The Truest Heart (9 page)

His mouth was sealed on the vulnerable skin at the side of her neck; her head tilted, as if in invitation—as if to oblige him further. Her heart bounded, yet everything inside went weak. Flames licked at the crests of her breasts; his thumbs were engaged in a taunting, evocative play that made her nipples harden and grow taut in something that could only be called eagerness. Sparks of a pleasure she’d never thought to expect—never even dreamed of!—burst from the peaks of her breasts. Unknowingly, Gillian’s hands slid around to his back. Her fingers tightened. A thrill shot through her, for his naked flesh was as firm and sleek as she remembered.

She felt his hands in her hair, sliding through the rumbled darkness. A rush of air misted across her cheek. With his fingertips he combed through tangled, ebony skeins.

“Beautiful,” he said hoarsely. “So beautiful. Soft and golden and warm. The color of bright summer sunshine…”

Gillian froze, as if the point of a dagger had penetrated her heart.

“Celeste,” he breathed. “Celeste. God, how I’ve missed you.”

The point drove home.

Gillian’s heart squeezed. She tore her mouth away. Gareth raised his head and peered at her. An uncanny sensation prickled her skin, for he was still in the throes of his dream—it was not her she saw … but the woman Celeste.

“Sleep,” she said shakily. “Gareth, sleep.”

Something of her plea must have penetrated. His head dropped back to the pillow, but not before he’d reached for her once more, urging her head into the hollow of his shoulder. Gillian complied, but it was different now—now she held herself aloof, not in physical closeness, but in spirit.

The effort she made was valiant. Over and over she told herself it was shock that had stalled the rhythm of her heart. But in truth, she was wholly taken aback by the depth of her response to his kiss. In those heart-stopping moments when his lips fused hot and warm against hers, her pulse aclamor as never before, it hadn’t mattered.

Now it did.

Her heart constricted. Disappointment flooded her. She couldn’t blink back a fleeting mist of tears as she spied the dark lock of hair still gripped tight in Gareth’s palm.

Beautiful, he’d said. But she—Gillian—was not the one who so enflamed him. For Gillian’s hair was not the gold of summer sunshine, but the hue of the darkest winter night.

Ah, but she’d been a fool! She’d allowed Gareth to kiss her, to stroke her body in a shockingly bold way … with another woman’s name on his lips. Another woman’s image burned deep in his mind.

A woman named Celeste.

Nay, she was not the woman who filled his dreams.

And he was not the man of hers.

Chapter 6

It was the splash of water that woke Gareth the next morning. Opening his eyes, he spied Gillian standing across the room. She was pouring a steady stream of water from the bucket into a washbasin. She’d restrained the incredible glory of her hair. Although it was confined in several braids which she’d fastened at her nape, still it gleamed with the shine of rich, polished wood. With stark, vivid remembrance, he recalled the way it had felt that very first day—soft, ebony silk sliding against the roughened tips of his fingers. He wished she might free it, that he might feel its dark splendor glide over his skin once more.

Even as he watched, the bucket was set aside, a linen cloth neatly placed beside the basin. Her intent to wash registered fleetingly in his mind, even as she loosened her gown and it settled on the flare of her hips.

Although she was now bare to the waist, all that was visible was the dimpled tuck of the slender lines of her back. Gareth meant to look away. He should have. But then she turned ever so little, affording him a glimpse of all that had remained hidden to him until now.

And then he could not look away if his life depended on it.

Slender arms lifted, tugging the braids forward. ‘Twas a movement that outlined in perfect profile the alluring lines of her body—utterly enticing, unmistakably full and womanly. She was small, almost fragile looking, yet above the rising plane of her ribs, her breasts spilled forth in pale, supple splendor, crowned by pouting nipples the color of coral.

The cloth dipped, lifted and was drawn along her body. His gaze tracked its path. A trail of droplets shimmered in its wake, leaving her skin damp and dewy and gleaming with a luster that cried out for a man’s touch. A glistening droplet of water clung to the very peak of one exquisite breast, puckered tight against the cold.

Hot, hungry desire rushed straight to his loins. Heat pooled inside him. His rod stirred to thick, almost painful erectness. His first thought was that Osgood had been a lucky man, to have a woman as lovely as Gillian in his bed. His second was the urge to snare her in his embrace, to divest her fully of her gown and bring her naked into his arms.

Were he an able man, he decided, he would do exactly that. Were he an able man, he would kneel before her, bend his head to the succulent fruit of her breasts, taste and tug those coral peaks until she could stand no more, until she cried aloud her pleasure. Were he an able man, he would run his fingers through the lush, dark triangle he knew would guard the hidden font of her womanhood. He’d run his fingers through the downy fleece and explore it to his most fervent desire—and hers. And then, when they were both ready, he’d bury his fiery shaft deep in the heat and heart of her.

Aye, an able man, he decided with dark, brittle humor, would have done just that. Little wonder, then, that he was given to ponder how long it had been since he’d made love to a woman.

Gillian was unaware of his perusal. It gave her a start when she turned and discovered his eyes wide open, fastened full upon her. Disconcerted, she hastily pulled the sleeve of her gown up over her shoulder. Her heart began to pound. Had he seen her? She prayed she’d been quick enough to shield herself.

Summoning a calm she was far from feeling, she stepped toward the bed and took a deep breath. “Good morning, Gareth.”

No greeting was returned. A strong hand shot out and pulled her down onto the bed.

Her eyes flew wide. “Gareth! What is it?”

Lean fingers hooked into the neckline of her gown. Gillian gasped when he swept it down her arm, revealing the naked slope of her shoulder.

It was there his gaze now dwelled. “That is a fresh bruise,” he observed grimly.

It was true. A dark purplish bruise marred the perfect creaminess of her skin. Gillian glanced down, then hastily dragged her eyes up. Her other hand fluttered up to cover the swell of her breast. She wasn’t sure if she was more indignant or embarrassed.

“Can you not allow me some privacy?” she cried.

“I fear I have little choice in the matter,” he reminded her tightly.

“Nonetheless, you need not spy on me!”

He dismissed her disparagement with an almost haughty disdain. “Where else would a man’s eyes rest when a woman who looks as you do stands half-naked before him? I am a man, Gillian, and I am not made of stone. But that is of no consequence,” he went on. “Tell me how you came by that bruise.”

She paid no heed to his demand, for her heart had fluttered, then resumed with thick, heavy strokes. Within that span, Gillian could neither think nor speak. Was he drawn to her, as she was drawn to him? She could deny the truth of what she felt no longer—the sensations sweeping through last night were all too real and remained all too vivid! Was he saying she was beautiful? A wave of darkness stole through her. Nay, she thought. It was Celeste he’d called beautiful.

” ‘Tis nothing,” she replied curtly.

“Nothing! By God, it is!”

Gillian’s lips pressed together stubbornly. Green eyes clashed with blue in a wordless duel.

Gareth scowled, his lips thin, his features stony. “Was it Brother Baldric?”

“Brother Baldric!” Gillian was first astounded, then affronted. She defended Brother Baldric staunchly. “Why, he is the kindest, most gentle man on this earth! If you must know, then know this—it was you who did this!”

“Me!” Gareth was astounded. His anger drained as suddenly as it had erupted, but he was no less determined. “How? When?”

Too late Gillian wished he had not seen her. Wished he had not spoken. Ah, but she was forever remembering that which she wished she did not!

“Last night,” she said. “It happened last night.” As she spoke, she realized he had yet to free her. Never in her life had she felt so awkward! She’d been intimate with him in ways she’d never been intimate with another man. Touched nearly every part of his body. And now he had touched her. Now he had seen her! She sought to tug the material of her gown back where it belonged, but his fingers twisted even more tightly into the material and held fast.

“I did this?”

She nodded.

A horrible feeling washed over him. The knowledge that he’d done this was like a red-hot knife plunged into his gut. “How?” was all he asked. “How?”

You were not yourself, she almost blurted. She did not, for she was all at once pierced by a prickly unease. Who was he… truly? And who was she to know him?

“You were dreaming,” she relayed, her voice very low. “You seemed in some distress. ‘It is wrong,’ you shouted. And then you seemed anxious to find someone.”

Gareth listened intently. “Who?” A dream, she said. But was it a dream—or something more?

Gillian averted her gaze. “I do not know. ‘I must find her,’ ” she quoted. “You were angry. And, in your anger, you struck out blindly.” She faltered. “I… was knocked from the bed.”

With the tips of his fingers he traced the outline of the bruise; his gossamer touch, so light she could barely feel him. “I am sorry, Gillian. I did not mean to hurt you.”

“It was never my belief that you did.”

“Then why will you not look at me?” His tone was very quiet. His fingers fell away. Free at last, Gillian dragged her sleeve upward, covering her exposed skin and rising at the same time.

She busied herself with bolting the shutter at the window, then moved to sit on the stool before the fire. She could feel his questioning regard, yet still she refused to meet it.

“Gillian?” An odd feeling gripped him and would not let go. Her shoulders were hunched tight, her hands clasped together before her. “I have the feeling there is more,” he said slowly.

The fire seemed to hold the utmost fascination for her. Perhaps because there is, she thought wildly.

An even deeper fear began to sharpen inside him. “Dear God, Gillian, you begin to frighten me… what else did I do?”

Small fingers plucked at the fabric of her skirt; it was there she confined her attention.

“Gillian. Gillian, come here.”

She shook her head, an ardent denial.

“Then I will come to you,” he said grimly.

That brought her head up. Her gaze swung to his. “You cannot.” It was less a taunt than a prediction, for she knew his weakness.

She was wrong.

The covers were thrust aside. He swung his legs to the floor and struggled to his feet. For one perilous instant, he wavered.

An almost feral satisfaction in his expression, he started toward her.

Gillian’s lips parted. Shock brought her to her feet.

If she was taken aback, she couldn’t help it. The closer he came, the more her neck craned, for he towered above her. When he’d been lying abed, she’d been aware of his strength and breadth. But somehow she hadn’t been aware just how tall he truly was.

The effort was too much. One knee sagged; swearing, he began to wobble. Gillian flung her arms around his waist, but his weight was more than she could bear. Together they toppled to the floor.

Gillian recovered herself in a heartbeat. But Gareth lay completely still, breathing heavily. His eyes were squeezed shut. White lines of strain were drawn about his mouth, and he’d gone a trifle pale.

“Gareth! Gareth, are you all right?”

It took a moment for Gareth to gather his breath and his strength. He opened his eyes. “Christ,” he said hoarsely, “methinks I’ve given you a bruise to match the other.”

Gillian made a swift, abortive movement. She would have twisted away, but he possessed the reflexes of a cat. Hard arms clamped about her back. He brought her close, so close she could feel the texture of the rugged mat of hair that covered his chest against the fabric of her gown. She lay on her side— and he on his. She stared into eyes the color of the forest.

“You’ve yet to tell me what else I did last night,” he reminded her.

“All right,” she said on a ragged rush of air. “You kissed me. You kissed me, Gareth!”

A confession. An accusation. Either way, the relief that poured through him was immense. He would have laughed, if not for the dismay so keenly writ on her lovely features.

“That is all? I kissed you?”

“Is that not enough?” Gillian fought a fleeting panic. God above, but she was not about to tell him what else he had done—that he had cupped the fullness of her breasts in his palms. That he’d even teased her nipples and made them ache in a way she did not understand at all!

Gareth paused to consider. For all that he knew she had been married, there was an air of purity and innocence about her that was puzzling for a woman who’d been wed. The way that she quickly, almost nervously, withdrew her hands when the need to touch him was complete, as if the feel of a man were something new, even disturbing. Or was he mistaken?

“Perhaps,” he said slowly, “the problem is not that I kissed you, but that you kissed me back.”

“What!” she gasped.

“Did you return my kiss?” Quietly he posed the question.

Gillian floundered. Her cheeks burned painfully. The truth was that she’d hardly endured his kiss. The truth was that in those dizzying moments with his lips upon hers, she’d been wholly captivated. Entranced. But she was not about to divulge such feelings to him!

“You should not ask such a thing!” Her hands came up between them. She strained away, longing for escape. Alas, there was none, for his arms tightened.

” ‘Tis a fair question.”

” ‘Tis most unfair!” Her cheeks were burning. She glared at him, perturbed at his insistence.