Gillian was aghast. “Not quite like this, me-thinks!” She’d still been slim and narrow of waist when he left, but now she was round and plump.
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong.” His laugh was low and husky. His hands coursed boldly over the hard swell of her belly. “I’ve been starved for the sight of you. The taste of you.” He kissed her belly. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “Beautiful and desirable and—Lord, how I’ve missed you!”
A sentiment she echoed with wholehearted fervor, she thought, and suddenly he was on his feet, bearing her high in his arms.
Small fingers rested on the abrasive squareness of his jaw. She smiled, feeling joy pour through her like sunlight blazing through a mist. “I’ve missed you, too, milord,” she confided shyly, uncaring in that moment if he saw deep into her soul.
Gareth laughed, his eyes tender. “Methinks we should discuss this further, then.” He laid her on the bed, impatiently shucking off his clothes.
Whatever embarrassment she had about him seeing her thus fluttered away beneath a torrent of scorching kisses and flaming caresses. Perhaps it was her pregnancy—perhaps the separation of time and distance between them—but she felt every touch to the bottom of her soul. She cried aloud at the instant he came inside her. His breath filled her mouth. His shaft filled her body, even as his child filled her womb.
The emptiness in her soul was no more.
Twice she spiraled to the heavens before his shuddering release came. She floated back slowly. Fingers that were immensely gentle brushed away the damp raven tendrils at her temples. He kissed her mouth with lingering sweetness, then cradled her close to his side.
It was before the evening meal a few days later, Robbie pouted when his nurse came to fetch him for bed. He pleaded and cajoled, but Gareth was firm. Finally Robbie frowned up at him from between his boots.
“A kiss and I shall go, Papa,” he announced.
As always, Gareth’s gaze as it rested on his son reflected the depth of his love. He leaned forward indulgently and planted a kiss on pursed red lips.
His hand very dark against the boy’s fairness, he pinched his cheek. “Away with you, lad,” he said in mock sternness.
Robbie’s eyes gleamed impishly. “Nay,” he said with a wrinkle of his nose. “Now a kiss from Mama.”
Looking on, Gillian had been shaking her head and smiling, for she knew he was only trying to stall the inevitable. But at the boy’s cheerful demand, her smile froze.
She’d been amazed at the ease with which the boy called her Mama—amazed at how natural it felt. But this was the first time that Gareth had heard Robbie address her as anything but Gillian.
She could feel the weight of his eyes residing on her profile. She felt suddenly stifled, but dared not show it.
Feigning a lightheartedness, she pressed a kiss on Robbie’s lips. Happy now, he skipped away with his nurse.
Collecting all her courage, she ventured a glance at Gareth. There was an odd expression on his face.
Her heart missed a beat. Celeste. He was thinking of Celeste.
“Do you mind that he calls me ‘Mama’?” she asked quickly.
“Nay,” he said. But neither approval nor disapproval resided in his tone.
Gillian swallowed. “You are not angry? It was while you were gone…” She felt compelled to explain. “The children were teasing him. They said that he did not have a mother. He was heartbroken, Gareth. When he asked, I-I could not refuse.”
He studied her quietly. “Why would I be angry, Gillian?”
“Because I-I will be the only mother he knows,” she blurted. “Me…and not Celeste!”
His gaze sharpened. Quietly he said, “And you think that would make me angry?”
She looked away, floundering. “Yes. No.” She took a ragged breath. “Oh, heaven help me, I don’t know!”
A shadow fell before her, then he was there, his knuckles beneath her chin. “Robbie loves you,” he chided gently. “You care for him…as only a mother could care for him. And I know that you love him”—the veriest smile curled his lips—“as only a mother could love him. How on earth could I ever be angry?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “But what about her?” Her lips were tremulous. “Would she have been angry, Gareth? Angry that her child calls another woman ‘Mama’?”
Gareth caught his breath. His smile faded. For they both knew, without a word being spoken, who she meant.
Celeste.
And somewhere in his heart, Gareth knew that she was asking another question as well.
“I should like to think,” he said softly, “that she would have given thanks—as I do—that her son was loved by a woman such as you.”
Carefully he chose his words. Just as carefully, he pulled her into his arms. For somehow, his wife was very fragile right now, and God knew, he would not hurt her…
He couldn’t tell her of the woman whose hair floated above her shoulders like summer sunshine, whose delicate image spun through his mind in that instant between one breath and the next, whose warmth and caring spun a circle of love around all those she touched.
Someday, perhaps, but not now. For now, it was enough to hold his wife in his arms. To bring her closer and feel the way her small fingers curled trustingly into the front of his tunic. With a sigh, Gareth gathered his precious wife to him, nestling his chin in a cloud of ebony waves. His hand captured hers, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss in the palm of her hand.
Gillian, he thought. My heart, my life.
Aye, he thought again. Someday, when the time was right…
For now, it was enough simply to remember.
The days of summer drew to a close. The crops were gathered in the fields. The days began to shorten; the nights were cool with a damp chill.
And the babe within her blossomed. He moved so solidly that sometimes he woke her in the dead of night. Many of the women of the castle told her she carried the babe high; indeed she did. Though she was not so ungainly that she was uncomfortable, she could not sit for long, else it was difficult to gain her breath.
She thought often of Brother Baldric and Clifton. She still found it puzzling, the way he had left his deathbed and Father Aidan. Whatever had been in his mind? She mourned his death, and still missed him greatly—he had been a part of her life for so long! But she had come to accept his passing.
Far more difficult to accept was the possibility that Clifton might be dead. Indeed, she could not. Not yet. Somewhere in this world, she prayed, the summer had seen him enter his thirteenth year. Perhaps he was even a squire somewhere, a knight in training. Indeed, she could think of no finer man to instruct him in that task than her husband. Ah, if only it could have been so! And if only she could have sent word that he would soon be an uncle….
Since his return, Gareth had been busy fortifying the castle defenses. Walls were inspected and mended by the mason. Supplies had been laid in, even before the autumn harvest. Several times Gillian glimpsed a brooding tautness about him as he scanned the horizon. His knights practiced daily, but without quite so much laughter. She knew he worried about the threat from without…the king’s forces…or others.
But he was ever solicitous of the burden she carried, always there to slide a stool beneath her feet, to lend a hand when she needed it.
But Gillian couldn’t banish the doubts that took hold and churned within her. Did he regret stepping in to save her from the king? Did he regret this marriage? Would he grow to resent her? He would be forever saddled with a babe he did not want, a wife he did not want.
And now that she was heavy with his child, did he protect her only because the babe she carried was his? What would happen when the babe was born? There would be no reason to withhold her from King John. Would he seek to be rid of her then?
Every look, every touch brought a painful swell of emotion to her breast.
Oh, he made love to her as passionately as ever. She cherished those nights, whether he held he
r in peace or in passion.
Yet never did he say he loved her.
If she could journey through his mind, what would she find? If it was true what all said, it was a love so great he would never love another…never love her.
Despair clogged her chest. Ah, but it was so hard to cling to any hope!
Sitting with Robbie one afternoon in the rose garden, she tucked him beneath the folds of her mantle when he shivered.
“I’m glad that Papa is home,” he announced suddenly. “I didn’t like it when he was gone.”
She brushed a kiss across his brow. “Neither did I, Robbie.”
For a moment, he stared at her. “I saw Papa kiss you once.”
“Did you now?”
“Aye,” he said solemnly. “Like this.” He mashed his lips against the back of his hand, screwing his face into all manner of contortions.
Gillian smothered a laugh.
“Papa loves you, doesn’t he? He must, to kiss you like that.”
Her smile withered, along with a little of her heart. She couldn’t say a word, but Robbie didn’t seem to notice.
“You love him, too, don’t you?”
Gillian wasn’t prepared for the stark, rending pain that seared through her breast. And now Robbie was gazing at her in that innocent way only a child possessed, awaiting an answer.
“Aye,” she whispered past the ache in her throat. “I love him, too. But let this be another secret between us…just for a while.”
Emerald eyes gleamed. His head bobbed eagerly. Gillian blinked back tears and gathered him close. And it was almost as if she could hear her heart breaking…
Her time grew near.
Perhaps it was that which kindled a gnawing unease inside her. Or perhaps the way the castle continued preparations for its defenses. Whatever the reason, she was unsettled and uneasy these days.
And she had been dreaming of late. Always it was the same dream. It was the day before the attempt on the king’s life, when she had heard another man in the counting room with her father—and seen his shadow. Her father was angry with her, shouting that she should not spy on him.
But that wasn’t the way it had happened.
Papa had been angry. Mention this to no one, he’d said. And she hadn’t, except to Brother Baldric…
She saw it again, a shadow high on the wall behind her father. There dwelled in her memory something elusive, something that tugged on the fringes of her mind, something vitally important.
Yet she could never quite place it, either in dreams, or the bright reality of day.
She tossed and turned one night. Gareth was not yet abed. It must have been well after midnight when her mind finally began to blur. But then came the creak of the door.
She woke with a start. Bolting upright, a sharp cry tore from her throat. But it was only Gareth, at last coming to bed.
He was at the bedside in an instant. “What, Gillian? Is it the babe?”
“Nay,” she said shakily. “You startled me. And the babe will not come for nearly a month.”
Strong arms closed about her.
“Do you think the king will send his hounds sniffing about to see when this babe is delivered?” Indeed, she half-expected Roger Seymour, black, venomous eyes agleam, to appear at the gates that very moment. She shuddered. “If this babe comes on time,” she said unsteadily, “John will know that you lied.”
Gareth brushed his knuckles across her cheek. “Do not trouble yourself. If that should come to pass, I will deal with it,” he told. “But I do believe the king has more important matters to contend with.”
She wasn’t deceived by his dry tone. She was aware he sought to reassure her. Nonetheless, she prayed this babe would be early, for in his madness, she feared the king’s wrath as much as ever.
Gareth pulled off his clothes and stretched out beside her, pulling her loosely into his embrace.
Do not trouble yourself, he said. If only it were so easy!
“Gareth?” she whispered.
“What, sweet?” He dropped a kiss on soft, crimson lips.
“There has been no word from the men you sent in search of Clifton, has there?”
“Nay.” It was disclosed with clear reluctance. His tone was quietly troubled.
Gillian took a deep, fortifying breath, willing aside her pain. “The man who conspired with my father. Do you think the king will ever find him?”
“He hasn’t yet. He is either very clever, as elusive as smoke. Or already dead.”
A shiver went through her. “He was at Westerbrook with my father,” she confided, “the day before the attempt on the king.”
She’d shocked him. His arms about her grew taut and rigid. “You saw him?”
His sharpness frightened her. “Nay! Not really…they were in the counting room. A shadow, perhaps. No more.”
“You said you knew nothing!”
“I don’t,” she cried. “I didn’t see him! They were behind the curtain. I heard Papa say something about hunting. When I asked after the other man, he chastened me and said I was not to speak of it. It was only later I realized the man was the other assailant.”
“Dammit, Gillian, why did you not tell me this before? Didn’t you trust me?” His mouth twisted. “No, I don’t suppose you did.”
Her eyes cleaved to his. His expression was blackly fierce. Suddenly it was all she could do to hold back a sob.
Her mouth was tremulous. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it mattered. I didn’t know him! ’Tis only of late I’ve begun to feel there is something I should have remembered.” She drew a deep, racking breath. Something inside her seemed to crumple and fall. “Gareth, please don’t be angry with me!”
Her control was tremulous, her beautiful mouth all atremble. Seeing her thus, he made a muffled exclamation. Strong arms engulfed her. He locked her tight against his side. She wrapped herself around his limbs, burying her mouth against the musky hollow of his throat, breathing in his warm, woodsy scent.
“I’m not angry, Gillian.” He tucked her head beneath his chin. With his lips he nuzzled the fine skin at her temple. “But if there is anything else, you must tell me. Do not hide it from me.”
She knew then…knew he feared for her. Feared for her safety. A shadow slipped over her. All at once she was fast in the grip of an ominous foreboding. She clung to him, and his hold tightened even more. Yet even the heat of his body, the shielding protectiveness of his body around hers, couldn’t entirely vanquish the chill inside her breast.
Gareth gave strict orders that she was not to leave the walls of the castle. Gillian chafed at the confinement, but she understood his reasoning. Still, she was restive.
She had taken to walking nightly along the tower walls. The exercise kept her legs from cramping, and the solitude cleared her mind.
Seated at the table with his men, Gareth lifted his head with a frown when she arose. But she inclined her head toward the doorway that led into the courtyard, and up the tower stairs. He gave a nod and returned his attention to his men.
On this late September night, the air was damp with the nip of a recent rain, but the skies had begun to clear. A full moon hovered high in the sky, behind a silvery veil of clouds. A strong breeze billowed her mantle behind her, but she was not cold. There had been a nagging ache in her back throughout the day, and she paused. Her fingers came around to knead the hollow of her spine. Raising her face to the heavens, she took a deep, cleansing breath and allowed the solitude to seep within her bones and wash away the turbulence inside her.
An eerie prickle raised the hairs on her nape, a tingle that warned of a presence beside her own…a presence of evil. Her head turned slowly; it skidded through her mind that she was right.
The king had sent his hounds after all. But it was not Roger Seymour who stood behind her.
It was Geoffrey Covington.
22
“I’VE BEEN EXPECTING YOU, MILADY.”
Slowly she turned to face him. She could sc
arcely hear for the pounding of her heart. She’d been right to be wary, she thought numbly. For there was something deadly in his eyes, something that made her go cold to the very tips of her fingers.
“Lord Covington,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
Something passed across his handsome features, something she couldn’t comprehend. Oddly enough, it was almost as if an air of sadness clung to him…
“I think you know, milady.”
Ice swirled in her veins. “You mean to kill me,” she said numbly.
“I fear I’ve no other choice.”
Gillian’s mind was whirling. He sounded bleak—almost resigned.
She wet her lips. “How did you get in?” she heard herself whisper.
“I hid in a cart brought in by one of the villagers.
Fear began a rising spiral within her. Her nails dug into her palm…if she could only keep him talking, perhaps someone would come. Or if she could just dart past him. But she was no longer fleet of foot.
“I’ve been watching you, you know. You linger here upon the ramparts. You won’t be missed for some time to come. The guards in the watchtower will not hear you cry out. The wind is too strong.” He shook his head. “I do not relish this, Gillian. Indeed, I regret that I must do this. Truly I do.”
Her eyes blazed. “Liar!” she hissed. “How could you harbor any regret when you serve a master who is as vicious as the devil himself!”
“Ah, milady. You do not understand. ’Tis not for the king that I must kill you. ’Tis to save my own neck. I’ve no desire to hang from the gibbet, as the king would have seen your father hang.”
Her lips parted. “What do you mean?”
“Come, Gillian. Surely you know.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “It was you with my father…you are the other assassin.”
“You don’t understand, do you?”
Dazed, she stared at him. “Nay,” she said faintly. “Nay!”
“I did it for England,” Covington said softly. “For the good of the country.”
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