Samantha James

by The Truest Heart

  Firelight flickered over him. His body was angled slightly toward her, his strength clearly in evidence. A masculine tangle of hair darkened the plane of his chest. Gillian was well acquainted with the ironhard tightness of his form and the breadth of his shoulders.

  Her throat grew suddenly dry. Indeed, she thought shakily, what did she not notice about him? Her gaze drifted to his face; even in repose, his features had been strikingly arresting. Now her gaze locked onto the cleanly sculpted lines of his mouth. She glanced away in confusion, feeling her body flood with heat, remembering how she’d given him drink…recalling with almost painful acuteness the smooth feel of his lips beneath hers.

  “I cannot.” The refusal slipped out before she could even stop it. She stood so suddenly she knocked over the stool. As she spoke, she backed away several steps.

  His mouth turned down. “Have we not had this discussion before?”

  “’Tis different now.”

  “Different how?”

  “It is not right that I lay beside you.”

  “Because of Osgood?”

  Osgood. For an instant her mind went blank. “Nay,” she gasped before she thought better of it.

  His gaze narrowed. He fixed her with a quietly measured look. “I begin to see.” His silky undertone should have served as a warning. “It’s because of the good brother’s appearance this evening, isn’t it?”

  Gillian had no chance to respond. “You’ve slept beside me all these other nights. You’ve committed no sin. We’ve committed no sin,” he emphasized. “Why so pious and virtuous now?”

  Her chin angled high. A stab of anger pierced the hurt. “Do not tell me,” she said stiffly, “you are a man who knows little of piety and virtue.”

  There was a silence, a silence that ever deepened. “I do not know. Perhaps I am a thief. An outlaw.”

  Gillian looked at him sharply, but this time she detected no trace of bitterness. “I think not. You still have both your hands.”

  “Then perhaps I’m a lucky one. Now come, Gillian.”

  Outside lightning lit up the night sky. The ominous roll of thunder that followed made the walls shake. In a heartbeat Gillian was across the floor—and squarely onto the bed next to him.

  He laughed, the wretch!

  “Perhaps you are not an outlaw,” she flared, “but I begin to suspect you may well be a rogue!”

  He made no answer, but once again lifted the coverlet. Her lips tightened indignantly, but she tugged off her slippers and slid into bed. He respected the space she put between them, but she was aware of the weight of his gaze settling on her in the darkness.

  “Are you afraid of storms?”

  “Nay,” she retorted. As if to put the lie to the denial, lightning sizzled and sparked, illuminating the cottage to near daylight. She gasped. Her gaze swung fearfully to the shutters. There was an answering rumble of thunder.

  She tensed, half-expecting some jibe from Gareth. Instead, his fingers stole through hers, as had become their custom. Thunder cracked anew, yet the fear she should have felt—would have felt if she were alone—did not appear. Oddly comforted, lulled by his presence, it wasn’t long before she felt her muscles loosen and her eyelids grow heavy.

  Within the hour, the skies railed and the storm vented its fury, a blasting tempest of wind and rain that pelted the world beneath.

  Curiously, it was not the storm that woke Gillian, but Gareth. He was shifting restlessly, muttering something—she knew not what.

  “I will not do it!” He shouted so suddenly she jumped. “It is wrong. By the saints, it is wrong!”

  Gillian raised herself on an elbow and peered at him. The fire had burned down to ashes, but it cast out enough light for her to make out the iron clench of his jaw. His chest was bare; the blankets lay twisted about his ankles. He was dreaming, she realized, and it was no peaceful, easy dream that claimed him.

  “Gareth,” she said. “Gareth!”

  He gave no sign that he heard. He swore, a vile curse that made her ears burn. Then: “Sweet Jesus, what am I to do? I have no choice. I must find her. I must find her!”

  Clearly he was a man who fought some inner struggle of his own. Her heart went out to him even as she wondered what woman he sought. Or was it a child?

  All at once the hand at his side balled into a fist. He flung out his arm, and Gillian tumbled hard from the bed. A jarring pain wrenched through her, but she scrambled upright and crawled atop the bed. Gareth was still thrashing.

  Without hesitation, she laid her fingertips on the raspy plane of his cheek. She knew he was not angry with her, but with some unknown presence visible only in his dream.

  “Gareth.” Urgently she beseeched him. “Gareth, wake up.”

  At her touch, his limbs ceased their questing. His head turned toward her. It gave her a start to see that his eyes were wide open, fixed on her unblinkingly. Before she could say a word, he reached out a hand and snared the cascade of hair that tumbled over her breast onto his chest. ’Ere she could draw breath, long arms caught her close—so close she could feel every sinewed curve of his chest, the taut line of his thighs molded against her own.

  There was no chance for escape. No chance for struggle. No thought of panic. No thought of resistance, for Gillian was too stunned to even move…

  His mouth closed over hers.

  Never before had Gillian tasted the heat and warmth and possession of a man’s mouth—the time she had pressed her lips against his to feed him was but a glimmer compared to this…

  For this was a kiss of fiery intensity, of raw, untamed passion. From the shattering moment his mouth trapped hers, she knew instinctively that this was no kiss of gentle worship. It was a kiss that carried the sizzling flame of passion ungoverned, a searing kiss from lover to lover.

  It was just as she’d always dreamed. How many times had she imagined this—being kissed in just such a way, by just such a man, a kiss that stole her very breath! Yet this was not the man of her dreams. This was Gareth, a man who knew naught but his name. A man with no past. Not the man she’d dreamed she would give her life and love and heart…

  She cared not. She could only revel in the feel of his mouth upon hers, the arms that held her, both tender and strong.

  There was nothing tentative in either his kiss or his touch. His tongue traced the outline of her mouth. With torrid, breath-stealing strokes it dove boldly within, discovering the slick interior of her mouth, as brazen as…as the devil fingers that had taken up a tantalizing game at the neckline of her shift, which gaped low. Back and forth, back and forth, that bold hand teased and traced a flaming line across her chest. She gasped when at last he trespassed beneath, seizing with unerring accuracy the unfettered fullness of both breasts.

  His mouth was sealed on the vulnerable skin at the side of her neck; her head tilted, as if in invitation—as if to oblige him further. Her heart bounded, yet everything inside went weak. Flames licked at the crests of her breasts; his thumbs were engaged in a taunting, evocative play that made her nipples harden and grow taut in something that could only be called eagerness. Sparks of a pleasure she’d never thought to expect—never even dreamed of!—burst from the peaks of her breasts. Unknowingly, Gillian’s hands slid around to his back. Her fingers tightened. A thrill shot through her, for his naked flesh was as firm and sleek as she remembered.

  She felt his hands in her hair, sliding through the tumbled darkness. A rush of air misted across her cheek. With his fingertips he combed through tangled, ebony skeins.

  “Beautiful,” he said hoarsely. “So beautiful. Soft and golden and warm. The color of bright summer sunshine…”

  Gillian froze, as if the point of a dagger had penetrated her heart.

  “Celeste,” he breathed. “Celeste. God, how I’ve missed you.”

  The point drove home.

  Gillian’s heart squeezed. She tore her mouth away. Gareth raised his head and peered at her. An uncanny sensation prickled her skin, for he was st
ill in the throes of his dream—it was not her she saw…but the woman Celeste.

  “Sleep,” she said shakily. “Gareth, sleep.”

  Something of her plea must have penetrated. His head dropped back to the pillow, but not before he’d reached for her once more, urging her head into the hollow of his shoulder. Gillian complied, but it was different now—now she held herself aloof, not in physical closeness, but in spirit.

  The effort she made was valiant. Over and over she told herself it was shock that had stalled the rhythm of her heart. But in truth, she was wholly taken aback by the depth of her response to his kiss. In those heart-stopping moments when his lips fused hot and warm against hers, her pulse aclamor as never before, it hadn’t mattered.

  Now it did.

  Her heart constricted. Disappointment flooded her. She couldn’t blink back a fleeting mist of tears as she spied the dark lock of hair still gripped tight in Gareth’s palm.

  Beautiful, he’d said. But she—Gillian—was not the one who so enflamed him. For Gillian’s hair was not the gold of summer sunshine, but the hue of the darkest winter night.

  Ah, but she’d been a fool! She’d allowed Gareth to kiss her, to stroke her body in a shockingly bold way…with another woman’s name on his lips. Another woman’s image burned deep in his mind.

  A woman named Celeste.

  Nay, she was not the woman who filled his dreams.

  And he was not the man of hers.

  6

  IT WAS THE SPLASH OF WATER THAT WOKE GARETH the next morning. Opening his eyes, he spied Gillian standing across the room. She was pouring a steady stream of water from the bucket into a washbasin. She’d restrained the incredible glory of her hair. Although it was confined in several braids which she’d fastened at her nape, still it gleamed with the shine of rich, polished wood. With stark, vivid remembrance, he recalled the way it had felt that very first day—soft, ebony silk sliding against the roughened tips of his fingers. He wished she might free it, that he might feel its dark splendor glide over his skin once more.

  Even as he watched, the bucket was set aside, a linen cloth neatly placed beside the basin. Her intent to wash registered fleetingly in his mind, even as she loosened her gown and it settled on the flare of her hips.

  Although she was now bare to the waist, all that was visible was the dimpled tuck of the slender lines of her back. Gareth meant to look away. He should have. But then she turned ever so little, affording him a glimpse of all that had remained hidden to him until now.

  And then he could not look away if his life depended on it.

  Slender arms lifted, tugging the braids forward. ’Twas a movement that outlined in perfect profile the alluring lines of her body—utterly enticing, unmistakably full and womanly. She was small, almost fragile looking, yet above the rising plane of her ribs, her breasts spilled forth in pale, supple splendor, crowned by pouting nipples the color of coral.

  The cloth dipped, lifted and was drawn along her body. His gaze tracked its path. A trail of droplets shimmered in its wake, leaving her skin damp and dewy and gleaming with a luster that cried out for a man’s touch. A glistening droplet of water clung to the very peak of one exquisite breast, puckered tight against the cold.

  Hot, hungry desire rushed straight to his loins. Heat pooled inside him. His rod stirred to thick, almost painful erectness. His first thought was that Osgood had been a lucky man, to have a woman as lovely as Gillian in his bed. His second was the urge to snare her in his embrace, to divest her fully of her gown and bring her naked into his arms.

  Were he an able man, he decided, he would do exactly that. Were he an able man, he would kneel before her, bend his head to the succulent fruit of her breasts, taste and tug those coral peaks until she could stand no more, until she cried aloud her pleasure. Were he an able man, he would run his fingers through the lush, dark triangle he knew would guard the hidden font of her womanhood. He’d run his fingers through the downy fleece and explore it to his most fervent desire—and hers. And then, when they were both ready, he’d bury his fiery shaft deep in the heat and heart of her.

  Aye, an able man, he decided with dark, brittle humor, would have done just that. Little wonder, then, that he was given to ponder how long it had been since he’d made love to a woman.

  Gillian was unaware of his perusal. It gave her a start when she turned and discovered his eyes wide open, fastened full upon her. Disconcerted, she hastily pulled the sleeve of her gown up over her shoulder. Her heart began to pound. Had he seen her? She prayed she’d been quick enough to shield herself.

  Summoning a calm she was far from feeling, she stepped toward the bed and took a deep breath. “Good morning, Gareth.”

  No greeting was returned. A strong hand shot out and pulled her down onto the bed.

  Her eyes flew wide. “Gareth! What is it?”

  Lean fingers hooked into the neckline of her gown. Gillian gasped when he swept it down her arm, revealing the naked slope of her shoulder.

  It was there his gaze now dwelled. “That is a fresh bruise,” he observed grimly.

  It was true. A dark purplish bruise marred the perfect creaminess of her skin. Gillian glanced down, then hastily dragged her eyes up. Her other hand fluttered up to cover the swell of her breast. She wasn’t sure if she was more indignant or embarrassed.

  “Can you not allow me some privacy?” she cried.

  “I fear I have little choice in the matter,” he reminded her tightly.

  “Nonetheless, you need not spy on me!”

  He dismissed her disparagement with an almost haughty disdain. “Where else would a man’s eyes rest when a woman who looks as you do stands half-naked before him? I am a man, Gillian, and I am not made of stone. But that is of no consequence,” he went on. “Tell me how you came by that bruise.”

  She paid no heed to his demand, for her heart had fluttered, then resumed with thick, heavy strokes. Within that span, Gillian could neither think nor speak. Was he drawn to her, as she was drawn to him? She could deny the truth of what she felt no longer—the sensations sweeping through last night were all too real and remained all too vivid! Was he saying she was beautiful? A wave of darkness stole through her. Nay, she thought. It was Celeste he’d called beautiful.

  “ ’Tis nothing,” she replied curtly.

  “Nothing! By God, it is!”

  Gillian’s lips pressed together stubbornly. Green eyes clashed with blue in a wordless duel.

  Gareth scowled, his lips thin, his features stony. “Was it Brother Baldric?”

  “Brother Baldric!” Gillian was first astounded, then affronted. She defended Brother Baldric staunchly. “Why, he is the kindest, most gentle man on this earth! If you must know, then know this—it was you who did this!”

  “Me!” Gareth was astounded. His anger drained as suddenly as it had erupted, but he was no less determined. “How? When?”

  Too late Gillian wished he had not seen her. Wished he had not spoken. Ah, but she was forever remembering that which she wished she did not!

  “Last night,” she said. “It happened last night.” As she spoke, she realized he had yet to free her. Never in her life had she felt so awkward! She’d been intimate with him in ways she’d never been intimate with another man. Touched nearly every part of his body. And now he had touched her. Now he had seen her! She sought to tug the material of her gown back where it belonged, but his fingers twisted even more tightly into the material and held fast.

  “I did this?”

  She nodded.

  A horrible feeling washed over him. The knowledge that he’d done this was like a red-hot knife plunged into his gut. “How?” was all he asked. “How?”

  You were not yourself, she almost blurted. She did not, for she was all at once pierced by a prickly unease. Who was he…truly? And who was she to know him?

  “You were dreaming,” she relayed, her voice very low. “You seemed in some distress. ‘It is wrong,’ you shouted. And then you seemed anxio
us to find someone.”

  Gareth listened intently. “Who?” A dream, she said. But was it a dream—or something more?

  Gillian averted her gaze. “I do not know. ‘I must find her,’” she quoted. “You were angry. And, in your anger, you struck out blindly.” She faltered. “I…was knocked from the bed.”

  With the tips of his fingers he traced the outline of the bruise; his gossamer touch, so light she could barely feel him. “I am sorry, Gillian. I did not mean to hurt you.”

  “It was never my belief that you did.”

  “Then why will you not look at me?” His tone was very quiet. His fingers fell away. Free at last, Gillian dragged her sleeve upward, covering her exposed skin and rising at the same time.

  She busied herself with bolting the shutter at the window, then moved to sit on the stool before the fire. She could feel his questioning regard, yet still she refused to meet it.

  “Gillian?” An odd feeling gripped him and would not let go. Her shoulders were hunched tight, her hands clasped together before her. “I have the feeling there is more,” he said slowly.

  The fire seemed to hold the utmost fascination for her. Perhaps because there is, she thought wildly.

  An even deeper fear began to sharpen inside him. “Dear God, Gillian, you begin to frighten me…what else did I do?”

  Small fingers plucked at the fabric of her skirt; it was there she confined her attention.

  “Gillian. Gillian, come here.”

  She shook her head, an ardent denial.

  “Then I will come to you,” he said grimly.

  That brought her head up. Her gaze swung to his. “You cannot.” It was less a taunt than a prediction, for she knew his weakness.

  She was wrong.

  The covers were thrust aside. He swung his legs to the floor and struggled to his feet. For one perilous instant, he wavered.