Samantha James

by The Truest Heart

  Everything within her rebelled. All at once Gillian refused to submit meekly. Nay, she would not bow to him as if she possessed neither wit nor will. Everything within her demanded resistance, futile though it was. This was not Gareth, the man who had very nearly stolen her heart in the cottage. This was Gareth, lord of Sommerfield. Arrogant. Presumptuous.

  Wildly she said, “Is this the bed where you took your wife’s virginity?”

  Gareth froze. His jaw locked tight. The very air around him sizzled and cracked. His visage grew black. His features were suddenly a mask of pure granite, his eyes like ice.

  His lips curled. “Aye,” he said heartlessly. “The very one where I’ll take yours.”

  His mouth devoured hers, taking her lips with scalding passion. There was no evading him. No stopping him. He clamped his fingers against her scalp and held her lips captive to the punishing furor of his kiss. His chest was an oppressive weight that cut off her breath. His lips left hers; open-mouthed, he dragged his lips down the arch of her throat, clear to the valley between her breasts. Gillian filled her lungs with air, for she could scarcely breathe.

  He was seething. She could feel it in every pore of his body. She sensed in him a ruthless determination. His patience had fled, his gentleness with it. Nay, there was no tenderness in him. She knew the difference now. She could feel it in the constriction of his muscles, the clench of his jaw, the brittleness of his features.

  Straightening upright, he tore off his tunic and threw it aside. When he turned back, he was naked to the waist, clad only in his hose. Gillian’s mouth grew dry. She couldn’t look away. She’d seen him without benefit of clothes before, to be sure. But alas, this, too, was different. Her heart lurched. Her mouth grew dry as bone, for he exuded an aura of latent strength and vitality that could not be dismissed.

  A dense, curling mat of hair covered his chest and belly, disappearing into his chausses. His arms were lean and knotted with muscle. The candlelight flickered, revealing the clearly visible outline of thick, turgid flesh beneath.

  A shudder ripped through her. She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. Strong male hands closed over the pale white flesh of her thighs, parting them wide. She hated her vulnerability, her feminine secrets lying open and exposed to his gaze. There was no mercy in him, for he had no mercy to give! Nor would she beg or plead. Nay, she thought brokenly. Whatever might follow, she would not cry out.

  Nor would she bestow on him the victory he sought. Though he would bend her to his will, he would not break her. Her conviction thus avowed, when he lowered his head, seeking her mouth, she jerked her head aside.

  It was a vehement denial. A flagrant refusal of his kiss…and him.

  Such sacrifice did not come without cost.

  Sheer fury splintered through him. Blast her hide for spurning him so! With a growl, steely fingers bracketed her cheeks; by God, she would see him when he took her!

  But what he found brought a vivid curse to his lips. He snatched a candle from the bedside table and held it above her.

  “Don’t!” She dragged her elbow across her eyes, wiping away the evidence that still lingered on his fingertips. “Don’t look at me!” Her cry was half-angry, half-defiant…and wobbled pitifully.

  For Gareth had already glimpsed the trickle of tears leaking from her eyes. Silent tears she’d held inside, that he would not know.

  For one thundering moment, her tears did not erode the pounding in his brain, the red-hot haze of desire that churned within him and swelled his rod to stiff, painful erectness. Desire commanded his body, a desire that eclipsed all thought. All reason. All he could do was feel…and what he felt was a fire in his soul, the craving need to quench the hunger in his loins…to tear away his chausses and drive deep into her tight, virginal flesh until he exploded in ecstasy.

  Should he stop? He didn’t want to. Sweet Christ, he didn’t think he could. Not with her lying beautifully naked and open beneath him. The temptation was almost more than a man could bear—than he could bear. Passion had taken root and would not be banished so easily.

  A battle warred deep in his being—a battle no longer waged between the two of them, but solely within his soul.

  It was a battle such as he had never fought.

  He almost hated her then. For the tears that cracked his heart and left it open, deterring his plan. For rousing a pang of guilt he didn’t want to feel. For defying him and daring to accuse him. He wanted to tame her, to smother her impudent tongue with the fever of his kiss.

  In a heartbeat he was on his feet. “Dry your tears,” he said harshly. “I’ll not bed a bride so reluctant.” He stared at her, his eyes blistering, his temper barely in check. “But bear in mind, Gillian, the king can count—and will no doubt be eagerly counting the days until you deliver a child. If you do not, we’ll both pay the consequence.”

  Snatching up his tunic, he left her alone.

  Gillian’s lips still throbbed from the fierceness of his possession. Suddenly cold as death, she crawled beneath the covers, uncaring that she was naked. Despair wrapped around her like a shroud.

  Perhaps it was the strain and uncertainty, the tumult of the day, but the tide of emotion inside her erupted in a torrent of tears.

  Before long, there was a silvery flash of light outside the shutters. The crash of thunder in the distance reached her ears. She turned her back to the window and hugged a pillow to her chest, but there was naught she could do to shut out the sound.

  It came to her then. She had done naught but exchange one place of storms for another…and a patient for a jailor. Aye, she thought with bitter rancor, she had surrendered herself…to her executioner.

  15

  GILLIAN WOKE THE NEXT MORNING FEELING TOTALLY drained. For the longest time, she stared at the ceiling with burning eyes, feeling as if she’d been sucked dry. As if all emotion had been leeched from her. She could scarcely summon the will to crawl from the bed. Though she willed it not, memories of the night before crowded her brain…but no, she would not succumb. She would not think of him!

  For sometime during the night, Gillian had sworn a vow to herself. Never again would she allow Gareth to bring her to tears. He already controlled her life. She refused to let him rule her feelings. Brother Baldric had said she was strong, and so she must be, no matter how difficult it proved.

  With a sigh that seemed pulled from the very bottom of her being, she slipped from the bed. Her gaze chanced to alight on her clothing, lying in a heap on the floor. Hurriedly she gathered it up and draped it over the chair. It was then a knock sounded on the door.

  Gillian dove for the bed and curled the covers up under her chin. Was it Gareth? Her heart was suddenly pounding. But no, she thought with a sniff, he wouldn’t have bothered to knock!

  “Yes?” she called.

  “’Tis Lynette, my lady. Your bath water is ready. May I come in?”

  Gillian let go a pent-up sigh of release. “Of course,” she responded.

  Lynette entered, a trail of maids with buckets of steaming water behind her. When they’d finished pulling out the wooden tub and filling it with water, the maids departed. Lynette remained.

  “’Tis late, Lynette, is it not?”

  Two bright spots of pink appeared on the girl’s plump cheeks. “My lord said you would be tired this morning, my lady.” She flashed a shy, dimpled smile. “And that we should not wake you too early.”

  It was apparent from Lynette’s smile that she was under the impression Gareth had spent the night in his bed—even clearer that she was convinced he’d spent it with her.

  It embarrassed her beyond words to crawl naked from the bed, knowing that Lynette believed her lord and his new lady had spent the night indulging in fleshly pursuits, when in truth they’d spent it apart. Oh, the devil take her vows! Where had Gareth slept?

  One thing was for certain. She would not ask him, or any of his people. To do so would humiliate both of them. She winced inside. The prospect
of facing him again was one she did not relish, especially in light of the way he’d stormed away last night.

  After her bath, Gillian sat down to partake of the tray of food Lynette had left. It was simple fare, bread, ale and smooth, creamy cheese. She ate heartily, having eaten little the night before. Brushing the crumbs from her skirts, she heard a rustle near the door, which stood ajar. Thinking it was Lynette come to collect the tray, she called out, “I’ve finished, Lynette.”

  But Lynette did not enter. Gillian glanced over with a frown, for she was certain she’d heard someone.

  All that was visible were eight small fingers curled around the frame of the door. Before she could say a word, a blond head and a pair of impish green eyes followed.

  Gillian blinked in surprise. She advanced closer, but not so near that she would frighten him. “Hello, there,” she said with a smile. “Would you like to come in?”

  By then he’d presented himself in his entirety. He ambled several steps within, then stopped and regarded her curiously.

  Gillian tipped her head to the side. “Are you lost, Robbie?”

  He shook his head.

  She suspected as much, for he looked neither lost nor forlorn. “Are you looking for Nurse?”

  He shook his head.

  “Have you run away from Nurse?”

  Again a shake of his head.

  “Well, then, let me have one more guess. Are you hiding from Nurse?”

  He giggled, and bobbed his head up and down. Those incredibly green eyes sparkled. His impish smile was surely contagious, for despite her best efforts, one tugged at her own lips.

  “She will wonder where you are, Robbie.” Gillian tried to sound stern and failed. “Surely she will be worried.”

  “But you said I could come in,” he said promptly.

  Gillian bit her lip. “I did, didn’t I?” She didn’t want to go back on her word. It would not set a good example for the boy. “Well, perhaps just for a bit. Then we’ll have to go in search of Nurse and let her know you are safe.” She moved to the bed and patted the coverlet. “Would you like to come sit with me?”

  She’d barely spoke when he darted across the room toward the bed. It was set high off the floor and he could not manage it without assistance. With no hesitation, he lifted his arms for her to swing him up.

  Gillian placed her hands on his waist and lifted. “Oh, good heavens!” she said when she’d deposited him next to her. “What have you been eating? You are heavy as a stump of fallen oak in the forest.” She spoke only half in jest, for he was surprisingly solid. All at once, pictured in her mind’s eye was the way Gareth had lifted the lad into his arms as if the boy weighed no more than goose feathers.

  The image faded. “How do you know my name?” he asked.

  “Well,” she said lightly, “I saw you ride in with King John and his party yesterday. ’Twas then I learned your name was Robbie.”

  His lower lip pushed out. His brows puckered over his little nose in a frown. “I do not like King John,” he announced.

  Gillian lowered her head and beckoned him close with a finger. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she whispered. “Nor do I. But it must be a secret,” she cautioned. “What do you say? Can you keep a secret?”

  “A secret,” he breathed, then clapped his hands together. “I have a secret!” he chortled.

  Gillian smothered a laugh. Faith, but it didn’t seem possible—to laugh when speaking of the king! She pressed a finger to the middle of her lips. “We have a secret.”

  With a giggle, Robbie did the same.

  Gillian felt her heart catch. Lord, but he was a beautiful little lad. His cheeks were plump, his skin so fair. His hair was silky and gold, with a few curls at his nape. Lynette had said the boy greatly resembled his mother Celeste.

  And all at once she couldn’t help but think of her own dear brother. Not nearly so young as Robbie, but still just a boy, hardly ready to be on his own…Clifton. A rending ache pierced her heart. Oh, Clifton, where are you?

  But a moment later the boy’s sparkling green eyes searched her face. Then: “Are you my papa’s wife?”

  Some of the smile deserted her heart. “I am,” she confirmed.

  He appeared to consider. “If you are my papa’s wife,” he said slowly, “then you must be my mother.” He peered at her more closely. “Are you my mother?”

  He was so earnest, his expression so hopeful. Gillian’s heart twisted. Indeed, she almost hated to disappoint him.

  “Nay,” she said gently. “I am Gillian. Sometimes, you see, when a man’s wife dies, he may choose to take another wife, a second wife. That is what your papa did, and I”—she stumbled a little—“I am your papa’s second wife. Your mother, Celeste, was your papa’s first wife. She’s gone to live with our Lord in Heaven.” She hesitated, suddenly a little uncertain what to tell him about Celeste—what he knew, or what he’d been told. It was strange, to speak of a woman she’d never known.

  But not just any woman. Gareth’s wife.

  Just as strange, to realize that while she spoke of this child’s mother, she—Gillian—would likely be the only mother Robbie would ever know. But that was too much for a child of his age to grasp just now. Indeed, she thought faintly, almost too much for her to grasp.

  Unable to stop herself, she asked, “Do you remember your mother, Robbie?”

  “No. Do you?”

  For an instant Gillian was taken aback. But it was a logical question, she realized. This time it was she who shook her head. “I never knew your mother, since I’ve only just now come to live at Sommerfield,” she explained. “But do you know what?”

  “Nay. What?”

  “I’m rather lonely, Robbie, and…I am in great need of a friend.”

  Chubby fingers slipped within hers. “I shall be your friend, Gillian,” he said gravely.

  Gillian’s heart melted. “Would you?” Lord, but he was sweet! “That would make me very happy, Robbie.”

  The lad beamed up at her.

  “But now, my young sir, I do believe we should find Nurse.” She rose and held out her arms. “Shall we?”

  It was odd, Gillian reflected later, for it was Robbie who gave her the courage to brave the day…and the lord of Sommerfield.

  Nonetheless, she was rather relieved when she heard one of the men mention that Gareth had ridden out to inspect his lands. Lynette spied her in the hall and hurried over. When she offered to show her the castle and grounds, Gillian readily accepted. It felt good to stretch her legs, and no trace of stormy skies remained. Though the air was bracingly cold, sunshine peeked through fleecy white clouds.

  There had been little time to explore yesterday. Once again, Gillian was left in awe. The castle sprawled high atop a hill, surrounded by the deep waters of the moat. To all appearances, it had been well kept in Gareth’s absence. They walked about at leisure, clear to the soaring battlements atop the castle walls. The river snaked through the valley. Not so far to the north were the wilds of Scotland.

  Gillian was grateful for Lynette’s company, and she was an excellent guide. She relayed how the castle had been built by Gareth’s Norman forebear, Lord Robert, who had been granted the land by the Conqueror in reward for his assistance.

  “Was Robbie named for him, then?”

  “I expect so,” Lynette replied.

  Gillian tugged her mantle more tightly about her shoulders, for the breeze that whipped here on the battlements was decidedly cold. A pang swept through her. There was so much she longed to know about Gareth’s marriage to Celeste…or was she better off not knowing?

  Lynette left her, but Gillian lingered a while. Despite the whistle and chill of the wind, she liked it here. Below in the courtyard, figures moved briskly to and fro. Laughter and shouts drifted upward, borne by the wind. She’d hated the solitude of the cottage, the feeling of being so alone. And—oh, but a part of her would be loath to admit it to Gareth—it felt good to be a part of something again.

  It
was midafternoon when she descended the long stairway to the ground. She made her way across the courtyard, nodding to some of the servants, calling a few by name. Lynette had introduced her to many, and her head still buzzed with all the names and faces. It would take her a while to know all of them.

  She skirted a cart sitting in front of a narrow doorway, but suddenly a sack topped from the end of the cart to her feet. Gillian started to lift it back, but all at once a woman darted from the doorway.

  “Nay, my lady, let me! A woman in your state dare not lift such things!”

  The woman wrestled with the sack, then dropped it back into the cart. Wiping her hands, she turned toward Gillian with a broad smile. “My lord made the announcement to all of the servants about the babe, my lady.” Before Gillian could utter a word, the woman seized her hand and rushed ahead.

  “Oh, I am glad for you, my lady. My ’usband and I ’ave six wee ones, and there is no blessing like a child. We wish you much joy, my lady.” With a curtsey, the woman ducked through the doorway.

  Gillian was mortified. Dear God, she had wandered blithely among these people the entire day. And all of them believed…Oh, God, how would she ever be able to hold her head up again?

  A shadow fell over her. Gillian knew, even before she turned around, who stood behind her. Without a word he took her elbow and led her to where no one stood near.

  Gillian yanked herself away the instant he stopped.

  Gareth tipped his head. “I trust you have something to say, wife.”

  She squared her shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. In all her days, she didn’t know when she’d been so furious. “You heard?” she asked tightly.

  “Aye.” Hands behind his back, he was totally nonplused.

  Gillian’s gaze traveled from his black hair, tousled by the wind, to the tip of his dusty boots. “Well,” she stated bitingly, “your opinion of yourself never wanes, does it? ’Twould seem you are a man above all other men to announce to all that we expect a child—especially when you’ve yet to plant the seed.”