The Truest Heart (28 page)

Even from here, she could see Robbie’s grin. The boy moved close, but Gareth lay unmoving, utterly still. Finally he prodded him in the chest with a finger. All at once Gareth seized him and brought him down upon his chest. She could almost hear his squeal of delight.

A memory whispered in on tiptoe, black and bittersweet. She saw Clifton and her father outside the walls of Westerbrook, engaged in much the same, teasing play, that of two knights engaged in battle.

Moisture glazed her eyes. Her heart began to bleed. The memory wrenched at her. Father and son. Son and father. Never again would the two be reunited. As an awful dread twisted her insides, she was very much afraid that never again would she be reunited with her brother….

Hugging her legs to her breast, she laid her head on her knees and wept. She knew not why, but her emotions lay perilously close to the surface these days.

It was in the midst of this heavy-hearted mood that Gareth returned to the chamber. Sharp green eyes immediately noted her unhappy pose, the startled way she jerked her head up, quick to brush the dampness from her cheeks.

It was too late. Gareth had already surmised her unhappiness. He crossed to her. His knuckles beneath her chin, he took in her red, swollen eyes, the tremor of her lips. Oh, she tried to hide it, but he knew.

“Why do you weep, Gillian?”

Her eyes grazed his. “I was thinking about Clifton,” she said quietly.

Without a word, Gareth pulled her to her feet and into his arms. For the longest time, he simply held her, stroking her hair with his hand, his own eyes shadowed. Yet for Gillian, his comfort—his tenderness—unloosed all the tremulous fear locked deep inside.

The breath she drew was jagged. “Sometimes I think I cannot bear it,” she confided, her voice half-stifled against his neck. “Not knowing where he is … if he is well… if he is even alive …”

The break in her voice tore at him. More than anything, he wished he could reassure her.

Alas, he could not.

His big hand stilled on her hair. “Gillian,” he murmured, “It may sound cruel, but Clifton could be anywhere. Your father’s man may have met with foul play. For your sake, I pray it is not true. But you should prepare yourself for the worst, that we may never know his fate—”

“Don’t say that!” Eyes blazing, she wrenched herself away. His words splintered her heart, the depths of her being. “Perhaps you don’t have the courage to tell me straight out that you—”

Gareth’s jaw thrust out. He moved like silent lightning, seizing her shoulders and giving her a little shake. “Stop it, Gillian,” he ordered tightly. “By God, cease, for I will hear no more!”

He released her so suddenly she stumbled a little.

Stalking to the fireplace, he presented her with his back. Strong hands linked behind his back, he gazed unblinkingly into the flames, the set of his shoulders stiff and proud. But his profile was tight and drawn, his rugged mouth a grim, straight line. She could almost see the bitter agitation that churned inside him.

A spasm of guilt and shame seeped through her. Ah, little wonder that he was frustrated with her! She was ever suspicious, ever doubting of him … ever accusing.

But the truth was now her own to confront. Had she ever truly feared him? Feared him as she did the king?

Perhaps for the fleeting spin of one breath to the next, such had crossed her mind … but in truth the answer was nay.

Had he ever harmed her?

Never, came the fervent echo in her heart.

Oh, aye, he could be fiercely compelling and demanding—as in the day he’d made her wed him! And aye, many a time he’d been angry with her— and her with him! But the emotions between them had always been strong—turbulent and stormy. Even the sizzling pull between them had rarely been peaceful or placid.

But it wasn’t him. ‘Twas the turmoil into which they’d been plunged.

Her feet carried her to his side ‘ere she knew it. Lifting a tentative hand, her fingertips came to rest on the broad sweep of one shoulder. She could feel the tautness that gripped his body. She nearly cried out, for at her touch, he tensed further, as if in protest.

Her voice, when at last she found herself able to summon it, was pitched very low. “I’m sorry, Gareth. ‘Tis just that… I feel so helpless.” She swallowed, hating the way her voice wobbled. “He is so young and I fear you may be right. What if something happened and Alwin can no longer protect him? I know not what to do … yet to do nothing tears me apart inside. Waiting. Wondering. Sometimes I think I should ride out and try to find him myself—”

Gareth turned abruptly, his eyes flaming. “By God, I think not! Do you truly think me so callous and uncaring of my wife? ‘Tis far too dangerous— and hardly a task for a woman.”

His protectiveness startled her—and sent an odd thrill through her. Before Gillian could say a word, however, he was already speaking.

“Besides, there is no need. I have already done so.”

Had she heard aright? She had girded herself against something far different… “What?” she said faintly. “You dispatched one of your men to search for Clifton?”

“Two.”

Her lips parted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t wish for you to stew and fret and worry even more,” he said gruffly. ” ‘Tis risky, Gillian, so say nothing of this to anyone. King John has left well enough alone thus far. But if he discovers we still search for Clifton, it may well revive his thirst for revenge.”

A dire prediction, that. Gillian felt herself pale. He must have gleaned her distress for he gave an impatient explanation and pulled her roughly into his embrace.

Gillian’s fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic. He could feel their icy coldness. As she clung to him, he felt her shudder; he was keenly aware of her grappling for composure, struggling against tears.

Gathering her more tightly against him, he rested his chin against dark, ebony curls. He would not speak aloud the bleakness that bled through him. She had weathered these past months with a strength and fortitude that many a man could not have endured. Yet he would not burden her more. Not now. She seemed so small, so defenseless.

In truth, he harbored but feeble hope of finding Clifton.

Less still of finding him alive.

As usual the next few days, Gillian spent the mornings with Robbie. On this particular morn, however, she felt as if she were a limp rag as she crawled from the bed. Robbie begged to walk outside, and she didn’t have the heart to refuse his plea. They ended up near the rose garden on the other side of the chapel. Together they stooped low. Not a month past, the two had inspected the rows of thorny, barren stems. Robbie had bemoaned their loss. Gillian had laughed, and told him that in spite of winter’s bite, they would bloom again, filling the air with sweet perfume. Before she could warn him, he’d extended a chubby hand and promptly pricked himself. As he howled, Gillian had gathered him against her breast and soothed him.

Now Gillian pointed out the stems that Robbie was convinced had no hope of life.

“There, Robbie. Look there.” Her hands on her thighs, she nodded toward one of the bushes. “See the tiny new leaves? Before long, you shall be able to see the buds.”

Green eyes widened in amazement; he nearly landed on his noggin twisting this way and that to stare at them. With a chuckle, Gillian reached out to steady him. His interest soon wandered elsewhere, and he scampered off to play in the grass nearby.

A wispy smile on her lips, she surveyed him for a moment. But as she started to rise, something strange happened. Blackness flashed before her. A vile, bitter taste burned her throat. She swayed, landing hard on her bottom. She felt so strange— hot, yet at the same time clammy and cold. Her heart was thudding as if she’d run up and down the tower stairs a dozen times.

She was hazily aware of Robbie’s return. She could feel the damp earth beneath her side, but couldn’t recall how she got there.

“Gillian?”

Gillian did not answer; she couldn’t. Sun and sky veered crazily. She tried to reassure him, but she couldn’t seem to speak or move.

“Gillian!” he cried.

She could not see him, for a foggy world of gray had enclosed her. But she could hear the fright in his voice. God, what was wrong, that she was so dizzy and weak? Gritting her teeth, she sought to rise once more.

“Get up, Gillian!” Robbie tugged at her, clearly aware that all was not right. “Gillian, please! Get up!”

God, she felt as if she were going to be sick. Her hand fluttered to the ground. “Robbie,” she said faintly. “I’ll be all right. Just wait…”

But the boy was already gone.

Moments later he tugged ferociously at his father’s tunic. “Papa!” he cried. “Papa, come!”

Gareth was in the midst of a discussion with the guards at the gatehouse. “Just a moment, son.” He gestured at the boy distractedly. In the back of his mind, he told himself to remember to tell the lad it was rude to interrupt another’s conversation.

“Now, Papa!” he screamed. “Come now!”

Gareth glanced down. His sharp rebuke withered on his lips. Tears were streaming from the boy’s eyes.

He dropped to one knee. “Robbie!” he exclaimed. “What is it, lad?”

Robbie was sobbing so hard Gareth had difficulty understanding him. “She won’t get up, Papa. She won’t get up!”

“Who, Robbie? Gillian?” Comprehension dawned even as the boy’s head bobbed furiously.

He recalled seeing the boy and Gillian earlier.

His heart skipped a beat. “Show me, lad. Show me where she is.”

Robbie took off at a dead run toward the chapel. Gareth was right behind him.

He swore when he saw her slumped on the ground in the rose garden. She lay curled on her side, her legs drawn up to her chest. Her face was ashen.

“Gillian,” he said urgently. “Gillian!”

Gillian’s eyes fluttered open. She struggled to focus. Gareth’s image wavered before her, his rugged features dark, his expression almost wild. His voice came to her as if through layers of mist.

“Gillian. Can you hear me?”

She felt his hands on her and pushed them away. “I’m all right,” she muttered. “Stop fussing over me.”

Gareth’s mouth compressed, but he withdrew his hands. “Can you rise?”

She nodded, hauling in a deep breath. Gareth helped her up, then released her. To her dismay, once she was upright, blackness surfaced once more. Her legs buckled beneath her.

Gareth reached out and caught her as she fell. Enough of her foolish stubbornness! Robbie’s nurse had appeared, and he nodded for her to take him.

Gillian had no recollection of being carried inside. The next thing she knew, she was snug in Gareth’s arms and he was moving through the door of the bedchamber. He closed it with his boot, then crossed to the bed.

He started to lower her, but all at once her stomach began to heave and roll violently. She clamped a hand to her belly. “I’m going to be sick!” she moaned.

And aye, she was, sitting in a most unladylike position on the floor, her back propped against the bed. Her skirts slid back on her thighs, for Gareth had thrust the chamberpot between her legs just in time.

She was spent and shaking when he lifted her onto the bed. He pressed a cup to her lips and ordered her to rinse and spit into a basin. Gillian obeyed, then sagged back, utterly drained. Gareth did not leave, but took a place beside her, wiping her face with a cool cloth. When he finished, he set it aside.

As always, she felt the pull of his gaze. She turned her head on the pillow to gaze at him. Why, he was smiling, the wretch! Never had she been so miserable in her life—and he would make light of it!

“Oh!” she gasped. “Do you enjoy seeing me like this?”

His knuckles skimmed down her cheek, resting there. “Don’t you know why you’re ill?”

Aye, she knew. Deep in her heart, she knew. But she had been afraid to believe it. Afraid to acknowledge it to Gareth. Afraid he would gloat…

As it appeared he did now, for he still wore that abominable smile.

“Gillian,” he said softly,” ‘tis the babe you carry.”

Her bewildered astonishment made him want to chuckle. He suspected he didn’t dare.

“I know,” she said testily. “But how do you know?”

“You’ve not had your courses since we’ve been here at Sommerfield,” he said calmly. “I know. I watched for it.”

His bluntness shocked her to the core.

“My guess is that you quickened almost at once.” A light danced in his eyes. “Perhaps even the very first time we lay together.” He laid his hand on her belly. “I suspect you’re nearly three months gone.”

“Three months!” She tried her best to glare at him.

“There have been changes in you,” he said simply. “Have you not noticed?”

“Changes?” Her heart was beating madly. Somewhere inside her, she knew he was right.

“I fear there is no delicate way to put this.” He paused deliberately. A brow climbed aloft. “Your breasts, love. They have grown quite … ample.” His lips twitched. “They strain the fabric of your gowns … but quite enticingly, I might add.”

Gillian colored hotly and dragged her arms across her chest. She had noticed. For a time, she’d thought she was merely growing fat. Indeed, she’d let out the seams in several gowns lest they burst. But she’d had no idea that he noticed. And if he had, had anyone else?

Lean fingers wound around her wrists and pulled them away. He bent low, his aim unerring. Through the cloth of her gown, his tongue ringed the very peak of first one ripe mound, then the other. When he raised his head, his grin was purely wicked.

“And there, my love … I’ve noticed you feel quite plump and full in my mouth… and are you not more acutely sensitive there as well?”

Gillian sputtered. It was true, her nipples had been more sensitive—oh, for a long time now!

Sometimes her breasts had even ached in a way that had never happened before. She hadn’t known such things went hand-in-hand with pregnancy. Perhaps she should have, but she hadn’t.

“Do not look at me like that, you swaggering oaf! You boast to the king that I am with child when my womb is empty yet now I am three months gone!… Why must everything come so easily for you? And how is it you know so much about a woman with child?”