The Truest Heart (24 page)

His laugh was hearty and deep—and so very, very different from the fierce and formidable man who had been so bent on taking her virginity the night they wed. Hearing it, Gillian felt something catch at her heart.

“Rest easy, wife,” he stated brashly. “Only in bed must we be naked—unless you choose otherwise, of course.” That cursed fingertip now trespassed along her collarbone, running back and forth. “The winters here at Sommerfield can be cold,” he said mildly, then winked. ” ‘Twill be warmer, I promise you.”

Gillian stared at him leerily. The turnabout in his mood was disturbing. What was behind his sudden good humor?

“And speaking of clothes, up with you, milady,” he went on. “I’ve grown tired of seeing you in that detestable gown—that and the other. We’re going to the market fair in a nearby village to buy some cloth for you today.”

Heedless of his state of undress, he strode to the shutters and threw them wide. Gillian pulled her arm over her eyes to evade the light. The dull pounding in her head wouldn’t go away. She didn’t want to rise, so she swatted at him in annoyance when he dragged the covers away once more, but it was no use.

And indeed, she did feel more ready to face the world after a bath. Together they descended the stairs to the hall. There were a few other latecomers there to break their fast, as they were. Robbie and his nurse were among them.

The boy’s eyes lit up when he saw them. He jumped up and darted toward them as fast as his little legs would allow. “Papa,” he cried.

Strong arms caught him high in the air. Robbie planted a wet, sloppy kiss on his father’s lips. Gareth chuckled and leaned his forehead against the boy’s, his expression incredibly soft.

An odd feeling crept around her chest. Watching him—watching them —she began to gain a glimmer of true understanding. His was a fiercely protective urge to shelter his child, to shield him from any and all harm, no matter the cost. He had, she thought with a painful twist of her heart, done the king’s bidding for one reason and one reason alone.

His son.

He was a good father, a gentle father. The truth was there before her. Witnessing the tenderness between father and son, a pang shot through her. All at once Gillian couldn’t help but feel the outsider.

She owed him … a great deal. She owed him her very life, though God help her, she wasn’t entirely sure she could trust him! And, indeed, when his seed took root inside her, what would happen then? For it would happen, and the certainty made her tremble inside.

Her cheeks heated, and she excused herself, moving to the table before he could see.

It was decided that Robbie and his nurse would accompany them to the market. Gareth rode a prancing white stallion, with his son perched on the saddle before him. Gillian was given a gray palfrey with soft brown eyes that reminded her of a doe in the forest. Nurse trailed behind on a nag.

Gillian glanced at Gareth as they rode through an open field. “I thought perhaps you might ride the fine chestnut steed that carried us back to Sommerfield,” she observed.

Gareth was not fooled by her comment. “Ah, but the chestnut is no longer in my possession,” he said smoothly. “I sent one of my men to return him to the inn where we found him—and with ample recompense, as I promised.”

Gillian made no reply, but she was pleased.

In the next village, they left their horses at a stable near the town square. Once they were outside again, Robbie slipped his hand into his father’s, then gave it a tug.

“Papa.”

“What is it, son?” Gareth stopped and looked down.

“Gillian is lonely,” he said earnestly. “She needs a friend. Will you be her friend, Papa?”

Gillian blinked. Oh, no, she thought in horror, heartily embarrassed. She couldn’t look at Gareth… yet she couldn’t not look either …

His eyes were alight. “Ah, but I would be delighted to be Gillian’s friend.” There was just the faintest emphasis on his last word. Robbie was too young to notice his suggestiveness, but Gillian did. She felt her cheeks go scarlet.

Once again she wondered at the change in his mood. If she was suspicious, she couldn’t help it. He was up to something, something that did not bode well for her, she was certain.

“Then you must take her hand,” Robbie directed earnestly.

“Gladly,” Gareth murmured, his smile purely devilish. His hand caught hers. Lean brown fingers threaded through hers. His skin was like fire. Gillian longed to snatch it back, but she couldn’t refuse the contact without hurting the little boy’s feelings.

Robbie beamed.

They started down the street, Robbie on his right, Gillian on his left. Nurse and a guard were behind them.

The market fair was lively and bustling. Merchants called out for them to come inspect their wares, growing louder as they vied for the attentions of those who strolled by their stalls. Robbie stopped and stared in rapt absorption at the jugglers. A musician let him pluck the strings of his lute. He laughed delightedly, and Gareth tossed him a coin.

They found several stalls with fabric, side by side. Gillian picked out several sturdy ells of wool, and linen for a chemise. While Gareth paid for them, she wandered to the second. A lovely blue silk caught her eye. Gillian ran an admiring hand over it, marveling at its softness. It would make a stunning gown, but she shook her head, for the price the merchant wanted was ridiculously expensive.

“Do you like it?” Gareth’s low voice rushed past her ear.

“Oh, aye, but—”

“Then ‘tis yours.”

He turned to the merchant, who grinned ear-to-ear when they left, for Gareth bought several more expensive ells as well.

Robbie soon grew tired, so Gareth sent him home with Nurse and the guard, along with the fabric they’d purchased. Once they were alone, she couldn’t help but notice Gareth no longer held her hand. Not that it mattered, Gillian assured herself hastily. Indeed, she was glad to be rid of his touch.

Gareth had stopped to inspect a finely made leather saddle, and was now engaged in haggling with the merchant. Growing bored with the discussion, Gillian wandered away, idly looking over the wares on display.

Where the idea came from, Gillian was never quite certain. Her mind began to turn. They were outside the castle. There were no guards, no sentries at the watchtower …

The stable was very near.

She moved to the next merchant’s stall, then glanced at Gareth.

He never even noticed.

Still another … and he had yet to look about for her.

She had reached the stable. Holding her breath, she bolted inside and found her palfrey’s stall. The animal looked up lazily, munching a mouthful of hay. Gillian grabbed for the reins, but they slipped from her grasp.

“Gillian?”

Blessed be, it was him! If she stayed where she was, she would surely be discovered, for this was the first place he’d look—that was her one and only thought as she hurtled herself into the next stall, occupied by a spotted gelding. She ducked beneath its belly to the far corner. It was a large animal, large enough, she prayed, to hide her….

And large enough to have expelled a considerable amount of waste … the scent of which arose all around her, choking her, making her eyes water.

She held her breath, afraid to move, to make a sound, trying desperately not to gag. Her eyes flew wide as a pair of booted feet appeared. They paused and she squeezed her eyes shut, as if willing them to disappear.

“Come out, Gillian.”

Gillian’s heart plummeted. Her eyes opened. She smothered a moan, for her prayers had been for naught. Those boots were now squarely before her, braced slightly apart.

“I will not repeat myself. Come out now, Gillian.”

It was the stench that drove her from her hiding place, not his imperious command. Her gaze started with his dusty boots, then climbed almost painstakingly to his features. He towered above her, dark and imposing and exuding such power and masculinity that she was sorely tempted to dive back into the stall. He was unsmiling, utterly formidable. Without a word, hard fingers closed around her arm, an iron manacle. She felt herself plucked upright.

A groom had suddenly appeared with both horses, but Gillian was not allowed to ride her palfrey. Instead, she was placed on his stallion in such a way that she nearly tumbled off. She had to clutch the animal’s silky mane to right herself.

The entire way home, she could feel his rigid seat behind her. His arms bracketed her waist, but his forearms did not touch her.

Not a single word passed between them.

In the courtyard, he swung her down from his mount and set her jarringly upon her feet. A hand digging into her back, he marched her into the hall and up the stairs. He tossed something over his shoulder to a servant, but Gillian did not hear.

The reigning silence continued in his bedchamber. A cloying sensation clogged her throat. Gillian moved to stand near the fireplace.

Gareth didn’t move at all.

He did not chastise her, nor condemn her. He merely looked at her, his lips ominously thin. His silence was more frightening than if he’d shouted and raged; it dispelled any inclination she might have had to defend herself, to explain. Yet what was there to say? She could provide no excuse—and she would not make one, she decided proudly.

There was a knock at the door. He opened it and a stream of servants walked in, each carrying a bucket of steaming water. One of them dragged out the wooden tub. The others emptied their buckets, then quickly withdrew. Stupidly, all Gillian could think was that the afternoon was an odd time for a bath.

The door closed. Still wearing that damnable mantle of silence, he approached. Lowering his eyes, his fingers went to the shoulder of her gown. Gillian batted at his hands. “I can do it,” she cried.

He was undaunted. He raised neither his hands nor his gaze. Ignoring her, he dragged the gown from her shoulders. Gillian recoiled as a steely arm snaked around her waist, lifting her free of the ground. But he only lifted her away from the garment, then bent to pull off her slippers. When he was done, he scooped everything from the floor, strode to the shutters and pitched them out the window.

Her arms crossed over her breasts. Her jaw fell open. “What are you doing?”

“Your clothing has acquired a rather noxious odor, my love—and so have you.”

“But now I have only one gown left!”

“A pity you didn’t think of that before you crawled in the muck. At any rate, you will soon have an abundance of gowns”—his smile was but a parody—“as long as you sew quickly.”

By now he’d reached her again. She was swept off her feet, then dumped without ceremony into the tub. Her head went under. She came up gasping, clawing the streaming hair from her eyes.

What she saw made her heart lurch. Piece by piece, Gareth’s clothing dropped to the floor. Water sloshed as he proceeded to climb in. To her dismay, it was big enough for two, having been fashioned for a man’s large frame. Leaning back, arms along the sides of the tub, he boldly met her shock with something akin to a leer.

Her nerves were wound so tautly she could have screamed. But she’d not allow him to know how disconcerted she was. He would only gloat. “Get out!” she shrilled.

He paid no heed, but angled his head and regarded her. “What would it take,” he mused, “for you to welcome me as your husband?”

Her eyes blazed. “What would it take for me to be rid of you as a husband? Now leave me to bathe in peace, Gareth!”

“I think not, sweet. Indeed, you may recall I told you once that people not only bathe together”— those hard lips curled into a dangerous little smile— “but they bathe each other.”

Gillian drew a sharp breath. Her face burned. Surely he wasn’t serious. Yet she was very much afraid his deadly calm masked a will of iron. The edge in his tone was just as unnerving.

She tried to stand, to climb from the tub. An arm about her knees made her slip. She landed with a spray of water, horrified to find herself atop him! Her breasts were crushed against the hard wall of his chest. Her nipples abraded the dense dark fur that grew there. Her body was squarely between the vee of his legs; her loins nested intimately against his. She could feel the thickening swell of his sex there between her thighs.

With a gasp she scrambled back against the opposite side of the tub. But she didn’t try to rise again.

His eyes had darkened. “Wash me,” he said in a low, taut voice.

Gillian’s eyes locked helplessly on his face. Her heart slammed against the walls of her chest.

“Gillian.”

That dangerous smile had yet to leave his lips. She sensed his unwavering intent with all of her being. Her head was buzzing. There would be no reprieve, she realized dimly, and this … this was but a prelude.

A small square of cloth was pressed into her hands. She lathered it with soap, then jerkily made a swipe across his chest.

Lean fingers banded her wrist, stopping her. Confused, Gillian looked up at him. “Slower,” he said, gazing directly into her eyes. It was almost as if he dared her to go through with it.

The incline of her chin climbed, but inside she was quaking. Her first tentative touch on his shoulders almost made her snatch her hand back. He was so hot! It was impossible to wash him … and not touch him. Impossible not to look at him. Her fingertips encountered the bulging contours of his shoulders and arms, hard and solid. They skidded over the curling forest on his chest; it was slightly coarse, abrading her sensitive fingertips. She swallowed, for the task was not abhorrent to her at all. The water made the dense mat curl into little whorls. Indeed, ‘twas almost mesmerizing. One last draw down his chest to his belly …

For the space of a heartbeat, she hovered uncertainly. Was she to bathe the part of him she couldn’t see?

“Finish, sweet.”

‘Twas a challenge, pure and simple. Judging from the hard glitter in his gaze, she was well aware he’d not back down. Nay, he would allow her no quarter. His only desire now was to impose his will over hers.

Gillian swallowed. Water swirled around the ridge of his hips. His belly was flat and hard, covered with the same dark hair that grew so thickly on his chest. The prospect of cleansing him there, below the water line made her entire body go hot. She braved a quick, hasty glance; her eyes widened and her breath caught.