Samantha James

by The Truest Heart

  No. No. It was an answer pulled deep from the reaches of her soul. Aye, she hated that Gareth served the king, yet she could not fault him for it. In setting out after her and Clifton so many months ago, he sought only to protect his son. In marrying her, he sought only to protect her.

  She would never know the man he had been. In all truth, he might never know the man he had been, for he might never recapture his past.

  But she knew him for the man he was now. With every deed, with every word, with every touch, he had revealed himself as a man of honor and respect. A man of depth and feeling, of care and consideration.

  Aye, it was duty that first brought him to her. Duty that bound him to her, the duty of a husband and father. He might never love her as he had loved Celeste, but Gareth would not abandon her.

  He was not a man to forsake his duty.

  And she could never leave him. For in this matter of trust that she had battled almost from the moment she’d tended him back in the cottage, there was suddenly no more doubt. She had yielded her life into his hands, and he had guarded it well.

  He was her husband. Her heart. And if only someday he would come to love her. Love her the way he had loved Celeste…

  Love her as she loved him.

  But Robbie still awaited an answer. She smoothed his hair from his forehead.

  “Always,” she whispered. She blinked away a stinging rush of tears before Robbie could see. “I will be here always, Robbie.”

  “You won’t leave me like my mother did?” His voice was small and quavering.

  Her fingers stilled. “Robbie, why do you ask such a thing? Did someone say something?”

  “Aye,” he admitted woefully.

  “Who?”

  “Cedric, the wainwright’s son. I told him…what you told me. That my mother was Lady Celeste, that she had gone to live with Our Lord in Heaven. But he laughed at me. He said my mother left me because she did not like me.”

  “Robbie, that is not true.” She sat up, twisting slightly so she faced him. She hunted for the right words, and prayed they would come. That it was a concept he was not too young to grasp. “Cedric is wrong. Your mother was indeed the Lady Celeste. She carried you here—” she pressed his little hand against her belly—” as I carry this babe. Your mother was your father’s first wife. I told you that, too. Do you remember?”

  Those woebegone eyes never left her face as he nodded.

  “Your mother did not abandon you.” Her conviction rang out. “She did not desert you. She was very ill and-and she died. She did not choose to leave you. And you need not tell Cedric, for I shall tell him myself.”

  She’d thought to reassure him, to convince him. But he remained utterly forlorn.

  Her hands cradled his shoulders. “Robbie. Robbie, do you understand?”

  “Aye,” he said.

  “Then what is wrong, love?”

  With the back of his hand he scrubbed away the tear that splashed onto his cheek. “I still don’t have a mother,” he said in a wobbly little voice. “Unless…you will be my mother.” He eased closer. Huge blue eyes searched her features. “Will you be my mother?” he whispered. “And…may I call you mama?”

  Gillian stared down into his upturned face. Robbie, she thought shakily. My dear, sweet boy….

  She remembered the day he’d first come to her room, asking if she was his mother, and something inside her came undone. Nay, he was not a child of her flesh. She had not felt him move and kick and stir beneath her breast, as the child in her womb moved now.

  Yet she couldn’t have loved him more.

  She loved him for his laughter and sweet nature, for the sheer delight she felt in holding him close…for the bounding joy he brought into her life. She loved him because he was Gareth’s son…

  And hers as well.

  Shame pricked her soul then. All at once her jealousy of Celeste seemed so petty and small, for Celeste would never hold his small, sturdy body snug against her own. There was so much that Celeste had already missed. The way he played at swordplay with Gareth, a sight that never failed to make her smile. The way he grew straight and tall, even now.

  Her heart twisted and tears spilled down her cheeks. She reached for him, gathering him tight against her breast. Her knuckles tenderly stroked his face. “Robbie,” she said unsteadily, “are you sure that’s what you want? To call me mama?” She drew back to look at him.

  “I do,” he said promptly.

  There was a glow inside her, spreading to every part of her. “I would like that very much, Robbie. So if it pleases you, it most certainly pleases me!” She hugged him long and hard, burying her chin in the golden cloud of his hair.

  Finally she drew back. “Now, young sir”—she wagged a finger in mock admonishment—“I do believe it’s time you slept.”

  His eyes had begun to sparkle anew. “Very well…mama.” With a mischievous giggle he dove across the bed.

  Gillian snared him and gave a watery laugh. He snuggled against her, warm and content.

  They both slept quite late the next morn.

  “Papa is home!”

  Less than a sennight later, Robbie whooped the announcement and charged from the hall into the courtyard.

  Gillian had just come up from the storerooms where she had stowed away the spices the cook had used for the evening meal. Her eyes widened in dismay. Her hands flew to her cheeks.

  “Tell me quickly, Lynette,” she cried. “Is there dirt on my face? My chin?” She’d tied a ribbon around her hair to keep it from her face. No doubt she looked like a child! “My hair,” she fretted. “I must comb my hair.” She glanced down at her skirt and gasped. “Oh, heavens, I’m filthy! I must bathe—”

  Lynette laughed at her. She stepped forward and briskly brushed away a cobweb from her skirts and straightened. “You look fine, my lady. Truly you do.” Her lips twitched. “Besides, there is no time.” With a lift of her brows and a nod, she gave a silent signal that someone had joined them.

  Gillian swung about. The beat of her heart grew still.

  Gareth stood in the doorway, holding Robbie. Hearty. Whole. So devastatingly handsome he made her quiver both inside and out.

  Their eyes caught and held—endlessly, it seemed. Slowly he lowered Robbie to the floor and advanced toward her. The hold of his gaze had yet to release hers.

  Nor could Gillian tear her eyes from his. The rush of feeling that swamped her made her feel liquid and weak. The world could have crumbled beneath her, and it would have been just the two of them. She couldn’t have moved if red-hot flames had licked beneath her slippers.

  And then he was before her. Close enough to reach out and touch. And oh, how she wanted to! She wanted to run her fingertips over the pleasantly abrasive roughness of his beard-stubbled jaw, the smoothness of his lips.

  “You’ve gained some flesh,” she blurted, eyeing his tall, powerful form. The width of his shoulders and depth of his chest strained the fabric of his tunic so there was nary a wrinkle.

  A corner of his mouth turned up. He looked her up and down. “So have you, sweet.”

  She blushed hotly. “In different places, methinks.” Her hand fluttered to her middle. Nearly three months had passed since they had seen each other. She knew she looked much different than when he’d left. “Robbie says I am fat.”

  “Hardly that,” he scoffed. “You’re more beautiful than ever.” His gaze roved her face avidly—almost hungrily—sending her spirits aloft.

  His gaze settled on her mouth, no doubt deepening her blush to a deep pink…and doubling the rhythm of her pulse.

  Together they withdrew to the table, her hand nestled intimately into the crook of his arm, tucked there by strong, lean fingers.

  His knights had already begun to file inside. Meat and ale were brought to the table while they spoke about all that had transpired in his absence. His men were eager to hear news of the outside world. When one of his knights queried him about the doings of the king, a light seemed
to go out inside him. He was all at once very somber.

  A hush went over the table as every eye turned upon him.

  “The winds of unrest blow across the land, more strongly than ever. I fear for England,” he said softly. “I fear for Sommerfield. I sought not to choose sides, not to rally behind the king, nor aid the rebels who fought against him. And now I am forced to wonder…was I wrong?”

  “You did what you had to,” Sir Godfrey said. “Ye gods, man, he had your son! You could not have stopped him from taking young Robbie hostage! His troops would have burned Sommerfield to the ground!”

  Gareth raised a hand. “It pleases me to hear you say that, for once again, the king put me to the test. These many weeks, I do believe I’ve traveled every hill and valley of our land at least thrice. The king, you see, sought to have me curry favor with the barons in an attempt to win them back to his side, or so he claims.”

  Gareth’s smile held no mirth. “Not an easy task, I assure you. In truth, many a time I was lucky to escape with my head, for there are some who still regard me with suspicion because I was not present at Running-Mead.

  “Perhaps I should have been. Indeed, there are many who abandoned the cause when the Great Charter failed. But now the rest of the rebels rail against the king, and I fear they will tear this kingdom apart. They cannot rally themselves together as they should. Even now they still bicker and fight amongst themselves. And now there has come yet another threat to England.”

  “From France,” Sir Marcus said quietly.

  “Aye,” Gareth said heavily. “The king regained the pope’s good graces by promising that when the troubles with his barons has ended, he will lead an army to the Holy Land. Now the rebels are in disfavor with the Church. In fighting against John, they made an enemy of the pope. They are fools,” he stated flatly, “all of them, and in their foolishness they appealed to Prince Louis of France to help defeat King John. But Louis’s only intent is to seize England for himself! Indeed, he already controls a corner of the southeast. But the castles he took were not returned to the barons who requested his assistance. They were turned over to Louis’s own men!”

  A murmur of protest went up among the men. They glanced at each other and murmured their astonishment—and outrage.

  “I must be honest. The king is capricious and unpredictable. He had entrusted much of his wealth to monasteries across the land. But now he travels with his gold and jewels as part of his procession.” He paused a moment, then glanced around the table. “If John triumphs over the barons and Prince Louis, we all lose. Yet if Prince Louis prevails, we still lose.

  “I do not pretend to have made all the right decisions. But we have choices to make, all of us, and I have made mine.” His voice revealed his conviction. “I will not leave Sommerfield again. I have been gone far too long already. The king has laid seize to the castles of many of the rebels and I will not aid him in this. ’Tis every man for himself now. I will not surrender Sommerfield to King John, nor to Louis of France, nor to anyone. I will do whatever it takes to defend my home, my lands, my family and my people. I will not stop you, nor condemn you, should you decide to join the king’s cause, or that of the rebels. Whatever your choice, you are free to leave.”

  For one long, perilous moment, there was a protracted silence. Gillian held her breath.

  Marcus first arose, then Godfrey, and Bentley at almost the same instant. Within seconds, every knight was on his feet, his sword raised high. There came a bold, hearty cry.

  “We stand behind you, milord!”

  “Our loyalty is to you, milord—you and no other!”

  It was a rousing, stirring display. Tears stung her eyes, tears of pride. What courage it must have taken, for Gareth to humble himself so before his own men!

  Together, they put Robbie to bed a short while later, then climbed the stairs to the bedchamber. There, Gareth crossed to the hearth. He stood there for a long time, saying nothing, his back to her. Gillian frowned, for she sensed there was an air of guarded tension about him. She remained where she was, near the oaken door.

  “Gareth,” she said finally, “what is it?”

  His shoulders hunched, then came stiffly down. He turned to face her, a pained reluctance reflected in the depths of his eyes. There were deep lines of strain etched beside his mouth.

  “I was in Cornwall,” he said quietly, “near the coast. I stopped at the church to pay my respects at Brother Baldric’s grave.”

  “And did you?” She dreaded what he would say next, though she tried not to.

  “Nay. There was no grave, Gillian.”

  “What?” she said, stunned.

  Gareth shook his head. “I spoke to Father Aidan. He said Brother Baldric’s condition worsened after we left. He was on his deathbed. He administered last rites one night, and Brother Baldric asked him to leave. Father Aidan honored his request and left him alone.” He paused. “The next morning, Brother Baldric was gone.”

  Gillian was puzzled. “So why is there no grave—”

  “Nay, Gillian. He was gone. Sometime during the night he left the church. The next morning a man from the village found a trail down to the beach…not far from the cottage.”

  Numbly she regarded him. For a moment it was too much to comprehend…that Brother Baldric had cast himself into the waves. Or had he lain there until death—and the tide—carried him out to sea?

  “Likely we’ll never know why,” Gareth said softly. “Father Aidan did not understand it.”

  “He went out to die alone,” she whispered. “He didn’t want to be a burden.” Yet all at once another thought occurred. Could it have been another reason, perhaps? Her mind veered straight to her father. Because Ellis of Westerbrook had taken his life, had Brother Baldric felt that he must as well?

  But Gareth was right, she reflected achingly. They would never know why. Not now.

  A tear escaped, then another and another. Gareth took a step forward, but she gave a quick shake of her head.

  “Nay.” Her voice caught, but did not break. “’Tis hard at this moment, yet in my heart I’ve known he was dead all along. I will be all right. Truly.”

  He watched as she wiped away the tears. “There is more,” he said finally.

  Gillian stared. Something in his expression gave him away. Her heart began to hammer. Everything inside her wound into a coil.

  “It has to do with the king, doesn’t it?”

  “Aye. He-he is mad, I think. Throughout his life he has flaunted God and the Church, yet now he fears Him. He knows he has sinned and wears the relics of saints about his neck, with the prayer that God will spare him. He fears he’s being poisoned. He will not eat until his food and drink is tasted by one of his men. One moment he suspects everyone around him of plotting to seize the crown. The next he’s convinced the assassin who escaped still seeks to kill him. Gillian, he has renewed his vow to capture the man who conspired with your father…and for Clifton.”

  Gillian paled. Her breath was painfully shallow. “And what of me?” she whispered.

  “He said naught of you, Gillian. And by the bones of Christ, I vow you will come to no harm by the king or any of his men.”

  Gillian said nothing.

  In unbroken silence Gareth’s eyes captured hers. “Harken to me,” he said into the quiet.

  She didn’t want to. Inside, she felt as if she were flying apart. But there was something in his tone that commanded she obey.

  On shaky legs, she moved across the floor.

  “Gillian”—he caught her hand, imprisoning both within his own. They were strong and masculine, those hands, and all at once she wanted to cry once more—“did you hear me, sweet?”

  “Aye,” she said woodenly.

  “But you do not believe me.”

  She swallowed. “’Tis not that,” she said, her voice scarcely audible.

  She tried to pull away. His grip tightened. “What then?”

  Courage flagged, while fear climbed aloft. She co
uld scarcely force a sound past the lump in her throat.

  “Promise me,” she said haltingly. “Promise me that if something happens to me that you will take care of our babe.”

  He swore. “Do not look like that. Nothing will happen to you, I swear.”

  Her eyes grazed his, then slid away.

  He swore beneath his breath. A hard arm swept her close.

  “Look at me, sweet.”

  Shimmering sapphire eyes lifted to his.

  His eyes darkened. “Know that I am your husband. Know that I am yours.” The timbre of his voice plunged to a whisper. “Know that I will never betray you.”

  21

  KNOW THAT I AM YOUR HUSBAND.

  Know that I am yours.

  Know that I will never betray you.

  Her heart squeezed. His vow vibrated all through her, making her tremble all over again. With a strangled sob, she buried her face in the hollow of his shoulder. Gareth tangled his fingers in her hair and tipped her head to his.

  Her arms twined about his neck and clung. She raised tremulous lips to his in wordless offering. Gareth’s eyes blazed fiercely. He made a sound low in his throat and then his mouth closed over hers. He was kissing her as she’d dreamed he would, with tender fierceness, with molten possessiveness. Drawn into the dark velvet world of desire, passion flooded through her and drowned her senses to all but the need that simmered inside her.

  A lean, dark hand fell to her belly. His fingers splayed wide, so big it nearly encompassed the rounded swell where their babe curled within. Then before she knew what he was about, he was down on his knees before her, pushing her gown up and away, renewing his claim on her belly with both palms.

  Gillian gasped, pushing at his shoulders. “Gareth, stop!”

  He caught her hands and brought them to her sides. “Don’t be shy, love. I’ve dreamed of seeing you like this.”