Samantha James

by The Truest Heart

  She drew a deep, ragged breath. “I do not need healing.”

  “A woman who grieves does indeed need healing.”

  Perhaps she did. But not for the reason he thought.

  “Osgood is dead, Gillian. I am here and I am alive. You brought me to life”—he was quietly intense—“you healed me, Gillian. Can I not do the same for you?”

  She shook her head. “It is not that,” she confided. “Truly, it is not. I-I am fine.”

  To her consternation, she couldn’t disguise the tiny break in her voice. Gareth read into it far more than she wanted him to know.

  “What then? What troubles you?”

  His tenderness, his concern, tied her insides in knots. Shame poured through her. Shame at her lies. At Baldric’s. At the way she’d deceived him, the way she’d pretended that the memory of Osgood pained her grievously.

  The truth was like a burning, oppressive weight upon her breast. She despised herself for the deception. She longed to confess everything—that she was hiding from the king—that she was Gillian of Westerbrook. How her father had tried to kill the king and she’d been forced to flee—but something held her back. She longed to tell him the truth, longed for it with every fiber in her being. The prickle of warning in the back of her mind was all that stopped her, something she could not put a name to.

  She looked away, afraid he would see past her feeble defense—afraid he would see beyond to the truth hidden deep inside.

  Tears pricked her eyes. “Do not ask me,” she said unsteadily.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I cannot answer.”

  She could. ’Twas simply that she chose not to. But he would not push her, Gareth decided. Not here. Not now. Not yet, for there was something almost fragile about her just now, something that made him want to shelter her. Protect her and shield her from any and all hurt.

  Nay, he thought again. This was no time for demand, gentle or angry or otherwise. There was time enough for such things later. For now, he was content to relish the moment, savor the gladness of simply being alive…

  The feel of this beauty right here in his arms.

  He lowered his head. His lips brushed the petalsoft lobe of one delicately shaped ear, the curving sweep of her jaw to the delicate point of her chin. Her fingers curled into the front of his tunic. His chest swelled when she turned her cheek into the side of his neck. He could feel the damp, wispy heat of the tremulous breath she released, the fringe of long, dark lashes against his throat.

  His knuckles beneath her chin demanded that she meet his gaze. “Do you remember,” he said softly, “when you asked me what sort of man I am?”

  She nodded. Gareth was well aware of the wariness that flitted across her features, but she made no effort to break the hold of his eyes…or his embrace. Her lips parted, still moist from his earlier possession. Eyes of sapphire regarded him, framed by long, thick lashes. A rending ache shot through him. Christ, but she was lovely!

  His arms tightened. He made a faint sound deep in his chest. “Methinks I am a selfish one,” he whispered as his mouth captured hers.

  There came the veriest hesitation…then slender arms crept around his neck. She surrendered her lips with a muffled sound deep in her throat. What was intended to be a kiss of sweet reassurance caught fire in a way he never expected. He reveled in the way her breathing quickened. Consumed by a hot, molten passion, he wondered vaguely if she could feel the thick, straining ridge of his manhood.

  The urge to push her to her back and plant the searing heat of his rod deep within her welcoming softness was nearly overwhelming; the very thought made his head roar and his blood burn. His hands were sorely tempted to stray where perhaps they had best not…. Reluctantly he curbed his need, for somewhere in the back of his mind Gareth was afraid that if he did so, he would risk trespassing on the boundaries of her vulnerability…and he had dared much already.

  To take her here and now—here on the cold, hard ground…True, it might ease the hunger in his loins, but it was not the way to prove it. Not to her—or to himself.

  Little did he know that he could have…

  Was it merely the desperation of her situation that drew her to him—the need to be near another? Nay. Gillian knew instinctively it wasn’t only because his presence eased the loneliness.

  It was him.

  His kindness. His gentleness. Aye, from the very beginning there had been a sizzling awareness between them. Yet this day had brought still another fear. He was almost well. She could scarcely deny it. What would happen next? Would he leave to find the truth of his identity? He had no reason to remain here, and the thought was like a knife twisting in her breast.

  Guilt burned through her. It was not he who had been selfish, but she. What if she hadn’t withheld the name he had whispered the night he’d first kissed her? Celeste. Oh, she hadn’t meant to deliberately deceive him. But if she had, would it have freed the darkness in his mind? Would he have remembered his past? His longing for another woman?

  It was wrong, she knew. But she hadn’t wanted it then, any more than she wanted it now. It might have taken him from her even sooner.

  She didn’t want him to leave. She’d lost her home. Her family. God above, she didn’t want to lose Gareth, too…. Her emotions tumultuous, she yielded her lips with wild abandon, for his arms were a haven, a haven from the agony of past and present—and aye, even the future. For Gillian suddenly cared not about tomorrow, or the future. Only now—now with the intoxicating heat of his mouth upon hers, the swirl of his breath in her mouth. A jolt went through her when his tongue touched hers, but she welcomed it eagerly. Her lips parted. Her fingers caught at the hardness of his shoulders. She pressed herself against his length. Her heart leaped at the unmistakable feel of jutting male desire, but she did not withdraw.

  Instead, it was Gareth who dragged his mouth away. He ran a finger down the pert curve of her nose. “Do you know,” he said with a shaky laugh, “how much you tempt me?”

  It was not a question that beseeched reply; even if she’d been of a mind to, Gillian could not have said a word in that instant. She buried her face against his shoulder and clung to him, suddenly atremble like a leaf in the wind.

  He sighed and rested his chin atop black, shining waves. “Someday you will tell me what is amiss,” he murmured against the soft skin of her temple.

  Someday, he said. Someday. A pang shot through her. Her throat ached. Perhaps when she was ready, he would not be here to listen.

  He held her until her shaking subsided, then helped her to her feet. Gillian flushed when he tugged a leaf from her braid. She could not lie to herself—deep inside she was shocked by how easily she could have been swayed by the demands of his lips and arms. Did he think her wanton? Bold?

  Flexing his knee, he grimaced slightly when they arose. A frown immediately appeared between Gillian’s brows.

  “We had better return to the cottage,” she said worriedly.

  Gareth was not of a mind to return so soon, and so he stated. He gestured toward the path that wound to the east.

  “Let us walk that way.”

  Together they set out. The pathway skirted through a copse of trees. Though the air was crisp and cold, sunlight shimmered down from the sky, gilding the treetops with a halo of gold.

  Before long Gillian complained of a stone in her slipper. Sitting on a flat-topped rock, she paused to remove it. Gareth wandered idly about. He’d picked up a branch that had fallen from a nearby tree. He weighted it in his hand; it was thick and round. His hand curved naturally around it. He whipped it in several quick circles through the air. He stepped and turned, as if to thrust and parry.

  A rustle behind him made him pull up short. Gillian stood regarding him with her hands on her hips. A slender brow rose askance, as if in remonstrance. He fully expected a mocking jibe. Feeling rather foolish, he started to return a sheepish smile, but then he noticed her gaze had flitted beyond his shoulder.

  Gareth
turned. It seemed they were not alone. Brother Baldric stood before them on the path.

  The old man trod slowly forward. He greeted Gillian, then bowed rather stiffly to Gareth.

  “You appear quite well,” he said upon straightening. “I should guess it will not be long before your recovery is complete and you leave us.”

  Beside him, Gillian felt as if an icy wind blew across the center of her heart. She held her breath and waited.

  Gareth inclined his head. “I thank you for your observation, Brother Baldric. I’m feeling quite recovered indeed, but for the loss of my past. As for my plans, I fear I’ve made none yet.”

  “Well, my son, you brandish this”—Baldric nodded toward the branch Gareth still held in his hand—“with a deftness that leads me to believe a sword would be a weapon you would wield quite well. Indeed, I should guess you could be quite deadly did you possess a sword rather than a stick.”

  Gareth’s smile was pleasant. “And were it true, would you condemn me?”

  “That would depend on the circumstances. But come, what are your thoughts? You may have no knowledge of your past, but you must have an opinion, sir. Are you a man who abhors killing?”

  Gareth’s reply was as unfaltering as his regard. “This is my opinion, Brother Baldric. Not every man must choose between the sword and the staff, but for those who do, he must do what is in his heart—what is right. A man who uses his sword and his might to crush others when there is nothing at stake is not a man at all. But there may well come a time when a man must do whatever he must to defend his home and his family, his country and his beliefs, whether it means the sword or otherwise.

  “Indeed, consider the Crusades. The Church looks to the sword to defend our faith, but a man who condemns another for killing outside of the Lord’s name may indeed judge far too quickly—and perhaps far too harshly. ’Tis my belief that respect should be earned by deed. Yet there are those who would argue that respect can be earned by fear as well as force. I cannot agree.”

  “Nor can I, Gareth.”

  Gillian couldn’t help but notice this was the first time Brother Baldric had addressed Gareth by name. Now he bestowed a long, measuring look upon the younger man, then tipped his head to the side. He opened his mouth as if to speak.

  “You surprise me with such wisdom. But tell me this, my son…” he paused, as if to carefully weigh his next words. A hand drifted up to rest on his chest. There was a puzzled look upon his face. He did not finish.

  He could not.

  Without a word he pitched forward, straight toward the ground.

  “I knew he had been ill. He said nothing, but I could hear it in the thinness of his voice. Dame Agnes confided that he eats but little of late. And on many a night he coughed until dawn.” Father Aidan hovered near, his sightless eyes sliding to and fro, wringing his hands. Like Brother Baldric, he was a small man but more sturdily built in the chest and shoulders. “I was afraid this illness would see the best of him. Alas, he insisted he was well!” Reflected in his tone was the same anxious worry that Gillian felt the moment Brother Baldric collapsed.

  The three of them—Gillian, Father Aidan and Brother Baldric—were in the tiny cell off the church sanctuary where Brother Baldric slept. It was Gareth who caught him as his limbs gave way—Gareth who had heaved him into his arms and carried him to the village.

  Gillian knelt beside the pallet where Baldric lay, her expression frantic. Sparse lashes lay upon Baldric’s gaunt cheekbones. She slipped her fingers between his. There was an unhealthy gray pallor to his lips. His skin looked like parchment.

  “He has no fever,” she said. Leaning forward, she lay a hand upon his brow. “Brother Baldric,” she pleaded. “Can you hear me?”

  Brother Baldric did not awaken. There was a rattle in his chest that sent fear spiraling all through her.

  Father Aidan shook his head. “Ah, Mistress Marian, he has been a Godsend to me. I cannot imagine that I should lose him. Alas, I hate to say it, but perhaps I should prepare him for last rites…”

  Gareth’s brow puckered. Marian, the priest said. Had his ears deceived him, or had the clergyman mistaken her for someone else? It would have been easy, considering his blindness. That must have been it, he decided.

  He also took quiet note of the leap of fear in Gillian’s eyes. He laid a hand on Father Aidan’s sleeve. “Perhaps, Father, your prayers would also serve Brother Baldric.”

  “Perhaps you are right.” Father Aidan tipped his head to the side. “Your name, my son. Can you tell me again?”

  “ ’Tis Gareth, Father. I am Gareth.”

  Father Aidan clasped his hands together. “Will you join me in prayer, Gareth? Prayer is God’s tool, and one that is oft neglected. Mistress Marian, please forgive me for taking our leave of you.”

  Gillian was too distressed to even notice that Father Aidan had called her Marian—or the way Gareth’s eyes suddenly narrowed on her. Even if she had, all of her being was focused on Brother Baldric.

  A halo of pain shrouded her heart. He was so thin, his eyes seemed shrunken into his head. He lay motionless, his breath rattling in his chest. That he might not live was a possibility she could not voice aloud. She could not bear to think otherwise. She raged at herself inwardly. Brother Baldric had been unwell the last time he’d visited the cottage. Oh, but she should have checked on him, made certain he was taking care of himself as he should.

  There was nothing you could have done, chided an inner voice. Besides, Gareth needed you, too.

  How long she sat beside him and held his hand, she could never have said. She was vaguely aware of Gareth and Father Aidan entering and leaving several times. Once Gareth pressed food and drink into her hands.

  It was hours later when there came a touch on her shoulder. Gillian raised her head. Through the tiny window set high in the wall, she spied the glimmer of a full moon.

  It was Dame Agnes, the plump-cheeked matron who often helped prepare meals for the two men.

  “Mistress Marian,” the woman said firmly, “you must rest else you will sicken, too. Go home and sleep. I will sit with Brother Baldric. I promise, I will not leave him.”

  It was then Brother Baldric squeezed her fingers. “Go, child,” he said in a hoarse whisper, so low she had to strain to hear. “When you return, I will still be here.”

  Her heart twisted. Ah, but he was so weak! It was in Gillian’s mind to adamantly refuse, to insist on staying where she was, but such argument might drain what little strength Brother Baldric possessed. Trying to smile, she bent and kissed his forehead.

  She didn’t see the way Gareth’s eyes cleaved straight to her…or the sudden tightening of his features as he took her arm and led her from the cell. Nor did she notice his brooding silence on the trek back to the cottage, for her thoughts were solely of Brother Baldric. Once they were inside the cottage, her fingers lifted to rub the throbbing between her brows. Sleep, she thought. Sleep would ease the pounding ache in her head. Overcome by weariness, she started to make her way toward the bed in the corner.

  Gareth barred the way, his arms across his chest, his feet braced wide part.

  A tired sigh escaped. “Gareth, I am weary. Step aside, if you please.”

  “I think not.”

  Her head came up. Were it not for the abominable ache in her head, she might never have snapped at him. “For pity’s sake, what the devil are you about?”

  His smile was thin. “Mayhap you should tell me”—green eyes locked fast with hers—“Mistress Marian.”

  8

  MISTRESS MARIAN.

  Her heart lurched. Her legs felt like melted tallow. She’d been caught, as surely as a hare in a trap.

  “I know not what you mean.” She sidled back. Her breath trickled to a wisp of air.

  He stepped boldly forward.

  “I find myself vastly puzzled. Brother Baldric called you Gillian. But Agnes and Father Aidan called you Marian. So I must ask…should I call you Gillian—or Marian?�
� His dark head tipped to the side as if he were puzzled, his smile ever-so-pleasant, but the hard light in his eyes told a story far different. “Or perchance there is yet another name you prefer?”

  Gillian’s stomach twisted, for he hit dangerously close to the truth.

  “What, lady, nothing to say? I find my patience wearing thin.”

  “I am Gillian.” Struggling for composure, she feigned a calm she certainly did not feel.

  “Then why did Father Aidan address you as Marian?”

  “You are mistaken.”

  “I think not.”

  Gareth’s eyes never left her. Her feeble denial but fueled the anger mounting within him. Did she truly think he was such a fool? Aye, perhaps he was, for he had believed her—he had believed everything! He derided himself fiercely. Yet who would have doubted a man of God—especially one conjoined with a woman of such beauty? A dark, brooding anger slipped over him, an anger quickly masked.

  His smile turned icy. “I heard him,” he said softly. “Twice I heard Father Aidan call you Mistress Marian. Twice. And Agnes did as well. Agnes did as well!”

  Gillian swallowed. “You are right,” she admitted. “Father Aidan and Agnes called me Marian. When we came here, Brother Baldric and I told the villagers that my name was Marian. But—in truth my name is Gillian.” Uncertainty welled within her. That, at least, was not a lie. Ah, if only she knew if she could tell him she was Lady Gillian of Westerbrook. Brother Baldric had warned her to stay far from the village. Oh, but she should have listened! He’d been so afraid someone would learn that she was Lady Gillian of Westerbrook….

  “There were reasons, you see, that we did not wish it known that I am Gillian—”

  “What reasons?”

  Gillian shook her head. An awful dread had begun to churn her insides. “Those reasons have not changed,” she said.