Free The Truest Heart by Samantha James Page A

affirmed. “It would seem you know far better than I the consequences of the interdict.”
    A lengthy silence prevailed. Gareth’s gaze had shifted. He stared across the room into the deepening shadows. His profile was broodingly somber.
    “How can this be?” he said after a moment. “How is it possible I know these things, yet my own past eludes me? Whether I come from the north, or the south, or London—” He broke off. His features seemed to freeze. “I’ve been to London,” he said suddenly. “I’ve been there—and I disliked it heartily. The houses were crammed together, almost one upon another. The streets were dirty and smelled of the filthiest stable.” His jaw clenched. “Christ, no wonder Brother Baldric doubts my every word!”
    She could hear the frustration in his tone; at the same time, he sounded so tortured, so tormented, that Gillian’s heart went out to him.
    “It weighs heavily on you, doesn’t it—not being able to remember.”
    “Sometimes it is all I can think of. My mind is never at rest. I try so hard my head aches. I dislike feeling so helpless. I feel…” He made an impatient gesture. “Oh, but I know not how to explain. As if someone holds a sword at my throat and I am incapable of defending myself.” He glanced the length of his body. His mouth twisted in bitter self-derision. “Look at me! Were someone to roust this cottage, it would be you defending me!”
    Gillian smiled faintly. Ah, but it was just like a man to liken any hint of weakness to battle. Was it so terrible to be beholden to a woman? Still, she could understand his feeling of vulnerability. She’d sensed his restlessness, his impatience with his malaise.
    Her smile wilted. ” ‘Tis your wish to remember,” she said quietly. “Yet sometimes I think it is better not to remember.”
    “Is that why you didn’t tell me you were a widow?”
    His directness startled her. Her gaze sped back to his, only to discover his scrutiny was as probing as his query. But before she could answer, he posed another.
    “What was his name?”
    “His name?” she echoed.
    His gaze remained steady on her face. “Yes. His name.”
    Real panic raced through her, for Gillian was woefully unprepared to supply a ready response. She should have been, she realized—ah, why had Brother Baldric felt the need to perpetuate such falsehood?
    “I… Osgood.” God help her, it was the only name she could think of!
    “How long has it been since he died?”
    “Half a year,” she said quickly … too quickly? She held her breath, for he appeared unwilling to abandon the subject.
    “Is it true you still grieve?”
    Gillian’s mind sped straight to her father. Sudden tears blurred her vision. Her soul bled dark with the stain of her loss. She could not speak for the sudden ache that scalded her throat.
    “I see,” Gareth said softly. “So much that it is not your head that aches, but your heart.”
    She looked away, her tone very low. “Is that not the way of grief?”
    “I suppose it is.” It was odd, what her observation evoked. All at once a strange feeling washed over him. In some pocket of awareness deep inside, he was certain that he, too, had once harbored a grief that rivaled hers. But unlike Gillian’s, the pain did not come, for the feeling was as fleeting as his memories.
    Outside there was a distant rumble of thunder, signaling the approach of the storm. Gillian shivered. The storm was drawing close.
    Gareth frowned. “You’re chilled.” He glanced outside, where the veil of night was already drawn over the earth. He held up a corner of the fur coverlet. “Come to bed where it’s warm.”
    It should have been an innocuous enough request, considering they’d spent nearly every hour together the past week, both day and night. Yet all at once Gillian’s heart was knocking wildly. She was starkly conscious of the fact that he was a man, and she was a woman… and they were alone. Alone. And she knew what men and