Samantha James

by The Truest Heart

  “They but play like boys,” shouted someone from the back. “If you want to see real swordplay, my lady, you should watch his lordship!”

  Marcus and Bentley had ceased, stabbing the point of their swords in the frosty ground. They eyed each other, pretending affront toward the heckler. “And who do you think taught us what we know?” Marcus tossed back with a grin. “Why, we were his most proficient pupils.”

  “Aye,” chimed in Bentley. “Why, we’ve been taught by the best!”

  Gillian caught a flicker of movement at the corner of her eye. Someone else had joined the ring of knights. She stole a quick glance far afield. Gareth was absent from the spot where he’d been moments ago—and she had a very good idea where he’d gone.

  Rising from the stool, she crossed to where Marcus and Bentley stood. There was just enough space for her to step between them. Slanting them a warm smile, she inclined her head and extended her hands, placing her fingers daintily in their gloved hands. “I commend you both on a job well done and declare you both victorious. And you are gracious indeed, both of you, to praise your lord’s skill above your own. But surely you exaggerate my husband’s prowess with the sword.”

  “Nay, lady!” someone protested. “Do you not know how he acquired much of his wealth?”

  “I believe from his father and his father’s father before him.”

  “Well, there is that,” said Sir Godfrey with a chuckle. He stroked his beard. “But our lord also made his way from tournament to tournament. Oh, the purses he won, the ransoms he gained! There was no one like him, save William Marshal himself in his younger days!”

  “Why, he could take on a dozen armed men all at once and fell them all before a minute was gone!” said another.

  Slender black brows climbed high. “Indeed. That must account for his arrogance.”

  With that, Gareth strode toward her with long, lithe strides. “Nay, not arrogance, lady,” he called. “I prefer to call it confidence.”

  Their eyes tangled. The soft line of her lips compressed. She could make no argument, for of a certainty he possessed an abundance of that trait as well!

  He presented himself before her. Turning to his men, he raised a hand. “In all fairness, I fear some of those deeds still elude my mind. So no more tales of my illustrious deeds, lads, else my wife will decide she’s wed to a god and not a man.” He extended an elbow, “Shall we, my love?”

  He missed nary a step as he escorted her from the field and into the great hall. Gillian quickened her pace as she sought to keep up with him; she took two for every one of his. They did not stop there, but continued up the stairs to the bedchamber.

  He ushered her inside, then closed the door. Gillian shook off her mantle and laid it over a chair. She could feel his gaze digging like the prick of a dagger into her back. Determinedly she pretended to brush something off her bodice. With a swish of her skirts, she turned, as if she’d only become aware of his presence behind her. He stood with his arms crossed, the fingers of one hand drumming on one woolen covered bicep.

  Pretending innocence, she tilted her head. “Is something wrong, my lord?”

  No reply. But those lean brown fingers kept drumming…drumming…

  “Well, my lord? Did you wish to speak to me?”

  Still he said nothing, but he had yet to relieve her of his unbending gaze.

  “Speak if you must, sir.” Beneath the lightness of her tone was a faint gibe. “I lend rapturous ear to your every word.”

  His disapproval was evident. “I think you know very well what is wrong, my lady. You distract two of my finest knights with the sweet coercion of your smile, batting your lashes and lavishing them with your compliments.” He snorted. “Preening like peacocks, the both of them!”

  In all truth, Gillian knew not what came over her. “I was but passing by them on my way to the great hall,” she demurred. “I merely stopped to speak with them; I stayed to admire their skill with the sword. Though I must say, there is much else to admire.”

  A pause, just for effect. “Sir Marcus is quite handsome, is he not? Ah, and Bentley has such a disarming smile. I confess, I know not which one I fancy more.”

  Gareth’s eyes glinted. “There had best be no other man that captures your fancy, sweet.”

  This was beginning to prove rather enjoyable, Gillian decided. “You told me it would be in my best interest to get myself with child,” she stated daringly. “You did not say it must be your child.”

  Gareth swore beneath his breath. Why, the little vixen! That she graced Marcus and Bentley with the seductive warmth of her smile incited something inside that could only be jealousy. With them, she laughed. She flirted. But not with him, and it was like a thorn beneath his skin. She avoided him. It grated that she had yet to touch him of her own accord. He longed to feel the stroke of her hand upon his flesh, her mouth hot on the naked skin of his chest. Sliding across his belly. Tasting and exploring the velvet head of his rod with her small, wet tongue…

  He cursed inside, for his thoughts had taken a direction he hadn’t foreseen—and aye, was having a profound effect on that very part of him! He shifted uncomfortably, aware of the heavy heat of arousal straining his clothing. Aye, he thought darkly. He ached for her to offer her lips freely, without need of coaxing the heat he knew lurked beneath her cool exterior. Just once he longed for her to come to him.

  Nay, not just once. Forever.

  His thoughts grew stormy. By day she avoided him. By night she held herself aloof. She did not spurn him outright—yet she spurned him just the same! Many a time she pretended to be asleep. He would gather her close and she would hold herself stiffly. But he had only to toy with the tips of her breasts until they stood quiveringly hard and erect, for she was acutely responsive there…or caress the furrowed cleft between her thighs until his fingers were wet with the evidence of her arousal. And even when he was seated so deep inside her that every breath was his own, she battled her own pleasure, biting back her cries until her lips were almost raw…only to sleep nestled in his arms like a warm kitten the rest of the night.

  Were it not for the dilemma with King John, he wouldn’t have cared how soon his seed took hold in her womb—for now, ’twas an excuse to bed her and bed her often.

  Still, Gareth was a prideful man.

  “Some men are wont to share wives,” he informed her curtly. “This one does not.”

  Gillian savored her victory, small though it was. A tiny smile curved her lips. “Could it be you are jealous, my lord?”

  “Not in the least,” he lied smoothly—and so convincingly her good humor vanished. “But while I am not jealous, I am a possessive man. And did I think you had thus betrayed me—”

  “And what makes you think that I have not? Both Sir Marcus and Sir Bentley are very handsome and gallant.”

  This time it was he who smiled. “That is true. Yet despite that, I don’t believe you would betray your husband.”

  Oh, that he was so certain! Still, the sudden glint in his eyes gave her pause.

  “And why not?” she asked coolly.

  “Because I know you, wife—”

  “Oh!” she cried. “You do not—”

  “Oh, but I do.” His vexation had given way to a leisurely air. “You are a woman who saved a man who was helpless. You gave him sustenance with your own lips…”

  Gillian was aghast. How was it possible he knew when he’d been delirious with fever! “You—you knave!” she sputtered. “How can you know that?”

  He threw back his head and laughed like the rogue he was! “It was you who told me, Gillian. It was you who showed me”—his eyes snared hers. That devilish smile widened—“the night you were sotted, my love.”

  Her cheeks flamed. Her entire body flamed. Never again, she vowed, would she imbibe so freely!

  He advanced toward her, a predatory air about him. Gillian backed away, only to encounter the wall alongside the bed. She damned herself a fool, for she had done naught but
aid him!

  With precise deliberation he settled his palms flat against the wall, alongside her head. Gillian’s heart bounded. She was trapped, she realized. The weight of his chest held her pinned to the wall. The entire length of her legs were trapped squarely between his.

  “It occurs to me that perchance I’m neglecting you, that you should relish the company of my knights so—in particular Marcus and Bentley.”

  She drew a sharp, wary breath. “Gareth—”

  His mouth hovered but a breath above hers. “Marcus and Bentley may long for you in their beds, but only I will have you, sweet. Only me…”

  His mouth closed over hers. Yet even as a part of her was outraged at such presumption, ’twas a kiss that left her weak at the knees…

  He dragged his mouth away, breathing hard. “Undress me.”

  “Nay!” She could never be so bold…or could she?

  His gaze roved intently over her features. “You stripped me of my clothes once before. Why will you not do so now?”

  She pushed ineffectually at his chest. “That was different. You were helpless.”

  A gleam appeared in those emerald eyes. “You could bind me,” he suggested wickedly. “Then I would be helpless.”

  Gillian swallowed. His scent swirled all around—leather and wool and the musky male scent that was uniquely his own. A near painful heat collected deep within her, spreading to her limbs, to every part of her. He had only to look at her and the sizzling awareness she always felt with him raced to the surface.

  But to take his clothes from him. Strip him, letting her hands drift over the contours of muscles hewn by long hours of swordplay and at the tiltyard. Oh, aye, she was tempted, so very tempted! But she possessed not the courage to show such boldness.

  Something leaped in his eyes, something that made her tremble inside. Whenever he claimed her body, she could have sworn it was not a duty but rather more like a…a hunger. Was it lust? Her heart cried no. But it was as if he could not get enough of her…

  There was no dissuading him. She had learned that. Never had she dreamed she might partake of such pleasure at a man’s hands…at his hands. Yet always it was so. Like a drug. Seductive. Persuasive. Addictive.

  Her fists curled against his chest, as if she were uncertain. As if she could not make up her mind…as if she were torn, as indeed she was. She longed to put aside the restlessness that burned within her at the sight of him. He’d married her only to rescue her from the king’s clutches, she reminded herself. Or perhaps out of guilt. Even gratitude for saving his life.

  There was an aching twinge in her breast. ’Twas not because of any tender feelings he harbored for her. And God above, she was afraid to want him so. Afraid this yearning inside would give way to something far deeper. How could she risk it, when he might never feel the same? How could she endure such hurt? To love…yet never be loved in return. She could not bear it, for it would truly be the end of all the hopes and dreams she’d cherished for so long. Oh, aye, she must shelter her heart closely.

  Lowering her lashes, she turned her head aside. The move only bared the side of her neck, long and graceful. He wasted no time, but feasted there on the vulnerable hollow just behind her jaw, his lips a torment.

  “Gareth,” she said weakly. “Gareth, please.”

  He raised his head. His hands closed around the narrow curve of her waist, hard and warm. “Aye,” he said, his eyes darkening. “That is what I would do, lady. Please you.”

  The next thing she knew, she’d been borne to the bed, divested of her clothing. His boots dropped heavily to the floor. His tunic was ripped over his head and fell atop his boots.

  Oh, that she was so bold, to stare at him so in the bright light of the day. Yet no matter…she couldn’t tear her gaze away.

  Her throat was suddenly parched. His was a warrior’s body. Strong…Magnificent…Finely chiseled, his arms and shoulders cleanly sculpted, powerful and burnished. His shaft sprang free and untethered as he yanked away his hose…standing proudly erect, gloriously aroused, growing still more beneath her widening eyes. The very sight of it made her heart begin to pound.

  Then she was caught fast in his embrace, his lips upon hers, fused in a hot, devouring kiss that leeched from her what little resistance remained. With hot, melting kisses he praised her, a steely thigh riding between her own.

  With his hands he squeezed her breasts together. Her nipples thrust high and pink and round, irresistible fruit just waiting to be plucked. The contrast between deepening pink centers and pale ivory flesh delectably enticing. He whisked across each summit, relishing the way she gasped for the pure delight it evoked.

  She heard his voice, a low, vibrant whisper. “You have glorious breasts, sweet. The blush of a morning sunrise”—with his tongue he slowly polished the bud of one nipple, leaving it wantonly swollen, shiny and glistening with dampness—“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

  Her fingers were on his nape. “Perhaps none that you remember,” she said breathlessly.

  “None come to mind. None but you.”

  His words gave her an undeniable thrill. Oh, she knew there had no doubt been other women in his life. He was older than she by half a score. His was a striking presence, arresting and powerful. Many a woman’s head would be turned by just such a man. A treacherous little pain curled around her heart. Oh, not so much at the thought of Gareth with other women…

  But with Celeste.

  Even that thought was blotted from her mind as his mouth closed over first one stiffening peak, then the other. The sight of his mouth on her breasts was wildly sensuous. He suckled hard and long, a tugging she felt all the way to the center of her being.

  But he was not yet done. His fingers twined intimately in the triangle of ebony fleece on her mound. With his lips he trailed a path down the silken hollow of her belly.

  All at once he shifted. He was there between her knees; the breadth of his shoulders parted her wide. Her heart tripped over itself. What was this? she wondered dazedly. Her buttocks filled his palms, lifting her…Her mind reeled. Her eyes flew wide at the sight of his dark head poised at the juncture of her thighs.

  Her fingers wound into his hair. She tugged desperately. “Gareth—”

  Her cry caught halfway up her throat. Nay, she thought frantically. ’Twas impossible…unbelievable…that he would kiss her there…

  He did far more than just kiss her.

  His thumbs pulled wide the petals that enclosed her silken core. The first glance of his tongue was shattering. A bolt of lightning sheared through her.

  The second was rawly intense.

  Blistering flames shot through her. There was no stopping him. She clutched at his head, the golden skin of his shoulders. He was insistent. Commanding. The bold lick of his tongue darted between slick, dewy folds, brazenly torrid, a starkly erotic plundering that danced and swirled around the budding pearl hidden within…Grazing. Circling. Teasing. Almost…yet never quite there.

  A moan broke from her lips. The sound only seemed to incite him further.

  She could feel her hips rising. Questing. Desperate for an end to the elusive torture.

  And when it came, there was a starburst of ecstasy, exploding from the inside out. Liquid heat spilled from her body. Dimly she heard herself cry out, again and again.

  Gareth’s blood was boiling. Desire pumped through him, a thrumming heartbeat in his loins as he stretched his length beside hers. Lean fingers tangled in her hair, tilting her face to his. Her eyes opened, glazed and smoky.

  His head was roaring, his whisper almost fierce. “Did you enjoy that, sweet? Did I please you?”

  Small fingertips came to rest on the raspy hardness of his cheek. “Aye,” she said unsteadily, and then again, “Aye!”

  When she realized what she’d said, her eyes flew wide. She would have ducked her head in shyness, if not for his fingers in her hair.

  There was no room for shyness. Not now. The words, his closeness were al
most more than he could bear. For this was how he’d dreamed of seeing her.

  His hand captured hers—and so did his gaze. One by one, he curled her fingers around his shaft with the urging of his own. Her hand engulfed beneath his, he heard her ragged inhalation.

  But when his hand left hers, she didn’t withdraw.

  His eyes squeezed shut. His belly clenched. The feel of her hand clasped tight around his rod was everything he’d known it would be. A jolt shot through him as dainty fingertips feathered over the velvet head, lingering for a heartstopping moment as she discovered the tiny cleft there at the surging tip. Inflamed almost past reason, his hands fisted at his side as he battled the need to tangle his hands in her hair. To guide her head down…down…to feel her silken tresses caressing his thighs, to feel his rising crown trapped in the hot, wet cave of her mouth…

  His eyes flicked open. They sheared directly into hers. “Touch me,” he said thickly. “Feel me…”

  ’Twas odd, how that low, vibrating plea lent her such boldness…how the feel of him there lent her such courage. Her heart beating high in her throat, she fitted her palm even more tightly around his flesh. He was so brazenly full, so stunningly aroused he stole her breath; not even if her other hand joined the first, she noted with a shiver of awe, could she have thus confined all of him…

  His flesh was searing, so hot her skin felt scorched. Then she was squeezing, exploring his steely-ridged length, slowly gliding her hand up, then down. Guided by some erotic sense she didn’t fully understand, spurred on by fever-bright green eyes, the rhythm of her hand began to quicken…

  “Sweet Christ,” he muttered, dragging her hand from his burning rod long, tortuous moments later. “Where did you learn that? Must I be jealous of Marcus and Bentley after all?”

  Even as he spoke, he was above her. She could feel the hair-matted friction of his chest against her breasts, the way his muscled limbs widened and parted her own.

  Gillian gasped, for she could feel the fiery probe of his lance demanding entrance. His eyes cleaved into hers…and so did his body.