Samantha James

by The Truest Heart

Gillian swallowed. Water swirled around the ridge of his hips. His belly was flat and hard, covered with the same dark hair that grew so thickly on his chest. The prospect of cleansing him there, below the water line made her entire body go hot. She braved a quick, hasty glance; her eyes widened and her breath caught.

  Despite the haze of bathwater, his maleness was clearly visible. His manhood was forged of iron…as he was forged of iron. It jutted out from between his thighs, a spear of bold, turgid flesh.

  A paralyzing sensation closed her throat. The cloth dropped from nerveless fingers.

  It was Gareth who rescued it. “Turn around,” he said harshly.

  Gillian obliged, unwilling to make further argument. But it was not to her satisfaction, for he pulled her back against him. She froze. She could feel him, every inch of him. The hard, hairy length of his legs were a vise around her own. Her buttocks…a fiery blush surely suffused the whole of her body, for she dare not even think where they were.

  But his touch was almost impersonal as he twisted her hair into a long rope, and pushed it over her shoulder.

  The cloth dipped into the water, and then he was soaping the slender length of her back, in slow, monotonous circles, then over the slope of her shoulder.

  Now he had moved around to the front. Gillian was horrified to discover he’d discarded the cloth. She wanted to protest, but for the moment, speech seemed a skill she could not master. Slick with soap, his bare hands glided over her belly, unabashedly brazen, then up to her breasts. Time hung suspended while he hovered there, almost touching—but not quite—the aching tips that seemed to quiver and swell. Her heart took refuge in her throat. She was shocked to discover she wanted him to touch her there. She wanted to clamp his hands against her…

  In perfect tempo, his fingertips grazed the swollen tips. Gillian couldn’t look away as lean, brown fingers indulged in a tauntingly provocative rhythm. A jolt of pleasure shot through her, centered there in those hard pink buds, now straining toward his palms. The muscles in her belly tightened. Gareth’s mouth was on her nape now. She shivered when his tongue raked across the very top of her spine. All at once she was aware of the pulsing of his rod against her buttocks.

  Nay, she thought hazily. It was wrong. Surely he would not take her in the daylight. Not in the bath…

  Indeed, Gareth was fast in the midst of a struggle of his own. Her shoulders were damp and glistening. The urge to turn her in his arms, to bind her hips in his hands and plunge her down upon his rod was almost more than he could bear. Sheer effort of will was all that stopped him. Reluctantly he disregarded the notion, for he knew that if he did, it would shock his lovely, innocent bride to her very core.

  And it was no way to take a maid. But someday, he promised himself. Someday he would show her that there were many sides—and many ways—for a man and woman to make love.

  But he had to have her. If he didn’t, he would surely die in an agony of longing.

  In a heartbeat he was on his feet, and her along with him. A linen towel whisked the dampness from them both. Catching firm, lush buttocks in his hands, he brought her high and tight against the vise of his thighs for one breathless moment, claiming her mouth in a blazing kiss, gritting his teeth against a pleasure so intense he almost spilled himself in that instant.

  Gillian could feel the hunger in his kiss—along with the rise of her own traitorous longing. When he swept her high in his arms and laid her on the bed, she clung to his shoulders.

  He stretched out beside her. His eyes were no longer cold, but heated and searing. His fingers at her chin, he turned her mouth up to his. Over and over he kissed her, turning her blood to molten fire.

  A hand coursed over the mounds of her breasts, leaving flames wherever he touched. His mouth followed the path his hands had taken, clear to the summit of one breast. Her pale flesh contrasted sharply with the bronze of his hand. Gillian couldn’t look away as he cupped her burgeoning fullness in his head and took stark, wanton possession of one straining peak. His mouth closed around one dark coral center; the curl of his tongue traced it stiffly erect. Then he took it into his mouth and sucked strongly. She inhaled sharply, for she’d never experienced sensation so intense. Her hands came up to catch the back of his head, holding him there as he licked and teased and sucked first one and then the other, all the while playing with the other in the same evocative play, grazing and circling with the tips of his fingers.

  She nearly cried out when he left her breasts to plant a kiss in the trough of her belly, taking up tiny droplets of water with his tongue.

  Her breath rushed from her lungs. She felt so strange, so unlike herself. There was a heartbeat low in her belly, a questing restlessness there in the forbidden place between her thighs. She wanted…something. She knew not what…

  But Gareth did. His fingers grazed over the hollow of her belly. She gasped, a sound of confusion, as his fingers slid with unerring intent through the thatch of dense, curling hairs that crowned the top of her thighs. Boldly his hand clamped possessively over her woman’s mound.

  “Gareth—” His name was a soft sound of confusion. She sought to tighten her thighs against his encroachment, but he would not be dissuaded.

  Above her, he gave an odd little laugh. His breath hastened past her ear. “Stay with me, sweet. I promise I won’t lead you astray.”

  Shockingly intimate, his fingers delved further, skimming her secret cleft, tracing the furrows of pink, pliant flesh that seemed to flower ’neath his ministrations. A single finger extended the exploration still further, searching out and finding a hidden nub of flesh she’d never known existed. His finger circled and rubbed, dipped and flirted—oh, a wanton, wicked torture she almost wished would never end.

  Her breath was shallow and quick. Suddenly there was a sharp stab in her belly. Her head came off the pillow and she cried out.

  Gareth raised his head. A faint sheen of sweat glimmered above his upper lip. Belatedly it occurred to him…. Before the haze of pleasure cleared her eyes, he grabbed the towel and slipped it beneath her hips.

  “There can be no blood,” he muttered. “Otherwise all will know there is no child yet.”

  He heard her breath catch, and then he was rising to his knees, guiding the head of his rod through damp, ebony fleece. Fleetingly he registered the frail barrier of her maidenhead, then he was shearing through it. At last he was fully inside her, his lance embraced, encompassed, enclosed by a tight, clinging sheath of velvet heat.

  She felt it then. The power. The heat. The size of him. Felt the splitting resistance of her own body, parting beneath his rigid thickness with a stab of pain. But alas, his shaft was lodged deep in her body—a part of her now, she thought wildly.

  She pushed at his shoulders, seeking desperately to twist away. A strangled cry broke from her throat. “No!” she cried. “No!”

  Gareth didn’t move. Dear God, he couldn’t. His heart was hammering, his passion barely in check. Her squirming but made it the harder, for he could feel his passion searing his veins, setting his blood afire.

  “Hush, sweet,” he said hoarsely. “The pain will last but a moment, I swear.” Reaching up, he laced her fingers with his. With his lips he smothered hers, kissing her until he felt her lips soften, the eddy of her breath swirling with his.

  She trembled, suddenly afraid of the way she felt…afraid of the way he made her feel, so uncertain of herself. She’d been so certain she didn’t want this—would never want it.

  “Gareth, no. No…”

  “Yes,” he whispered against her mouth. “God, yes…” He could hold back no longer. He’d waited too long for this moment. Wanted her too much—and too long—to deny himself. Drawing back, he left her completely. Then he was breeching her anew, parting her anew, trapped to the hilt in the hot, velvet prison between her thighs.

  Gillian’s lips parted, but no sound emerged. His power was awesome, his heat scalding. She had deemed it impossible that she could ever hold his massive length w
ithout being torn in two, for she’d caught a glimpse of his staff, thick and rigid and straining. Yet this time she felt her body give way, closing tight around his turgid flesh as if she’d been made for him. Did she only imagine it…or could she feel the pulsing throb of his heart there, there where his rod lay rooted deep within her, so tight she could not breathe without being searingly aware of the way he possessed her so thoroughly.

  “Look at me.”

  His dark whisper compelled compliance. Gareth’s features were twisted in a grimace of tightly leashed restraint. His eyes were all a-glitter. The cords of his neck stood out. Only then did Gillian realize the strain he was under, the extent of his desire, the way he held back.

  He lowered his head. “Don’t fight me, Gillian. I won’t hurt you. Just…don’t fight me, for I cannot stop. God help me, I cannot…”

  There was a ragged harshness to his voice. Hearing it, something gave way inside her. Imprisoned in the dark web of his burning gaze, her lips parted and her mouth was filled with the sweeping stroke of his tongue.

  That first tearing pain had ebbed. She caught her breath when next she felt his rigid strength slide slowly inside her. Again, and yet again.

  His hands swept down to catch her buttocks in his hands, lifting her, binding her to him in the place where their bodies enjoined. The driving rhythm of his hips quickened. A flame caught fire inside her. She felt possessed. Enflamed. Consumed. His fluid grace, the churning thrust of his body…she was engulfed in a raging inferno. Her mind encumbered by sensation, she twisted her fingers in the dark hair on his nape and arched her back…seeking…

  A shudder ripped through him. The feel of her fingers scaling his back, her in-drawn breath at each carefully measured plunge of his body into hers, the sweet offering of her mouth…it was too much. There was a storm building inside him. He drove mindlessly deep, hard and wild, again and again, penetrating deeper and deeper with every thrust. Her moan sent him spinning over the edge. His seed spewed hotly forth. He exploded again and again, fire at the entrance to her womb.

  In the aftermath, she hid her face in the hollow of his shoulder. Gareth’s chest expanded in a laugh, the sound low and resonant. Whether she would admit it or not—and he strongly suspected she would not—her body told the truth. He knew he’d pleased her…

  Gillian was galled that he made her go down for the evening meal. She was certain his absence had been duly noted; that everyone was aware they’d spent the afternoon in his bedchamber. Indeed, he had only to touch her and she’d melted in his arms. She was suddenly reminded of what he’d said the night they were wed…

  Surrender need not be defeat.

  Yet Gillian was not so certain. She had yielded so easily, and now despaired her body’s weakness. She hated being a pawn. And perhaps it was wrong, but she salvaged what little remained of her pride by telling herself there was no way to battle such a man and win. He’d robbed her of what choice she might have had.

  But in so doing, he’d saved her life.

  After supper was served, Robbie crawled up in his father’s lap. His green eyes agleam, the boy beamed at her before tugging at Gareth’s tunic.

  “I have a secret,” he confided.

  Gareth lowered his wine to the table. His eyes softened. “Do you now,” he murmured. “Would you like to tell me your secret?”

  Gillian cringed inside. Oh, no! Would he announce her disparagement of the king? For all that Marcus claimed Gareth’s knights were loyal to him, the prospect made her uneasy.

  Robbie crossed his arms over his small chest and glowered. “No. If I tell you, it won’t be a secret.” He was plainly displeased. “And you should not ask, Papa.”

  Gareth’s brows shot high, but then he nodded his agreement. “You are right, lad,” he said gravely. “I should not have asked, but your answer pleases me. A man of honor would not reveal a secret he’d sworn to uphold—and I would teach you to be a man of honor, a man of true heart. I would teach you to be a man who will not lie, nor cheat, nor do harm to those who are weaker than you.”

  Ah, but was he a man of true heart? Do not do harm to those who are weaker than you. So he said. Yet did his deeds match the words? For he would have done harm to her—and to Clifton, a boy older than his son yet still a boy. An aching tightness settled around her heart. She couldn’t bear the thought that Clifton had died at his hand. He claimed no knowledge of such a foul deed. Had he changed so much, then? Or had he changed not at all?

  Perhaps the better question to ponder was this: What kind of man was he now?

  It wasn’t long before he arose, pulling Gillian with him to the entrance to the hall. “I am to relieve the guard tonight on the east tower.”

  Gillian frowned. “Why?” she queried. “Have you a shortage of men?”

  “Nay,” he replied. “But now that I have returned, I will do my part alongside those of my men.” He paused. “Perhaps before you retire you would be so good as to bring me something that I may eat later in the night.”

  She should have refused, she thought later, making her way up the drafty tower stairs with food in hand. A fierce wind billowed her mantle around her slender form and struck her full in the face as she stepped onto the narrow enclosure. Yet she couldn’t help but admire his willingness to work beside his knights. His earlier words to Robbie echoed through her mind; she found herself conceding that such consideration revealed much about the man.

  And she wondered anew if he was a man of true heart.

  His shoulders broad beneath the heavy wool of his mantle, Gareth stood near an embrasure, gazing out into the night. The heavens were but a vast sea of gloomy, endless midnight. There was neither moon nor stars to light the sky. A wind-whipped fog curled eerily about the tower, and a heavy drizzle had begun to fall.

  He turned at the sound of her slippers on the stairs. “Ah,” he said lightly, “I’d begun to fear you’d forgotten me.”

  Gillian matched his tone. “And I fear I was not so lucky.” She passed him the food and ale. Their fingers brushed. She felt his heat like a bolt of lightning, and started to quickly turn aside.

  “What, wife? Will you not stay?”

  “’Tis raining,” she complained.

  His teeth flashed white in the darkness. He swept his cloak wide. “I would be only too happy to warm you.”

  “And I fear I must refuse.” A smile twitched at her lips, a smile she couldn’t withhold.

  “Ah, later then…when I join you in our bed.”

  Gillian’s smile vanished. Drat the man—and just when she was tempted to soften toward him.

  She marched toward the stairs, her shoulders stiff.

  “What, do you leave me already?”

  Gillian compressed her lips. Oh, but he was so smug! Before God, she’d not grace him with a reply.

  “’Tis cold and damp,” he called after her. “Do you not worry that I shall molder?”

  She whirled and fixed him with a glare. “Oh, that I should be so blessed!” she snapped.

  His hearty burst of laughter followed her all the way down the stairs.

  17

  THE RAINS THAT PLAGUED THE LATTER HALF OF JANUARY soon gave way to a frigid blast of winter that swept down from the north. There were many at Sommerfield who gave thanks that they had thus been spared a long, ferocious winter. But for nearly a month, snows blanketed the countryside and brought everyone crowding round the fire or huddled together in groups, seeking warmth wherever they could.

  But these past days had seen a gradual lifting of the freeze and clearer skies. On this fine afternoon, the sun’s rays had vanquished the morn’s gauzy layer of clouds to gild the world below. After being confined indoors for so long, many of the castle residents ambled outside to enjoy the sunshine.

  A host of knights and squires, among them Sir Marcus and Sir Bentley sat outside the armory, polishing the blades of their broadswords. Sunlight glinted off steel as they turned them this way and that. But they all leaped to their feet when Gil
lian passed by.

  “What, good sirs! Would you do battle with me?” A hand fluttered to her chest; her eyes opened wide and she feigned great fear. “I must plead mercy, for I am but a defenseless woman.”

  Knights and squires alike caught their breath at the breathtaking smile the lady of the manor sent forth their way. Bareheaded, a cascade of ebony skeins spilling over the hood of her mantle, she was quite the loveliest picture the knights had laid eyes on this day.

  “My lady,” someone called. “Will you stay and watch us practice?”

  Gillian hesitated, tempted to politely refuse. But then she chanced to catch a glimpse of Gareth, at the far end of the courtyard. He conversed with one of the masons, but every so often he glanced over at her. Even from this distance, she could see his scowl of displeasure; it but kindled the urge to prolong it. Did he think to control her every move, like the falcons in the mews who must remain leashed until they were trained—and then returned to their master, never to be free again?

  She swept them a low curtsy. “I shall be happy to oblige, gentlemen.”

  Sir Bentley cocked a brow at Sir Marcus. “We shall go first,” Bentley declared.

  Sir Marcus swung his sword in a deft circle, a roguish smile on his lips. “I accept your challenge.” He turned to Gillian. “You declare the victor, my lady.”

  Someone ran to fetch a stool for Gillian.

  Together they took the field. A brief salute to her and the pair raised their weapons and shields aloft. Then the contest was on, each man eager to prove their strength and ability. They circled each other, then parried and thrust, forward and back, side to side, all the while gauging the other’s weakness. But both were evenly matched in skill, height and breadth, and so the fight went on and on. Crouched low to the ground, Marcus spun fully around in a lightning-quick movement. Silver flashed through the air as he struck out. Bentley leaped high to avoid the blade. Gillian could stand it no longer.

  “Oh, enough, please!” she cried. Her hands were pressed to rose-tinted cheeks. “Men may enjoy such sport, but I vow my heart stops every time your swords cross!”