“I…It was necessary to see how badly you were injured. And then…you were feverish, so I bathed you to cool the fever…” She felt compelled to explain, though he displayed no inclination for one.
“No doubt,” he said with a lift of a brow. “Where are my clothes?”
Gillian had the disturbing sensation he was precisely aware what had gone through her mind. She bit her lip. “They were ruined. I burned them—all but your drawers. She pointed toward the hearth. “They are there, where I laid them to dry.”
“Then perhaps you would be so good as to fetch them for me.”
Her face flaming, Gillian did as he asked. She couldn’t summon the courage to ask if he needed assistance. Turning her back while he struggled into his drawers, she crossed the floor and set about preparing food.
Moments later she drew up the stool beside him. She couldn’t help but note his efforts at clothing himself had left him sweating.
In one hand she held a bowl of gruel, in the other a spoon. Her intention was obvious—to feed him. His expression grim, Gareth reached for the spoon impatiently. But he was clumsy from his weakness and lack of strength. His hand began to shake so badly the gruel sloshed onto his bare chest before it reached his mouth. He cursed rawly and dropped the spoon.
“Well,” she said dryly, “I see you are a man of subtle words.” Gillian dabbed away the puddle on his chest with a clean linen napkin. Her fingers brushed the crisp mat on his chest. Flushing slightly, she withdrew her hands and reached again for the spoon.
“Open,” she ordered, holding it poised before him.
For an instant his mouth compressed stubbornly, as if to refuse. At last he opened and allowed her to feed him, but he was clearly displeased. The scowl returned, as blackly fierce as it had been before he truly wakened.
When she’d finished, his head dropped back. He turned his cheek into the pillow. His lashes slipped shut. For a moment Gillian did not move. Her gaze traced ponderingly over the profile presented to her. What manner of man was he? she wondered. A sober man? A churlish rogue? She studied the flare of winged black brows. The set of his mouth was almost stern, his lower lip slightly fuller. A trifle arrogant, mayhap, she decided. A passionate man, of a certainty. Resilient, or he would never have survived the wreckage. Certainly a man of pride, judging from his reaction to her feeding him. Yet he had yielded, and by that very yielding, he had revealed a spirit and fortitude she could only admire.
He slept throughout most of the day. Several times Gillian bent over him anxiously, but his breath was deep and even, his brow cool, his color neither high nor pale.
Twilight’s shadows began to creep within the cottage. It gave Gillian a start when she turned and found him fully awake. His eyes were open and fixed full upon her. Quickly Gillian prepared another bowl of gruel. No protest was forthcoming this time, though he made a face when he’d finished the last of it.
“Have you nothing more substantial than gruel?”
“You’re hungry?”
The merest hint of a smile grazed his mouth. “Ravenous.”
Gillian hurried to comply. His hunger was surely a good sign, she decided in approval. He ate every bit of the stew and bread left from her last meal.
Before the last of the light faded, she dressed his wounds. He drew in a harsh breath when she cleansed the long, deep cut on his side with warm water. She noted with relief that the redness had faded to pink, and the jagged edges had begun to close. She worked as quickly as she dared—as gently as she could—but she sensed it was still an ordeal for him. His lips were compressed and he was drawn tight as a bow. He jerked once when she began to smooth the unguent onto the wound. Only when she’d completed the task did he release his breath; the tension seeped from his muscles. She stowed the bandages away in a cupboard and emptied the water outside the door.
By the time she’d finished, it was night. The cottage was lit only by the yellow glow of the fire. Gareth slanted his head toward her.
“You look weary,” he observed.
“I am,” she admitted. “I fear I’ve not slept much these past days.”
“Then sleep now.”
Gillian bit her lip. All at once, the realization rose starkly. “There is but one bed,” she said breathlessly.
Heavy brows rose inquiringly. “And?”
“And you are in it.”
“Forgive me if I err, but did you not wake this morning in this very bed? Did you not wake beside me?”
Gillian flushed, flustered and uncertain. “Aye, but I did not know that you would be awake!”
“Where do you propose to sleep then, if not in this bed?”
“I…on the floor. Aye, on the floor.”
“On the floor! You cannot sleep there.” His voice took on a note of authority. “It’s too damp. If you sicken, who will tend me?”
Gillian’s mouth opened and closed. She had wondered what kind of man he was and now she knew—he was a man to think only of himself and never of others!
“It would seem you are a man accustomed to giving orders—accustomed to being obeyed.” Perturbed, Gillian did not bother to disguise her annoyance.
“It would seem I am. But perhaps I am the one who should be wary of you.”
“Of me! There is no reason you should be wary of me!”
“Perchance there is every reason. You stripped the clothes from my body. You crawled within this bed and lay upon me. As I recall, you’ve touched me as you pleased—bathed me—while I lay naked and unmoving and helpless beneath your hands.”
Gillian gasped, then narrowed her gaze. “I thought you remembered nothing!”
Gareth nearly groaned. How could he forget that? He might be empty of mind, but he was not empty of awareness. Nay, it was not something that left a man easily, especially with a woman as beauteous as this one. Judging from the starkness of his surroundings, his caretaker was poor. The bed was crude, made of wattle with a grass-rope pillow. Yet there was some disparity between her clothing and the surroundings. Her gown was simple, yet most definitely not that of a pauper. It was well made, the material not extravagant but of considerable cost. Too, her features were dainty and finely molded. He must have been half out of his mind to have thought her a harlot. The by-blow of a lord, he wondered?
“I know the feel of a woman,” he stated bluntly. “I knew a woman touched me. I didn’t know the woman was you until I awoke.”
He could tell from her expression that she wasn’t certain if she should be insulted or relieved.
Her chin climbed a notch. “If I wanted to, I could sleep on the roof and you could not stop me.”
“Precisely. And there is nothing I can do to harm you.”
“Nay,” she said slowly, “I suppose there is not.”
At least in this, his weakness prevailed. He sighed and said, “You have naught to fear from me, Gillian. You may sleep beside me without distress.”
Still she did not move, but regarded him warily. The stubble of beard that darkened his jaw lent him a dangerous look, but there were deep lines of strain etched beside his mouth. He was, she conceded, defenseless as a child right now.
Her hesitation ebbed. “You are right,” she murmured. She placed a knee on the mattress, while he eased to the far side.
“Excellent,” he said, and there was that in his tone which conveyed his pleasure in himself. “It would seem I am a man not only of subtle words but of subtle persuasion.”
Gillian stopped short. She would have withdrawn if she hadn’t glimpsed the quirk of his lips. Why, he was teasing, the wretch!
His smile waned. “Come,” he said softly. “Methinks you need rest as much as I.”
Gillian relented. The bed was so small that there was scarcely room for both of them, yet she managed to slip beneath the coverlet without touching him.
Shadows steeped the inside of the cottage, yet neither of them slept. She felt a rustling beside her, then his voice stole quietly through the silence.
“I
must ask your forgiveness, Gillian.”
Gillian turned her head slightly. His countenance was not visible, only the rugged outline of his form. “Forgiveness? For what?”
“This morning. I should not have assumed you were a harlot.”
Gillian was glad of the darkness, for it hid the scarlet tide of color in her cheeks. Still, his statement was the last thing she expected to hear.
His voice came again, even more softly than before. “I did not mean to make you weep.”
More unexpected still.
Her throat closed oddly. “It was not that,” she said faintly.
“What then?”
She felt compelled to answer, yet for a heartbeat, she felt wholly unable to. “’Tis…difficult to explain.”
“Try.”
She could feel his regard, locked on her face in the thickening gloom. His persistence kindled tears afresh. Gillian was reminded keenly of the aching loss of her father. And Clifton—would she ever see her brother again?
“When we found you, Brother Baldric thought you were dead, like-like the other men on the beach. Then you did not wake, and you were ill with fever. And I”—she began to quaver—“I thought you would…”
In the darkness, a warm, hard palm slid against hers. Lean, brown fingers twined with hers. “I will not die, Gillian.”
Swamped with emotion, this time speech was beyond her capabilities just now. It made no sense, the peace and comfort wrought by this man who was a stranger—yet no longer seemed a stranger.
Soon both slept. They touched nowhere…nowhere but their enjoined hands.
“So. He still lives.”
As Gillian nodded, Brother Baldric glanced toward the wooden door of the cottage, propped slightly ajar. A fine gray mist drizzled from a leaden sky this morn, but the afternoon had brought a tepid sunshine and patches of blue sky. A fierce wind buffeted the waves against the headland. Overhead, black-headed gulls screeched and swooped.
“Who is he?”
“His name is Gareth.”
“Gareth?”
Gillian took a deep breath. “That is all I know. That is all he knows.” Her tone low, she told him how her patient had spent many of his days alternately sleeping, then waking. In the last week, his bruises had begun to turn a greenish yellow, and he’d gained a little strength.
By the time she’d finished, Baldric’s expression was troubled. “I do not like this, Lady Gillian.”
Gillian looked uncomfortable.
“What is it?” Baldric asked quickly.
“He knows me as Gillian.”
Baldric groaned. “My lady, no! How could you be so careless?”
“I-I did not think quickly enough to hide it. He asked my name and I told him, though I did not tell him my father was Ellis of Westerbrook. Besides,” she went on, her tone low and fervent, “I hate knowing that the villagers think of me as the widow Marian.”
“Nonetheless, do not tell him you are Lady Gillian of Westerbrook! Perhaps it is wise that you continue to stay far from the village. They are aware that you tend a man who was gravely injured in the shipwreck. I could not hide it, not with the lads Edgar and Hugh delivering him to your cottage. We can risk no questions, not from the villagers or this man Gareth.”
A knot tightened in Gillian’s chest. “You believe the king’s men continue to search for me?”
“I believe so, yes. And Clifton as well.” Gillian knew it must be the truth, for the monks were often the eyes and ears of the people.
“Gareth is not a common man,” Gillian said slowly. “I can tell by the refinement of his speech.” That and a dozen other things, she acknowledged to herself. The noble span of his brow. His compassion and consideration the night he’d been convinced he’d caused her to weep. And only this morning he’d tried to rise when he’d spied her carrying in wood for the fire. He had pushed the covers aside and swung his legs to the floor, only to immediately turn white as linen.
The bundle of wood had spilled to the floor. Gillian had rushed to his side and pressed him back.
“It is not right, that I lay abed while you work,” he had argued.
Her mouth set sternly, Gillian had exclaimed in remonstrance.
Yet now, an uneasy sensation crept along her spine. She remembered his fierceness when he’d been ill with fever.
“I am Marian,” she’d said.
“You lie!” he had accused. “Tell me who you are!”
“If he is not a common man,” said Brother Baldric, “that is all the more reason not to trust him.”
“Brother Baldric,” she said gently, “I understand your loyalty to my father. But I do not understand your suspicion of this man.”
“You believe him then? That he remembers naught of his past?”
“I do.”
“It could be a ruse. A trick.”
“Perhaps it would be best if you judged for yourself.” She gestured toward the door.
With that Brother Baldric pushed back his cowl. Together they entered the cottage. Gillian approached the stranger’s bedside. His eyes were closed, but at the rustle of sound, he stirred.
“Gareth,” she stated with no ado, “this is Brother Baldric. He would like to speak with you.”
The robed man stepped forward. Gillian retreated to stand in the shadows.
Gareth inclined his head in greeting. “Brother Baldric. Gillian speaks often of you.”
Brother Baldric nodded. “Gillian tells me that other than your name, you have no idea of who you are.”
“This is true,” Gareth said.
“You know nothing of your trade?”
Gareth’s mouth thinned. “I could be the king himself and I would not know it.”
“An excellent choice of subject.” Brother Baldric’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know who is king?”
“No.”
“John is king. Son of Henry and Eleanor, brother of Richard, youngest of the Devil’s brood.”
“The Devil’s brood…King Henry.”
“Yes.”
“And Richard,” he repeated, then suddenly it was as something opened inside him. “Richard!” he exclaimed. “Coeur de Lion! A great man with golden hair and vivid blue eyes.”
“Ah, so you do remember. Have you been on Crusade?”
“I have,” Gareth stated promptly.
“And what of King John?” Baldric surveyed him closely.
Gareth’s response was a long time in coming. “I do not know,” he said at last. “And yet I cannot deny the feeling that I should know.” His voice carried a faint bitterness. “Then again, it would seem there is much I should know, but cannot remember.”
“True,” Baldric agreed.
“I can only hope that Gillian is right,” Gareth stated quietly, “that as my body mends, my memory will as well.” He glanced at Gillian. One corner of his mouth curled upward. “I owe the lady much,” he said softly. “Indeed, I owe her my very life.”
Baldric slid his hands into the wide gray sleeves of his robe. “She has a warm, giving nature. No man was more aware of it than her husband.”
Gareth’s gaze jerked back to Baldric. “Her husband?”
“Yes. She is a widow, you know. She still grieves deeply for her husband, who died when he was thrown from his horse. As she brought you here to heal, so did I bring her to this place to heal.”
Gillian smothered a gasp. Why was Brother Baldric compelled to perpetuate that horrid lie—and more? she wondered wildly. There was no need, no need at all. She winced as she felt the touch of Gareth’s eyes anew. Brief though it was, it was piercingly intent.
“You brought Gillian here?”
“I did. She felt the need to spend her grief in solitude.” Baldric lifted a brow. “Have you a wife, sir?”
Gareth shook his head. “There is no one. I can feel it.” His gaze slid back to Gillian. “A pity,” he remarked, “that one so young as the lady here should find herself a widow already. Perhaps it is good that I am here, for now s
he need not be alone.”
Brother Baldric’s head came up. Each man found himself the object of a shrewdly measuring survey by the other.
“I wish you a swift recovery,” Baldric said with a stilted smile. “Without doubt you must be eager to be well—and perhaps you will have remembered the rest of your past as well. I’m certain you’ll then be anxious to return to your home, wherever that may be.” With a bow he retreated toward the door.
Gillian followed him outside. Before she could say a word, Brother Baldric held up a hand. “I know what you will say, child. You think I am wrong. In truth, I know not what to believe about this man who calls himself Gareth.”
“And I do not know why, but somehow I think he is a man of honor.”
“And he may well be a man of honor. But there is something in the tilt of his head, his manner of speech, that leads me to believe this man Gareth is a bold man. A daring man. A knight in service of some powerful lord…mayhap even a knight in service of the king—”
Gillian protested. “He did not even know John was king!”
“So he said. But he remembered King Henry and King Richard. Therefore, you cannot tell him who you are, nor the true circumstances that brought you here. Your father was sharply critical of the king, and the less you tell Gareth, the better.”
It was true. Her father had harsh words for the king, from the day he ascended the throne. His petty wars, his ceaseless demand for taxes from the people of England….
“We cannot be careless, Lady Gillian. You cannot trust blindly. There is too much at stake.”
A fierce gust of wind swirl whipped her skirts about her legs. Her gaze was drawn unwittingly to the sky. Alas, even now, the sky was seething. Black, threatening storm clouds hovered just above the choppy seas, a bittersweet reminder…
Ah, but if only Papa had been unjustly accused. Perhaps he might have lived…. Then she would not be here near the blustery shore where rain and wind and storms abounded.
Samantha James Page 5
