The Truest Heart (32 page)

A murmur of protest went up among the men. They glanced at each other and murmured their astonishment—and outrage.

“I must be honest. The king is capricious and unpredictable. He had entrusted much of his wealth to monasteries across the land. But now he travels with his gold and jewels as part of his procession.” He paused a moment, then glanced around the table. “If John triumphs over the barons and Prince Louis, we all lose. Yet if Prince Louis prevails, we still lose.

“I do not pretend to have made all the right decisions. But we have choices to make, all of us, and I have made mine.” His voice revealed his conviction. “I will not leave Sommerfield again. I have been gone far too long already. The king has laid seize to the castles of many of the rebels and I will not aid him in this. ‘Tis every man for himself now. I will not surrender Sommerfield to King John, nor to Louis of France, nor to anyone. I will do whatever it takes to defend my home, my lands, my family and my people. I will not stop you, nor condemn you, should you decide to join the king’s cause, or that of the rebels. Whatever your choice, you are free to leave.”

For one long, perilous moment, there was a protracted silence. Gillian held her breath.

Marcus first arose, then Godfrey, and Bentley at almost the same instant. Within seconds, every knight was on his feet, his sword raised high. There came a bold, hearty cry.

“We stand behind you, milord!”

“Our loyalty is to you, milord—you and no other!”

It was a rousing, stirring display. Tears stung her eyes, tears of pride. What courage it must have taken, for Gareth to humble himself so before his own men!

Together, they put Robbie to bed a short while later, then climbed the stairs to the bedchamber. There, Gareth crossed to the hearth. He stood there for a long time, saying nothing, his back to her. Gillian frowned, for she sensed there was an air of guarded tension about him. She remained where she was, near the oaken door.

“Gareth,” she said finally, “what is it?”

His shoulders hunched, then came stiffly down. He turned to face her, a pained reluctance reflected in the depths of his eyes. There were deep lines of strain etched beside his mouth.

“I was in Cornwall,” he said quietly, “near the coast. I stopped at the church to pay my respects at Brother Baldric’s grave.”

“And did you?” She dreaded what he would say next, though she tried not to.

“Nay. There was no grave, Gillian.”

“What?” she said, stunned.

Gareth shook his head. “I spoke to Father Aidan. He said Brother Baldric’s condition worsened after we left. He was on his deathbed. He administered last rites one night, and Brother Baldric asked him to leave. Father Aidan honored his request and left him alone.” He paused. “The next morning, Brother Baldric was gone.”

Gillian was puzzled. “So why is there no grave—”

“Nay, Gillian. He was gone. Sometime during the night he left the church. The next morning a man from the village found a trail down to the beach … not far from the cottage.”

Numbly she regarded him. For a moment it was too much to comprehend … that Brother Baldric had cast himself into the waves. Or had he lain there until death—and the tide—carried him out to sea?

“Likely we’ll never know why,” Gareth said softly. “Father Aidan did not understand it.”

“He went out to die alone,” she whispered. “He didn’t want to be a burden.” Yet all at once another thought occurred. Could it have been another reason, perhaps? Her mind veered straight to her father. Because Ellis of Westerbrook had taken his life, had Brother Baldric felt that he must as well?

But Gareth was right, she reflected achingly. They would never know why. Not now.

A tear escaped, then another and another. Gareth took a step forward, but she gave a quick shake of her head.

“Nay.” Her voice caught, but did not break. ” ‘Tis hard at this moment, yet in my heart I’ve known he was dead all along. I will be all right. Truly.”

He watched as she wiped away the tears. “There is more,” he said finally.

Gillian stared. Something in his expression gave him away. Her heart began to hammer. Everything inside her wound into a coil.

“It has to do with the king, doesn’t it?”

“Aye. He-he is mad, I think. Throughout his life he has flaunted God and the Church, yet now he fears Him. He knows he has sinned and wears the relics of saints about his neck, with the prayer that God will spare him. He fears he’s being poisoned. He will not eat until his food and drink is tasted by one of his men. One moment he suspects everyone around him of plotting to seize the crown. The next he’s convinced the assassin who escaped still seeks to kill him. Gillian, he has renewed his vow to capture the man who conspired with your father… and for Clifton.”

Gillian paled. Her breath was painfully shallow. “And what of me?” she whispered.

“He said naught of you, Gillian. And by the bones of Christ, I vow you will come to no harm by the king or any of his men.”

Gillian said nothing.

In unbroken silence Gareth’s eyes captured hers. “Harken to me,” he said into the quiet.

She didn’t want to. Inside, she felt as if she were flying apart. But there was something in his tone that commanded she obey.

On shaky legs, she moved across the floor.

“Gillian”—he caught her hand, imprisoning both within his own. They were strong and masculine, those hands, and all at once she wanted to cry once more—“did you hear me, sweet?”

“Aye,” she said woodenly.

“But you do not believe me.”

She swallowed. ” ‘Tis not that,” she said, her voice scarcely audible.

She tried to pull away. His grip tightened. “What then?”

Courage flagged, while fear climbed aloft. She could scarcely force a sound past the lump in her throat.

“Promise me,” she said haltingly. “Promise me that if something happens to me that you will take care of our babe.”

He swore. “Do not look like that. Nothing will happen to you, I swear.”

Her eyes grazed his, then slid away.

He swore beneath his breath. A hard arm swept her close.

“Look at me, sweet.”

Shimmering sapphire eyes lifted to his.

His eyes darkened. “Know that I am your husband. Know that I am yours.” The timbre of his voice plunged to a whisper. “Know that I will never betray you.”

Chapter 21

Know that I am your husband.

Know that I am yours.

Know that I will never betray you.

Her heart squeezed. His vow vibrated all through her, making her tremble all over again. With a strangled sob, she buried her face in the hollow of his shoulder. Gareth tangled his fingers in her hair and tipped her head to his.

Her arms twined about his neck and clung. She raised tremulous lips to his in wordless offering. Gareth’s eyes blazed fiercely. He made a sound low in his throat and then his mouth closed over hers. He was kissing her as she’d dreamed he would, with tender fierceness, with molten possessiveness. Drawn into the dark velvet world of desire, passion flooded through her and drowned her senses to all but the need that simmered inside her.

A lean, dark hand fell to her belly. His fingers splayed wide, so big it nearly encompassed the rounded swell where their babe curled within. Then before she knew what he was about, he was down on his knees before her, pushing her gown up and away, renewing his claim on her belly with both palms.

Gillian gasped, pushing at his shoulders. “Gareth, stop!”

He caught her hands and brought them to her sides. “Don’t be shy, love. I’ve dreamed of seeing you like this.”

Gillian was aghast. “Not quite like this, methinks!” She’d still been slim and narrow of waist when he left, but now she was round and plump.

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong.” His laugh was low and husky. His hands coursed boldly over the hard swell of her belly. “I’ve been starved for the sight of you. The taste of you.” He kissed her belly. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “Beautiful and desirable and—Lord, how I’ve missed you!”

A sentiment she echoed with wholehearted fervor, she thought, and suddenly he was on his feet, bearing her high in his arms.

Small fingers rested on the abrasive squareness of his jaw. She smiled, feeling joy pour through her like sunlight blazing through a mist. “I’ve missed you, too, milord,” she confided shyly, uncaring in that moment if he saw deep into her soul.

Gareth laughed, his eyes tender. “Methinks we should discuss this further, then.” He laid her on the bed, impatiently shucking off his clothes.

Whatever embarrassment she had about him seeing her thus fluttered away beneath a torrent of scorching kisses and flaming caresses. Perhaps it was her pregnancy—perhaps the separation of time and distance between them—but she felt every touch to the bottom of her soul. She cried aloud at the instant he came inside her. His breath filled her mouth. His shaft filled her body, even as his child filled her womb.

The emptiness in her soul was no more.

Twice she spiraled to the heavens before his shuddering release came. She floated back slowly. Fingers that were immensely gentle brushed away the damp raven tendrils at her temples. He kissed her mouth with lingering sweetness, then cradled her close to his side.

It was before the evening meal a few days later, Robbie pouted when his nurse came to fetch him for bed. He pleaded and cajoled, but Gareth was firm. Finally Robbie frowned up at him from between his boots.

“A kiss and I shall go, Papa,” he announced.

As always, Gareth’s gaze as it rested on his son reflected the depth of his love. He leaned forward indulgently and planted a kiss on pursed red lips.

His hand very dark against the boy’s fairness, he pinched his cheek. “Away with you, lad,” he said in mock sternness.

Robbie’s eyes gleamed impishly. “Nay,” he said with a wrinkle of his nose. “Now a kiss from Mama.”

Looking on, Gillian had been shaking her head and smiling, for she knew he was only trying to stall the inevitable. But at the boy’s cheerful demand, her smile froze.

She’d been amazed at the ease with which the boy called her Mama—amazed at how natural it felt. But this was the first time that Gareth had heard Robbie address her as anything but Gillian.

She could feel the weight of his eyes residing on her profile. She felt suddenly stifled, but dared not show it.

Feigning a lightheartedness, she pressed a kiss on Robbie’s lips. Happy now, he skipped away with his nurse.

Collecting all her courage, she ventured a glance at Gareth. There was an odd expression on his face.

Her heart missed a beat. Celeste. He was thinking of Celeste.

“Do you mind that he calls me ‘Mama’?” she asked quickly.

“Nay,” he said. But neither approval nor disapproval resided in his tone.

Gillian swallowed. “You are not angry? It was while you were gone …” She felt compelled to explain. “The children were teasing him. They said that he did not have a mother. He was heartbroken, Gareth. When he asked, I-I could not refuse.”

He studied her quietly. “Why would I be angry, Gillian?”

“Because I-I will be the only mother he knows,” she blurted. “Me … and not Celeste!”

His gaze sharpened. Quietly he said, “And you think that would make me angry?”

She looked away, floundering. “Yes. No.” She took a ragged breath. “Oh, heaven help me, I don’t know!”

A shadow fell before her, then he was there, his knuckles beneath her chin. “Robbie loves you,” he chided gently. “You care for him… as only a mother could care for him. And I know that you love him”—the veriest smile curled his lips—“as only a mother could love him. How on earth could I ever be angry?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “But what about her?” Her lips were tremulous. “Would she have been angry, Gareth? Angry that her child calls another woman ‘Mama’?”

Gareth caught his breath. His smile faded. For they both knew, without a word being spoken, who she meant.

Celeste.

And somewhere in his heart, Gareth knew that she was asking another question as well.

“I should like to think,” he said softly, “that she would have given thanks—as I do—that her son was loved by a woman such as you.”

Carefully he chose his words. Just as carefully, he pulled her into his arms. For somehow, his wife was very fragile right now, and God knew, he would not hurt her…

He couldn’t tell her of the woman whose hair floated above her shoulders like summer sunshine, whose delicate image spun through his mind in that instant between one breath and the next, whose warmth and caring spun a circle of love around all those she touched.

Someday, perhaps, but not now. For now, it was enough to hold his wife in his arms. To bring her closer and feel the way her small fingers curled trustingly into the front of his tunic. With a sigh, Gareth gathered his precious wife to him, nestling his chin in a cloud of ebony waves. His hand captured hers, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss in the palm of her hand.

Gillian, he thought. My heart, my life.

Aye, he thought again. Someday, when the time was right…

For now, it was enough simply to remember.

The days of summer drew to a close. The crops were gathered in the fields. The days began to shorten; the nights were cool with a damp chill.

And the babe within her blossomed. He moved so solidly that sometimes he woke her in the dead of night. Many of the women of the castle told her she carried the babe high; indeed she did. Though she was not so ungainly that she was uncomfortable, she could not sit for long, else it was difficult to gain her breath.

She thought often of Brother Baldric and Clifton. She still found it puzzling, the way he had left his deathbed and Father Aidan. Whatever had been in his mind? She mourned his death, and still missed him greatly—he had been a part of her life for so long! But she had come to accept his passing.

Far more difficult to accept was the possibility that Clifton might be dead. Indeed, she could not. Not yet. Somewhere in this world, she prayed, the summer had seen him enter his thirteenth year. Perhaps he was even a squire somewhere, a knight in training. Indeed, she could think of no finer man to instruct him in that task than her husband. Ah, if only it could have been so! And if only she could have sent word that he would soon be an uncle….