The Truest Heart (10 page)

“But you remember and I do not.”

“Ah, yes, how could I forget,” she said on a note of bitter reproof. “You remember nothing but your name.”

“And you’ve yet to answer my question.”

Gillian’s breath dammed in her throat. Ripe within her breast was an odd tumult. How it happened, she knew not. Why it happened, he knew not. That it did … they both knew.

His lips hovered perilously near hers. Gillian’s fingers curled and uncurled against the mat of hair on his chest. A lock of black hair had fallen onto his forehead, lending him a roguish look. She was devastatingly aware of his gaze traveling slowly over her features, settling for a long moment on the curve of her mouth.

“Do not look at me so,” she said on a ragged breath.

All traces of teasing departed his features. “Why? You have no husband, Gillian.”

Nor did I ever, she longed to screech. Why did she have the awful feeling that untruth would come back to haunt her?

He lowered his head so that their lips almost touched. “I am sorry I hurt you”—his gaze flickered briefly to her shoulder—“but I am not sorry I kissed you.”

Her heart wrenched. His declaration only made it harder. It made no sense, that the thought of him with another woman should bother her. Yet it did. It hurt unbearably.

“You do not understand,” she said wildly, for suddenly that was how she felt. As if her emotions were as blustery as the seas which had brought him here. Though it pained her to think of him with another woman—to speak of it—Gillian knew what she must do. Perchance it might jar his memory.

“In your dream, it was not me you kissed. It was another woman, a woman with golden hair.” Gillian couldn’t bring herself to say the name he had breathed aloud, nor to tell him he’d called her by name. “A woman with hair like summer sunshine, you said. You praised her beauty. You whispered how you’d missed her. And for the life of me, I cannot help but wonder if she is real… a part of your past, Gareth. You told Brother Baldric you had no wife, but perhaps you are wrong.”

He did not deny it. For the space of a heartbeat, something surfaced in his eyes, something that might have been remembrance.

Yet neither did he affirm it, either. Gillian was acutely aware of the way he’d gone very still.

“Do you remember her? A woman with golden hair?” She held her breath and waited—waited forever, it seemed.

“Methinks ‘twas but a dream, Gillian. It does not mean such a woman existed.”

But he had glanced away as he said it, and a shiver went down her spine. Her heart began to thud. He had come here a stranger—indeed, he was still a stranger, for what did she truly know of him?

What secrets, she asked herself, lay hidden behind the screen of his eyes?

She started when a lean finger trailed along the line of her jaw. She would have pulled away, but strong fingers captured her chin, forcing her regard to his. His was level and unbending.

“Why do you flinch? You’ve naught to fear from me, Gillian.”

Gillian’s chest labored with the rise and fall of her lungs. “At times it’s almost frightening,” she confided, her tone very low. “Forgive me, Gareth, but I cannot help but wonder who you are. If you are a man of honor and truth.”

” ‘Tis my hope that I am. In my heart, I feel that I am.”

She wanted to believe him. Longed for it desperately. Yet what if she was wrong? She searched her soul… along with his.

His gaze was so steady, his eyes so green.

Little by little, her fears slipped away. For in that moment, Gillian believed in him. Believed in him with all of her heart.

Chapter 7

To Gareth’s dismay, his efforts that day were not without cost. When he tried to get out of bed again, he discovered he could barely lift his head from the pillow. He ached almost as badly as he had that very first day. Gillian chastised him roundly for even trying. It was then Gareth acknowledged that willpower alone would not dictate his recovery; his body simply needed more time.

It also brought home the somber realization of how perilously near death he had come.

Those first few attempts to rise brought a sweat to his brow and a giddiness to his head; without Gillian’s help, he might surely have fallen again and again. But his limbs gained strength as he cautiously hobbled around, first across the cottage floor, and then outside, a little farther each day. Brother Baldric had returned on several occasions, the first time bringing clothing for him to wear. He had little to say, at least to him, and Gareth sensed his disapproval.

Sometimes his knee ached abominably at the strain of his weight, yet after such confinement as he had endured, the pain was almost welcome. His side was still tender, the jagged edges of the wound red and still rough. Most likely he would bear the scar the remainder of his days.

He found it frustrating when several days of constant, miserable downpour and unceasing wind kept them indoors. A steady stream of water puddled in the corner near the fireplace. Gareth chafed inwardly at the confinement but swallowed his frustration.

His reward came the next day, which dawned with nary a cloud in the sky. Wind and rain no longer poured from the heavens. Gillian needed no further urging when he suggested they venture outside.

They walked in silence for a time, an aimless path along the sands. Before long they came upon a small, half-moon beach. Tall grasses edged the sand. The tattered corner of a sail caught beneath a log whipped in the breeze.

His gaze narrowed. He paused, aware of an odd sense of awareness sweeping over him.

“This is it, isn’t it? This is where you found me.”

From the corner of his eye he saw her gaze on his profile. “Yes,” she murmured. “It appears as if the tide has taken much of the wreckage.”

He glanced toward the headland. Beyond was the open sea. His lips compressed, for it was a sobering sight. A sheer granite cliff rose high in awful grandeur. It was all too easy to see how a vessel might be carried helplessly straight into the massive rocks that lurked beneath. Even now, a wave crested and rolled. With a thunderous roar, it crashed against the rocks. Mist sprayed high and foam surged and swirled, a churning, deadly current at the base of the rocks.

He was aware of Gillian watching him closely. “Is there anything?” she asked quietly.

Cursing silently, he shook his head. Whatever it was that had brought him aboard this illfated vessel was lost. Questions resounded in the cavern of his mind, the questions he’d examined a hundred times; as before, all that resulted was an echoing well of emptiness.

His body was mending.

His mind was not.

Oh, on occasion, a jumbled assortment of images paraded through his consciousness. But they were all fleeting, and little else accompanied them. They vanished almost before he was aware of it—a castle that raised twin towers aloft in majestic splendor. The shoulders of a forest richly green and verdan….

But there were many such castles throughout the country. And England was covered with forest land.

And Gillian had been so convinced he’d dreamed of a woman from his past. A woman with golden hair. A woman with hair like summer sunshine. She’d said he whispered how he missed her. Again and again, he struggled to remember a face. A form.

But the only face he could see was Gillian’s, her features dainty and fine, framed by soft, rich waves of darkest midnight. He could only conclude it was just as he’d said …

Just a dream.

I am Gareth. Gareth … Again he chased the elusive sensation that there was something more, that he was on the verge of something momentous. Something critical that he should have remembered, that would unlock the clouded blur of his past.

“The others,” he said. “How many were there?”

“There were five.”

Who were they? Gareth wondered. Captain? Crew? Friends? Reason warred with guilt. He regretted their tragic end, but he would not burden himself with guilt. For God above, he was suddenly heartily glad that he was not among them—that he’d been spared.

He was lucky to be alive. Lucky to have survived. But so very, very glad he had lived.

“Where are their bodies?”

“Brother Baldric saw to it that they were buried in the village churchyard.”

He nodded. “They were given a proper burial then. That is good.”

“Aye. ‘Tis important to-to have a Christian burial.”

There was a faint bitterness etched in her tone, a sudden darkening of her eyes that brought a shadow to her expression. Once again Gareth was struck by the sensation that while he was unable to remember, there was something she wasn’t telling him, something she did not divulge.

Sometimes I think it is better not to remember.

What had she meant? Was it Osgood? Her possessions were few—he’d already noted she had but two gowns. But he could not put aside the incongruity of her clothing and the wretched starkness of the cottage. Brother Baldric had stated she’d been brought here to heal, but he couldn’t help but wonder if there was another reason.

It bothered him that she had asked if he was a man of honor and truth. He could have sworn she was almost frightened of him … He’d given her no cause to fear him, had he? No cause for distrust?

No cause? a part of him scoffed. She was a woman alone. He was a man, a stranger who had washed ashore with naught but the clothes on his back—nay, not even that! A man who knew not from whence he had come, where he journeyed, or even why. No cause, indeed!

But he wanted her to trust in him. He wanted her to confide in him, to tell him what was wrong, if anything.

And so he waited, hoping she might offer more explanation. But she did not, and he would not demand it.

They did not linger at the site, but left the somber scene behind. Further inland, the wintry winds did not bluster so fiercely. Indeed, the sky above was a brilliant blue dotted with fluffy white clouds. Gareth made his way toward a fallen stump. He lowered himself to the ground, which was spongy with moss and bracken, and glanced around.

He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with fresh air. Sunlight had banished the misty chill of the morn. Rabbits popped madly from the grass, darting to and fro. The twittering, warbling song of a skylark filled the air, reminding him of warmer days. It was a lovely place, and he could almost envision the panorama of summer. The field surrounding him would be filled with wildflowers, pink and purple and brilliant yellow.

Gillian did not join him, but walked idly about. Gareth was not surprised. Her manner had been most restrained. Directly meeting his eyes seemed an ordeal she could scarcely manage. It was the kiss, he knew, the kiss he did not remember—and perhaps the loss of this memory was the one he despaired the most! Their midnight encounter had been discussed no more—but it had not been discarded, he was almost certain of it. Aye, he strongly suspected she strived very hard not to think of it…

Christ, it was all he could think of.

And indeed, his head turned slowly as he searched for the object of his thoughts.

He frowned. “Gillian?”

No answer was forthcoming, but there was a rustle in the grasses nearby.

He tried again. “Gillian?”

A brow crooked as he weighed her silence. Was the lady determined to ignore him?

In truth, Gillian was not. But the cottage was small, and finding herself in such close quarters with Gareth after what had happened between them was difficult. Her nerves were screaming. It seemed she had only to turn and he was there behind her … before her … beside her!

He was so broad, so tall he had to stoop to step through the door. It still seemed strange, to see him standing on his own. So vital. So tall and broad. So intensely masculine, no matter that he limped slightly. She couldn’t forget the way he’d held her. Caressed her. The hot brand of his mouth upon hers … It mattered not that he did not remember—of a certainty she did! Nay, she could not forget. Indeed, it was almost preferable when he’d been lying helplessly abed!

“Gillian!”

Her head swivelled toward the tree stump where she’d left him. Where the devil was he?

“Gillian!”

The call came again. This time it betrayed an unexpected urgency. She picked up her skirts and started toward the spot where he’d last been. Instinctively her steps quickened.

He lay on his side, his head pillowed on one arm. Her heart lodged in her throat. She dropped to her knees beside him.

“Gareth! Oh, I knew it! I knew it was far too soon for you to—”

Warm lips trapped hers ‘ere she could finish. Strong arms locked tight about her back and she was swept against a hard male form. There was no escaping the blazingly thorough possession of her mouth.

When he raised his head, she glared up at him, willing aside the peculiar heaviness that had gathered in the pit of her belly. He’d frightened her half to death—and now had the audacity to appear quite pleased with himself, the wretch!

“What the devil do you think you’re about!” she cried. “Do you think you can make free with me just because you kissed me once—”

“Twice,” came a reminder accompanied by a wolfish grin.

She thumped her fists against his shoulders. Her lips pouted as she prepared to deliver a stinging denouncement of his brashness.

It never happened. His mouth closed over hers yet again. His fingers slid through her hair, binding her to him and holding her captive to his will. He allowed no room for retreat—and Gillian could summon no denial. But there was naught of force or plunder in the way he kissed her, only a subtle, seductive persuasion that was both hot and sweet and sent tendrils of fire to every part of her.

She was trembling inside when at last he released her. A blunted fingertip traced the outline of her lips.

“And now thrice,” he whispered.

It was no small task to summon her breath and garner the courage to meet his gaze. “Do you mock me, sir?” she asked quite seriously.

“Neither mockery nor insult was intended, lady.”

Despite the swiftness of the vow, the corner of his mouth curled in lazy amusement. Gillian ducked her head. She wished she could present some pretense of anger. Swamped by confusion, she found herself unable to look at him. Perhaps such teasing play as this was familiar to him, but it was new to her—and heartily disconcerting.