The Truest Heart (26 page)

“And I fear I must refuse.” A smile twitched at her lips, a smile she couldn’t withhold.

“Ah, later then… when I join you in our bed.”

Gillian’s smile vanished. Drat the man—and just when she was tempted to soften toward him.

She marched toward the stairs, her shoulders stiff.

“What, do you leave me already?”

Gillian compressed her lips. Oh, but he was so smug! Before God, she’d not grace him with a reply.

” ‘Tis cold and damp,” he called after her. “Do you not worry that I shall molder?”

She whirled and fixed him with a glare. “Oh, that I should be so blessed!” she snapped.

His hearty burst of laughter followed her all the way down the stairs.

Chapter 17

The rains that plagued the latter half of January soon gave way to a frigid blast of winter that swept down from the north. There were many at Sommerfield who gave thanks that they had thus been spared a long, ferocious winter. But for nearly a month, snows blanketed the countryside and brought everyone crowding round the fire or huddled together in groups, seeking warmth wherever they could.

But these past days had seen a gradual lifting of the freeze and clearer skies. On this fine afternoon, the sun’s rays had vanquished the morn’s gauzy layer of clouds to gild the world below. After being confined indoors for so long, many of the castle residents ambled outside to enjoy the sunshine.

A host of knights and squires, among them Sir Marcus and Sir Bentley sat outside the armory, polishing the blades of their broadswords. Sunlight glinted off steel as they turned them this way and that. But they all leaped to their feet when Gillian passed by.

“What, good sirs! Would you do battle with me?” A hand fluttered to her chest; her eyes opened wide and she feigned great fear. “I must plead mercy, for I am but a defenseless woman.”

Knights and squires alike caught their breath at the breathtaking smile the lady of the manor sent forth their way. Bareheaded, a cascade of ebony skeins spilling over the hood of her mantle, she was quite the loveliest picture the knights had laid eyes on this day.

“My lady,” someone called. “Will you stay and watch us practice?”

Gillian hesitated, tempted to politely refuse. But then she chanced to catch a glimpse of Gareth, at the far end of the courtyard. He conversed with one of the masons, but every so often he glanced over at her. Even from this distance, she could see his scowl of displeasure; it but kindled the urge to prolong it. Did he think to control her every move, like the falcons in the mews who must remain leashed until they were trained—and then returned to their master, never to be free again?

She swept them a low curtsy. “I shall be happy to oblige, gentlemen.”

Sir Bentley cocked a brow at Sir Marcus. “We shall go first,” Bentley declared.

Sir Marcus swung his sword in a deft circle, a roguish smile on his lips. “I accept your challenge.” He turned to Gillian. “You declare the victor, my lady.”

Someone ran to fetch a stool for Gillian.

Together they took the field. A brief salute to her and the pair raised their weapons and shields aloft. Then the contest was on, each man eager to prove their strength and ability. They circled each other, then parried and thrust, forward and back, side to side, all the while gauging the other’s weakness. But both were evenly matched in skill, height and breadth, and so the fight went on and on. Crouched low to the ground, Marcus spun fully around in a lightning-quick movement. Silver flashed through the air as he struck out. Bentley leaped high to avoid the blade. Gillian could stand it no longer.

“Oh, enough, please!” she cried. Her hands were pressed to rose-tinted cheeks. “Men may enjoy such sport, but I vow my heart stops every time your swords cross!”

“They but play like boys,” shouted someone from the back. “If you want to see real swordplay, my lady, you should watch his lordship!”

Marcus and Bentley had ceased, stabbing the point of their swords in the frosty ground. They eyed each other, pretending affront toward the heckler. “And who do you think taught us what we know?” Marcus tossed back with a grin. “Why, we were his most proficient pupils.”

“Aye,” chimed in Bentley. “Why, we’ve been taught by the best!”

Gillian caught a flicker of movement at the corner of her eye. Someone else had joined the ring of knights. She stole a quick glance far afield. Gareth was absent from the spot where he’d been moments ago—and she had a very good idea where he’d gone.

Rising from the stool, she crossed to where Marcus and Bentley stood. There was just enough space for her to step between them. Slanting them a warm smile, she inclined her head and extended her hands, placing her fingers daintily in their gloved hands. “I commend you both on a job well done and declare you both victorious. And you are gracious indeed, both of you, to praise your lord’s skill above your own. But surely you exaggerate my husband’s prowess with the sword.”

“Nay, lady!” someone protested. “Do you not know how he acquired much of his wealth?”

“I believe from his father and his father’s father before him.”

“Well, there is that,” said Sir Godfrey with a chuckle. He stroked his beard. “But our lord also made his way from tournament to tournament. Oh, the purses he won, the ransoms he gained! There was no one like him, save William Marshal himself in his younger days!”

“Why, he could take on a dozen armed men all at once and fell them all before a minute was gone!” said another.

Slender black brows climbed high. “Indeed. That must account for his arrogance.”

With that, Gareth strode toward her with long, lithe strides. “Nay, not arrogance, lady,” he called. “I prefer to call it confidence.”

Their eyes tangled. The soft line of her lips compressed. She could make no argument, for of a certainty he possessed an abundance of that trait as well!

He presented himself before her. Turning to his men, he raised a hand. “In all fairness, I fear some of those deeds still elude my mind. So no more tales of my illustrious deeds, lads, else my wife will decide she’s wed to a god and not a man.” He extended an elbow, “Shall we, my love?”

He missed nary a step as he escorted her from the field and into the great hall. Gillian quickened her pace as she sought to keep up with him; she took two for every one of his. They did not stop there, but continued up the stairs to the bedchamber.

He ushered her inside, then closed the door. Gillian shook off her mantle and laid it over a chair. She could feel his gaze digging like the prick of a dagger into her back. Determinedly she pretended to brush something off her bodice. With a swish of her skirts, she turned, as if she’d only become aware of his presence behind her. He stood with his arms crossed, the fingers of one hand drumming on one woolen covered bicep.

Pretending innocence, she tilted her head. “Is something wrong, my lord?”

No reply. But those lean brown fingers kept drumming … drumming …

“Well, my lord? Did you wish to speak to me?”

Still he said nothing, but he had yet to relieve her of his unbending gaze.

“Speak if you must, sir.” Beneath the lightness of her tone was a faint gibe. “I lend rapturous ear to your every word.”

His disapproval was evident. “I think you know very well what is wrong, my lady. You distract two of my finest knights with the sweet coercion of your smile, batting your lashes and lavishing them with your compliments.” He snorted. “Preening like peacocks, the both of them!”

In all truth, Gillian knew not what came over her.

“I was but passing by them on my way to the great hall,” she demurred. “I merely stopped to speak with them; I stayed to admire their skill with the sword. Though I must say, there is much else to admire.”

A pause, just for effect. “Sir Marcus is quite handsome, is he not? Ah, and Bentley has such a disarming smile. I confess, I know not which one I fancy more.”

Gareth’s eyes glinted. “There had best be no other man that captures your fancy, sweet.”

This was beginning to prove rather enjoyable, Gillian decided. “You told me it would be in my best interest to get myself with child,” she stated daringly. “You did not say it must be your child.”

Gareth swore beneath his breath. Why, the little vixen! That she graced Marcus and Bentley with the seductive warmth of her smile incited something inside that could only be jealousy. With them, she laughed. She flirted. But not with him, and it was like a thorn beneath his skin. She avoided him. It grated that she had yet to touch him of her own accord. He longed to feel the stroke of her hand upon his flesh, her mouth hot on the naked skin of his chest. Sliding across his belly. Tasting and exploring the velvet head of his rod with her small, wet tongue …

He cursed inside, for his thoughts had taken a direction he hadn’t foreseen—and aye, was having a profound effect on that very part of him! He shifted uncomfortably, aware of the heavy heat of arousal straining his clothing. Aye, he thought darkly. He ached for her to offer her lips freely, without need of coaxing the heat he knew lurked beneath her cool exterior. Just once he longed for her to come to him.

Nay, not just once. Forever.

His thoughts grew stormy. By day she avoided him. By night she held herself aloof. She did not spurn him outright—yet she spurned him just the same! Many a time she pretended to be asleep. He would gather her close and she would hold herself stiffly. But he had only to toy with the tips of her breasts until they stood quiveringly hard and erect, for she was acutely responsive there … or caress the furrowed cleft between her thighs until his fingers were wet with the evidence of her arousal. And even when he was seated so deep inside her that every breath was his own, she battled her own pleasure, biting back her cries until her lips were almost raw … only to sleep nestled in his arms like a warm kitten the rest of the night.

Were it not for the dilemma with King John, he wouldn’t have cared how soon his seed took hold in her womb—for now, ‘twas an excuse to bed her and bed her often.

Still, Gareth was a prideful man.

“Some men are wont to share wives,” he informed her curtly. “This one does not.”

Gillian savored her victory, small though it was. A tiny smile curved her lips. “Could it be you are jealous, my lord?”

“Not in the least,” he lied smoothly—and so convincingly her good humor vanished. “But while I am not jealous, I am a possessive man. And did I think you had thus betrayed me—”

“And what makes you think that I have not? Both Sir Marcus and Sir Bentley are very handsome and gallant.”

This time it was he who smiled. “That is true. Yet despite that, I don’t believe you would betray your husband.”

Oh, that he was so certain! Still, the sudden glint in his eyes gave her pause.

“And why not?” she asked coolly.

“Because I know you, wife—”

“Oh!” she cried. “You do not—”

“Oh, but I do.” His vexation had given way to a leisurely air. “You are a woman who saved a man who was helpless. You gave him sustenance with your own lips …”

Gillian was aghast. How was it possible he knew when he’d been delirious with fever! “You—you knave!” she sputtered. “How can you know that?”

He threw back his head and laughed like the rogue he was! “It was you who told me, Gillian. It was you who showed me”—his eyes snared hers. That devilish smile widened—“the night you were sotted, my love.”

Her cheeks flamed. Her entire body flamed. Never again, she vowed, would she imbibe so freely!

He advanced toward her, a predatory air about him. Gillian backed away, only to encounter the wall alongside the bed. She damned herself a fool, for she had done naught but aid him!

With precise deliberation he settled his palms flat against the wall, alongside her head. Gillian’s heart bounded. She was trapped, she realized. The weight of his chest held her pinned to the wall. The entire length of her legs were trapped squarely between his.

“It occurs to me that perchance I’m neglecting you, that you should relish the company of my knights so—in particular Marcus and Bentley.”

She drew a sharp, wary breath. “Gareth—”

His mouth hovered but a breath above hers. “Marcus and Bentley may long for you in their beds, but only I will have you, sweet. Only me …”

His mouth closed over hers. Yet even as a part of her was outraged at such presumption, ‘twas a kiss that left her weak at the knees …

He dragged his mouth away, breathing hard. “Undress me.”

“Nay!” She could never be so bold … or could she?

His gaze roved intently over her features. “You stripped me of my clothes once before. Why will you not do so now?”

She pushed ineffectually at his chest. “That was different. You were helpless.”

A gleam appeared in those emerald eyes. “You could bind me,” he suggested wickedly. “Then I would be helpless.”

Gillian swallowed. His scent swirled all around—leather and wool and the musky male scent that was uniquely his own. A near painful heat collected deep within her, spreading to her limbs, to every part of her. He had only to look at her and the sizzling awareness she always felt with him raced to the surface.

But to take his clothes from him. Strip him, letting her hands drift over the contours of muscles hewn by long hours of swordplay and at the tiltyard. Oh, aye, she was tempted, so very tempted! But she possessed not the courage to show such boldness.

Something leaped in his eyes, something that made her tremble inside. Whenever he claimed her body, she could have sworn it was not a duty but rather more like a… a hunger. Was it lust? Her heart cried no. But it was as if he could not get enough of her …

There was no dissuading him. She had learned that. Never had she dreamed she might partake of such pleasure at a man’s hands … at his hands. Yet always it was so. Like a drug. Seductive. Persuasive. Addictive.

Her fists curled against his chest, as if she were uncertain. As if she could not make up her mind … as if she were torn, as indeed she was. She longed to put aside the restlessness that burned within her at the sight of him. He’d married her only to rescue her from the king’s clutches, she reminded herself. Or perhaps out of guilt. Even gratitude for saving his life.