The Truest Heart (34 page)

“A brave and admirable man,” Covington said smoothly. “A pity he had to die so ignobly. ‘Twas an ugly sight, I gather.” His smile was both crude and cruel. “But better him than me. Better you than me.”

“But you’ll not escape this time,” she cried in heartfelt defiance. “Gareth will know what you did. He’ll hunt you down and kill you—”

He laughed outright. “Your husband will never even know I was here,” he taunted. His gaze fell on her swollen belly. His lip curled. “All will mourn your tragic plunge from atop the ramparts. A dreadful accident when you chanced to lean out too far. Made clumsy by your condition, you were unable to halt your fall. Ah,” he mocked, “but ‘tis a long way down, milady.”

She lunged at him then, for if she was to die, by God, she would not yield to him so easily. She would fight, and struggle and scream, that Gareth would hear. That Gareth would somehow appear and discover his treachery. Her hands raised, she clawed at his face, feeling his skin rip beneath her nails. Enraged, he gave her a mighty shove, sending her hurtling forward. Gillian twisted slightly to avoid landing on her belly. There was no time to do more; her shoulder rammed into the stone, jarring her from head to toe.

Covington’s lips flattened in a vicious snarl. He bellowed like a bull. “By God, you’ll pay for that, bitch!”

A hand balled into a massive fist. She braced herself, curling tightly around her middle, determined to protect the life within her, no matter the cost to herself.

“I warned Seymour once that he would pay with his life if he laid a hand on my wife, Covington. But yours, I fear, is already forfeit.”

A hundred emotions swept over her in that mind-splitting instant. It was a voice more dear to her than the breath of life itself. Gareth stood in the shadows. He had come after her. Through some miracle, he had heard her prayers and come for her…

Gareth’s attention was riveted upon Covington. It spun through her mind that Covington was right to fear him. His expression was fierce, his eyes cold as frost yet alight with the very fires of hell.

But Covington spun about. He dragged her onto her feet and began to drag her toward the ramparts—and certain death. Gillian twisted and turned but he was too strong for her. His arms were like a vise around her.

“Release her, Covington!”

Covington was breathing hard. “You can’t stop me,” he chortled.

They were nearing the edge now. The endless sweep of sky and stars loomed above. Fear clogged her throat. She could hear the lonely keening of the wind, moaning around the tower—like silent fingers of death before her, seeking to grasp at her, clutch at her and pull her into the vastness below. She fought desperately not to give in to it… fought the enveloping prison of Covington’s hands. But he was so strong, and she could feel herself weakening with every breath.

But Gareth’s voice was closer now. “I won’t let you do this, Covington.”

“Gareth!” she screamed, caring naught that her voice was thick with terror and tears.

Through the night, his eyes found hers. “I love you, sweet.” Softly he spoke. So very softly … then the sound was carried aloft by the wind.

For the span of a heartbeat, their gazes collided— emerald and sapphire—both rife with a fierce leap of emotion. It was that, as much as the words, that spurred her forth. Her lungs heaving, she gathered everything inside her … and wrenched from Covington’s hold.

Gareth needed no further opportunity.

Gillian landed hard upon the stone, scraping her hands and knees. She twisted around in time to see sheer disbelief flit across Covington’s features. His eyes reflected his shock. A hand clawed at his neck, seeking to dislodge the bejeweled dagger buried deep in his throat. He lurched almost drunkenly. His shoulder struck the ramparts.

Without a sound, he pitched over the ramparts to the courtyard below. There was a dull thud … and then nothing.

A piercing scream suddenly rent the air—her own, she realized numbly. Then all at once she was snug in a warm, familiar embrace. Quivering, trembling with shock and fear and the torrent of emotion that swirled inside her, she choked out his name.

“Gareth!” His name was a half-strangled cry. “Oh, God, I was afraid you would not come. Afraid that I would not live to see you again.”

His chest rose and fell as raggedly as hers. With his hand he stroked tumbled skeins of hair.

“For the life of me, I cannot say what brought me here. I felt a flicker of disquiet almost as soon as you left the hall.” All at once he crushed her against his chest. “Christ,” he muttered, “to think I almost lost you.”

Gillian clung to him. “Gareth, it was Covington all along. He was the one who plotted with my father to kill the king … he who was with him that day in the forest.”

“I know, love. I heard.”

Love. Her heart squeezed. She leaned back in the circle of his arms. The gesture speaking for her, she touched his lean cheek.

“Gareth,” she said unsteadily. “Did I hear you aright? Do you truly … love me?” She was almost afraid to say it, to even breathe, for fear it had been naught but the desperate yearning held deep in her being. That she’d somehow imagined it.

The sound he made was part-laugh, part-groan. He carried her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss in her palm. Trapped in his gaze—as surely as she was trapped in his embrace—she couldn’t look away.

“Aye,” he said huskily. “I love you, Gillian. I love you quite madly.”

“And—I love you. God above, I do!” She couldn’t disguise the tiny break in her voice. “But what about Celeste? That day when Robbie called me ‘Mama,’ you remembered, didn’t you? Please, do not spare me,” she pleaded. “You remembered how much you loved her?”

She would have ducked her head, but Gareth wouldn’t allow it. “Yes, I remembered,” he said softly. “But as God is my judge, what I felt for Celeste was as nothing compared to the way I love you, Gillian. You share my life, you rule my heart as no woman ever has … as no woman ever will. And if it takes the rest of my life to convince you, then so be it.”

His confession made her want to weep for the joy that filled her breast. “Truly?” she whispered, her eyes clinging to his.

His eyes darkened. “Truly,” he vowed.

A staggering wonder filled her. Like a burst of sunlight, it glimmered, shining, spreading its beacon to lift the shadows suspended within her for so long now.

“Gareth.” His name was as shaky as her smile. “Oh, I love you so. I’ve loved you for so long now. But I was so afraid you could never love me …”

“What fools we’ve been, eh?”

She smiled through her tears. But when Gareth would have claimed the kiss so sweetly tendered by soft, tempting lips that hovered just beneath his own, she suddenly drew back.

One hand came around to the mound of her belly. “Oh, my,” she said faintly. Her eyes sought his, her features rather puzzled.

Gareth’s eyes flamed. A vile curse exploded. “Bedamned, that bastard hurt you, didn’t he?”

His rage would have hurtled him to his feet, but she grabbed his sleeve. ” ‘Tis not that,” she gasped.

“What then? Tell me, sweet.” He bent over her. His hand came out to cover hers where it lay on her rounded middle. His eyes widened in slow-growing comprehension, yet there was a dazed, almost blank look in his eyes.

His mouth opened and closed. Not once, but twice, rousing a faint laugh from his wife, who had never before seen him speechless.

“My love?” she murmured.

“What?” he said weakly.

“I do believe I’d like to give birth to our babe in the comfort of our bed”—a barely restrained mirth tugged at her lips—“and not here upon this wretched tower.”

So she advised … and so it was.

It was not a difficult birth as such things go, though Gillian panted and strained, and swore and sputtered that this might well be the last child she would ever bear. Gareth was there to lend encouragement throughout, wiping the sweat from her brow and gripping her hands when the pains were at their worst. And it was he who first held their daughter in his powerful embrace and placed her tenderly into the eager, outstretched arms of his wife. She cradled the tiny, squalling bundle tight against her heart. She pressed her lips to the babe’s scalp—the babe’s hair was dark as midnight, for how could it be otherwise?—and he saw the moisture that glazed her eyes and turned them to pure sapphire.

Watching her … watching them, Gareth felt an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. He knew why she cried. She’d been so afraid this day would never come to pass. That she might not live to see the birth of their child …

Dear God, so had he.

It was Robbie who chose the name Madeleine for the infant. And aye, both mother and father agreed it suited her well indeed.

The third week in October found Gillian sitting on a bench in the hall, nursing Madeleine. It was midafternoon, so the hall was nearly deserted. Gareth came to sit beside her. The babe had fallen asleep at her breast, and he brushed his lips across the crown of her head. Gillian waited expectantly, for she sensed he had something to tell her.

He took his hand in hers. “King John is dead,” he said softly.

Gillian’s lips parted. “How? Where?” was all she said.

“Illness claimed him. He and his troops were attempting to cross the sands near The Wash, a place where the river empties into the North Sea. John was the first to cross the shallows. ‘Tis said he shouted impatiently for the rest of his train to follow; that the sea thundered and roared as the tide began to rise, surging into the river. A great torrent arose, flooding the wagons that followed behind John.” A fleeting smile touched Gareth’s lips. “He watched in horror as the carts carrying his coveted treasure—his precious gold and jewels, even the royal crown and scepter, were lost. All that he valued above all else was swept away by the fury of the sea and river.”

Gillian shook her head. “Perhaps it was justice. The price of his avarice.” She could pity him, but she could not mourn him. “What happened then?”

“With nary a word, he turned his horse to Swineshead, to the monastery. There he fell gravely ill with fever. He could ride no longer, but still pressed on to Newark, to the castle of the bishop of Lincoln.” He paused. “Some said he was already dying. Some said he knew he’d been beaten, that he could no longer hold his kingdom. Either way, he was never to rise again from his bed, for it was there he died.”

She studied him quietly. “What will happen now, Gareth?”

“John’s son Henry is now king.”

“He is but a boy!”

“Aye. John appointed William Marshal as guardian to the lad. I believe the rebel barons will choose to stand behind Henry—and Marshal, for Marshal is probably the one man strong enough to oust the French. He remained loyal to John throughout his reign, but in the end, I believe only good will come of it. We will prevail, Gillian. I can feel it.” His eyes rested warmly on her upturned face. He ran his thumb over the softness of her lips. “You’re free, Gillian. We are free.”

She blinked. “We are, aren’t we?” she breathed wonderingly.

Gareth slipped an arm about her. Gladness spilled through her, and she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder in contentment, her heart singing.

But suddenly a pang shot through her. She tried to will it away, telling herself that the time for grieving was past—and she was thankful for so much! Gareth loved her, and she loved him. They had a beautiful daughter, and an equally beautiful son. But one thing dimmed her joy in the moment…

If only she knew that Clifton was alive, it would have been perfect.

Three months later, the weather had turned frigid. A chill wind blew, driving gray, billowing clouds to the east and bringing more. Yet within the bedchamber of the lord and lady of Sommerfield was a warmth that shut out even the most bitter cold—for it was lit by the searing passion of their love.

On the seat below the window, Gareth sat holding his wife in his arms, a blanket drawn around them both. Her head was pillowed on his chest, and his chin nested in the billowing cloud of her hair. Robbie played before the fire, while Madeleine slept in her cradle. Together they watched the activity in the courtyard begin to slow, for it would soon be night.

It was then he spied two hooded figures appear from beneath the towering arch of the gatehouse. A guard accompanied them; they stopped, and the guard pointed toward the entrance to the great hall.

The pair advanced.

“It seems we may have visitors tonight, sweet. Oh, but they are hardy souls to brave this blasted cold,” he said with a laugh. “I daresay their arrival is most fortuitous”—he pointed out the snowflakes that had begun to drift from the sky—“for I vow we’ll see a heavy snowfall by morn.”

Never had Gareth turned away anyone who sought shelter on their travels. But it was a comfort to know that Gillian no longer feared the coming of the king and his men.

With a sigh he sat up. “Shall we greet them?” he murmured.

Gillian stretched and yielded her perch with as much reluctance as he. She turned her head and gazed toward the courtyard, eyeing the newcomers.

His wife’s reaction was most perplexing.

She gave a stricken cry, then began to sob wildly.

His attention was drawn anew to the pair, who now mounted the stairs which led to the hall. Almost in unison they pushed back the hoods of their mantles. His regard sharpened. An exclamation of disbelief broke from his lips.

For one was Brother Baldric. And the other possessed a profile that was strikingly similar to his wife’s….

The reunion of brother and sister was accompanied by unheralded joy and tears. Mostly his wife’s, Gareth reflected dryly. Clasped in her brother’s arms, Gillian cried for the longest time. Gazing at the two, their dark heads nestled together, it was impossible to remain unmoved. Gareth felt his own throat tighten.

It was Clifton who finally cleared his throat and drew back, a trifle embarrassed, but not too proud to wipe his tears with the sleeve of his tunic. Gillian had already turned to Brother Baldric. Tears wet her cheeks anew.

A short time later, Gillian pressed Madeleine into her brother’s arms. “Madeleine,” she said to the babe, “I do believe it’s time you met your Uncle Clifton.”