The Truest Heart by Samantha James Page B

to summon her breath and garner the courage to meet his gaze. “Do you mock me, sir?” she asked quite seriously.
    “Neither mockery nor insult was intended, lady.”
    Despite the swiftness of the vow, the corner of his mouth curled in lazy amusement. Gillian ducked her head. She wished she could present some pretense of anger. Swamped by confusion, she found herself unable to look at him. Perhaps such teasing play as this was familiar to him, but it was new to her—and heartily disconcerting.
    That wicked fingertip now tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “Why so shy, sweet maid?”
    Maid, he called her. But only in jest. Only in jest…
    “Are you embarrassed because you’ve kissed a man who is not your husband? Because you lay thus now with a man who is not your husband? There is no need, Gillian. I know how lonely you have been. I have only to look at you to know the pain you have endured since you lost Osgood. But it’s just as Brother Baldric said. You were brought here to heal.”
    Her heart constricted. An almost hysterical panic seized her. If he knew the truth, that she’d never lain thus with a husband, with any man, what would he say? If he knew she’d lied—that she was not a widow at all—what would he think of her then?
    She drew a deep, ragged breath. “I do not need healing.”
    “A woman who grieves does indeed need healing.”
    Perhaps she did. But not for the reason he thought.
    “Osgood is dead, Gillian. I am here and I am alive. You brought me to life”—he was quietly intense—“you healed me, Gillian. Can I not do the same for you?”
    She shook her head. “It is not that,” she confided. “Truly, it is not. I-I am fine.”
    To her consternation, she couldn’t disguise the tiny break in her voice. Gareth read into it far more than she wanted him to know.
    “What then? What troubles you?”
    His tenderness, his concern, tied her insides in knots. Shame poured through her. Shame at her lies. At Baldric’s. At the way she’d deceived him, the way she’d pretended that the memory of Osgood pained her grievously.
    The truth was like a burning, oppressive weight upon her breast. She despised herself for the deception. She longed to confess everything—that she was hiding from the king—that she was Gillian of Westerbrook. How her father had tried to kill the king and she’d been forced to flee—but something held her back. She longed to tell him the truth, longed for it with every fiber in her being. The prickle of warning in the back of her mind was all that stopped her, something she could not put a name to.
    She looked away, afraid he would see past her feeble defense—afraid he would see beyond to the truth hidden deep inside.
    Tears pricked her eyes. “Do not ask me,” she said unsteadily.
    “Why not?”
    “Because I cannot answer.”
    She could. ‘Twas simply that she chose not to. But he would not push her, Gareth decided. Not here. Not now. Not yet, for there was something almost fragile about her just now, something that made him want to shelter her. Protect her and shield her from any and all hurt.
    Nay, he thought again. This was no time for demand, gentle or angry or otherwise. There was time enough for such things later. For now, he was content to relish the moment, savor the gladness of simply being alive …
    The feel of this beauty right here in his arms.
    He lowered his head. His lips brushed the petal-soft lobe of one delicately shaped ear, the curving sweep of her jaw to the delicate point of her chin. Her fingers curled into the front of his tunic. His chest swelled when she turned her cheek into the side of his neck. He could feel the damp, wispy heat of the tremulous breath she released, the fringe of long, dark lashes against his throat.
    His knuckles beneath her chin demanded that she meet his gaze. “Do you remember,” he said softly, “when you asked me what sort of man I am?”
    She nodded. Gareth was well aware of the wariness