“And I must point out that in order to conceive a child a woman must lay with a man.”
Gillian’s eyes were snapping. “I need no reminder!”
A black brow quirked. “Why so distressed? The king believes you are. What if he should return and mention it? Would you have everyone agog? He might easily guess the truth then, that you did not conceive before we were wed. And the king’s men will know as well.”
Gillian shivered. The king’s men, Stephen and Alexander, stood near the guardhouse, burly and bearded, their thumbs hooked into their swordbelts.
As always, Gareth had an answer ready at the fore. She cursed the glibness of his tongue, yet in truth, she must concede the point. But all at once her heart leaped…
“And what if I am barren?” The question emerged with difficulty.
Gareth’s regard sharpened. He could almost see the invasion of fear. In truth, it was something he’d neglected to consider.
Uncertain how to answer, he feigned a nonchalance he was suddenly far from feeling. “Then we will both be damned to hell. But take comfort—at least we will be there together, husband and wife.”
That, at least, brought her chin aloft. Deliberately he changed the subject. He was pleased when he arrived back at Sommerfield to hear that she’d spent the day mingling with the servants in order to learn their names and duties. His first glimpse of her came in the courtyard, walking idly across the yard, smiling at those who called out in greeting.
“I would like to present you with the keys to the household.” A brow arose. “You do know how to run a household?”
“Of course I do. After my mother died, my father left such things in my hands.”
“Ah,” he said softly. “And I’m sure we shall find that they are capable hands, indeed.”
Gillian flushed. Her guard went up like a shield, for the smile that flirted on his lips made her heart pound. She had the uneasy sensation he meant something else entirely, for though it was her hands he referred to, his eyes had dropped to her lips…and it was there they now dwelled.
Reaching for her hand, he uncurled her fingers and placed a set of keys in her hand. With his own, he closed her fingers around the keys. When it was done, he didn’t release it for the longest time. Aware of the way his hand completely enveloped hers, an odd tumult began to rage in her breast.
“I shall see you at dinner.”
With a long, slow look, he left her standing there, her heart in her throat.
The conversation weighed heavy on her mind as she returned to the bedchamber. Ah, but she was a fool! she acknowledged despairingly. Gareth was right. She could hardly beget a child herself.
She had no choice but to reconcile herself to the inevitable…
She must lie with him.
Tonight.
At dinner, he greeted her, cut her meat, and kept her cup filled. Much of his attention was claimed by his knights as they discussed the events of the day.
Nonetheless, Gillian wasn’t nearly as composed as she wished. It was disconcerting to sit beside him. Every so often his thigh nudged hers. For Gillian, it was a potent reminder of all that had passed between them last night. She hadn’t forgotten the way he’d looked, his chest wide and imposing, so unmistakably virile and masculine. Nay, she need not be near him, even see him, to remember what he looked like. But alas, she was near him, and all at once she couldn’t forget the way he’d wrenched her thighs apart, the ruthlessness of his kiss as he tumbled her down upon the bed. Though she had sidestepped the thought throughout the day, she was still stunned that he had stopped. That he chose not to take her as he had promised.
Aye, he had stopped. He had not hurt her…
What if he was not so generous tonight?
Her nerves were screaming and her head had begun to ache. She raised a hand to rub the hollow between her brows, unaware of Gareth’s scrutiny.
He turned his head. “Would you like to retire now?”
There was a definite coolness in his tone. Gillian felt as if she’d been caught in a web from which there was no escape. She smothered an hysterical laugh. Should she say yea or nay? Indeed, what did it matter?
Either way, the outcome was the same.
To prolong this torture must surely be harder than to bear it, she decided bitterly.
The veriest tremor went through her. “Aye,” she said woodenly.
“Then I give you leave to do so.”
Gillian quickly rose. She’d not gone more than a step when his voice stopped her.
“You may wish to wait for me.” A deliberate pause. “I’ll not be long.”
Their eyes collided. A trace of panic shot through her, for his features were set in implacable lines. Within his eyes shone a determined resolve. And Gillian knew…
It was a warning.
She lowered her lashes and fled. But Gareth had glimpsed her bruised, wounded expression. He caught up with her near the entrance to the stairs, swinging her around to face him.
“Why do you look like that?” he demanded.
“You know why.” Her eyes grazed his, then slipped away.
His features darkened. She stood with her arms huddled over her chest, her narrow shoulders hunched together, her gaze averted. It was a pose of abject misery, of defenseless hurt—a pose that made him feel as if he’d crushed her like he would a bug beneath his heel. A sliver of remorse shot through him, but he refused to give in to it.
She’d dealt him a substantial blow to his ego that he’d not soon forget—or forgive, for that matter! He’d spent a hellishly uncomfortable night, curled up against an outer wall, that no one would know he’d been spurned by his wife on their wedding night! In the cottage, he’d known the feel of her even before he’d known her. He missed the feel of her in his arms. He missed her warm, sleepy scent, the warm trickle of her breath against his skin. He felt…bereft without her softness warming his side. He had no wish to douse her spirit, but she was his, and she must come to terms with it.
A thumb beneath her chin dictated she meet his gaze. “You make me out to be a monster,” he said, his jaw tense. “But I am not a man without compassion, without mercy. I did what I had to do to guard my son’s life—just as I did what I had to in order to save yours.”
Gillian regarded him with eyes both pleading and accusing. “Please”—with the tip of her tongue, she moistened her lips—” if you could only give me time.”
His breath hissed in. His gaze stabbed into hers, as he would stab into her, she thought wildly. “There is no time,” he cut in abruptly. “Now make yourself ready. I will be up shortly.”
On that note, he left her alone. Gillian made her way to his chamber—she could not think of it as theirs. It was too soon, if indeed she ever would…
She would accept that she must get with child. But she did not have to like it, she thought with a sniff.
As before, the chamber glowed with candlelight. Again, there was a decanter of wine and two goblets on the table near the hearth. It was there that Gillian directed her steps. She poured herself a generous portion of wine, and sank down on the rug before the fire, the goblet next to her.
Holding her hands to the fire, she stared into the crackling blaze, then reached for the wine. ’Twas a fine wine, indeed, and she sipped again. Smoother than any she’d ever consumed, she decided, as the beaten silver touched her lips once more.
The first glass, along with the blaze crackling in the hearth, made her all toasty and warm, both inside and out. The second made her rather blurry and fuzzy—and lent her courage. The prospect of the night ahead no longer seemed so daunting. She was hardly the first woman to lie with a man; ’twas silly to dread it so.
At length, she pillowed her arms on the upraised hearth, and lay down her head. Fatigue settled in. She was suddenly so exhausted she could not move. She would rest, she decided, for just a moment…
It was longer than Gareth expected before he was able to excuse himself and take his leave. At least a dozen
urgent matters were left in limbo, but they had waited this long; they could surely wait until the morrow. He was too impatient to concentrate anyway. The day had been long and tiring. There had been little sleep the night before.
He pushed himself away from the table with feigned reluctance, not wanting to appear too eager. But of a certainty it was not the matter of the night’s rest that filled his mind as he announced his intention to seek his bed.
It was the lady who was in it.
His knights cast knowing glances and grins between themselves. A few were frankly envious. They well knew just why their lord was so eager to say good night and retire.
Ah, but what would he find? Gareth wondered. A spitting, defiant she-devil? Was this but one more chance to refuse him? Such was the turning of his mind as he mounted the stairs that would take him to his chamber; he was afraid the answer would hardly be to his liking. With a stab of black humor, he advised himself that he’d best be ready to duck when he opened the door—she would heave whatever was in reach to keep him out.
Cautiously he opened the door a crack, then stepped within. The chamber was dim but not completely dark. A few candles still sputtered.
As he closed the door, his heart skidded to a halt. His narrowed gaze riveted to the bed. It was empty, by God! He was ready to explode. Christ, where the devil had the wench gone? Mayhap he should have kept her under lock and key after all!
Embers from the fire burned, aglow with a miserly heat, for the fire needed to be replenished. It was then he spied her, there before the fireplace. Her head was propped on her arms. Her legs were tucked beneath her, her skirts swirled all about her. Her hair was a wild, ebony waterfall around her, spilling rich and thick and swirling upon the floor.
There was a half-empty goblet near her hand.
Four steps took him to the table near the hearth. Lifting it, his brows shot high. He glanced from the decanter, to Gillian, and back again. Slowly he lowered it to the table. Hmm. She had partaken freely of it, it seemed, very freely.
His mind was suddenly circling. Bedamned! he swore darkly. What was this that she must fortify herself with spirits in order to lie with him?
He disliked the notion. Disliked it intensely.
What do you expect? The voice of admonishment echoed in his brain. You hardly played the tender lover. Would you bring her unto you with harshness and fear between you? ’Tis no way to begin a marriage.
He very nearly had…He cursed himself roundly. Alas! No wonder she’d felt the need for wine, he admitted slowly. His mood had been stormy last eve.
Stormy? chided the voice. ’Twas a veritable tempest!
But she had surprised him. Oh, aye, she had surprised him indeed…
Gareth had felt badly that there had been little time to speak with Robbie, to tell him of his new life. What with his wedding yesterday, the king’s arrival, and everyone clamoring for his attentions, there had barely been time to think. And last eve before the celebration, when he went to Robbie’s room, the lad was already fast asleep—thus, he’d searched out the boy this afternoon after he’d returned from inspecting his lands.
He’d felt rather sheepish when Robbie informed him that he already knew of his wife—that he had already met Gillian, as he called her. Robbie spoke of her with shining eyes. Then later, he’d seen Gillian sitting with him near the hearth. Her arm slid about the boy’s shoulders, and Robbie had laughed up at her. It seemed there was a bond between them already, and for that, he was vastly relieved, his concerns nearly banished.
For he knew how she felt about him. She resented him fiercely, and he hadn’t been entirely sure how she would feel about his son. He’d been foolish to worry, he decided. For despite her tumultuous emotions about him now, she had tended his wounds with the utmost gentleness and attentiveness. He’d sensed her capacity for love and caring long ago, felt in her gentle touch when he lay ill. Such a woman could hardly turn aside his son. And if the pair held each other in affection already, ’twas surely a good sign that all would be well by the time the babe came along.
Ah, yes, the babe…the babe that had yet to be conceived.
Aye, he was pleased with her. But if only there were more time to gain her trust.
He drew a slow, deep breath. Time, he thought. She had asked for more time last night. He’d countered that there was none to give—and how he suddenly regretted that there was not! For then he might have gained her trust…
Dear God, he could never have killed her. Never. And what of her brother? What of Clifton? That part of his memories still eluded him. When all had settled, Gareth decided, he would send several men in search of the boy. But he would keep this to himself, for he could not bear to give rise to Gillian’s hopes, only to see them dashed yet again.
He crossed to the fireplace and sat down upon his haunches, very near but not touching her. A strong wrist dangled from one knee as he looked at her for the longest time. Her beauty struck him like the butt of a sword, low in the belly, robbing him of both his breath and his senses.
Dark, silky lashes, the color of smoke, rested upon her cheeks. The wine had stained her mouth a lush, deep crimson; a drop still lingered, there upon the swell of her lower lip, catching the flame of the fire and turning the ruby bead translucent. They were parted now, her breath deep and rhythmic. Almost reverently, he traced the delicate plane of her cheek. With the pad of his thumb, he blotted the drop of wine and carried it to his lips.
Her eyes fluttered open, still hazed with the blur of sleep—and wine.
She stirred. “Gareth?” she murmured.
“Aye,” he said huskily.
Dainty fingertips touched his mouth—a startling caress that made him reel.
“I fed you,” she whispered.
“Gillian—” He spoke her name with an uncharacteristic hesitation.
Her gaze roamed his features, as if she saw him for the very first time. His pulse began to pound, for he glimpsed neither fear nor resentment.
“When you were ill, I fed you”—her voice was but a wisp—“like this.”
Before he could utter a sound—before he gleaned her intention—she filled her mouth with wine from the goblet.
A hand upon his chest, she pushed him back to his elbows. She leaned over him, her hair cocooning them in a curtain of silk. When her lips met his, he needed no urging to part his own. When he did, a warm drizzle of wine trickled from her mouth to his.
Comprehension dawned in a flash. Gareth was shocked. Humbled that she had gone to such lengths to save his life.
It might have been a dream. Sweet Christ, some wanton, erotic dream. Desire churned his gut and he smothered a groan. It was the wine, he knew, that was responsible. It had wiped away her inhibitions. Yet at the same time, something in him soared giddily.
His hands tightened almost convulsively a dozen times. He had to fight to keep them from closing around her and fusing her mouth to his in a boundless kiss. But he sustained the impulse, and didn’t withdraw. He swung to the heavens, then plunged back to earth. The urge to take what she offered so freely was strong in him.
For there was fire in her, the same fire he’d felt when first they kissed. Oh, she could pretend resistance. She could spout her outrage until the end of the earth. But she’d unwittingly given him a glimpse of the heat beneath the icy cold facade.
She kissed him until there was no more wine to give. Only then did she slowly relinquish the sizzling contact of their lips. Leaning back, she reached anew for the goblet. Gareth quickly set it aside.
“Oh, no,” he said with an uneven laugh. “You’ve had enough wine for tonight, Gillian.”
Rosy lips pouted up at him. A faint disappointment puckered her brow.
He lifted her to her feet. She swayed unsteadily, and he caught her. An arm beneath her knees, he swung her into his arms and carried her to the bed. She slipped an arm around his neck with a sigh. For a moment, Gareth stood unmoving at the bedside, selfishly reluctant to free her.
; At last he eased her down. Her head turned into the pillow. Her lashes fanned across her cheeks. He stared. She was asleep once more!
So much for his dreams of a night well-pleasured.
He divested her of her gown and slippers, tossing them aside, heedless of where they landed. A slow curl of heat unfurled in his belly as he stared down at her with undisguised yearning. Moonlight gilded her limbs, smooth and gleaming and ivory. He longed to wake with her slender legs deliciously entwined with his. Coral-hued nipples stood out against the cool night air; they begged to be kissed and sucked. He wanted to bend low and take those luscious peaks into his mouth, feel them grow hard and erect against the glide of his tongue.
She shifted. She angled one knee away from her body. ’Twas a pose that left the font of her womanhood open and unguarded, vulnerable to his boldly seeking gaze. He knew that, were he to reach out and explore those soft, pink folds, her internal heat would cling damply to his fingertips.
He had to force himself to look away, a stream of low, vivid curses on his lips. His head was pounding; an answering pulse throbbed heavily in his loins. Ah, but he was a fool, to torment himself so! She was here, naked and bare, with a sensual allure that beckoned to everything that was primitively male within. Before God, she was his wife…
But she was not yet his.
His laugh held a trace of self-derision. She tempted him beyond measure, almost past bearing. But he dismissed the scalding rush of desire that flamed in his veins, testing his willpower to the limit.
Oh, aye, her stubbornness taunted him. Her beauty of face and form held a fascination too strong to resist—nor did he wish to.
But he would not take her, not like this. He wanted her fully awake and aware. He wanted to make her moan into his mouth and feel her body cling to his, the velvet clasp of her secret cove clasped tight about his rigid member.
So it was that he shed his clothes and climbed into bed beside her. It was like their time in the cottage, only now they were naked. And she was his wife. Gathering her close against his side, he twined his fingers into her hair and tipped her face to his. He had to have just one more sampling of her lips…
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