The Truest Heart (8 page)

“And what might those reasons be?”

Ah, but she should have known he would persist. “I’ve known him since I was a child. He served my family long before I was born. He’s been protective of me since my father’s death—”

“And your husband’s, no doubt.” He made the interruption pointedly, and with decided coolness.

Gillian was uncomfortable. “Yes,” she lied.

The corners of Gareth’s mouth turned down. “He has no reason to distrust me.”

“He is wary of you because you are a stranger.”

“Isn’t it the duty of a priest to—”

“He is not a priest. He is a lay brother in the service of the Lord. After the death of his wife and four children many years ago, he decided to dedicate his life to God.”

“My point exactly. That he has never taken holy orders is irrelevant. He wears the trappings of a man of God, so is it not his duty to impart charity toward others? You claim otherwise, but I failed to see little hint of a forgiving, benevolent nature.”

Gillian could summon no argument, save one. “There is much discontent in the country at present,” she murmured.

His expression was a clear indication he was clearly unsatisfied with her explanation. Brother Baldric had urged caution; frantically she wondered how much she dare divulge.

“There are some who are not favorably disposed toward King John,” she stated carefully, “some who fear John has spies afoot in every corner of the kingdom. The people of England have grown weary of the demand for taxes. Many believe King John wishes only to fatten his war chest, that he cares little about England and only wishes to retake the possessions he lost in Normandy.”

“A time when loyalties sway like the wind. A time when it’s every man for himself.”

His perception was only too astute. Gillian nodded. “My father used to say that even before the interdict, it was as if all of England lay hidden beneath a bleak cloud.”

“And so King John is heartily disliked.”

Despised, more like, she nearly blurted. She stole a glance at Gareth, only to discover that his features were almost guarded. Brother Baldric’s warning clanged through her once more. Do not trust lightly. She hesitated, all at once afraid to say yea, afraid to say nay.

He indicated the stool beside the bed. “Sit,” he said. “Tell me of the interdict.”

There was a rustle of movement as Gillian obliged. “I was too young to remember, but there was much discord between the Vatican and King John when the archbishop of Canterbury died.”

Gareth held up a hand. “The archbishop of Canterbury,” he repeated. “It was Hubert Walter, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Pope Innocent refused to confirm the selection of the monks, Reginald, and also cast aside John’s choice, the bishop of Norwich. The pope’s choice was Stephen Langton. John swore he would never allow Langton to step foot on English soil. When John refused to give in, the pope placed England under interdict…”

“… and so the church doors were locked and sealed,” he finished grimly. “The bells did not toll. Altars were covered and sacred relics stowed away. But John at last swore allegiance to Rome and Stephen Langton was declared archbishop.”

“Yes,” Gillian affirmed. “It would seem you know far better than I the consequences of the interdict.”

A lengthy silence prevailed. Gareth’s gaze had shifted. He stared across the room into the deepening shadows. His profile was broodingly somber.

“How can this be?” he said after a moment. “How is it possible I know these things, yet my own past eludes me? Whether I come from the north, or the south, or London—” He broke off. His features seemed to freeze. “I’ve been to London,” he said suddenly. “I’ve been there—and I disliked it heartily. The houses were crammed together, almost one upon another. The streets were dirty and smelled of the filthiest stable.” His jaw clenched. “Christ, no wonder Brother Baldric doubts my every word!”

She could hear the frustration in his tone; at the same time, he sounded so tortured, so tormented, that Gillian’s heart went out to him.

“It weighs heavily on you, doesn’t it—not being able to remember.”

“Sometimes it is all I can think of. My mind is never at rest. I try so hard my head aches. I dislike feeling so helpless. I feel…” He made an impatient gesture. “Oh, but I know not how to explain. As if someone holds a sword at my throat and I am incapable of defending myself.” He glanced the length of his body. His mouth twisted in bitter self-derision. “Look at me! Were someone to roust this cottage, it would be you defending me!”

Gillian smiled faintly. Ah, but it was just like a man to liken any hint of weakness to battle. Was it so terrible to be beholden to a woman? Still, she could understand his feeling of vulnerability. She’d sensed his restlessness, his impatience with his malaise.

Her smile wilted. ” ‘Tis your wish to remember,” she said quietly. “Yet sometimes I think it is better not to remember.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell me you were a widow?”

His directness startled her. Her gaze sped back to his, only to discover his scrutiny was as probing as his query. But before she could answer, he posed another.

“What was his name?”

“His name?” she echoed.

His gaze remained steady on her face. “Yes. His name.”

Real panic raced through her, for Gillian was woefully unprepared to supply a ready response. She should have been, she realized—ah, why had Brother Baldric felt the need to perpetuate such falsehood?

“I… Osgood.” God help her, it was the only name she could think of!

“How long has it been since he died?”

“Half a year,” she said quickly … too quickly? She held her breath, for he appeared unwilling to abandon the subject.

“Is it true you still grieve?”

Gillian’s mind sped straight to her father. Sudden tears blurred her vision. Her soul bled dark with the stain of her loss. She could not speak for the sudden ache that scalded her throat.

“I see,” Gareth said softly. “So much that it is not your head that aches, but your heart.”

She looked away, her tone very low. “Is that not the way of grief?”

“I suppose it is.” It was odd, what her observation evoked. All at once a strange feeling washed over him. In some pocket of awareness deep inside, he was certain that he, too, had once harbored a grief that rivaled hers. But unlike Gillian’s, the pain did not come, for the feeling was as fleeting as his memories.

Outside there was a distant rumble of thunder, signaling the approach of the storm. Gillian shivered. The storm was drawing close.

Gareth frowned. “You’re chilled.” He glanced outside, where the veil of night was already drawn over the earth. He held up a corner of the fur coverlet. “Come to bed where it’s warm.”

It should have been an innocuous enough request, considering they’d spent nearly every hour together the past week, both day and night. Yet all at once Gillian’s heart was knocking wildly. She was starkly conscious of the fact that he was a man, and she was a woman… and they were alone. Alone. And she knew what men and women did, alone in the dark, alone in the night.

So did he. Though he’d displayed no such inclination—at least toward her—of that Gillian had no doubt. She suddenly admitted what she had been unwilling to admit until now—that Gareth was unquestionably the most strikingly handsome man she’d ever laid eyes upon. Black hair spilled jauntily over his forehead. His jaw was square and hard, his nose narrow and aquiline, his brows as dark as his hair and arched over thick-lashed eyes of green. Oh, aye, handsome he was… not just in face, but in form as well…

Firelight flickered over him. His body was angled slightly toward her, his strength clearly in evidence. A masculine tangle of hair darkened the plane of his chest. Gillian was well acquainted with the iron-hard tightness of his form and the breadth of his shoulders.

Her throat grew suddenly dry. Indeed, she thought shakily, what did she not notice about him? Her gaze drifted to his face; even in repose, his features had been strikingly arresting. Now her gaze locked onto the cleanly sculpted lines of his mouth. She glanced away in confusion, feeling her body flood with heat, remembering how she’d given him drink … recalling with almost painful acuteness the smooth feel of his lips beneath hers.

“I cannot.” The refusal slipped out before she could even stop it. She stood so suddenly she knocked over the stool. As she spoke, she backed away several steps.

His mouth turned down. “Have we not had this discussion before?”

” ‘Tis different now.”

“Different how?”

“It is not right that I lay beside you.”

“Because of Osgood?”

Osgood. For an instant her mind went blank. “Nay,” she gasped before she thought better of it.

His gaze narrowed. He fixed her with a quietly measured look. “I begin to see.” His silky undertone should have served as a warning. “It’s because of the good brother’s appearance this evening, isn’t it?”

Gillian had no chance to respond. “You’ve slept beside me all these other nights. You’ve committed no sin. We’ve committed no sin,” he emphasized. “Why so pious and virtuous now?”

Her chin angled high. A stab of anger pierced the hurt. “Do not tell me,” she said stiffly, “you are a man who knows little of piety and virtue.”

There was a silence, a silence that ever deepened. “I do not know. Perhaps I am a thief. An outlaw.”

Gillian looked at him sharply, but this time she detected no trace of bitterness. “I think not. You still have both your hands.”

“Then perhaps I’m a lucky one. Now come, Gillian.”

Outside lightning lit up the night sky. The ominous roll of thunder that followed made the walls shake. In a heartbeat Gillian was across the floor— and squarely onto the bed next to him.

He laughed, the wretch!

“Perhaps you are not an outlaw,” she flared, “but I begin to suspect you may well be a rogue!”

He made no answer, but once again lifted the coverlet. Her lips tightened indignantly, but she tugged off her slippers and slid into bed. He respected the space she put between them, but she was aware of the weight of his gaze settling on her in the darkness.

“Are you afraid of storms?”

“Nay,” she retorted. As if to put the lie to the denial, lightning sizzled and sparked, illuminating the cottage to near daylight. She gasped. Her gaze swung fearfully to the shutters. There was an answering rumble of thunder.

She tensed, half-expecting some jibe from Gareth. Instead, his fingers stole through hers, as had become their custom. Thunder cracked anew, yet the fear she should have felt— would have felt if she were alone—did not appear. Oddly comforted, lulled by his presence, it wasn’t long before she felt her muscles loosen and her eyelids grow heavy.

Within the hour, the skies railed and the storm vented its fury, a blasting tempest of wind and rain that pelted the world beneath.

Curiously, it was not the storm that woke Gillian, but Gareth. He was shifting restlessly, muttering something—she knew not what.

“I will not do it!” He shouted so suddenly she jumped. “It is wrong. By the saints, it is wrong!”

Gillian raised herself on an elbow and peered at him. The fire had burned down to ashes, but it cast out enough light for her to make out the iron clench of his jaw. His chest was bare; the blankets lay twisted about his ankles. He was dreaming, she realized, and it was no peaceful, easy dream that claimed him.

“Gareth,” she said. “Gareth!”

He gave no sign that he heard. He swore, a vile curse that made her ears burn. Then: “Sweet Jesus, what am I to do? I have no choice. I must find her. I must find her!”

Clearly he was a man who fought some inner struggle of his own. Her heart went out to him even as she wondered what woman he sought. Or was it a child?

All at once the hand at his side balled into a fist. He flung out his arm, and Gillian tumbled hard from the bed. A jarring pain wrenched through her, but she scrambled upright and crawled atop the bed. Gareth was still thrashing.

Without hesitation, she laid her fingertips on the raspy plane of his cheek. She knew he was not angry with her, but with some unknown presence visible only in his dream.

“Gareth.” Urgently she beseeched him. “Gareth, wake up.”

At her touch, his limbs ceased their questing. His head turned toward her. It gave her a start to see that his eyes were wide open, fixed on her unblinkingly. Before she could say a word, he reached out a hand and snared the cascade of hair that tumbled over her breast onto his chest. ‘Ere she could draw breath, long arms caught her close—so close she could feel every sinewed curve of his chest, the taut line of his thighs molded against her own.

There was no chance for escape. No chance for struggle. No thought of panic. No thought of resistance, for Gillian was too stunned to even move …

His mouth closed over hers.

Never before had Gillian tasted the heat and warmth and possession of a man’s mouth—the time she had pressed her lips against his to feed him was but a glimmer compared to this …

For this was a kiss of fiery intensity, of raw, untamed passion. From the shattering moment his mouth trapped hers, she knew instinctively that this was no kiss of gentle worship. It was a kiss that carried the sizzling flame of passion ungoverned, a searing kiss from lover to lover.

It was just as she’d always dreamed. How many times had she imagined this—being kissed in just such a way, by just such a man, a kiss that stole her very breath! Yet this was not the man of her dreams.

This was Gareth, a man who knew naught but his name. A man with no past. Not the man she’d dreamed she would give her life and love and heart…

She cared not. She could only revel in the feel of his mouth upon hers, the arms that held her, both tender and strong.

There was nothing tentative in either his kiss or his touch. His tongue traced the outline of her mouth. With torrid, breath-stealing strokes it dove boldly within, discovering the slick interior of her mouth, as brazen as … as the devil fingers that had taken up a tantalizing game at the neckline of her shift, which gaped low. Back and forth, back and forth, that bold hand teased and traced a flaming line across her chest. She gasped when at last he trespassed beneath, seizing with unerring accuracy the unfettered fullness of both breasts.