moment to carry in my heart those long, lonely nights away from you.”

The fiery hold of his gaze trapped her as surely as the taut, powerful arms that engulfed her slender form. The timbre of his voice sent a shiver along the length of her spine. ‘Twas not arrogance, not determination, but a questing, fiery desire that seared his eyes to emerald fire.

Gillian was helpless against it. Against him. Against her own desperate yearning. With a half-strangled cry of surrender, slender arms locked around his neck. Her angry hurt was forgotten. Everything was forgotten—the king and his men— everything but the desperate need that surged like a rising tide within her. She reveled in the way he crushed her against him, the wild, consuming way he kissed her. Her clothing was dispensed with, and then his own.

He rose above her. The sight of him made her weak inside. She was achingly aware of everything about him. He was darkly magnificent, all sleek, powerful grace. Her palms slid over the tight, gleaming contours of his shoulders, thrilling to the sleek, knotted strength of his arms and shoulders, fluid and tight beneath smooth, binding flesh. Unbidden, her small hand swept down … down to the steel lance that jutted between his thighs.

Heat stormed through her at the feel of him. Above her, he inhaled sharply and squeezed his eyes shut. She felt the thunder of his heart pounding against hers. Caught up in the same passionate frenzy she sensed in him, she watched as he splayed her legs wide.

His forehead rested against hers. “Take me inside you,” he said raggedly. “Take my flesh within you…”

It was a heated, searing whisper. She could not deny him. She could not deny herself. Holding her breath, stunned by her boldness, small fingers curled around him and guided the velvet head of his shaft through damp, ebony curls.

Neither could look away as he came inside her. The sight was wanton. Erotic. The friction of her hot, silken sheath gripping tight around his swollen member drove them both half-mad. She felt the shudder that racked him, the grimace of pleasure that twisted his features as he buried himself deep with a single stroke. He pulled out, his spear wet and glistening with her honeyed dew, only to plunge again … and again.

His whisper touched her cheek. “Remember this, sweet. Remember me …”

She moaned as he thrust inside her, plunging again and again, the driving tempo of his thrusts shattering, as if he would pierce her very soul. Her nails carved into his shoulders as she held tight, afire in a crimson haze of passion.

“Gareth,” she heard herself whisper, and then it was a cry: “Gareth!”

A cascade of rapture burst inside her, through her, a rapture so intense she cried out again and again. Above her, Gareth’s entire body went taut. A groan erupted from his chest. The pulsing stream of his essence flooded her with liquid fire.

But that was not the end of the night. ‘Twas just the beginning …

Near dawn she drifted into an exhausted slumber. It seemed she’d just closed her eyes when the sounds of movement filled the room. Struck by the awareness that Gareth’s presence was glaringly absent, her eyes fluttered open.

He stood near the fire, towering and strong, dressed for travel. As he strapped his sword to his side, he glanced over and discovered her eyes wide open and upon him.

Half a dozen steps brought him to the bedside. His features revealed nothing of his thoughts. He gazed down at her, his manner distant.

“I must go,” was all he said.

She sensed his impatience to be off. A wave of desolation swept over her. An oppressive heaviness settled on her chest. Bitterness bled through her like slow poison. If it was Celeste who still lay in his bed, would he have been so aloof and dispassionate? Nay. He’d have gathered her close and tight, lingered as long as he could.

The breath that filled her lungs was torture. “Begone then!” she cried. “The king awaits.” She pressed her cheek into the pillow … and away from him.

His features tightened. He swore. “Dammit, Gillian!” Lean fingers gripped her chin and tipped it to his.

She tried to bat his hand away, but he held firm. The iron clench of his jaw bespoke his anger, that and the simmer of his eyes. A scalding rush of tears closed her throat, tears that lay perilously close to the surface. She swallowed them back, lest he see them. Lest he see inside her, lest he glimpse the tangled web of emotions that roiled within her.

Her tremulous control was fast eroding. He was so close she could feel the heat of his body warming her own. She longed to wrap her arms around him and cling, pleading that he stay.

“Leave,” she choked out. “Please, Gareth … just leave!”

Something smoldered in his eyes, something she couldn’t put a name to. The furs were brushed aside. She felt her mouth seared by the branding possession… and a fleeting kiss brushed on the smoothness of her belly.

“Look after yourself—and my babe.”

The jangle of spurs came to her ears, the sharpness of booted heels across the floor … the click of the door.

It was her undoing.

Pain like a clamp grabbed hold, squeezing her very heart. What had she done? she thought brokenly. A scalding tear slipped down her cheek. All at once she was sobbing wildly, the sound raw and heartbroken.

Too late she despaired her reckless folly—her foolish, foolish pride. Throwing on her gown, heedless of the startled glances and the sleep-tumbled darkness of her hair, she sped to the courtyard…

Alas, her husband was already gone.

Chapter 20

“Did Gareth love Celeste?”

Gillian and Lynette sat on the bench beneath the window in the bedchamber. It was several weeks after Gareth’s departure that Gillian posed the question to her maid. For it was a question that was ever on her mind … as he was ever on her mind.

She put aside her embroidery to regard her maid.

Lynette was startled. Gillian witnessed the faint wariness that crept into Lynette’s wide brown eyes. She hesitated. “My lady,” she said awkwardly, “is that not a question that would best be answered by his lordship?”

Gillian folded her hands in her lap. “He is not here, Lynette. And he does not remember his feelings for her.” She could be no less than honest with her maid. “But you know, don’t you, Lynette?”

Lynette bit her lip, clearly in a quandary.

Gillian laid a hand on her shoulder. “Please tell me, Lynette, for I must know.”

“Aye,” Lynette said slowly. “He did love her— and she loved him.”

Gillian’s tone was very low. “Did love come before or after the marriage?”

Lynette’s eyes were wide. “My lady—”

“Just tell me, Lynette. Please.”

Lynette’s eyes flitted away, then returned. “It came before.” There was a pause. “Lady Celeste’s father was on the verge of announcing her betrothal to another man when they met. They wed within the month.”

A pang pierced Gillian’s breast. No matter that she had girded herself for the answer—that somehow she’d known it all along—to hear it spoken aloud made her ache inside.

“Gareth recalled once that she was ill when she died,” Gillian said quietly. “That she was with child.”

A shadow darkened Lynette’s expression. “Aye,” she said softly. “It was nearly two winters past that she and Robbie took sick. They were both so ill, so pale. Wheezing and coughing … Lady Celeste was so afraid that Robbie would die, for he was so young. Yet in the end it was she who perished, along with the babe.”

Gillian was quiet for a moment. “And Gareth?”

“He was not ill.”

Did Lynette deliberately misunderstand? Did she seek to spare her feelings? Ah, but were her own so obvious then?

“Not that,” Gillian said quickly. Through stringent effort she kept her voice even. “How was he after Lady Celeste’s death?” She hesitated. “When King John was here, he said Gareth had grown harsh and cruel after the death of his wife.”

Lynette was adamant. “Nay. Not harsh and cruel. Bitter, perhaps, at times impatient. Yet never was he cruel. And … oh, I do not mean to hurt you, but we all knew how deeply he mourned. His eyes were so empty, except when he was with Robbie.”

Gillian smiled wistfully. “She was quite lovely, wasn’t she?”

“That she was, my lady. Lovely in face and form, and loving in spirit as well. All who knew her loved her. She was kind and gentle and sweet”—all at once Lynette dropped to her knees before her—“as you are kind and sweet and gentle. The people of Sommerfield have come to love you just as they did the Lady Celeste, and-and so has my lord.”

Gillian felt her eyes glaze over. “Oh, Lynette,” she said with a faint catch in her voice, “you cannot know how it pleases me to hear you say so.” Impulsively she reached out and hugged her maid. Lynette’s eyes were suspiciously ashimmer, too, when they drew back. They both laughed shakily and went on to other matters.

But even as her heart filled to overflowing, she felt like weeping. The depths of despair dragged at her. She could not bear to disappoint Lynette, and so she said nothing.

For what Lynette had said about Gareth was not true. Gareth had not come to love her. Indeed, she feared he never would …

Her mood that night was pensive. When she combed her hair that night, she picked up a long raven lock and let it trail across her palm. It was shiny and gleaming, soft and full of life as ever, for her pregnancy had not made her pale and wan, but for those few days before Gareth’s departure.

But all at once a painful ache constricted her throat. She recalled the wild, desperate way he’d made love to her the night before he left, the fervent, passionate whisper breathed in her ear.

Do not deny me, he had said, for I would have this moment to carry in my heart those long, lonely nights away from you. Remember this. Remember me …

But did he? she wondered helplessly. He had loved Celeste, loved her with all his heart. He had loved Celeste, as he did not love her. And she couldn’t stop herself from wondering afresh what would happen if he remembered his life with Celeste.

She tried to pretend it didn’t matter, but it did. Was it wrong to envy Celeste, Celeste with her golden tresses and loving nature? Gillian could not delude herself—would not. Gareth had every reason to love Celeste.

Raw anguish spilled through her. He had given her his body. His seed. It might well be that his heart was locked away forever, along with his memory of Celeste.

And with that heartrending thought came another, one that was like a thorn being ground into her breast. Would he love her child less than he loved his son, his child with Celeste? Robbie had been a child created out of love.

And theirs had been created out of necessity.

The next morn, her pillow was still wet with tears.

The days of summer turned long and warm, yet still Gareth did not return. With every breath, she yearned to see her husband again. She began each day and ended each night by praying for his safety, for she trusted neither John nor his men.

In truth, it was Robbie who made the separation bearable, who claimed much of her time and energy. His exuberant laugh never failed to make her spirits climb. Indeed, it was Robbie with whom she shared the babe’s first movements in her womb, for the child within her flourished, thickening her waist, swelling her belly and breasts.