Samantha James

by The Truest Heart

  “Nonetheless, I would know the reason for such secrecy.” A brow hiked imperiously. A wide—aye, and very deliberate—step breached the distance between them.

  Hers widened it anew. “And I say again, I cannot tell you.”

  Gareth stared at her, and in that span of a heartbeat, a half-clouded suspicion began to blossom in his mind.

  “And I find that I heartily dislike secrets. However, I will oblige you. Since you are so unwilling to talk about yourself, I suggest we talk about Osgood…how long did you say it has been since your beloved husband died?”

  The bite in his tone as he spoke her name made her wince inside. “Why?” She shifted nervously. “I fail to see what—”

  “Nonetheless, refresh my memory, if you please. You may recall, it ever eludes me.”

  “A year,” she said quickly. Her reply was made in part-hope, part-dread, part-prayer that he would not glimpse her dismay as she frantically sorted through her mind. Aye, that was it—a year.

  His smile had turned utterly wicked. “No,” he said, and it was a distinctly unsettling sound.

  Gillian inhaled sharply. “I did. I told you—!”

  “Half a year,” he finished tautly. “You stated half a year had passed since he died.”

  Gillian made a muted sound of rage, both at her own folly and his deliberate plot. “You miserable wretch!” she sputtered. “You tricked me!”

  This time it was she who closed the distance between them. Hands and fists raised in a temper such as she’d never known before, she launched herself forward. Gareth’s arms shot out. He caught her and brought her up hard against the solid strength of his form.

  “Ah, lady,” he proclaimed with false heartiness. “All these questions give rise to still another. Are you a widow or no?”

  She would not give him the satisfaction of an answer! “You are a man with no memory—a man with no heart!” she flung at him. “I will tell you nothing.”

  His mouth clamped shut. His jaw hardened. That smile that had been aught but a parody of a smile from the very beginning had vanished.

  “A man with no heart, she says.” The cast of his jaw was rigid, his mouth thin. “By God, lady, I pitied you. I comforted you in what you claimed was your grief. I believed the shame you felt to lie beside another man in the wake of your husband’s death—but now I begin to wonder if you’ve lain beside any man! So let us see once and for all if you’ve ever had a husband, shall we?”

  Hard arms snaked about her waist. Gillian felt herself bodily turned and spun through the air, her slippers leaving the ground. He sat upon the stool—and her upon him!—and dragged her down upon his lap. For one mind-spinning instant, her skirts swirled about them both. In shock she realized a bold male hand trespassed beneath. That same brown hand clamped the slender flesh of her thigh and insinuated itself between. Devil-fingers skimmed tender flesh untouched by any man, on course for a relentless journey straight toward the forbidden place that guarded her womanhood.

  For one shattering instant Gillian could not even contemplate what he dared…what he sought. When she did, panic took wing inside her. “Nay!” she cried, twisting wildly. Her struggle proved futile. Her arms were trapped against her sides by a sinewed, muscled forearm. Her back was flush against his chest. She was a prisoner in his hold as surely as an animal in a snare.

  “Yes,” he said through his teeth, for in truth Gareth had lost all patience with her lies and denials. “Yes, lady! You may not speak the truth, but by the Cross, I will have it!”

  And aye, a single accursed finger was already parting soft, golden fleece and dainty, pink folds. She was bitterly aware he sought the tellingly fragile barrier of her maidenhead.

  “Stop!” she cried.

  His starkly daring foray ceased. His gaze delved sharply into hers.

  “Why?” he demanded.

  “Because you need not confirm what you already know!”

  His lips compressed. He pushed her from his lap and set on her feet. It was over almost before she knew it…in her mind it lasted forever. With shaking hands, Gillian smoothed her skirt down. For a moment she stood mutely. Eyes downcast, she could not move for the scalding humiliation that washed over her.

  “So the widow is not a widow at all,” he observed. “But come. Why so shy, sweet maid?”

  That brought her head up in a flash. Her spine stiffened and she turned. His gaze flickered over her dispassionately. He’d spoken those very words once before, and then there had been only gentleness, both in his manner and his touch.

  ’Twas not the case now, and Gillian was suddenly furious. He had the truth he sought. He’d had it his way, damn his hide, yet now he dared to taunt her! Her anger boiled over. Before she could stop it, her hand shot out. With all the force she could muster, she dealt a stunning slap to the hardness of his cheek.

  Gareth stood his ground unblinkingly, feeling the sting of her hand against his face. Though he was still fiercely angry at her deceit, he would allow her the blow. He could understand her ire, but he would certainly not allow it again…ah, but that was precisely what she intended! With a low growl he snatched her against him, catching the offending wrist in the binding vise of one hand and raking it behind her back.

  “You are a beast!” Gillian cried.

  “And you are a liar,” he said grimly. Glittering jade eyes rained down on her. “Tell me true and tell me now…Gillian or Marian?”

  She pressed her lips together.

  With his hand he prodded her chin up. “Answer me!”

  Her gaze faltered beneath the fiery demand of his. She looked away. “I told you. ’Tis Gillian,” she said, her voice very low. “Lady Gillian of Westerbrook.”

  “It’s true that Brother Baldric brought you here?”

  Wordlessly she nodded.

  “Why did you hide who you are? Why do you hide who you are?”

  His voice hammered at her, swift and unrepentant. It was pride alone that kept her upright—either that or the steely band of muscled arm about her back. She preferred to think it was the former.

  “Because the king searches for me, and for my brother Clifton.”

  “The king!” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Because he would see us dead. Because our father is…was…Ellis of Westerbrook.”

  Gareth gave an impatient shake of his head. “The name means naught to me.”

  There was no point in disguising her father’s actions, she decided bleakly. By now, it was surely common knowledge across the whole of England. “Were it not for your illness,” she said painfully, “no doubt you would remember the failed attempt on King John’s life early in the autumn. It was Ellis of Westerbrook who loosed the arrow that missed its mark and instead felled the king’s guard…my father.”

  “Sweet Christ. Your father…!”

  “Yes.”

  He released her, only to grab her hand and tug her to the bed. “Tell me what goes on,” he demanded tautly. “And by God, there had best be no secrets now.”

  Gillian’s eyes darkened, but she was resigned to her fate. “King John came to visit William de Vries, a baron in the nearest shire,” she began. “It was late when Papa came to my chamber.” She shuddered anew, hearing once more the ominous rumble of thunder. Dear God! she thought starkly. Would that night ever leave her?

  He listened in stony silence as she continued. “He was preparing to flee, before he was found out. He commanded that Clifton and I leave as well. I was to accompany Brother Baldric, and Alwin, his chief retainer, would take charge of Clifton.”

  “He sought to conceal you from John’s wrath?”

  She nodded miserably. “He feared the king would take his revenge on us.”

  “What happened to your father?”

  “He was captured several weeks later.” Raw heartache bled onto her soul, but she held it in check. “He killed himself rather than reveal the identity of the other man involved. There has been no word that the other assassin has been found.�
�

  She didn’t disclose that the other man had been closeted with her father in the counting room the previous day. Brother Baldric’s warning clanged in her mind. Tell no one, he’d said. Besides, what did she know? Nothing. She had no idea of the man’s identity. Indeed, Gareth might well accuse her of lying anew. She defended the decision staunchly, smothering a brief pang of guilt. Nay, it was neither a lie, nor an omission of truth.

  “What of your brother?”

  A hot ache constricted her throat. “I have no idea where Clifton was taken”—her breath caught, for it was so hard to say it, to even think it—” or if he still lives.”

  Throughout, Gareth listened, his jaw so hard it might have been hewn in stone. Rising, he stared at her, his expression implacable.

  “You should have trusted me, Gillian. Why didn’t you?” He gave her no chance to answer, but went on. “You should have.”

  Stung by his harshness, she struck out. “And what good would that have done? What could you have done, you who could not even move from the bed!”

  His lips thinned. “There was no need for such deceit, especially in light of what passed between us.”

  His coolness pricked an anger that had eased but not abated. Her jaw opened and closed. “In light of what passed between us?”

  “Aye. And I do not mean what happened just now. Indeed, I think you know precisely what I mean.” His gaze resided meaningfully on her lips.

  His utter calm only made her more furious. She leaped to her feet. “Oh, the devil take you!” she flared. “Need I remind you who it was you first kissed? ’Twas just a dream, you said. But of a certainty it was not I you kissed so passionately!” She plucked at the sable ribbon of hair that lay upon her breast. “It was the woman with hair like summer sunshine,” she quoted feelingly. “It was Celeste, as I recall. Aye, it was Celeste!”

  Her jibe had an effect she could not have foreseen…did not foresee.

  Their battle receded. Gareth went absolutely still. Before her very eyes, the color seeped from beneath his skin. “Celeste? I called her Celeste?”

  “Aye.” Her knuckles pressed against her lips as a horrified inevitability swept through her. “Oh, God. You said there was no one. But she is your wife, isn’t she? Celeste is your wife.”

  “My wife is dead,” he stated without hesitation. “She is dead.”

  Her heart twisted. Silently she raged. Ah, but she was a fool! Instinct had warned he was wed; she simply had refused to believe it! She’d been too caught up in the magic wonder of his kiss…“How do you know? How can you be certain?”

  “I do. I am. She is dead. I cannot say how or when, but I know she is dead.” Gareth’s head was buzzing. She asked how he knew, but he could not explain. He had only to hear the name…Celeste…and awareness shot through him with the sizzle of lightning, as if some mighty, unseen force pierced him like the shaft of an arrow.

  Gillian knew it, too. Her breath caught. “You know who you are, don’t you?”

  “Aye,” he whispered. “I am Gareth”—there was a heartbeat of silence—“lord of Sommerfield.”

  9

  IT WAS UNCANNY, THE WAY IT HAPPENED. WHY IT happened—or how—he could never have said. It was as if a single beam of light had slipped through a crack, then opened wide to allow a thousand shimmering rays to pour through him, clear to his soul. The gladness that filled him was indescribable. Yet just as quickly, with the suddenness of a candle being snuffed out, the crack sealed shut. The light inside him was extinguished and he knew no more.

  It was enough. He knew that Celeste had been his wife. Dear Lord, his wife! Yet he could not have said how long they’d been wed. If she had in truth possessed hair like summer sunshine, he could not say. He couldn’t even claim that he’d loved her…indeed, that he had not!

  Yet he knew his home was Sommerfield Castle, a grand fortress perched high upon a hilltop in the northern shires. Half a dozen shimmering lakes were visible from the south tower, nestled between green hills that swept to the eastern shores.

  “Gareth?”

  A low, feminine voice drew him from his reverie. His gaze was drawn to the wide-eyed, dark-haired beauty before him. He was Gareth, lord of Sommerfield, he thought, filling his lungs with air, as if for the very first time.

  The maid before him was Gillian of Westerbrook, daughter of Ellis.

  If only she’d told him earlier, he might have remembered far sooner. But she was right. He’d thought it was just a dream.

  Just as suddenly darkness filled his mind anew—but this time it was darkness of a different sort. The clouds in his mind shifted and swirled. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

  “Sweet Christ,” he whispered.

  Something in his expression must have given him away. “What?” Gillian cried. “What is it?”

  “You cannot stay here.”

  Gillian stared at him, feeling her insides curl into a cold, hard knot. Her control was tenuous at best. She felt as if she’d been thrust into the midst of a tempest. “What do you mean?”

  “You must leave. Now. Tonight.”

  A sudden crash of thunder split the air. The walls shivered…as she was suddenly shivering. It was so much like that horrible night her father had come to her room that Gillian could no longer bear it.

  She clamped her hands over her ears to shut out the sound of his voice. “’Tis a trick. You mean to frighten me!”

  “No, Gillian, no!” He tore her hands away from her ears and held them at her sides. Though his hold was not hurtful, he was adamant. “You must listen to me! You cannot stay here. It is not safe.”

  She was trembling from head to toe. “Were you sent by my father’s men?” The question emerged, tremulous and quavering.

  “Aye.” Gareth cared not that he lied. In truth he had no idea how or why he had come to be here. Some little known instinct inside him compelled his urgency. “You cannot remain here,” he said again. “We must leave as soon as we’re able, Gillian. With every moment you linger, you risk discovery by the king.”

  “You say I should leave, but I have nowhere to go. Brother Baldric brought me here to keep me safe!”

  “And I will keep you safe now. I will take you to Sommerfield. I can protect you there.” His hands came up to rest on her shoulders. “You’ve naught to fear from me, Gillian, I swear. I will not harm you.”

  He was grim, so very, very grim. Gillian battled a spiraling panic. Never in her life had she felt so helpless, not even the night she’d been forced to leave Westerbrook. God help her, she knew not which way to turn! Always before there had been someone to guide her. Her father. Brother Baldric. Now Gareth was asking her to place her faith in him—a man she’d known but a span of days—a man who, in truth, scarcely knew himself! Though she despised her weakness, all she could do was pray she made the right choice.

  She drew a deep, ragged breath. “What about Brother Baldric?”

  “He is too ill to travel.” Gareth made the declaration flatly. That Brother Baldric might well succumb to the hereafter was a notion he kept to himself. “Now hurry and gather your things.”

  Gillian shook her head. “I cannot leave without seeing Brother Baldric.”

  For an instant she thought he might refuse. Finally he capitulated with a nod.

  It was close to midnight when they returned to the church. A stub of candle cast a wavering light on the damp stone wall. Agnes was dozing in a chair at the bedside. As the door scraped the floor, she woke with a start.

  Gareth gestured Agnes aside. Gillian eased down on the pallet. She clasped Brother Baldric’s gnarled hand between both of hers. His skin was chill as the wind.

  “Brother Baldric,” she whispered. He was so pale. Fear struck a chord, for he lay so still and unmoving. For one agonizing moment she thought he was dead.

  Heavy eyelids lifted. There was the faintest grasp of gnarled fingers around hers.

  “Brother Baldric, something has happened…Gareth believes I am in grave d
anger if I remain here…” In hushed tones she told him what had happened.

  Baldric’s gaze lifted to Gareth, who stood near the door. “So,” he said in a voice that sounded like the rasping of leaves across a cobbled street. “You are the lord of Sommerfield.”

  “I am.” Gareth stepped forward. There was that in his tone which sounded as if he expected the old man to contest the statement.

  “You will take care of Lady Gillian? You will guard her from the king’s wrath—keep her safely away from the king’s hand?”

  “I will.”

  “Swear it, for I would have your oath.”

  “I swear it.” Gareth’s oath was unfaltering, deeply resonant. “I will guard her from the king’s wrath and keep her safe from his hand.”

  “So be it, then.”

  Baldric’s gaze returned to Gillian. Gillian could hear his breath waning. Her eyes clung to his as she rubbed his leathery hand against her cheek. He felt the dampness of her tears.

  “Do not weep, child.”

  She gave a dry sob. “If only you were not ill, then you could travel with us. Oh, I-I hate this wretched illness that plagues you!”

  “It will pass,” he said.

  “And what if it does not?”

  He smiled faintly. “Then it is—”

  “I know. God’s will,” she finished bitterly. It was so easy for him to accept, yet not for her. Her tears choked her. There was a crushing heaviness in her chest.

  Behind her, footsteps shifted on the floor. Gillian felt Gareth’s presence and sensed his impatience to depart.

  “Gillian,” he said.

  She ignored him. “Brother Baldric, promise me you will not give in. That you will not go easily. That you will try and best this wretched illness…”

  “You have my promise, child.” Baldric’s lips formed a feeble smile as his gaze briefly encompassed Gareth. “A word of warning, my lord. I sense in you a steady purpose, but it may not be wise to cross the lady, for I fear she can be as stubborn as her father.”

  Gillian stiffened as she felt Gareth’s gaze drift coolly over her profile. A glance from the corner of her eye revealed a tight smile. “I shall do well to bear that in mind, then,” he said.