The Truest Heart (14 page)

Sunlight was flirting with the day when Gillian awoke. For a moment she lay very still, watching hazy golden spears fill the glade where they’d stopped for the night. The pungent smell of dirt rose all about her. Frost fleeced the ground all around. With a sigh that seemed dragged from some empty little place inside her, she gathered her mantle more tightly about her, but it was of little help; the dampness had seeped through her mantle. The root of a tree dug into her hip. Her muscles protested mightily when she scooted farther away from the tree trunk. Oh, how she longed for the softness of a real bed. Even the crude pallet she’d slept upon those many weeks at the cottage would have been welcome. The realization dawned slowly …

She was alone.

She surged upright, galvanized by a surge of panic. Her heart bounded. A movement in the far edge of her vision snared her attention. Almost blindly she ran toward it, pushing her way blindly through a thick tangle of chest-high bushes. Thorns pricked her hands as she thrust them aside, but she paid no heed.

Wide black oaks guarded the waters of a tiny lake, quietly serene. In the early morning sunlight, a golden sheen trembled on the surface. The stallion, she noted dimly, was nearby. He raised his head at her intrusion, then went back to idly munching a tuft of grasses beneath the trees. But it was not the steed that made her come to a stumbling halt.

It was Gareth. He stood not far from the shore, his back to her. The water just barely covered his buttocks, buttocks that she knew were hard and round and tight. She stared at the smooth, sculpted line of his back. His hair was black and glossy.

As she plunged through the thicket, he glanced back over his shoulder with a frown.

“Why do you run, Gillian?”

“I thought you’d left me,” she blurted.

He turned to face her fully. To her surprise, a slow smile spread across his lips. “A pity,” he remarked. “I thought perhaps you were eager to join me.”

Gillian’s cheeks burned scarlet. “Men and women do not bathe together!”

“They not only bathe together”—his eyes gleamed knowingly—“but they bathe each other.”

Gillian was aghast. She longed to dispute such a claim, but in truth, she had no way of knowing it was not true!

It was almost as if he read her mind. “Ah, but it is remiss of me to forget so quickly,” he said softly. “Lady Gillian, being a maid, has no experience with such things. And the widow Marian”—he spread his hands wide—“well, she is no doubt far too wise and well aware of where such play would lead.”

It was his first reference to her duplicity since they’d left the cottage. She reminded herself that she had no reason to feel guilty; he had no right to make her so. He toyed with her, and she resented him fiercely for it.

A daring smile rimmed those handsome lips—a roguish smile, oh, but an infuriatingly smug smile! Gillian raised her chin aloft. “Do you know,” she stated sweetly, “I do believe I liked it better when you were not awake and could not speak.”

He laughed, the sound low and hearty and oddly pleasing to the ear. “Well, if you will not come in, then it seems I must come out.”

Gillian gasped and spun around. She heard the slosh of water. He whistled a merry tune, then there was nothing.

She jumped when a hand clamped down on her shoulder.

“Gillian,” he said softly.

“What is it?” Her heart clamored as he turned her to face him. Was he still naked? She resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut and reminded herself she’d seen him naked before… naked, aye, but never naked upon his feet!

He was not, praise God. The top of her head was level with the dark tangle of masculine hairs that curled into the hollow of his throat, and it was there her gaze settled. Her heart tumbled to a standstill. His hands were warm and hard upon her shoulders. The remembrance of how he’d cupped her breasts—touched her bare skin—sent scorching heat all through her.

His statement was not what she expected. “I should not have said what I did yesterday—that you would be hauled off to gaol, and not I.”

Her eyes darkened. “Why not? It’s true,” she said, her voice very low. “Indeed, perhaps it would be best if you leave now, while you still have the chance, lest we are captured and the king decides he will have your head as well.”

“I won’t desert you, Gillian.”

Her mouth grew tremulous. She pressed her lips together in an effort not to betray such weakness. Deliberately she looked away. “How long before we reach Sommerfield?”

“Four to five days, I suspect.”

His answer dragged her gaze back in an instant. “Four to five more?”

She sounded so forlorn he was tempted to reach out and stroke her cheek. “Aye,” he said. And aye, it was after nightfall on the fifth day hence that they approached Sommerfield. Gillian had not complained even once; he was oddly proud of her mettle.

Gillian dozed behind him as they neared the castle. He could feel the limpness of her form. Her arms had loosened around his waist. Her head lolled against his back.

He reined the stallion to a halt at the crest of a gently sloping hill. All at once it was as if the world stood still.

Moonlight spilled down from the sky, casting the world below in a silvery glow. The dipping, rolling hills were poured in deep shadow. Four lofty towers rose in gleaming splendor against the glory of the night.

This was it, the place he’d dreamed of… Sommerfield Castle.

Mayhap it was selfish, but he was almost glad that Gillian was not awake, that he might be allowed this first glimpse of Sommerfield with only the night to bear witness. An almost painful ache caught in his throat. For so many days at the cottage, he’d felt like a ship without a rudder, lost and adrift to the mercy of the waves.

But now his restless soul had found its fortress.

He was home, he thought, and suddenly he felt like shouting. By sweet heaven … he was home!

Chapter 10

Within minutes the gates were heaved high and massive doors creaked wide. As Gareth cantered across the drawbridge, torches began to light the courtyard, one by one. A hound bayed in the distance.

“He is back! Our lord has returned!” All around there was an excited clamor of voices. A dozen knights rushed over to greet him. Behind him, Gareth felt Gillian stir.

Gareth leaped lightly to the ground. He turned, but helping hands had already reached for Gillian. As she was set on her feet, her gaze swept in a half-circle. Gareth’s chest swelled with pride at the way her eyes widened in awe. Even now a cupbearer hurried toward them with two silver goblets.

Gareth readily accepted one. He offered the other to Gillian. She declined with a shake of her head.

His gaze never left hers as he set it back on the tray. “Are you hungry?” he queried.

She smiled slightly. “I am more weary than hungry.”

He beckoned to a maid who had appeared. He stared hard at her. “Lydia,” he began slowly.

The maid blushed. “Lynette, my lord.”

“Aye, of course. Lynette. Lynette, this is Lady Gillian of Westerbrook. Please see that she is escorted to a chamber and her needs attended to,” he directed.

Lynette curtsied. Gareth’s eyes followed Gillian as she crossed the courtyard and climbed the wide stairs that led to the great hall. Her gown was rumpled, the hem stained—no doubt he was as disheveled as she—yet there was both grace and poise in her bearing. He chided himself soundly. There was no doubt that she had been born and gently bred, yet he had been blind to it! The corners of his mouth turned down with something that might have been disapproval. It was impossible not to note that his was not the only gaze that followed her progress—and sure enough, the others were not only curious, but rife with admiration.

In the great hall, they all gathered round while food and drink was brought.

” ‘Tis glad we are that you are back, milord.” The comment came from Sir Marcus, the handsome, chestnut-haired knight who was charged with Sommerfield’s defense in Gareth’s absence.

His attention diverted, Gareth’s gaze encompassed the assemblage. There were many, he suspected, who were long since abed in the barracks. But he recognized Irwin, his steward. Sir Ellis and Sir Godfrey, who had also served his father and now watched over the armory with a practiced eye, along with several others. Yet his mind was blank as it skipped over several others.

He gave a rusty laugh. “Ah, Marcus, ‘tis glad I am to be back.”

Marcus gazed across at him earnestly. “We kept all in readiness for your return,” Marcus said, “but I confess, never did we think the king’s business would keep you away from Sommerfield for so long!”

Gareth’s smile withered. The king’s business? A tingle of apprehension snaked up his spine. He didn’t like the sound of that. As they had traveled, he’d witnessed for himself the fright Gillian had spoken of. Women stared with wary eyes, hurrying their children inside whenever a stranger approached. King John was a tyrant, he suspected, and England’s people were but a toy he used for his own amusement—and to his own advantage.

“I fear much has changed since I left,” he said slowly. “An accident at sea wiped away my remembrance of the past. ‘Tis only of late that I’ve begun to recall some things… I count myself lucky that I was able to make my way back to Sommerfield. Indeed, if not for Lady Gillian, I might not have lived to see this day.

“It was Lady Gillian who found me, washed ashore, half-drowned and nearly dead. She took me in and nursed me back to health.”

Sir Marcus looked solemn. “My lord, you called her Lady Gillian of Westerbrook. Is she the daughter of Ellis?”

“Aye,” Gareth said levelly. “Ellis of Westerbrook, the man who attempted to slay King John. It seems that before Ellis fled, he arranged for her and her brother Clifton to be taken from Westerbrook. They went into hiding from the king, for Ellis feared John might seek revenge through his children. And I tell you again, were it not for Lady Gillian, I might never have survived to see this day. She saved my life, and I brought her to Sommerfield to save hers.” He glanced around at his men. “It would be foolish to try to keep her identity secret forever, and so I decided not even to try. But the rest, I tell you in confidence, and I trust it will remain so.”

All who were gathered round nodded their agreement. “Is her brother safe?” asked one man.

“No one knows. He and Gillian departed separately. Ellis thought it would be safer that way. Even Gillian does not know where he is.”

Sir Godfrey spoke up. “Before you left, my lord, you told us the king had sworn you to secrecy regarding the business you must attend for him. We have respected your vow to him, my lord, and rest assured, we will continue to do so. And indeed, it seems we have much to thank Lady Gillian for.”

There was another signal of assent.

Gareth smiled slightly, then looked at Godfrey. “You must forgive my forgetfulness, but can you tell me how long I’ve been absent?”

“Some three months, I believe.”

“Three months!” Gareth was astounded.

“Perhaps it will ease your mind to learn we’ve had word that young Robbie is doing quite well ‘neath the king’s protection.”

There was a strange tightening in his chest. “Young Robbie?”

“Aye, milord. Though he be as fair as his mum, he’s a strong, stout lad, every bit his father’s son.” Godfrey grinned. “We have every faith he’ll grow to be as fine a knight as you, milord.”

Gareth could not move. For one perilous instant, he feared his legs would not hold him. For with Godfrey’s words a vision flashed in his mind. He saw himself before the hearth in this very hall, tossing a young lad high into the air. A lad with blond, sun-kissed hair and laughing green eyes …

His eyes.

He had a son. Good Christ, he had a son.

But his son was not beneath the king’s protection. He was the king’s hostage. Despite Godfrey’s choice of words, they all knew it. A fierce, black anger shot through him, and with that certainty came another …

One that made his very soul grow cold.

For Gareth knew, with precise awareness, why he’d left Sommerfield … who he had sought… and why.

His mouth twisted. With blithe confidence, he had assured her she had no cause to doubt him.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Scathingly he derided himself. Busy with the king’s business indeed …

He had no choice but to tell her. Yet what the devil was he to say?

She would hate him. Fear him. And just when she had begun to trust him.

It was not, he decided tiredly, a task he envisioned with relish. Nor was it one that he would pursue this night. The morn was soon enough. Aye, in the morn…

He arose from the table, forcing a smile. “I fear I must bid you good night, gentlemen. It has been a long and tiring day.”

He turned and started toward a darkened doorway in the far corner of the hall.

Behind him there was a quietly discreet cough. He turned to behold Sir Marcus, who inclined his head to the left. “Your chamber is that way, my lord.”

Gillian woke to the crackle of a fire casting out warmth to every corner of the chamber. She didn’t rise straightaway, but stretched her limbs and buried her face in the pillow, luxuriating in the scent of fresh linen sheets, soft, furry blankets, and the down-filled mattress that enveloped her. It might have been a trifling thing to some, but never again would she take for granted food and shelter and such comfort as this.

A long sigh escaped. It was not a sigh borne of weariness, for she’d slept soundly the night through. A faint shadow crept over her, for her thoughts veered inevitably to Brother Baldric and Clifton. Was Brother Baldric still alive? She prayed to the depths of her soul that he had survived.

Then there was Clifton! Was he hungry? Cold? Was Alwin still with him? ‘Twas not so vital that she see him, touch him—though she longed for it dearly! Nay, if only she knew that he was alive and well, a little of her anxious fear might have lessened. Yet neither could she deny that she felt safer than she had for a long, long time. With their arrival at Sommerfield, a tremendous burden had been lifted from her shoulders.