The Truest Heart (4 page)

Indeed, it seemed they were countless. She sucked in a harsh breath. There was a massive lump on his temple; the skin was puffy and swollen, split by a jagged cut. Clearly he’d suffered a terrible blow to the head. His face was scratched and bruised. Various cuts and bruises marked his body all over. The worst was a ragged strip of flesh that had been ripped the length of his side. It began just under his left arm and ripped nearly to his waist, raw and oozing blood. As the ship had been flung and shattered against the rocks, it would seem that he had been cast as well. Had he been awake? Ah, but the brine of the sea upon his wounds must have been sheer agony!

To Gillian’s eyes, it appeared as if the whole of his body had been beaten with a club. There was scarcely an inch of him that was not bruised and swollen. His right knee was mashed and bloodied. Her heart twisted. If he lived, would he ever walk again?

There was no hiding from the truth … she was not a healer; she knew naught of balms and potions. True, she’d often assisted the women of Westerbrook with various abrasions her father’s men had suffered; she knew wounds must be kept clean and free of dirt. But in truth she’d never seen anything the likes of which this man suffered, and these were but the outward wounds.

Was she a fool to think she could save him? Perhaps. Yet even as the realization tolled through her, something crystallized inside her. She could not give in. He could not give in.

In a heartbeat she’d bounded to her feet. She raced to the well atop the hill for water. In her haste, she nearly tripped and barely caught herself from flying headlong onto the mossy path. Her movements jerky, she lowered the leather bucket into the well. When she raised it and grabbed the leather handle, water sloshed over the edge—her hands were shaking.

“Calm yourself, Gillian.” She scolded herself firmly. “Stay calm, else you cannot help him.” The words screamed through her again and again as she returned to the cottage, then warmed the water and searched for a cloth.

Indeed, she told herself as she stationed herself beside him, she could do no more. She could do no less. Though he might well be beyond her power, it was just as she’d told Brother Baldric. If she did not help—did not try—he would surely die.

Lightly, her fingers skimmed his body, her eyes fixed on his face for any sign of reaction. In truth, she would have welcomed it. Alas, there was none. If she caused him pain, he gave no sign of it. Even when she scrubbed the gritty sand and dirt from the open wound on his side and his knee—ah, but it was stubborn!—he neither flinched nor winced. Nor did he move when she fetched a healing salve Brother Baldric had obtained for a cut she’d received on her leg during the journey, and rubbed it into his wounds.

Something twisted inside her as she finished bathing him, then wound a strip of cloth around his mangled knee. Dear God, how could Baldric believe this man might harm her? He posed no threat to her, nor to anyone!

Laying the strips aside, she turned back to him. An odd feeling tightened her throat. Only then did she realize what she had just done…. To think that she had been so bold as to strip the clothes from his body! A part of her was appalled. She had touched him…

He was starkly… unabashedly … naked. Though Gillian was a woman untutored in the ways of love and men, ‘twas not a sight she found displeasing. Indeed, quite the contrary, for there was no denying he was a powerful man. Belatedly she acknowledged what she had not taken the time to note before. Pale though he was, his frame looked impossibly large; he filled the entirety of her narrow bed. His shoulders nearly eclipsed the width of the mattress, lean but padded with muscle—she’d felt the resilient tautness of that muscle beneath her very fingertips! Aye, she thought dimly. Under other circumstances, he was surely a man of considerable might.

Hastily she fumbled with the rough linen sheet at his ankles, pulling it up and following it with a blanket. His hair had begun to dry. The strands were thick and dark, the color of midnight. Biting her lip, she laid the back of her knuckles against the stranger’s cheek before she knew what she was even about, the gesture one of comfort and compassion. A hundred questions tumbled through her.

“What brought you to this lonely stretch of England?” she voiced her thoughts aloud. “Do you come from some foreign shore? What is your trade? Are you a fisherman? Nay, perhaps not. You’ve not the tough, leathered skin of a man who weathers long hours of sea and sky. A tiller of fields then? Nay,” she decided, tilting her head to the side and regarding him through narrowed eyes. “Mayhap you work long and hard at the forge.” Indeed, he possessed the brawny arms of a man who could carry great weight with just as much ease.

That, too, she discarded, for there was a hint of arrogance in the aquiline flare of his nose, the set of his mouth. Nay, he was not a poor man, though he’d worn no jewels. She glanced at his boots; although slogged with water, they were finely made.

Her mind twisted and turned. Could it be that he was one of John’s barons? God knew that John’s greed had fired the minds of his people with anger and resentment. Perhaps like her, he, too, fled for his life from the wrath of King John, only to be caught in a storm, much as she had been.

“Whoever you are,” she murmured, “you must have a name. What is it, I wonder? Michael?” A slight smile curled her lips and she shook her head. “Nay. Oh, ‘tis a fine name, to be sure, but not yours, methinks.” She tipped her head first to one side, then the other as she studied him.

“I know. Walter. Or William. Ah, I know. ‘Tis Edwyn. Aye, I do believe your name is Edwyn.”

Thus she began to call him Edwyn.

He breathed … yet did not waken. He remained so motionless he might have been dead. As the hours wore on, many a time Gillian laid her ear to the breadth of his chest, assured that he lived only by the steady drone of his heart.

Was this a healing sleep that claimed him? She thought not. She feared not.

Time had been her most bitter foe throughout these long weeks of uncertainty. Yet now was it not her staunchest ally? His staunchest ally? Yes, she told herself firmly. The longer he breathed, the greater his chances of survival.

Throughout the day and night Gillian was there beside him. The hours marched on. She sat beside him until her muscles grew stiff and cramped and her eyes burned with fatigue.

She talked. Of silly things. Of whatever chanced to wander through her mind. ‘Twas odd, the ease with which the name sprang from her lips. Ah, she mused once, but what if his name was Edwyn in truth?

“I daresay you are a hunter, like my father. Oh, but my father was a great hunter,” she recalled wistfully. “Many a day found him hunting with his gyrfalcon. When we could not find him we had only to look in the mews. My mother, before she died, used to say she feared Clifton would never spare the time to find a bride when he was old enough, for Clifton was almost always at Papa’s side when he went hawking.”

Her smile faltered. Clifton. Pain lanced through her heart, bled deeper. Would she ever find Clifton? Where was he? Where? Was he safe? Oh, if only she knew! But nay. She’d not succumb to despair. Papa was dead. But Clifton was still alive. She had to believe it. And somehow—someday—she would find a way to find her brother.

Rising, she moved to the window. Opening the shutters, she peered outside. Air whistled through the opening. Outside, the wind had begun to gust. Gillian could not help the thought that tore through her mind—she prayed there would not be another storm. Determined not to dwell on it, she threw another handful of limbs on the fire. Impatiently she brushed aside the curling strands of hair that swung forward, then started across the floor.

” ‘Tis cold again today, Edwyn.” With a rueful sigh she made the comment even though she knew he did not hear her. “I must confess, in Westerbrook where I am from, we have November days that are chill, but not like this—‘tis like the cold passes all through me.”

There was a subtle movement beneath the sheet. Gillian felt her lips part. Why, he had moved! Or was it merely that she had sat too heavily upon the mattress and made his body shift?

There was no time to wonder, no time to think. A long arm swept the blanket to his waist. He began to thrash.

“Edwyn, no!” The name slipped urgently— unthinkingly—from her lips. “Be still else your side will begin to bleed. Do you hear me, Edwyn? Edwyn, you must be still!” She reached for his bare shoulders to push him down. It was then it happened.

His eyes flicked open. In the midst of reaching for his bare shoulders to push him down, she found herself captured and seized. Strong male fingers shackled the fragile span of her wrist with a grip she’d never have guessed possible, given his state of just moments before. Despite his malaise, he was almost frighteningly strong.

“Edwyn,” came a dry, hoarse mutter. “By God, desist from calling me Edwyn!”

Gillian gaped at him. She was stunned. Amazed. Overwhelmed … and all at once!

“Wh-what am I to call you, then?”

He tugged her close, so close she felt the warm mist of his breath mingle with hers, and she could clearly discern the flecks of gold in eyes that were the same lush green as the forest near Westerbrook.

Those eyes seemed to pierce into the very depths of her own. “Gareth,” he said with utter fierceness. “I am Gareth.”

And then he slipped back into unconsciousness.

*Chapter 3*

Gillian gave a stricken cry. “Edwyn … Gareth.” The name tripped awkwardly from her tongue, for already she’d grown accustomed to calling him Edwyn.

With both hands she shook him, be it roughly, be it gently, she knew not. She cared not.

“Wake up, Gareth! Wake up!”

A lean hand fell limply to his side. Her efforts to rouse him were in vain. Gillian wavered between buoyant exultation and a dragging disappointment, but it was just as before. As if all strength and effort had been bled from him.

But he had awoken. He had opened his eyes … and spoken.

She took up her vigil with renewed hope. With avowed conviction. Though the world beyond still summoned him, Gillian was suddenly determined. She would not allow death to stake its claim on still another man.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Not this one.

It was then she noted the warmth emanating from his skin. Heat seemed to rise from his body. Alarmed, she laid the backs of her fingers against his cheek. He was hot to the touch, and it had naught to do with the heat of the fire.

“Sweet heaven,” she breathed, “you’re ill with fever.” No wonder he’d tried to push aside the blankets!

Once again she bolted for water, only this time she did not warm it. She dipped the cloth in it, then dragged it down his face and neck and shoulders, clear to his waist.

It was as if the fever had caught fire within him— as if it burned from the inside out and now raged out of control beneath her hand—before her very eyes. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and upper lip. His skin was no longer colorless but glowed with an unhealthy pallor. His chest rose and fell unevenly, as if every breath was a struggle … as indeed it was.

Gillian raged at the heavens—and at herself. There must be something else she could do, she thought frantically, but what? What?

Wringing the water from the cloth, she drew it down the side of his face, venting her despair. “Ah, Gareth, Gareth! If only you could help me!”

He turned his face into the cloth, as if he sought the coolness. It struck Gillian then. Was he thirsty? Of course he was. He had not drunk nor eaten throughout the long hours spent in her cottage. She chastised herself roundly for not realizing sooner.

Her mind vaulted forward. He could not chew or eat in his present state. But if he could but drink, perhaps later he might take the broth from the soup she had last eaten and thus gain strength.

Slipping an arm beneath his shoulder, she lifted his head and held the goblet to his lips. His head rested in the palm of her hand; lord, but it was heavy! “Drink, Gareth,” she said softly. “Just a bit, that’s the way.”

Carefully she eased the goblet forward. He made a strangled, choking sound and began to cough. Hastily Gillian withdrew the cup, spilling half the contents as she did so. Water drenched the front of her gown, but she paid no heed. She would change it later.

Not to be dissuaded, she seized her spoon and dipped it into the cup, seeking to dribble it into his mouth. Like a willful child, he turned his head away. His lips pressed together, a stubborn refusal. Gillian tried patiently again and again, coaxing and cajoling, until at last she flung the spoon aside in fury and frustration.

Gritting her teeth, she regarded her patient. “You will not die,” she pronounced. “I will not allow it, do you hear? And you will drink, even if I must pour it down your throat.”

Where the idea came from, she would never know. Perhaps it was pulled from some insidious place inside her, culled by desperation.

The single beat of her heart forestalled the notion … then it was no more.

She crawled atop him, but not before dragging the sheet up over his naked limbs. Carefully she straddled him, nesting her knees beside his hips. A dozen things passed through her mind in that moment. She was heartily glad that Brother Baldric was not here to see her. The very thought made her want to smile, at a time when she’d never felt less like smiling! For what she was about to do seemed terribly intimate … yet terribly important.

Once more she reached for the cup. This time, however, she tipped it high to her own lips … then bent low.

Awkwardly her chin bumped his; she felt the bristly scrape of his beard against her tender skin, for he was no longer clean-shaven. It was a strange sensation of awareness, for such closeness with a man other than her father was utterly foreign to Gillian. Yet she did not allow it to hinder her.

Her heart knocking wildly, she closed her eyes and brushed her lips against his—his were warm and dry. At the contact, a jolt went through her. Yet in that timeless span between one breath and the next, Gareth’s lips parted.

And so did hers.