Samantha James

by The Truest Heart

  John bared his teeth. “By God’s teeth, you dare much! But since I am feeling particularly generous this day, I will allow it.” He raised a hand, and Roger Seymour stepped away to convey the message to one of the other knights present.

  Within seconds, a big, raw-boned woman with a matronly air about her crossed the courtyard, holding the young boy’s hand. When the pair reached them, the woman curtsied and seized Gareth’s hand, pressing a kiss upon it.

  “My lord Sommerfield,” she cried, fairly beaming. “’Tis good to be home again.”

  “Indeed it is, Edith.” He acknowledged her salute with a faint smile. “You’ll be amply rewarded for taking such good care of my son.” He addressed the woman, but his gaze never wavered from the lad, who peered up at his great height.

  His hand fell away from Gillian’s. He sank to his knees before the lad. His gaze roved over golden, silky hair and plump, rosy cheeks. He laid his hands on the boy’s small shoulders.

  “Robbie,” he said hoarsely. “My son. My boy.”

  The boy stretched out a small hand, just barely touching the raspy hardness of Gareth’s cheek. “Papa?” he said tentatively.

  It was a moment before Gareth answered. Gillian saw the way his throat worked, saw the way he struggled to speak. “Aye, lad,” he said rustily. “Aye!”

  In the next instant, he’d clasped that small, sturdy body fast against his chest. With no hesitation, the boy laid his head against his father’s shoulder.

  “A touching reunion”—the king’s voice resounded mockingly—“but it has gone on quite long enough, Sommerfield. Geoffrey”—he beckoned to first one knight, then the other—“Roger.” His gaze settled on Gillian. “You may as well come, too, girl,” he informed her haughtily, “since it is your fate I’ll be deciding.”

  Gareth had swept Robbie high in his arms. Gillian had the feeling he was on the verge of refusing, but then Edith stepped forward.

  “I’ll take him, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Edith. Perhaps the cook can find some tidbit for him.”

  Within minutes, the five of them were closeted alone in a chamber above the hall—King John, Gareth, Geoffrey Covington, Roger Seymour, and Gillian. Covington and Seymour removed themselves to stand at the far end of the chamber near the wall. Gillian hid her hands in her skirts to hide their trembling as the short, stout monarch took the chair that Covington had brought forward to the center of the room.

  He wasted no time. Thin lips twisted into a snarl. “Are you a traitor?” he demanded.

  “I am not, Your Majesty.”

  “Then why didn’t you put her to the sword as I ordered?”

  Gillian’s heart pinched. The ground seemed to sway beneath her feet. So it was true. Not that she’d doubted Gareth’s claim that he was to kill her, but to hear the king state her fate so cruelly made her long to plummet to the innards of the earth.

  The king continued his fuming. “Why is she not dead?” A disdainful finger flicked her way. “Can you tell me, my lord Sommerfield, why you should not be condemned as a traitor for your failure to slay her?”

  Gareth’s smile was taut. “I’ve no desire to see your royal troops surround Sommerfield, my lord, but I pray you, hear me out.”

  Oh, but he was clever. He knew just what to say to keep his head from the block.

  “Get on with it, then!” snapped the king.

  “I was able to indeed hunt down the lady to the place where she had fled. I boarded a ship to hasten the journey, but just as I would have reached her, the ship broke up in a storm. Strange as it may seem, when I awoke, I remembered nothing of my past save my name—Gareth. When I awoke, Lady Gillian was there. She tended me while I recovered.”

  “So you married her out of gratitude. Because she rescued you—because she saved you?” John rolled his eyes. “God’s teeth, Sommerfield, what blithering nonsense! I’d heard tales that you’d grown hard and bitter and cruel upon the death of your wife, that you cared about naught but your son. When you lost your past, did you lose your spine as well?” Beneath John’s denunciation laced an acid bite.

  Gillian’s eyes flew wide at the king’s scornful affront. She wondered fleetingly how he would respond to the king’s jeer.

  She was not given to wonder for long. He erupted into an easy laugh. “Hardly that, sire. I was taken with the wench. I wanted her.”

  The declaration was not what she expected. Gillian very nearly swung her gaze upon him in startled surprise. Was it true? The thought had barely skittered across her mind when a hard arm slid around her back. With the other he blatantly ran a trespassing finger along the neckline of her gown, even skimming down—nay, between!—the valley of her breasts.

  The impudent rogue! Gillian bristled. She girded herself, for the urge to jab an elbow into his belly was immensely tempting. If not for the king’s presence, by God, she would have! Her lips compressed in mutinous ire. Spying it, Gareth gave a mocking laugh and pulled her tighter against his side.

  John slammed a fist against the ornately carved arm of the chair.

  “So why didn’t you just bed her and be done with it? Why the devil did you have to marry her? She carries her father’s blood!”

  “And my seed,” he said with soft deliberation.

  Gillian reeled. A hundred things ripped through her in the mind-spinning aftershock. Horror. Disbelief. In some faraway corner, she marveled that she was able to remain upright; mayhap it was because Gareth’s fingers bit almost painfully into her arm. Her mind was racing. What the devil was he about? Why had he made such a claim? Yet now, she realized numbly, she understood his warning that she was not to argue with him, not to dispute him.

  He stepped away. A half-smile lurked upon his lips. His gaze raked down her form, lingering on the swell of her breasts beneath her gown—a brazen insult. Despite her best intentions, Gillian flushed.

  “She was a maid when I first saw her,” he said almost lazily. His smile widened. His eyes were hard. “But not for long, eh, lass? Ah, yes, she came willingly into my arms every night while I healed.”

  Gillian felt her face flame scarlet. How dare he do this, she railed in furious indignation. She began to smolder inside. He taunted her. He taunted her most cruelly and there was naught she could do! He was aware that she would not denounce him—not before the king. Fear of her life prompted her silence, for she could not predict what the king might do if he knew the truth, that she did not carry his babe. Dear God, his babe!

  Nor was he finished. “I daresay you’ve an eye for a fair maid, sire,” he went on blithely, “and so do I. Look at her, my lord. She’s a tempting morsel—and a tasty one, at that.” Slowly he began to circle her. All the while, that maddening smile curled his lips. “Is it any wonder I took her to my bed? Or perhaps I should say hers…

  “I touched her as I pleased,” he continued baldly. “I wanted her—and I had her. And if you doubt me, sire, you’ve only to look at her to see the truth, to know that she lay with me. When I was well again, I discovered I was not yet ready to end such…pleasurable nights. I brought her with me to Sommerfield, and it was then I recalled my mission. But by then, I’d discovered she was with child. I could hardly kill her,” he said with a shrug.

  Gillian could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Hot shame poured through her. When, she wondered achingly, would this nightmare end? Oh, but he was a master of cunning…a master of deceit, for the lies poured from his lips with ease. Behind that irksome smile was a man she did not know. Worse yet, she detected a seething current of something dark and dangerous…The teasing rogue from the cottage—the tender man who held her hand throughout the night—might never have been.

  He’d halted behind her now, so near she could feel the rise and fall of his chest.

  His voice rang out above her head. “You see the dilemma that faced me. To kill her would be to kill my own child, something I was not prepared to do…will not do.” He moved so quickly she nearly cried out. A hand clamped suddenly on her
belly, pulling her against him. His fingers splayed wide—as if he owned her, she decided bitterly. As if she were naught but a possession.

  Deliberately she held herself rigid, trying to strain away. For an instant, the hand on her belly tightened. Then he abruptly released her.

  Gareth had braced his legs slightly apart. “I will have no bastard child, sire,” he said with a distinct undercurrent of steel. “I had no choice but to wed her.”

  “What of her brother? Do you know his fate?”

  “Nay, sire, I do not.” Oh, but he delivered the words with just the right amount of regret, the snake!

  John made no answer. His black gaze had shifted to Gillian. “Your father tried to murder me,” he said flatly.

  And your lackey would have murdered me! she longed to screech.

  “Did you know of your father’s attempt before it happened?”

  Gillian shook her head.

  “He did not act alone. Do you know the man who conspired with him?”

  “I do not, my lord.” Her heart drummed painfully as she thought of the man behind the curtain. But then resolve hardened her heart. Her father had died protecting this man. Even if she’d known who he was, she wouldn’t have confessed to him!

  “Do you know your brother’s whereabouts?”

  The king’s tone was almost pleasant, but Gillian was not fooled. It was but a way to coax her cooperation. Her fingers interlocked before her as she raised her chin. “I do not, sire. He left Westerbrook the same night as I, but he did not accompany me. My father thought it would be safer that way.”

  John looked to Gareth. “Does she speak the truth?” he demanded.

  “She does, sire. The plotting and scheming were left to her father, and the other man involved.”

  A hush borne of tension descended. Gillian had heard tales of the king’s penchant for jewels—that at his coronation, even his white gloves were adorned with sapphires. No doubt it was true; there was a ring upon nearly every finger, laden with precious stones—emeralds, diamonds, and sapphires. A huge, brilliant ruby dangled on his chest; suspended from a heavy gold chain, it glittered with every turn of his fingers. He toyed with it endlessly, until she longed to tear it from his thickset neck that he might stop.

  It was Gareth who broke the silence. “You need not worry that she will cause you such trouble as her father,” he stated smoothly. “I will keep her in check, Your Highness. Nor will she flee, even if it means keeping her under lock and key.”

  Such arrogant presumption earned him the seething regard of his wife.

  John’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. Thoughtfully he stroked his beard, so meticulously trimmed and waxed. “I am reluctant to release my vow that Ellis’s kin be wiped out. But indeed, ’twould seem that a mere woman and a boy can hardly pose any threat to me—and in truth, her brother may well be dead already.”

  Gareth was forgotten. The king’s speculation that Clifton was dead tore into her breast like an arrow, clear to her heart. No, she cried in silent anguish. Please, God, no! It was beyond bearing that Clifton was dead.

  John transferred his gaze to his ministers. “Geoffrey…Roger…what is your counsel?”

  Covington frowned. “It may well be,” he began slowly, “that perhaps we should take the girl’s survival as a sign—”

  “By all the saints, Geoffrey, you sound as if you’ve gone over to the Church! Spare me such drivel.”

  Geoffrey’s fair cheeks reddened. “What I mean to say, sire, is that it may not be wise to harm the girl. What if someone should discover you gave the order to slay the daughter of Ellis of Westerbrook? The barons might—”

  “The barons…Lord, but I wish someone would rid me of every one of them. I gave in to their demands and signed the Great Charter at Running-Mead, yet still they grumble. They are like a nest of vipers. They will not be content until I give up my crown, and I will not give in to them again, I tell you. I will not!”

  Gillian’s skin prickled. She turned her head to see that she was the object of Roger Seymour’s scrutiny. Her pulse skittered. How long had he been watching her? He did not smile or desist when their eyes met. Her heart skipped a beat, for she sensed his dislike keenly.

  He surprised her by echoing Geoffrey’s sentiment. “We can deal with the barons, sire, but Geoffrey may be right. Even if you were to throw her into prison, some of the barons might seize on just such a move. It’s probably wise not to give them cause to incite their passion anew. And further bloodshed will do little to rally the people to your side.”

  “So you believe I should let her go,” the king mused aloud.

  Gillian held her breath. Seymour stared at her in a way that made her heart drum painfully.

  “Aye,” he said at last. “My counsel is to let the matter rest and leave her to Sommerfield for now.”

  For now. Those two simple words made her blood run chill. But it appeared John’s anger had begun to abate. He gestured Gareth forward.

  “Very well, then. I leave her in your hands.” He leaned an elbow on the arm of the chair and fixed those small black eyes on Gareth. “But what of the money you owe me? You borrowed a goodly sum when last I visited here.”

  Gareth’s lips compressed. Gillian was close enough to see the sudden sizzle in his eyes. “Much eludes me still, but I recall that night most distinctly. I am certain I owe you no coin, my lord.”

  The king’s mouth assumed a petulant droop. “Perhaps you are right.” He glanced at Geoffrey. “We’ll not be staying the night. Send for the boy.”

  Again Gareth intruded. “For what purpose, sire? He is but a boy and has no further need of your…care. Lady Gillian is no longer in hiding. She is here, and I have vowed I will keep her under control. The boy belongs with his father.”

  Gillian’s gaze bounced from Gareth to the king. John stared hard at Gareth.

  “The boy has done very well with me.”

  “I do not dispute that, sire, and for that I thank you.”

  “If I leave your son with you, I have no assurance that you will not join with the rebel barons.”

  “You have my word,” Gareth said quickly. “My every assurance. But if you doubt me, leave some of your men here to assure that I comply.”

  “I could do that,” the king said slowly.

  “I have never been disloyal to you, sire,” Gareth reminded him. “I must ask that you not disregard my request. I merely do what is best for my son.”

  John pursed his lips. “I suppose you are right,” he said shortly. “The lad is indeed of a tender age.” Thus relenting, he got to his feet, tugging his surcoat over his girth before returning his attention to Gareth. “I do trust that you will be ready to serve me as the need arises?”

  Something flickered across Gareth’s features, something she could not decipher. He gave a low bow. “As the need arises,” he confirmed.

  King John swept by without another glance at Gillian. Geoffrey Covington and Roger Seymour followed in his wake. The door closed with a hollow thud. Gillian swallowed, fighting to slow the thunder of her heart.

  Gareth stepped up beside her. “You did well,” he murmured.

  “And I would commend you for your performance, if you were not such a lying blackguard!” Air left her lungs in a scalding rush. “You must be mad to tell the king such a tale.” A part of her was still aghast. “It is not possible that I carry your—your child!”

  “Very true,” he drawled. “And there is only one way you can be with child.”

  “Precisely,” she snapped. “How then do you intend to fool the king?”

  A slow-growing smile crept across his lips. “I don’t,” he said very softly.

  All at once Gillian could scarcely breathe. “What do you mean?”

  A thick black brow climbed aloft. “Come, now,” he chided. “Surely you know the ways of the world.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “But if you insist, I will be happy to explain further…nay, mayhap it would be better to show you…” He reached out t
o grasp her arm.

  She jerked it away with a toss of her head. “Don’t touch me!” she cried. “I will never allow the man who would have murdered me to lay a hand on me! I’d sooner bed an adder than bed with you!”

  She didn’t bargain on his reaction. He snatched her to him with a suddenness that ripped the breath from her lungs; the fierceness of his hold betrayed his wrath. With thumb and forefinger he captured her chin, demanding that she look at him. His features were implacable; the harsh line of his mouth exactly matched his voice.

  “Perhaps you should ponder on this, then, lady. It will be in your best interest to get yourself with child—and quickly, for that will be the only thing that saves your life.”

  Gillian blanched, going utterly cold inside. He released her abruptly, as if he could no longer stand the sight of her. Without another word, he strolled from the chamber and slammed the door.

  She stared at the oaken portal. A sickly dread clutched at her. Sweet Mother Mary, she thought shakily. Was it a prediction he made…or a threat?

  Vivid in her mind’s eye was the way he’d looked as he stormed away. His tightly constricted features betrayed a ruthlessness that was frightening.

  It was the face of a stranger, she thought vaguely, the face of a man she no longer knew…for in truth, she knew this man not at all. Bitterness welled up inside her, for the hell of it was that he was right.

  If not for his protection, she’d be fast in the clutches of the king.

  13

  GILLIAN SPENT THE REMAINDER OF THE AFTERNOON in her chamber, alternately stewing, then chafing over his high-handedness. He was quite an accomplished liar, this new husband of hers, and if she didn’t have to face him until the other side of forever, it was too soon!

  She was lying on the bed, trying to sort through the tumult of the day, to bring some order to all that had transpired when a knock sounded on the door. Gillian sighed. She very nearly called that she didn’t wish to be disturbed, but then the door opened slightly.

  “My lady?”

  It was Lynette. The girl stepped inside. “My lord bid me to come and ask you to join the celebration in the hall.”