The Truest Heart (27 page)

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 almost 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 heart stopping 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.

She cried out as she felt herself stretched … impaled … filled with his swollen flesh until she could take no more.

He braced himself above her, his arms and shoulders flexed with strain, his eyes simmering with molten desire. “God help me, I cannot be slow and easy”—the pitch of his voice was low and raggedly harsh—“for you are a temptress, love. An irresistible temptress…”

His words ignited a fire within her. A cramping excitement raced through her, that she could arouse him so. Awash with pleasure, Gillian could hold back no more than he. Was it wicked, this floodtide of ecstasy churning inside her? Wanton? She knew not. She cared not. For in that moment she cared naught about Celeste; naught about the king or the world beyond this chamber. All that mattered was him. Gareth. The fever-pitch of hunger questing within her; the fervent need to be with him in this most intimate of ways …

Her fingers slid down the knotted tension of his arms. With a moan she caught his head, bringing his mouth to hers, churning her hips against his in wordless, wanton abandon. And he gave her what she sought. Again and again, his thickened spear plunged deep into her honeyed vessel, the power of his thrusts such that she clutched at his shoulders.

With every driving thrust, she climbed closer to the heavens. Higher. Ever higher …

Her head fell back on the pillow. She was wholly unconscious that the tiny little whimpers filling the air were her own.

His mouth on the hollow of her throat, he gritted his teeth. His thrusts were wild. Torrid. The thunder of his heart pounded a drumming echo of hers. He tried to slow himself, to rein in the thunder that pulsed in his loins, to savor and prolong the exquisite pleasure of burying himself deep in the prison of her flesh.

He sought desperately to delay the climax building inside him, but blindly primeval urges had taken control. The grinding undulation of her hips—the splendor he knew awaited him—beckoned him near. Ever nearer. His breath grew harsh and rasping. Sweet Christ, he was steaming inside. Close … so very close.

“Gareth,” she moaned. “Gareth … Gareth!”

He felt it then—the clinging spasms of her channel around his burning flesh. But it was her unbridled chanting of his name that sent him plummeting over the edge. He exploded with a scalding rush, again and again.

When it was over, he rolled to his back, bringing her close against his side. Spent, trembling, ‘twas a very, very long time before either of them were able to move.

It was Gillian who stirred first. “Gareth?” she said timidly.

He kissed her palm and brought it to rest on the dark fur of his chest. “What, sweet?”

Her cheeks were scarlet. She could hardly bring herself to say it. “Was that… lust?”

He chuckled, the sound low and husky. She could feel the sound vibrate deep in his chest. Though she didn’t want to, he made her look at him.

The veriest smile hovered on his lips. His eyes were sparkling, so very green her heart turned over.

“That, my dear Gillian, is a question you must judge for yourself. What might be lust for one… might well be something far different for another.”

He kissed the tip of her nose before ambling from the bed. Gillian frowned, reaching to draw the covers over her body. She smothered a yawn, not inclined to leave the comfort of the bed so soon despite the hour.

His answer was really no help at all.

For if it was lust, she decided vaguely, she was likely destined to spend the afterlife in hell…

For God help her … it had surely been heaven.

Chapter 18

In the weeks that passed since she’d first come to Sommerfield, Gillian had grown very attached to Robbie. From that very first day, when he’d peeped into her room, he’d captured a piece of her heart.

As the days passed, he often spent more time with Gillian than he did his nurse. Many a time he trailed behind her as she attended to the household needs. Sometimes in the afternoon, when she and Lynette were in the solar sewing or embroidering, he played contentedly at their feet. When they walked together, his chubby hand was nearly always in hers.

He was a beautiful child, with long-lashed emerald eyes and a shining cap of golden hair. When he grinned up at her, his eyes aglow, it never failed that something inside her melted. He loved it when Gillian took him in her lap and told him stories about the days of old—just as she’d once dreamed of telling her own sweet little girl—just as she prayed she someday would. And Gillian loved it too, for it was a feeling unlike anything she’d ever experienced—the coziness of his small, warm body snuggled against her own, seeking a tender hand, her warmth and comfort and care. He listened raptly, and sometimes he would fall asleep, but she rarely put him from her. She rocked him and sang to him… just as she’d dreamed of rocking her own sweet child. Indeed, these were the times she treasured most.

For despite everything, at times the uncertainty of her fate made dread coil tight in her middle. She was unable to banish all her misgivings. To all appearances, Gareth was a man of honor and valor.

As he’d once said to Robbie, a man of true heart…

Yet the shadowy apprehension within could not be wholly silenced … Gareth had once agreed to search her out and murder her—and Clifton.

‘Twas at those times she couldn’t extinguish a flicker of fear. To completely yield her trust as she had done … Did he protect her? Or was she a fool?

For the memory of the king’s vengeance could never be fully put aside. It was an ever-present, ominous fear hidden deep inside. God, but she hated him! Would she ever be free of him?

She feared not.

The thought was as terrifying as ever.

Winter had begun its thaw. Warmer rains and days revived life to the frost-encrusted earth. All around the castle, shoots pushed through the ground. No longer was it brown and brittle. The world had begun to grow lush and green once more.

There was a small bench ‘neath the window of the bedchamber. One day she chanced to see Gareth stride into the courtyard. Robbie was there with his nurse. When he spied Gareth, his little legs pumped furiously as he ran toward his father. Gareth scooped him high in his arms; one big hand gently cupped the back of Robbie’s head as he said something to the boy. It was a silent, telling affirmation that bespoke his love for his son more clearly than words. All at once an aching band of tightness crept around Gillian’s chest. When he looked at the lad, did he see Celeste in the boy? Was his longing for Celeste kindled anew?

Gareth had lowered the boy to his feet. Robbie picked up a long thin branch, brandishing it as if it were a sword, whipping it through the air. A wispy smile curled her lips as she remembered the day on the beach—faith, but it seemed so long ago!—when Gareth had done much the same. Robbie pretended to strike a blow at Gareth, poking at his thigh. The stick broke; Gareth slipped to the ground, sprawling on his back as if he were gravely wounded.