The Truest Heart by Samantha James

emptied the water outside the door.
    By the time she’d finished, it was night. The cottage was lit only by the yellow glow of the fire. Gareth slanted his head toward her.
    “You look weary,” he observed.
    “I am,” she admitted. “I fear I’ve not slept much these past days.”
    “Then sleep now.”
    Gillian bit her lip. All at once, the realization rose starkly. “There is but one bed,” she said breathlessly.
    Heavy brows rose inquiringly. “And?”
    “And you are in it.”
    “Forgive me if I err, but did you not wake this morning in this very bed? Did you not wake beside me?”
    Gillian flushed, flustered and uncertain. “Aye, but I did not know that you would be awake!”
    “Where do you propose to sleep then, if not in this bed?”
    “I… on the floor. Aye, on the floor.”
    “On the floor! You cannot sleep there.” His voice took on a note of authority. “It’s too damp. If you sicken, who will tend me?”
    Gillian’s mouth opened and closed. She had wondered what kind of man he was and now she knew—he was a man to think only of himself and never of others!
    “It would seem you are a man accustomed to giving orders—accustomed to being obeyed.” Perturbed, Gillian did not bother to disguise her annoyance.
    “It would seem I am. But perhaps I am the one who should be wary of you.”
    “Of me! There is no reason you should be wary of me!”
    “Perchance there is every reason. You stripped the clothes from my body. You crawled within this bed and lay upon me. As I recall, you’ve touched me as you pleased—bathed me—while I lay naked and unmoving and helpless beneath your hands.”
    Gillian gasped, then narrowed her gaze. “I thought you remembered nothing!”
    Gareth nearly groaned. How could he forget that? He might be empty of mind, but he was not empty of awareness. Nay, it was not something that left a man easily, especially with a woman as beauteous as this one. Judging from the starkness of his surroundings, his caretaker was poor. The bed was crude, made of wattle with a grass-rope pillow. Yet there was some disparity between her clothing and the surroundings. Her gown was simple, yet most definitely not that of a pauper. It was well made, the material not extravagant but of considerable cost. Too, her features were dainty and finely molded. He must have been half out of his mind to have thought her a harlot. The by-blow of a lord, he wondered?
    “I know the feel of a woman,” he stated bluntly. “I knew a woman touched me. I didn’t know the woman was you until I awoke.”
    He could tell from her expression that she wasn’t certain if she should be insulted or relieved.
    Her chin climbed a notch. “If I wanted to, I could sleep on the roof and you could not stop me.”
    “Precisely. And there is nothing I can do to harm you.”
    “Nay,” she said slowly, “I suppose there is not.”
    At least in this, his weakness prevailed. He sighed and said, “You have naught to fear from me, Gillian. You may sleep beside me without distress.”
    Still she did not move, but regarded him warily. The stubble of beard that darkened his jaw lent him a dangerous look, but there were deep lines of strain etched beside his mouth. He was, she conceded, defenseless as a child right now.
    Her hesitation ebbed. “You are right,” she murmured. She placed a knee on the mattress, while he eased to the far side.
    “Excellent,” he said, and there was that in his tone which conveyed his pleasure in himself. “It would seem I am a man not only of subtle words but of subtle persuasion.”
    Gillian stopped short. She would have withdrawn if she hadn’t glimpsed the quirk of his lips. Why, he was teasing, the wretch!
    His smile waned. “Come,” he said softly. “Methinks you need rest as much as I.”
    Gillian relented. The bed was so small that there was scarcely room for both of them, yet she managed to slip beneath the coverlet without touching him.
    Shadows steeped the inside of the