She cried out as she felt herself stretched…impaled…filled with his swollen flesh until she could take no more.
He braced himself above her, his arms and shoulders flexed with strain, his eyes simmering with molten desire. “God help me, I cannot be slow and easy”—the pitch of his voice was low and raggedly harsh—“for you are a temptress, love. An irresistible temptress…”
His words ignited a fire within her. A cramping excitement raced through her, that she could arouse him so. Awash with pleasure, Gillian could hold back no more than he. Was it wicked, this floodtide of ecstasy churning inside her? Wanton? She knew not. She cared not. For in that moment she cared naught about Celeste; naught about the king or the world beyond this chamber. All that mattered was him. Gareth. The fever-pitch of hunger questing within her; the fervent need to be with him in this most intimate of ways…
Her fingers slid down the knotted tension of his arms. With a moan she caught his head, bringing his mouth to hers, churning her hips against his in wordless, wanton abandon. And he gave her what she sought. Again and again, his thickened spear plunged deep into her honeyed vessel, the power of his thrusts such that she clutched at his shoulders.
With every driving thrust, she climbed closer to the heavens. Higher. Ever higher…
Her head fell back on the pillow. She was wholly unconscious that the tiny little whimpers filling the air were her own.
His mouth on the hollow of her throat, he gritted his teeth. His thrusts were wild. Torrid. The thunder of his heart pounded a drumming echo of hers. He tried to slow himself, to rein in the thunder that pulsed in his loins, to savor and prolong the exquisite pleasure of burying himself deep in the prison of her flesh.
He sought desperately to delay the climax building inside him, but blindly primeval urges had taken control. The grinding undulation of her hips—the splendor he knew awaited him—beckoned him near. Ever nearer. His breath grew harsh and rasping. Sweet Christ, he was steaming inside. Close…so very close.
“Gareth,” she moaned. “Gareth…Gareth!”
He felt it then—the clinging spasms of her channel around his burning flesh. But it was her unbridled chanting of his name that sent him plummeting over the edge. He exploded with a scalding rush, again and again.
When it was over, he rolled to his back, bringing her close against his side. Spent, trembling, ’twas a very, very long time before either of them were able to move.
It was Gillian who stirred first. “Gareth?” she said timidly.
He kissed her palm and brought it to rest on the dark fur of his chest. “What, sweet?”
Her cheeks were scarlet. She could hardly bring herself to say it. “Was that…lust?”
He chuckled, the sound low and husky. She could feel the sound vibrate deep in his chest. Though she didn’t want to, he made her look at him.
The veriest smile hovered on his lips. His eyes were sparkling, so very green her heart turned over.
“That, my dear Gillian, is a question you must judge for yourself. What might be lust for one…might well be something far different for another.”
He kissed the tip of her nose before ambling from the bed. Gillian frowned, reaching to draw the covers over her body. She smothered a yawn, not inclined to leave the comfort of the bed so soon despite the hour.
His answer was really no help at all.
For if it was lust, she decided vaguely, she was likely destined to spend the afterlife in hell…
For God help her…it had surely been heaven.
18
IN THE WEEKS THAT PASSED SINCE SHE’D FIRST COME to Sommerfield, Gillian had grown very attached to Robbie. From that very first day, when he’d peeped into her room, he’d captured a piece of her heart.
As the days passed, he often spent more time with Gillian than he did his nurse. Many a time he trailed behind her as she attended to the household needs. Sometimes in the afternoon, when she and Lynette were in the solar sewing or embroidering, he played contentedly at their feet. When they walked together, his chubby hand was nearly always in hers.
He was a beautiful child, with long-lashed emerald eyes and a shining cap of golden hair. When he grinned up at her, his eyes aglow, it never failed that something inside her melted. He loved it when Gillian took him in her lap and told him stories about the days of old—just as she’d once dreamed of telling her own sweet little girl—just as she prayed she someday would. And Gillian loved it too, for it was a feeling unlike anything she’d ever experienced—the coziness of his small, warm body snuggled against her own, seeking a tender hand, her warmth and comfort and care. He listened raptly, and sometimes he would fall asleep, but she rarely put him from her. She rocked him and sang to him…just as she’d dreamed of rocking her own sweet child. Indeed, these were the times she treasured most.
For despite everything, at times the uncertainty of her fate made dread coil tight in her middle. She was unable to banish all her misgivings. To all appearances, Gareth was a man of honor and valor.
As he’d once said to Robbie, a man of true heart…
Yet the shadowy apprehension within could not be wholly silenced…Gareth had once agreed to search her out and murder her—and Clifton.
’Twas at those times she couldn’t extinguish a flicker of fear. To completely yield her trust as she had done…Did he protect her? Or was she a fool?
For the memory of the king’s vengeance could never be fully put aside. It was an ever-present, ominous fear hidden deep inside. God, but she hated him! Would she ever be free of him?
She feared not.
The thought was as terrifying as ever.
Winter had begun its thaw. Warmer rains and days revived life to the frost-encrusted earth. All around the castle, shoots pushed through the ground. No longer was it brown and brittle. The world had begun to grow lush and green once more.
There was a small bench ’neath the window of the bedchamber. One day she chanced to see Gareth stride into the courtyard. Robbie was there with his nurse. When he spied Gareth, his little legs pumped furiously as he ran toward his father. Gareth scooped him high in his arms; one big hand gently cupped the back of Robbie’s head as he said something to the boy. It was a silent, telling affirmation that bespoke his love for his son more clearly than words. All at once an aching band of tightness crept around Gillian’s chest. When he looked at the lad, did he see Celeste in the boy? Was his longing for Celeste kindled anew?
Gareth had lowered the boy to his feet. Robbie picked up a long thin branch, brandishing it as if it were a sword, whipping it through the air. A wispy smile curled her lips as she remembered the day on the beach—faith, but it seemed so long ago!—when Gareth had done much the same. Robbie pretended to strike a blow at Gareth, poking at his thigh. The stick broke; Gareth slipped to the ground, sprawling on his back as if he were gravely wounded.
Even from here, she could see Robbie’s grin. The boy moved close, but Gareth lay unmoving, utterly still. Finally he prodded him in the chest with a finger. All at once Gareth seized him and brought him down upon his chest. She could almost hear his squeal of delight.
A memory whispered in on tiptoe, black and bittersweet. She saw Clifton and her father outside the walls of Westerbrook, engaged in much the same, teasing play, that of two knights engaged in battle.
Moisture glazed her eyes. Her heart began to bleed. The memory wrenched at her. Father and son. Son and father. Never again would the two be reunited. As an awful dread twisted her insides, she was very much afraid that never again would she be reunited with her brother….
Hugging her legs to her breast, she laid her head on her knees and wept. She knew not why, but her emotions lay perilously close to the surface these days.
It was in the midst of this heavy-hearted mood that Gareth returned to the chamber. Sharp green eyes immediately noted her unhappy pose, the startled way she jerked her head up, quick to brush the dampness from her cheeks.
It was too late. Gareth had alr
eady surmised her unhappiness. He crossed to her. His knuckles beneath her chin, he took in her red, swollen eyes, the tremor of her lips. Oh, she tried to hide it, but he knew.
“Why do you weep, Gillian?”
Her eyes grazed his. “I was thinking about Clifton,” she said quietly.
Without a word, Gareth pulled her to her feet and into his arms. For the longest time, he simply held her, stroking her hair with his hand, his own eyes shadowed. Yet for Gillian, his comfort—his tenderness—unloosed all the tremulous fear locked deep inside.
The breath she drew was jagged. “Sometimes I think I cannot bear it,” she confided, her voice half-stifled against his neck. “Not knowing where he is…if he is well…if he is even alive…”
The break in her voice tore at him. More than anything, he wished he could reassure her.
Alas, he could not.
His big hand stilled on her hair. “Gillian,” he murmured, “It may sound cruel, but Clifton could be anywhere. Your father’s man may have met with foul play. For your sake, I pray it is not true. But you should prepare yourself for the worst, that we may never know his fate—”
“Don’t say that!” Eyes blazing, she wrenched herself away. His words splintered her heart, the depths of her being. “Perhaps you don’t have the courage to tell me straight out that you—”
Gareth’s jaw thrust out. He moved like silent lightning, seizing her shoulders and giving her a little shake. “Stop it, Gillian,” he ordered tightly. “By God, cease, for I will hear no more!”
He released her so suddenly she stumbled a little.
Stalking to the fireplace, he presented her with his back. Strong hands linked behind his back, he gazed unblinkingly into the flames, the set of his shoulders stiff and proud. But his profile was tight and drawn, his rugged mouth a grim, straight line. She could almost see the bitter agitation that churned inside him.
A spasm of guilt and shame seeped through her. Ah, little wonder that he was frustrated with her! She was ever suspicious, ever doubting of him…ever accusing.
But the truth was now her own to confront. Had she ever truly feared him? Feared him as she did the king?
Perhaps for the fleeting spin of one breath to the next, such had crossed her mind…but in truth the answer was nay.
Had he ever harmed her?
Never, came the fervent echo in her heart.
Oh, aye, he could be fiercely compelling and demanding—as in the day he’d made her wed him! And aye, many a time he’d been angry with her—and her with him! But the emotions between them had always been strong—turbulent and stormy. Even the sizzling pull between them had rarely been peaceful or placid.
But it wasn’t him. ’Twas the turmoil into which they’d been plunged.
Her feet carried her to his side ’ere she knew it. Lifting a tentative hand, her fingertips came to rest on the broad sweep of one shoulder. She could feel the tautness that gripped his body. She nearly cried out, for at her touch, he tensed further, as if in protest.
Her voice, when at last she found herself able to summon it, was pitched very low. “I’m sorry, Gareth. ’Tis just that…I feel so helpless.” She swallowed, hating the way her voice wobbled. “He is so young and I fear you may be right. What if something happened and Alwin can no longer protect him? I know not what to do…yet to do nothing tears me apart inside. Waiting. Wondering. Sometimes I think I should ride out and try to find him myself—”
Gareth turned abruptly, his eyes flaming. “By God, I think not! Do you truly think me so callous and uncaring of my wife? ’Tis far too dangerous—and hardly a task for a woman.”
His protectiveness startled her—and sent an odd thrill through her. Before Gillian could say a word, however, he was already speaking.
“Besides, there is no need. I have already done so.”
Had she heard aright? She had girded herself against something far different…“What?” she said faintly. “You dispatched one of your men to search for Clifton?”
“Two.”
Her lips parted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t wish for you to stew and fret and worry even more,” he said gruffly. “’Tis risky, Gillian, so say nothing of this to anyone. King John has left well enough alone thus far. But if he discovers we still search for Clifton, it may well revive his thirst for revenge.”
A dire prediction, that. Gillian felt herself pale. He must have gleaned her distress for he gave an impatient explanation and pulled her roughly into his embrace.
Gillian’s fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic. He could feel their icy coldness. As she clung to him, he felt her shudder; he was keenly aware of her grappling for composure, struggling against tears.
Gathering her more tightly against him, he rested his chin against dark, ebony curls. He would not speak aloud the bleakness that bled through him. She had weathered these past months with a strength and fortitude that many a man could not have endured. Yet he would not burden her more. Not now. She seemed so small, so defenseless.
In truth, he harbored but feeble hope of finding Clifton.
Less still of finding him alive.
As usual the next few days, Gillian spent the mornings with Robbie. On this particular morn, however, she felt as if she were a limp rag as she crawled from the bed. Robbie begged to walk outside, and she didn’t have the heart to refuse his plea. They ended up near the rose garden on the other side of the chapel. Together they stooped low. Not a month past, the two had inspected the rows of thorny, barren stems. Robbie had bemoaned their loss. Gillian had laughed, and told him that in spite of winter’s bite, they would bloom again, filling the air with sweet perfume. Before she could warn him, he’d extended a chubby hand and promptly pricked himself. As he howled, Gillian had gathered him against her breast and soothed him.
Now Gillian pointed out the stems that Robbie was convinced had no hope of life.
“There, Robbie. Look there.” Her hands on her thighs, she nodded toward one of the bushes. “See the tiny new leaves? Before long, you shall be able to see the buds.”
Green eyes widened in amazement; he nearly landed on his noggin twisting this way and that to stare at them. With a chuckle, Gillian reached out to steady him. His interest soon wandered elsewhere, and he scampered off to play in the grass nearby.
A wispy smile on her lips, she surveyed him for a moment. But as she started to rise, something strange happened. Blackness flashed before her. A vile, bitter taste burned her throat. She swayed, landing hard on her bottom. She felt so strange—hot, yet at the same time clammy and cold. Her heart was thudding as if she’d run up and down the tower stairs a dozen times.
She was hazily aware of Robbie’s return. She could feel the damp earth beneath her side, but couldn’t recall how she got there.
“Gillian?”
Gillian did not answer; she couldn’t. Sun and sky veered crazily. She tried to reassure him, but she couldn’t seem to speak or move.
“Gillian!” he cried.
She could not see him, for a foggy world of gray had enclosed her. But she could hear the fright in his voice. God, what was wrong, that she was so dizzy and weak? Gritting her teeth, she sought to rise once more.
“Get up, Gillian!” Robbie tugged at her, clearly aware that all was not right. “Gillian, please! Get up!”
God, she felt as if she were going to be sick. Her hand fluttered to the ground. “Robbie,” she said faintly. “I’ll be all right. Just wait…”
But the boy was already gone.
Moments later he tugged ferociously at his father’s tunic. “Papa!” he cried. “Papa, come!”
Gareth was in the midst of a discussion with the guards at the gatehouse. “Just a moment, son.” He gestured at the boy distractedly. In the back of his mind, he told himself to remember to tell the lad it was rude to interrupt another’s conversation.
“Now, Papa!” he screamed. “Come now!”
Gareth glanced down. His sharp
rebuke withered on his lips. Tears were streaming from the boy’s eyes.
He dropped to one knee. “Robbie!” he exclaimed. “What is it, lad?”
Robbie was sobbing so hard Gareth had difficulty understanding him. “She won’t get up, Papa. She won’t get up!”
“Who, Robbie? Gillian?” Comprehension dawned even as the boy’s head bobbed furiously. He recalled seeing the boy and Gillian earlier.
His heart skipped a beat. “Show me, lad. Show me where she is.”
Robbie took off at a dead run toward the chapel. Gareth was right behind him.
He swore when he saw her slumped on the ground in the rose garden. She lay curled on her side, her legs drawn up to her chest. Her face was ashen.
“Gillian,” he said urgently. “Gillian!”
Gillian’s eyes fluttered open. She struggled to focus. Gareth’s image wavered before her, his rugged features dark, his expression almost wild. His voice came to her as if through layers of mist.
“Gillian. Can you hear me?”
She felt his hands on her and pushed them away. “I’m all right,” she muttered. “Stop fussing over me.”
Gareth’s mouth compressed, but he withdrew his hands. “Can you rise?”
She nodded, hauling in a deep breath. Gareth helped her up, then released her. To her dismay, once she was upright, blackness surfaced once more. Her legs buckled beneath her.
Gareth reached out and caught her as she fell. Enough of her foolish stubbornness! Robbie’s nurse had appeared, and he nodded for her to take him.
Gillian had no recollection of being carried inside. The next thing she knew, she was snug in Gareth’s arms and he was moving through the door of the bedchamber. He closed it with his boot, then crossed to the bed.
He started to lower her, but all at once her stomach began to heave and roll violently. She clamped a hand to her belly. “I’m going to be sick!” she moaned.
And aye, she was, sitting in a most unladylike position on the floor, her back propped against the bed. Her skirts slid back on her thighs, for Gareth had thrust the chamberpot between her legs just in time.
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