Free The Truest Heart by Samantha James Page B

women did, alone in the dark, alone in the night.
    So did he. Though he’d displayed no such inclination—at least toward her—of that Gillian had no doubt. She suddenly admitted what she had been unwilling to admit until now—that Gareth was unquestionably the most strikingly handsome man she’d ever laid eyes upon. Black hair spilled jauntily over his forehead. His jaw was square and hard, his nose narrow and aquiline, his brows as dark as his hair and arched over thick-lashed eyes of green. Oh, aye, handsome he was… not just in face, but in form as well…
    Firelight flickered over him. His body was angled slightly toward her, his strength clearly in evidence. A masculine tangle of hair darkened the plane of his chest. Gillian was well acquainted with the iron-hard tightness of his form and the breadth of his shoulders.
    Her throat grew suddenly dry. Indeed, she thought shakily, what did she not notice about him? Her gaze drifted to his face; even in repose, his features had been strikingly arresting. Now her gaze locked onto the cleanly sculpted lines of his mouth. She glanced away in confusion, feeling her body flood with heat, remembering how she’d given him drink … recalling with almost painful acuteness the smooth feel of his lips beneath hers.
    “I cannot.” The refusal slipped out before she could even stop it. She stood so suddenly she knocked over the stool. As she spoke, she backed away several steps.
    His mouth turned down. “Have we not had this discussion before?”
    ” ‘Tis different now.”
    “Different how?”
    “It is not right that I lay beside you.”
    “Because of Osgood?”
    Osgood. For an instant her mind went blank. “Nay,” she gasped before she thought better of it.
    His gaze narrowed. He fixed her with a quietly measured look. “I begin to see.” His silky undertone should have served as a warning. “It’s because of the good brother’s appearance this evening, isn’t it?”
    Gillian had no chance to respond. “You’ve slept beside me all these other nights. You’ve committed no sin. We’ve committed no sin,” he emphasized. “Why so pious and virtuous now?”
    Her chin angled high. A stab of anger pierced the hurt. “Do not tell me,” she said stiffly, “you are a man who knows little of piety and virtue.”
    There was a silence, a silence that ever deepened. “I do not know. Perhaps I am a thief. An outlaw.”
    Gillian looked at him sharply, but this time she detected no trace of bitterness. “I think not. You still have both your hands.”
    “Then perhaps I’m a lucky one. Now come, Gillian.”
    Outside lightning lit up the night sky. The ominous roll of thunder that followed made the walls shake. In a heartbeat Gillian was across the floor— and squarely onto the bed next to him.
    He laughed, the wretch!
    “Perhaps you are not an outlaw,” she flared, “but I begin to suspect you may well be a rogue!”
    He made no answer, but once again lifted the coverlet. Her lips tightened indignantly, but she tugged off her slippers and slid into bed. He respected the space she put between them, but she was aware of the weight of his gaze settling on her in the darkness.
    “Are you afraid of storms?”
    “Nay,” she retorted. As if to put the lie to the denial, lightning sizzled and sparked, illuminating the cottage to near daylight. She gasped. Her gaze swung fearfully to the shutters. There was an answering rumble of thunder.
    She tensed, half-expecting some jibe from Gareth. Instead, his fingers stole through hers, as had become their custom. Thunder cracked anew, yet the fear she should have felt— would have felt if she were alone—did not appear. Oddly comforted, lulled by his presence, it wasn’t long before she felt her muscles loosen and her eyelids grow heavy.
     
    Within the hour, the skies railed and the storm vented its fury, a blasting tempest of wind and rain that pelted the world beneath.
    Curiously, it was not the storm that woke Gillian,