The Truest Heart by Samantha James Page A

cottage, yet neither of them slept. She felt a rustling beside her, then his voice stole quietly through the silence.
    “I must ask your forgiveness, Gillian.”
    Gillian turned her head slightly. His countenance was not visible, only the rugged outline of his form. “Forgiveness? For what?”
    “This morning. I should not have assumed you were a harlot.”
    Gillian was glad of the darkness, for it hid the scarlet tide of color in her cheeks. Still, his statement was the last thing she expected to hear.
    His voice came again, even more softly than before. “I did not mean to make you weep.”
    More unexpected still.
    Her throat closed oddly. “It was not that,” she said faintly.
    “What then?”
    She felt compelled to answer, yet for a heartbeat, she felt wholly unable to. ” ‘Tis … difficult to explain.”
    “Try.”
    She could feel his regard, locked on her face in the thickening gloom. His persistence kindled tears afresh. Gillian was reminded keenly of the aching loss of her father. And Clifton—would she ever see her brother again?
    “When we found you, Brother Baldric thought you were dead, like-like the other men on the beach. Then you did not wake, and you were ill with fever. And I”—she began to quaver—“I thought you would…”
    In the darkness, a warm, hard palm slid against hers. Lean, brown fingers twined with hers. “I will not die, Gillian.”
    Swamped with emotion, this time speech was beyond her capabilities just now. It made no sense, the peace and comfort wrought by this man who was a stranger—yet no longer seemed a stranger.
    Soon both slept. They touched nowhere… nowhere but their enjoined hands.
     
    “So. He still lives.”
    As Gillian nodded, Brother Baldric glanced toward the wooden door of the cottage, propped slightly ajar. A fine gray mist drizzled from a leaden sky this morn, but the afternoon had brought a tepid sunshine and patches of blue sky. A fierce wind buffeted the waves against the headland. Overhead, black-headed gulls screeched and swooped.
    “Who is he?”
    “His name is Gareth.”
    “Gareth?”
    Gillian took a deep breath. “That is all I know. That is all he knows.” Her tone low, she told him how her patient had spent many of his days alternately sleeping, then waking. In the last week, his bruises had begun to turn a greenish yellow, and he’d gained a little strength.
    By the time she’d finished, Baldric’s expression was troubled. “I do not like this, Lady Gillian.”
    Gillian looked uncomfortable.
    “What is it?” Baldric asked quickly.
    “He knows me as Gillian.”
    Baldric groaned. “My lady, no! How could you be so careless?”
    “I-I did not think quickly enough to hide it. He asked my name and I told him, though I did not tell him my father was Ellis of Westerbrook. Besides,” she went on, her tone low and fervent, “I hate knowing that the villagers think of me as the widow Marian.”
    “Nonetheless, do not tell him you are Lady Gillian of Westerbrook! Perhaps it is wise that you continue to stay far from the village. They are aware that you tend a man who was gravely injured in the shipwreck. I could not hide it, not with the lads Edgar and Hugh delivering him to your cottage. We can risk no questions, not from the villagers or this man Gareth.”
    A knot tightened in Gillian’s chest. “You believe the king’s men continue to search for me?”
    “I believe so, yes. And Clifton as well.” Gillian knew it must be the truth, for the monks were often the eyes and ears of the people.
    “Gareth is not a common man,” Gillian said slowly. “I can tell by the refinement of his speech.” That and a dozen other things, she acknowledged to herself. The noble span of his brow. His compassion and consideration the night he’d been convinced he’d caused her to weep. And only this morning he’d tried to rise when he’d spied her carrying in wood for the fire. He had pushed the covers aside and swung his legs to the floor,