The Truest Heart (5 page)

Cool liquid trickled from her mouth into his. Hope bounded within her breast when she felt him swallow. Felt his lips part thirstily for more.

Thus he drank from her.

Thus he supped. Again and again, as if he was parched and could not get enough. A goblet full, and then another, and even a bit of broth from the soup. Only then was she satisfied. His breathing was not so heavy now, and he seemed cooler.

She eased away, her hand going to the small of her back. She was stiff and sore from bending over him so long, and a swirl of hair tumbled across her eyes. She pushed it away impatiently. Lord, but she must be a wretched sight to behold. Her gown was wet and wrinkled. Her hair, never truly tame, was a wavy, disheveled mass down her back and shoulders. With a sigh she moved to replace the goblet in its usual place on the rough-planked table before the hearth.

When she turned back, an eerie prickle raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck.

Her patient had shifted his head. His eyes were wide open and upon her—burning, as he had burned.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Who are you?”

Her tongue seemed tethered to the roof of her mouth. “I am …” To her horror, she had to grope for the name the villagers believed her to be. “I am Marian.”

“You lie!” he accused. “Tell me who you are!”

Gillian could form neither word nor sound. At the iron flex of his jaw, a shiver of something very akin to fear played all through her. His countenance was black, his eyes glittering. She was somehow frightened as she’d not been frightened before. For one perilous, teetering instant, an awful feeling sent her world all atumble. Was Brother Baldric right? Did this man know the truth? Did he know that she was Gillian of Westerbrook?

She was spared an explanation, yet this was an explanation she would have gladly made, for in the very next instant his eyelids drooped shut.

Again he’d slipped away.

Gillian flew to his side. “Gareth!” Her ringers closed around his shoulder. Where before his skin was like fire, now it was like ice! Even as the thought took hold, he began to shiver. The whole of his body shook, as if the chill of the seawater had seeped into his bones. She nearly screamed in despair. Too hot. Too cold. Would he never be well? Would he never truly wake? Was he lost to this world forever?

She heaved the blankets from the foot of the bed and dragged them over him, yet still he trembled violently.

Gillian did the only thing she could think of that might help. Her fingers raced even as her mind raced. She clawed at her gown, stripping it from her shoulders; her wet clothing would do him no good. Clad only in her shift, she crawled into bed and wrapped her limbs around his, as if to guard him, to shield him, to give him warmth … to give him life.

Little by little, by subtle degrees, his shivering began to subside. His breathing went from hard and labored to slow and rhythmic.

Her fingers threaded through his hair. It was warm and soft and silky. “There,” she whispered, “that’s better, is it not?”

As if in agreement, his face turned into the hollow of her neck.

Evening came nigh and shadows crept into the cottage. Before long, she felt her body begin to loosen, her limbs begin to slacken. All at once she was incredibly weary. Oh, she’d dozed now and then, but how long since she’d slept, and slept deeply…. Even on the journey here, afraid the king’s men would appear at any moment, she and Brother Baldric had been able to snatch a few hours of sleep each night. How long had it been? she wondered. Several days, surely.

Brother Baldric was right, she acknowledged hazily. She shouldn’t have taken him in, for now there was nowhere to sleep. She really should rise and dress, then make her bed near the hearth. The prospect was not at all inviting, particularly when she felt so cozy and snug. Nonetheless, she told herself that she would, in just a few short moments.

But Gillian was suddenly too tired to think anymore. Too tired to move. Too tired to care. She felt herself drifting into the blissfully tranquil abyss of sleep, and could do naught to stop it.

His dreams were like none he’d ever dreamed before.

A creaking, tearing sound seemed to vibrate through his entire body. There was a massive, jarring shudder beneath his feet, followed by a heaving roll. Pain seared his lungs, his leg, his entire body.

All around were voices. Shouts. Screams of terror that shrilled to a piercing shriek, then feel eerily silent. Was any of it real? He hoped not. He prayed not. For he was drowning. Adrift in darkness, hemmed in by walls of numbing cold. Then suddenly his body was afire. When darkness threatened to close in all around him, he did not resist.

But then came another voice. This one was different. Melodious and dulcet and honeyed. The voice of a woman.

The hands of a woman, drifting over him, small and soft, blessedly cool. Lips, warm upon his, flowering open upon his.

She was the one he clung to. Those hands. That voice. The only light in a void of endless black.

Consciousness departed little by little, like newly fallen rain beneath the blanch of the sun. The scent and feel of warmth and woman swirled all around; soft, feminine curves melded tight against his side. He need not open his eyes to see the soft tendrils of hair coiled upon his chest and belly, as if he were wrapped in a silken cocoon. The mists of darkness beckoned anew, yet this time Gareth fought it. He might have gladly savored this incredible sweetness; it was a feeling not unknown to him, yet somewhere in the depths of his being lurked the certainty that it had been a long while since he’d lain thus with such alluring, womanly nakedness draped upon his form.

Alas, mingled with that sweetness was pain. And as he felt himself dragged from the lure of slumber, it was the pain which overtook him.

His companion stirred. Almost reluctantly, he pried his lids open.

Their eyes locked.

His thoughts were hazed. He grappled for her name, even as she seemed to grapple for breath. Thick, gleaming waves of darkest midnight tumbled over her shoulders, trailing upon the hand stretched at his side. She stared at him with eyes the same vibrant hue as a clear summer sky. Gareth had the oddest sensation, almost as if she were struck dumb by the sight of him. It spun through his mind that she was not naked, as he’d thought. Through the linen of her shift, round nipples peeped clearly visible. It was a sight that was a veritable invitation to linger—and indeed, he might have indulged the temptation had she not grabbed the sheet and snatched it to her breasts.

Good Christ, he thought. His head was spinning. It hurt to breathe. Was she not being ridiculously modest for one of her ilk?

He raised his head a fraction. “God’s teeth,” he muttered. “I do hope the night’s pleasure was enough to warrant this morning’s misery.”

He spoke without being quite aware of it; he was almost startled to hear the rasping dryness of his voice. He could tell his lips were cracked and dry as the deserts of the East; his throat was parched.

Those incredible eyes widened. When she said naught, Gareth wondered vaguely if she’d been robbed of the ability to speak.

He tried anew. “Why do you stare at me so? Have you not been paid yet?”

Her chin came up. “Blessed be,” she said faintly. “I am not a-a harlot!”

He hiked a brow, then promptly regretted it. God above, even that hurt! “Then why are you in my bed?”

“You, good sir, are in my bed!”

Gareth blinked. Sweet mercy, but he could hardly think. “Forgive me. Lovers then.”

She gasped. “Nor am I your lover!”

She lunged upright. Clearly she was affronted. Clearly she intended to flee. Clearly he could not allow it, not yet.

He moved instinctively, capturing a handful of shining black hair. He gritted his teeth, waiting for the pain wrought by the movement to subside. “Wait,” he said hoarsely.

She froze. “Release me!”

“And if I do not?”

The breath she drew was deep and ragged. Long, thick lashes swept low, shielding her expression from him, but not soon enough. The unmistakable sheen of tears stood high and bright in her eyes, darkening them to pure sapphire.

Gareth stared. His grip on the trailing ends of her hair was firm, but scarcely hurtful; he did not tug upon her scalp, nor had she jerked away. Why the devil did she cry then?

Her head lowered. “Please,” she said, her voice so low he had to strain to hear it past the buzzing in his head. “Release me.”

His fingers tensed. He crushed the lock of hair in his fingers, then slowly uncurled them. Wordlessly he let her go.

She was up and on her feet the instant he released her. Her gown lay on a small wooden stool near the head of the bed. Turning her back to him, she slipped it over her head and upraised arms. It shimmied downward, falling around her hips and legs in soft folds. For an instant, she remained very still, the set of her shoulders narrow and hunched. It spun through his mind that she appeared ready to bolt.

His mouth thinned. He tried to raise up on an elbow. Fire blazed through him like the flaming tip of a lance. He fell back with a groan.

In a heartbeat she was at his side. Small hands pressed him back. “Gareth, be still! Now tell me, where does it hurt?”

“Where does it not hurt?” He sought to raise his head, then let it drop back. The whole of him felt as if he’d been weighted and filled with iron. He ached in places he’d not known it was possible to ache. His knee felt as if a dozen knives had been thrust into it. What the devil had happened?

He spoke through lips that barely moved. “You know my name. How is it I do not know yours? Was I in my cups then?”

Wide eyes met his. “Nay! At least, not that I know. I-I am Gillian. And ‘twas you who told me your name was Gareth.”

“How did I come to be here? Why do I feel so wretched?”

Wispy black brows drew together over a dainty, upturned nose. “You were on a ship,” she said slowly. “There was a terrible storm. The next morn the beach was strewn with bodies and wreckage.” She had gone slightly pale. “You were the only one who survived. We moved you here, and I have been tending your injuries.”

“We?”

“Brother Baldric and I. Brother Baldric lends his sight to Father Aidan, the priest in the village. Father Aidan is blind.”

“I recall no storm. I recall no ship!”

A slight frown creased the smoothness of her brow. “Perhaps you were asleep when the storm arose.”

His voice cut across hers. “Nay.”

She studied him briefly. Gently she said, “Perhaps you should not be so hasty to judge. Remember that you have been ill…”

“Aye, that is the problem. I remember nothing!”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I… remember … nothing!”

“That cannot be,” she said.

“I tell you it is.”

She faltered. “But… you said you were Gareth.”

A cold sweat broke out on his brow. “I am. I am Gareth.” He spoke with such conviction that neither could doubt it.

He had gone very still. “By the blood of Christ, that is all I know”—there was an infinitesimal pause—“and all I remember.”

Chapter 4

He would live.

It was that which brought tears to Gillian’s eyes, a burning ache in her breast. For a moment she’d been incensed that he thought her a harlot. Ah, to think she’d longed for him to wake with every pore of her being—and when at last he did, that she must bear such insult!

Yet Gillian could not help it. She ducked her head, battling to swallow the lump in her throat. At last she was certain he would not die. He would live. She knew not why it mattered so …

Only that it did.

I am Gareth. That is all I know… and all I remember.

“How is that possible?” she wondered aloud.

He gave a brittle laugh. “How the devil would I know?”

“There must be something else,” she said slowly.

“I tell you there is not.”

“Do not be so hasty. Think. Do you recall your mother’s name? Your father’s?”

“There is nothing,” he pronounced flatly. “I know naught but my name. Where I am from, how I came to be here… ‘tis gone.”

Gillian sat back, stunned. The import of that statement echoed through her, like the ceaseless wash of the surf upon the shore. Dear God, she thought numbly. His body was broken …

And so was his mind.

“How long have I been here?”

“This is the fourth day.”

“You said I was on a ship. We’re near the sea, then?”

“Yes. The coast of Cornwall.” Gillian divulged the admission before she thought better of it.

“Aye, of course we’re near the sea. I can smell it. And hear it as well.” His eyes closed and he grimaced. When they opened, eyes of sea green fire rested upon her. “You mentioned a storm. Tell me again what happened.”

Gillian suppressed a shiver. Just thinking of the storm and the bodies she’d found made her blanch inside. “There are many storms here, but the gale that night was especially terrible. And the headland is treacherous. Perhaps your vessel was unaware of the jagged rocks there; perhaps it was, and the winds carried the ship straight into them. Judging from the debris, the ship was ripped apart.”

It made sense, Gareth reasoned. That would account for the creaking, tearing sound in his dreams. The sensation of drowning, of numbing cold. Clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut, he scoured his mind. There was nothing. Nothing abounded but questions for which he had no answers. What ship was he aboard? Where was it bound? Was he a seaman, then? Nay. He discounted the possibility instinctively.

I am Gareth. Just as instinctively he sensed there was more. Something he should remember. Something that eluded him.

Gillian sensed his frustration, like a ship without oars that turned in circles, traveling nowhere. Somehow, his injuries had wiped clean his mind; as surely as the dawn of a new day cleansed the night of darkness, so the storm had stolen his memories.

“Do you feel well enough to eat?”

He nodded, grimacing a little as he shifted. All at once he seemed to realize that beneath the covering of the sheet he was naked. His gaze swung immediately to hers.