The Truest Heart (12 page)

There was nothing you could have done, chided an inner voice. Besides, Gareth needed you, too.

How long she sat beside him and held his hand, she could never have said. She was vaguely aware of Gareth and Father Aidan entering and leaving several times. Once Gareth pressed food and drink into her hands.

It was hours later when there came a touch on her shoulder. Gillian raised her head. Through the tiny window set high in the wall, she spied the glimmer of a full moon.

It was Dame Agnes, the plump-cheeked matron who often helped prepare meals for the two men.

“Mistress Marian,” the woman said firmly, “you must rest else you will sicken, too. Go home and sleep. I will sit with Brother Baldric. I promise, I will not leave him.”

It was then Brother Baldric squeezed her fingers. “Go, child,” he said in a hoarse whisper, so low she had to strain to hear. “When you return, I will still be here.”

Her heart twisted. Ah, but he was so weak! It was in Gillian’s mind to adamantly refuse, to insist on staying where she was, but such argument might drain what little strength Brother Baldric possessed. Trying to smile, she bent and kissed his forehead.

She didn’t see the way Gareth’s eyes cleaved straight to her … or the sudden tightening of his features as he took her arm and led her from the cell. Nor did she notice his brooding silence on the trek back to the cottage, for her thoughts were solely of Brother Baldric. Once they were inside the cottage, her fingers lifted to rub the throbbing between her brows. Sleep, she thought. Sleep would ease the pounding ache in her head. Overcome by weariness, she started to make her way toward the bed in the corner.

Gareth barred the way, his arms across his chest, his feet braced wide part.

A tired sigh escaped. “Gareth, I am weary. Step aside, if you please.”

“I think not.”

Her head came up. Were it not for the abominable ache in her head, she might never have snapped at him. “For pity’s sake, what the devil are you about?”

His smile was thin. “Mayhap you should tell me”—green eyes locked fast with hers—“Mistress Marian.”

Chapter 8

Mistress Marian.

Her heart lurched. Her legs felt like melted tallow. She’d been caught, as surely as a hare in a trap.

“I know not what you mean.” She sidled back. Her breath trickled to a wisp of air.

He stepped boldly forward.

“I find myself vastly puzzled. Brother Baldric called you Gillian. But Agnes and Father Aidan called you Marian. So I must ask … should I call you Gillian—or Marian?” His dark head tipped to the side as if he were puzzled, his smile ever-so-pleasant, but the hard light in his eyes told a story far different. “Or perchance there is yet another name you prefer?”

Gillian’s stomach twisted, for he hit dangerously close to the truth.

“What, lady, nothing to say? I find my patience wearing thin.”

“I am Gillian.” Struggling for composure, she feigned a calm she certainly did not feel.

“Then why did Father Aidan address you as Marian?”

“You are mistaken.”

“I think not.”

Gareth’s eyes never left her. Her feeble denial but fueled the anger mounting within him. Did she truly think he was such a fool? Aye, perhaps he was, for he had believed her—he had believed everything! He derided himself fiercely. Yet who would have doubted a man of God—especially one conjoined with a woman of such beauty? A dark, brooding anger slipped over him, an anger quickly masked.

His smile turned icy. “I heard him,” he said softly. “Twice I heard Father Aidan call you Mistress Marian. Twice. And Agnes did as well. Agnes did as well!”

Gillian swallowed. “You are right,” she admitted. “Father Aidan and Agnes called me Marian. When we came here, Brother Baldric and I told the villagers that my name was Marian. But—in truth my name is Gillian.” Uncertainty welled within her. That, at least, was not a lie. Ah, if only she knew if she could tell him she was Lady Gillian of Westerbrook. Brother Baldric had warned her to stay far from the village. Oh, but she should have listened! He’d been so afraid someone would learn that she was Lady Gillian of Westerbrook….

“There were reasons, you see, that we did not wish it known that I am Gillian—”

“What reasons?”

Gillian shook her head. An awful dread had begun to churn her insides. “Those reasons have not changed,” she said.

“Nonetheless, I would know the reason for such secrecy.” A brow hiked imperiously. A wide—aye, and very deliberate—step breached the distance between them.

Hers widened it anew. “And I say again, I cannot tell you.”

Gareth stared at her, and in that span of a heartbeat, a half-clouded suspicion began to blossom in his mind.

“And I find that I heartily dislike secrets. However, I will oblige you. Since you are so unwilling to talk about yourself, I suggest we talk about Osgood … how long did you say it has been since your beloved husband died?”

The bite in his tone as he spoke her name made her wince inside. “Why?” She shifted nervously. “I fail to see what—”

“Nonetheless, refresh my memory, if you please. You may recall, it ever eludes me.”

“A year,” she said quickly. Her reply was made in part-hope, part-dread, part-prayer that he would not glimpse her dismay as she frantically sorted through her mind. Aye, that was it—a year.

His smile had turned utterly wicked. “No,” he said, and it was a distinctly unsettling sound.

Gillian inhaled sharply. “I did. I told you—!”

“Half a year,” he finished tautly. “You stated half a year had passed since he died.”

Gillian made a muted sound of rage, both at her own folly and his deliberate plot. “You miserable wretch!” she sputtered. “You tricked me!”

This time it was she who closed the distance between them. Hands and fists raised in a temper such as she’d never known before, she launched herself forward. Gareth’s arms shot out. He caught her and brought her up hard against the solid strength of his form.

“Ah, lady,” he proclaimed with false heartiness. “All these questions give rise to still another. Are you a widow or no?”

She would not give him the satisfaction of an answer! “You are a man with no memory—a man with no heart!” she flung at him. “I will tell you nothing.”

His mouth clamped shut. His jaw hardened. That smile that had been aught but a parody of a smile from the very beginning had vanished.

“A man with no heart, she says.” The cast of his jaw was rigid, his mouth thin. “By God, lady, I pitied you. I comforted you in what you claimed was your grief. I believed the shame you felt to lie beside another man in the wake of your husband’s death—but now I begin to wonder if you’ve lain beside any man! So let us see once and for all if you’ve ever had a husband, shall we?”

Hard arms snaked about her waist. Gillian felt herself bodily turned and spun through the air, her slippers leaving the ground. He sat upon the stool— and her upon him!—and dragged her down upon his lap. For one mind-spinning instant, her skirts swirled about them both. In shock she realized a bold male hand trespassed beneath. That same brown hand clamped the slender flesh of her thigh and insinuated itself between. Devil-fingers skimmed tender flesh untouched by any man, on course for a relentless journey straight toward the forbidden place that guarded her womanhood.

For one shattering instant Gillian could not even contemplate what he dared … what he sought.

When she did, panic took wing inside her. “Nay!” she cried, twisting wildly. Her struggle proved futile. Her arms were trapped against her sides by a sinewed, muscled forearm. Her back was flush against his chest. She was a prisoner in his hold as surely as an animal in a snare.

“Yes,” he said through his teeth, for in truth Gareth had lost all patience with her lies and denials. “Yes, lady! You may not speak the truth, but by the Cross, I will have it!”

And aye, a single accursed finger was already parting soft, golden fleece and dainty, pink folds. She was bitterly aware he sought the tellingly fragile barrier of her maidenhead.

“Stop!” she cried.

His starkly daring foray ceased. His gaze delved sharply into hers.

“Why?” he demanded.

“Because you need not confirm what you already know!”

His lips compressed. He pushed her from his lap and set on her feet. It was over almost before she knew it… in her mind it lasted forever. With shaking hands, Gillian smoothed her skirt down. For a moment she stood mutely. Eyes downcast, she could not move for the scalding humiliation that washed over her.

“So the widow is not a widow at all,” he observed. “But come. Why so shy, sweet maid?”

That brought her head up in a flash. Her spine stiffened and she turned. His gaze flickered over her dispassionately. He’d spoken those very words once before, and then there had been only gentleness, both in his manner and his touch.

‘Twas not the case now, and Gillian was suddenly furious. He had the truth he sought. He’d had it his way, damn his hide, yet now he dared to taunt her! Her anger boiled over. Before she could stop it, her hand shot out. With all the force she could muster, she dealt a stunning slap to the hardness of his cheek.

Gareth stood his ground unblinkingly, feeling the sting of her hand against his face. Though he was still fiercely angry at her deceit, he would allow her the blow. He could understand her ire, but he would certainly not allow it again … ah, but that was precisely what she intended! With a low growl he snatched her against him, catching the offending wrist in the binding vise of one hand and raking it behind her back.

“You are a beast!” Gillian cried.

“And you are a liar,” he said grimly. Glittering jade eyes rained down on her. “Tell me true and tell me now … Gillian or Marian?”

She pressed her lips together.

With his hand he prodded her chin up. “Answer me!”

Her gaze faltered beneath the fiery demand of his. She looked away. “I told you. ‘Tis Gillian,” she said, her voice very low. “Lady Gillian of Westerbrook.”

“It’s true that Brother Baldric brought you here?”

Wordlessly she nodded.

“Why did you hide who you are? Why do you hide who you are?”

His voice hammered at her, swift and unrepentant. It was pride alone that kept her upright— either that or the steely band of muscled arm about her back. She preferred to think it was the former.

“Because the king searches for me, and for my brother Clifton.”

“The king!” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because he would see us dead. Because our father is … was … Ellis of Westerbrook.”

Gareth gave an impatient shake of his head. “The name means naught to me.”

There was no point in disguising her father’s actions, she decided bleakly. By now, it was surely common knowledge across the whole of England. “Were it not for your illness,” she said painfully, “no doubt you would remember the failed attempt on King John’s life early in the autumn. It was Ellis of Westerbrook who loosed the arrow that missed its mark and instead felled the king’s guard … my father.”

“Sweet Christ. Your father …!”

“Yes.”

He released her, only to grab her hand and tug her to the bed. “Tell me what goes on,” he demanded tautly. “And by God, there had best be no secrets now.”

Gillian’s eyes darkened, but she was resigned to her fate. “King John came to visit William de Vries, a baron in the nearest shire,” she began. “It was late when Papa came to my chamber.” She shuddered anew, hearing once more the ominous rumble of thunder. Dear God! she thought starkly. Would that night ever leave her?

He listened in stony silence as she continued. “He was preparing to flee, before he was found out. He commanded that Clifton and I leave as well. I was to accompany Brother Baldric, and Alwin, his chief retainer, would take charge of Clifton.”

“He sought to conceal you from John’s wrath?”

She nodded miserably. “He feared the king would take his revenge on us.”

“What happened to your father?”

“He was captured several weeks later.” Raw heartache bled onto her soul, but she held it in check. “He killed himself rather than reveal the identity of the other man involved. There has been no word that the other assassin has been found.”

She didn’t disclose that the other man had been closeted with her father in the counting room the previous day. Brother Baldric’s warning clanged in her mind. Tell no one, he’d said. Besides, what did she know? Nothing. She had no idea of the man’s identity. Indeed, Gareth might well accuse her of lying anew. She defended the decision staunchly, smothering a brief pang of guilt. Nay, it was neither a lie, nor an omission of truth.

“What of your brother?”

A hot ache constricted her throat. “I have no idea where Clifton was taken”—her breath caught, for it was so hard to say it, to even think it— “or if he still lives.”

Throughout, Gareth listened, his jaw so hard it might have been hewn in stone. Rising, he stared at her, his expression implacable.

“You should have trusted me, Gillian. Why didn’t you?” He gave her no chance to answer, but went on. “You should have.”

Stung by his harshness, she struck out. “And what good would that have done? What could you have done, you who could not even move from the bed!”

His lips thinned. “There was no need for such deceit, especially in light of what passed between us.”

His coolness pricked an anger that had eased but not abated. Her jaw opened and closed. “In light of what passed between us?”

“Aye. And I do not mean what happened just now. Indeed, I think you know precisely what I mean.” His gaze resided meaningfully on her lips.

His utter calm only made her more furious. She leaped to her feet. “Oh, the devil take you!” she flared. “Need I remind you who it was you first kissed? ‘Twas just a dream, you said. But of a certainty it was not I you kissed so passionately!” She plucked at the sable ribbon of hair that lay upon her breast. “It was the woman with hair like summer sunshine,” she quoted feelingly. “It was Celeste, as I recall. Aye, it was Celeste!”

Her jibe had an effect she could not have foreseen … did not foresee.