The Hidden Heart
The Hidden Heart
Sharon Schulze
T'was a Love to Remember… Lady Gillian de l'Eau Clair would never forget what she had once shared with Rannulf FitzClifford. How could she, when he had disappeared so suddenly, leaving her with nothing but a cryptic message scrawled upon their betrothal contract?Now, four years later, Rannulf had returned under the guise of being a stranger. And though she wanted nothing to do with him, she'd agreed to keep his secret from her guardian. For Gillian could not deny that despite what he had done, Rannulf FitzClifford would always hold her heart.
Praise for Sharon Schulze’s previous books (#uad9c007e-710a-5c11-96ec-c7f7b8e4fdf8)The Hidden Heart (#u2bc218d3-f03a-50c5-85ec-70e51eb768c1)“Perhaps you did not realize that this is my private chamber, milord,” Gillian said, her tone cold. (#u92998826-6a5b-5652-ae2a-b140dbea6a40)Letter to Reader (#u2a90dbd7-1aac-5d94-88bc-0fbbdef9e090)Title Page (#u4e8b075c-e244-5532-b0b8-6e64a765e0dc)About the Author (#u454b1380-39e8-5c4a-9c20-33ebbace98fd)Dedication (#ufe4cc76d-6860-5961-8c07-fea457355ab3)Prologue (#u21295b44-3b1b-5210-b4a7-7ee7c9e08853)Chapter One (#uf73253bc-e301-5288-b492-4202f4aa1890)Chapter Two (#ue8f731b1-d41e-58e6-821d-2fc5f6be08d9)Chapter Three (#ub632d2e9-ae6a-5db6-900e-a98a01b373a6)Chapter Four (#u3b87f2dc-87be-5052-b0bb-c8298288cb0a)Chapter Five (#u0377ae0f-40f7-5c29-939a-dc549f75bdc2)Chapter Six (#ucb2085ef-2773-5806-bcdf-e3306029b89f)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise for Sharon Schulze’s previous books
The Shielded Heart
“A fine addition to the author’s l’Eau Clair Chronicles, and one that will make readers look foward to more!”
—Romantic Times Magazine
To tame a Warrior’s Heart
“One swashbuckler readers will enjoy.
K.I.S.S. of the Month.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
Heart of the Dragon—1995 Golden Heart Finalist
“A moving and vastly entertaining tale...”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
The Hidden Heart
Harlequin Historicla #484—November 1999
DON’T MISS THESE OTHER TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:
#483 LADY SARAH’S SON
Gayle Wilson
#485 COOPER’S WIFE
Jillian Hart
#486 THE DREAMMAKER
Judith Stacy
“Perhaps you did not realize that this is my private chamber, milord,” Gillian said, her tone cold.
“You must also be unaware that ’tis most unseemly for us to be here unchaperoned.” She met Rannulf’s eyes, tried to ignore the heat she saw smoldering there.
“I suggest you leave at once, before my guardian discovers you here. I am certain he wouldn’t approve.”
Rannulf closed the space between them and leaned close, his breath warm against her cheek. “You never used to mind us being alone together, Gillian. Indeed, I think you welcomed it...welcomed me.”
Jerking back from him, she said, her voice little more than a croak of sound, “You, sir, are no gentleman.”
“And you, milady, knew that already.” He drew closer as his hand crept nearer her chest. “I believe ’twas one of the things you liked best about me.”
Dear Reader,
Welcome to Harlequin Historicals—stories that will capture your heart with unforgettable characters and the timeless fantasy of falling in love!
Sharon Schulze returns this month with the fourth book in her popular L’EAU CLAIR CHRONICLES, The Hidden Heart. Since Sharon’s debut in our 1997 March Madness Promotion with Heart of the Dragon, critics have hailed her work as “rich” and “satisfying.” In this medieval novel, a beautiful noblewoman must guard her heart from the only man she has ever really loved—the Earl of Wynfield, who has returned to her keep on a dangerous secret mission. Watch love begin anew!
Fans of Western romance will no doubt enjoy Cooper’s Wife by Jilhan Hart, the heartwarming tale of single parents—a lonely sheriff and a troubled widow—who marry to protect their children, but find a lasting love. And in The Dreammaker by Judith Stacy, also a Western, two people who are swindled by the same man go into business together to recoup their losses and realize their dreams—when love, the dream of a lifetime, is right in front of them! Award-winning author Gayle Wilson’s latest Regency-style historical, Lady Sarah’s Son, is the heart-wrenching tale of sweethearts, torn apart by tragedy, who come together again in a marriage of convenience and can no longer deny their enduring love....
Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell, Senior Editor
P.S. We’d love to hear what you think about Harlequin Historicals! Drop us a line at:
Harlequin Historicals
300 E. 42nd Street, 6th Floor
New York, NY 10017
The Hidden Heart
Sharon Schulze
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SHARON SCHULZE
began writing romances while pursuing her first career as a civil engineer, and discovered that confirmed day-dreamer /bookaholics can practice their craft anywhere, even somewhere as unromantic as a wastewater treatment plant. In her writing, she gets the chance to experience days gone by—without encountering disease, vermin and archaic plumbing!
A New Hampshire native, she now makes her home in Connecticut with her husband, Cliff, their children, Patrick and Christina, and her “lovely assistant”—Samantha, a miniature dachshund. In her ever-shrinking spare time she enjoys movies, music and poking around in antique shops.
Readers may contact her at P.O. Box 180, Oakville, CT 06779.
With love and appreciation to my husband,
Clifford—
ever and always my hero.
Prologue
The Welsh Marches, spring 1213
Gillian de I’Eau Clair leaned over the curtain wall of I’Eau Clair Keep and stared down at the new grass covering her father’s grave. Nigh two months gone, yet the pain of his loss had scarce eased. And now to find this among her father’s papers! She crushed the unsigned betrothal contract clasped in her hand with all the strength of her aching heart and cursed the man who’d scrawled his stark refusal where his acceptance should have been.
Rannulf FitzClifford—once the friend of the child she’d been, later her heart’s desire. As she had been his, so he’d led her to believe. The date on the agreement remained etched upon her brain—her seventeenth birthday, more than two years past—not long after his visits to I’Eau Clair had suddenly ceased, as if he’d vanished from her world forever.
It seemed her father hadn’t allowed that fact to prevent him from trying to further his plan to see her and Rannulf wed.
She raised her arm to toss the useless document away, then paused and let it fall to her feet. She dropped to her knees and pressed her cheek against the uneven stones as she fought the despair threatening to overwhelm her.
She’d sent word of her father’s death to her godfather, the earl of Pembroke; her kinsman, Prince Llywelyn of Wales; everyone she thought might help her fight off the unknown foe who had harried her people and her lands since her father’s passing. She stifled a bitter laugh. By the Virgin, she’d even sent a messenger to her overlord, King John, though she hadn’t a bit of hope he’d bother to fulfill his duty.
Though it had been two months, none had bothered to reply.
In her desperation, she’d thought to put aside her wounded pride and contact Rannulf. She had searched through the documents stored away in her father’s chamber for some hint of how to reach him.
What she’d found destroyed that plan, for ’twas clear by his words he wanted naught to do with her.
The icy wind beat against her, whipped her unbound hair about her face and sent the crumpled missive skittering toward the edge of the wooden walkway. “Nay,” she cried, and lunged to grab it. The parchment grasped tight in one hand, the edge of the crenel in the other, she rose to her feet and let the cold, powerful gusts blow away the fear and cowardice she’d allowed to beset her.
She smoothed out the contract and forced herself to read the hurtful message once more. She’d keep it as a reminder, lest she forget yet again that the only person she could depend upon was herself.
Chapter One
Rannulf strode through the dark and silent streets of London, taking care to avoid the noisome puddles, more easily smelled than seen in the fitful moonlight. He’d rather have waited till morning to obey his overlord’s command, but judging from the message he’d received upon his arrival in the city, Lord Nicholas would be put off no longer.
He’d managed to escape meeting Nicholas Talbot for nigh two years, sending his men under the able command of his lieutenant whenever Talbot required his aid. He’d served Talbot’s uncle, the previous lord of Ashby, long enough to know he’d no desire to deal with another Talbot if he could avoid it.
Raking his hand through his still-damp hair, he paused before the prosperous-looking merchant’s house Talbot had hired to billet his troops. He’d not arrived too late, alas, for light still showed golden through the shutters. ’Twas past time to learn if this Talbot would prove to be another branch of the same twisted tree as his uncle had been.
The servant who answered his summons led him through the barracks set up on the ground floor—full of men tossing dice and swilling ale—and up a flight of stairs at the far end of the room. The lackey thrust aside the curtain covering the doorway at the top and motioned Rannulf into the room. “’Tis Lord Rannulf FitzClifford, milord,” he said.
The tall man who rose from the settle before the fire and turned to face him wore the look of both warrior and courtier—a dangerous combination seen all too often in King John’s court. Rannulf bit back a groan and shoved his travel weariness aside. It seemed Lord William Marshal, the earl of Pembroke, had the right of it when he warned Rannulf he’d best be on guard in his overlord’s presence. Nicholas Talbot would bear watching.
Rannulf stepped into the chamber and bowed. “My lord.”
“FitzClifford.” Talbot motioned him to a chair before the fire. “’Tis a pleasure to meet you at last.” He picked up an intricately chased ewer from a nearby table. “Wine?” he asked as he poured a measure into a silver goblet.
“Aye, thank you.” Rannulf took the drink, casting a swift look about him while Talbot poured himself wine and resumed his seat on the settle.
The lord of Ashby enjoyed his comforts, from the look of it, for his garments appeared as costly as his surroundings. Gold threads shimmered in the fanciful design embroidered about the neck and cuffs of his deep green tunic, and his boots and belt were the finest leather. Rannulf sipped his wine—a vintage worthy of the cup, he noted without surprise—and glanced down at his own much simpler garb. Though the soft wool and well-worn leather were of good quality, he’d never felt the need to adorn himself in the vivid colors and elaborate embellishments so popular at court.
Besides, why should he bother? He’d no desire to draw attention to himself, be it from his peers—or from women.
He’d no place for either in his life.
Why, then, did the mere thought set up a deep yearning for all he’d lost?
He quashed the hint of weakness and buried it once again. He deserved nothing more than this new life he’d fashioned for himself—one of duty, of honorable toil, of atonement for his sins.
Though it would never be enough, he could do naught but try.
Rannulf forced himself to sit back in the chair and bring the chalice to his lips, to savor the wine and smile with pleasure at finally meeting his overlord.
“I’m pleased you’re able to join me at last, FitzClifford. I’ve need of your men, ’tis true, but I’ll be glad of your company as well.” Talbot’s mouth curved in a wry smile as he shook his head. “Especially in this latest venture the king has set me upon.”
Interest piqued, Rannulf straightened. “And why is that, milord?” He raised his cup and took his time draining it, watching Talbot closely all the while.
“It seems I’ve angered the king yet again.” Talbot thumped down his goblet on a side table and leaned forward.
“Yet again?” Rannulf asked. “‘Tis’a habit, I take it?”
“So it seems,” the other man muttered. “Although perhaps ‘angered’ is too strong a word. Our liege finds me more of an annoyance, a fly buzzing along the fringe of his notice.” He grimaced.
“’Tis dangerous to upset the king, milord, no matter the degree. Best pray he doesn’t decide to slap away the annoyance with the blade of his sword.” It wouldn’t be the first time their liege had dealt thus with his own nobles. But Talbot must know the king well enough to realize that fact. “I’m surprised you’re still here to tell of it.”
Talbot sighed and glanced up, meeting Rannulf’s curious gaze. “I’ll not be here for much longer,” he said wryly. “Nor will you. By the king’s decree, we’ve been banished to the hinterlands—at least until his anger abates, or he grows bored and calls me back.”
By Christ’s bones, was he to be tarred with the same brush as Talbot? Rannulf bit back a groan of frustration. While ’twas his intent to stay close to Talbot for the nonce, he’d no desire to draw King John’s attention.
Though he had no intention of sharing that bit of information.
“Where are we bound, milord?” he asked, though the answer mattered to him not a whit. He had his orders and his obligation to his overlord to consider as well. ’Twas idle curiosity that brought the question to his lips, nothing more.
Talbot rose and crossed to the table to pour more wine, then set his cup aside untouched. “I’ve the writ here someplace,” he muttered. He opened a plain wooden box—conspicuous in its simplicity—that sat next to the ewer of wine, and shuffled through the jumble of scrolls before drawing forth a beribboned parchment. “The king leaves little to chance,” he said, moving closer to the fire. “My orders are set forth here, couched in such terms as to make it appear that I deserve congratulations on my good fortune. I’m to be warden of a keep, and guardian of its lady.” He unrolled the missive and scanned it. “Of course, judging by the king’s mood when he bestowed this upon me—” he brandished the parchment in the air “—’tis just as likely that condolences would be appropriate.” Scowling, he cast another glance at the decree, then held it out to Rannulf. “What do you think this means?”
Rannulf rose and took the scroll, turning the document into the light as he held it open to read.
The words shone dark and clear to his disbelieving gaze before the shadows he’d thought locked deep within his heart broke free and jumbled the letters into a meaningless scrawl.
But that one brief glimpse had been time enough to etch the image upon his brain—and his heart.
Talbot had become guardian of the lady of I’Eau Clair....
Gillian.
Rannulf could have sworn his heart ceased to beat for a moment from the shock of seeing her name. It took several attempts before he could force his voice past his lips. “Congratulations, milord,” he said, his hearty tone at odds with the sense of panic rushing through his veins. “A Marcher keep, it says.” He reached for his drink and brought it halfway to his mouth before he remembered ’twas empty. Biting back a curse, he pretended to drink, then set the cup aside and scanned the words again. He’d best proceed with care, lest he reveal more information than the brief missive contained. “And a noble lady.” He glanced up at Talbot, who stood poised by the fireplace, worry—or was that confusion?—written on his handsome face. By sheer force of will Rannulf curled his mouth into a careless grin. “Just think of the possibilities.”
“Believe me, I have.” Talbot sat down abruptly, slumping into the chair, his fingers clasped tightly on the carved arms. “Given the king’s mood, I‘Eau Clair Keep is likely naught more than a crumbling ruin, and its lady a crone stooped and withered with age.” He grabbed his wine from the table and gulped it down. “Or a babe still wrapped in swaddling bands. Either way, ’tis no prize I’ve won, FitzClifford. Of that I have no doubt.” He stared into the flickering fire, his expression grim.
Rannulf’s mind reeled. If Talbot knew the truth of the situation, they’d have left London already. He could only be grateful for his overlord’s ignorance.
But such good fortune couldn’t last. Talbot could scarce avoid the king’s command for long. Rannulf considered ways to elude this trap before Talbot was ready to set out for I’Eau Clair, but even as his frantic brain sought shelter from his predicament, he knew there was no escape.
He had his orders, to stay with Talbot at all costs, to observe this crony of the king’s. ’Twas a stroke of luck that the man was his overlord, giving him the perfect opportunity to obey Pembroke’s command. Even if it were possible to send word of the situation to Pembroke, Rannulf knew his orders would not change. Indeed, he could well imagine Pembroke’s pleasure that fate had placed Rannulf in the perfect position to not only keep a close eye on Talbot, but on Pembroke’s godchild as well. Pembroke could not have arranged the matter better had he set it up himself.
Had Pembroke arranged it thus? He bit back a curse. Nay, his foster father would have told him of Lord Simon’s death, warned him that Talbot was bound for I’Eau Clair. Besides, wouldn’t Pembroke have arranged the wardship for himself, had he any say in the matter? Despite his quarrels with the king, he was Gillian’s godfather. Who better to protect her, after all?
By Christ’s bones, he sought plots where there were none! He closed his eyes for a moment, then blinked them open again to dispel the image of Gillian that rose to fill his mind. The mere thought of her held the power to addle his wits. Time and hard-won maturity had not changed that fact, it seemed.
He glanced at Talbot, still enthralled by the fire. His displeasure at his fate would be short-lived, Rannulf had no doubt, for once Nicholas Talbot arrived at the mighty stronghold of I’Eau Clair and caught sight of his beautiful ward, the man would count himself twice blessed.
And Rannulf would be cursed to a purgatory worse than Satan himself could devise.
’Twas his lot in life—why expect change now? He’d a job to do. He stood, poured himself a generous measure of wine, then topped off Talbot’s goblet and held it out to him.
“Come, milord, drink to your good fortune.”
Talbot looked up, his strange violet eyes still troubled, and accepted the wine. “Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “You’re not the one who might be saddled with a child, or an old woman past her prime.”
Aye, but I’d gladly be burdened with the lady of I‘Eau Clair. ’Twas all Rannulf could manage to hold back the words. “It cannot be any worse than you’ve surmised,” he said instead.
Talbot rose. “I pray you’re right, FitzClifford.” He raised his goblet. “To Lady Gillian,” he said. “May she be a beauty beyond compare, a paragon among women....” He drank.
Rannulf brought his wine to his lips and sipped the heady brew, then nearly choked at Talbot’s next words.
“...a meek, sweet, silent dove with not a thought of her own.” Grinning now, Talbot quaffed the rest of his wine and slammed the goblet down on the table.
Rannulf set his own wine aside. Unless Gillian had changed—drastically—in the past few years, his overlord could not have been more wrong about the woman who would be his ward.
He’d not have a moment’s peace between here and the Marches, he could see that clear enough. And once they arrived at I’Eau Clair... Rannulf shook his head. It appeared his time in purgatory had already begun.
Chapter Two
The distant thunder of hoofbeats beyond the castle walls captured Gillian’s attention as she crossed the bailey to the keep. “Riders approaching!” cried a guard. “Close the gates!”
Several women shrieked and hurried toward the stairs to the hall, while the men in the bailey clustered near the gatehouse. A man-at-arms stepped into the narrow doorway beside the gate to urge several villagers up the path to the castle, then slammed the door closed behind them as the portcullis began its ponderous descent.
Heart racing, Gillian gathered up her skirts and headed back toward the curtain wall.
She cast a swift glance at the heavy wooden gate—already barred against intruders, she noted gratefully—before mounting the steep stairs to the guardhouse atop the wall.
“What do you see, Will?” she asked the guard when she reached the top.
“‘Tis a party of riders, milady,” he replied. “They’ve got no engines of war, but I can see the sun shinin’ off their armor.” He stepped back from the arrow slit so she could join him. “They rode straight by the village.”
“Praise God.” She breathed a sigh of relief at that blessing. Though many of the villagers had moved within the castle wall since the attacks on the outlying farms of her demesne, still the fields needed to be tilled and the cattle and sheep pastured outside. Unless faced with a direct attack, life beyond the walls of I’Eau Clair must go on, lest they all starve come winter.
Gillian turned to slip farther into the slit, accepting Will’s help to kneel within the deep embrasure. Bracmg herself with one hand, she raised the other to shade her eyes against the bright spring sun. “Holy Mary save us,” she whispered when the breeze snapped open the pennon atop the lead rider’s lance.
She could not mistake the raven blazoned stark and bold upon the shimmering silver cloth.
The device of her Welsh kinsman, Steffan ap Rhys.
What could he want with her? She feared she knew the answer to that only too well. A shudder swept over her as she recalled the last time they’d met, the feel of his heated gaze, foul and possessive, creeping over her from head to toe. Nay, she’d not permit him to worm his way within these walls by accepting so much as a crust of bread from him.
“Milady?”
She slumped back against the cold stones and closed her eyes for a moment. “Keep the gates barred, Will, and man the walls.” Why him—and why now? Hadn’t she enough troubles to deal with?
“Shall we heat stones and oil, milady?”
She opened her eyes at the eagerness in Will’s voice. “I doubt that will be necessary.” Straightening, she slid from the slit unassisted, shook out her skirts and adjusted her veil. “Much as I’d enjoy seeing my cousin’s reaction to such a greeting, ‘tis no way to welcome him to I’Eau Clair.” She brushed past Will and headed for the door leading to the battlements. “Of course, he doesn’t deserve much better than that as a welcome, either, the arrogant knave,” she muttered to herself. She stepped through the portal, then turned to the guard at the door. “Send for Sir Henry to join us, if he’s within.”
“Aye, milady.” He bowed and left.
“Will, come with me. Steffan’s so thickheaded, it just may take a show of force to convince him to leave.”
Will chuckled. “I remember Lord Steffan well,” he said. They left the gatehouse, and Gillian led the way to a spot where they’d have the best view of the track to I’Eau Clair. “Do you recall the time, milady, not so many years past, when we crept into his chamber and hid all his fancy clothes while he was in the bath?”
Heat flooded Gillian’s face. “I do, though it does neither of us credit.” She stared out over the treetops. “Lady Alys was sorely disappointed. She thought she’d made a lady of me.”
Will snorted.
Gillian jabbed at his ribs with her elbow—a reaction left over from their childhood—then groaned as she connected with his mail hauberk.
He somehow contrived to look wounded. “You might have had the look of a lady by then, but inside you were still Gilles, the brave lad who used to join in all our schemes.”
“Steffan thought I was a lady even then, unfortunately.” She couldn’t keep a trace of bitterness from her voice, but she thought she at least hid her fear.
Will had the right of it, though she’d never admit it. Her transformation from “lad” to lady had taken far longer than she’d ever imagined it would. And there were times—few and far between, ’twas true—when she wished it had never happened. “The miles of thread I spun and wove as punishment for that jest cured me of the last of my old ways,” she said. “Gilles disappeared many years ago, by my choice.”
Steffan and his men rode out from the trees between the village and the castle and trotted up the last rise at a decorous pace, casting her thoughts of the past to the back of her mind where they belonged.
She’d trouble enough to face in the here and now. Gillian squared her shoulders and moved into the opening of an embrasure where she’d be visible from the area across the moat.
Steffan and his party—eight men-at-arms and a standard-bearer—halted on the bank of the moat. He slipped off his helm and placed it on the high pommel of his saddle.
Still atop his mount, he bowed with all the finesse of a French courtier, his handsome face alight with pleasure from the look of it. Straightening, he scanned her face with a piercing look. “My dearest cousin.”
“Milord,” she called down to him, her voice cold as death. ’Twould take more than that display to impress her! “What brings you here, so far from home?”
“Once I heard your sad news, I had to come at once to offer my condolences—and my support. You and I have much to discuss. May we enter I’Eau Clair and take our ease?” he asked, including his men with a sweep of his hand.
Take his ease? He’d want more than that, of that she had no doubt. “I thank you for your sympathy, milord. ’Tis much appreciated. But I fear we cannot permit you—or anyone,” she added lest he question her choices, “to come within.”
Steffan drew in a deep breath and his face went still and cold—a remarkable transformation, but one that did not surprise Gillian in the least. He concealed his true self behind the veil of elaborate manners and fine clothes, but she’d been in Steffan’s presence often enough over the years to know him for a sly weakling. He was all talk and little action.
She’d no desire to waste her time listening to the likes of Steffan ap Rhys jabber on about nothing.
Especially not now.
Before she could draw breath to speak, Steffan’s expression had regained its usual urbanity. He tossed his helm to the man beside him and slipped from the saddle, bowing once more.
Did he truly believe his airs would change her mind?
“Cousin, I must speak with you.” Another motion of his hand and a sharp nod sent his men riding a short distance down the trail toward the village. He headed toward the door beside the gate with a confident stride.
“Hold, milord,” Gillian called.
Steffan stopped and stared up at her, the expression on his handsome face still pleasant, but his dark eyes glowing with some other, fiercer emotion.
At the sound of firm footsteps on the stairs, she glanced over her shoulder. Sir Henry, the captain of the guard, crossed the guardroom and joined her and Will. “I wondered how long ’twould be before yon popinjay dared show his face here again,” Sir Henry muttered, scorn etched deep upon his bearded visage. “Especially now that your father’s not here to send him on his way yet again—”
Gillian cut him off with a hand on his mail-clad arm. “Fear not—he’ll find no welcome here,” she assured the grizzled warrior. She smiled. “I know just what to do to send him on his way,” she added, low-voiced. She clasped her fingers tight about Sir Henry’s arm for a moment, taking comfort from the strength tensed beneath her grip before she released him and turned her attention back to Steffan.
“Milord, we’ve sickness within the keep. Surely you noticed the graves outside the wall.” ’Twas no effort to imbue her voice with sorrow for those words, but to strengthen her tone for the next... aye, that was a chore. “I would not have you risk your health—perhaps even your life—merely to speak with me,” she said, eyes downcast. “Nothing could be that important.”
Sir Henry snorted, turning the sound into a cough when Steffan eyed him suspiciously.
A look of distaste—nay, fear—crossed Steffan’s face, so fleeting she could almost believe she’d imagined it.
Almost. She fought back a smile.
“I must speak with you, cousin,” Steffan demanded. “Is there not some way we can talk privately?”
Will gestured for Gillian to move back from the wall. “A moment, milord,” she said, then stepped behind the cloaking mass of a merlon.
“He’ll not leave until he gets his way, milady. You know it as well as I.” Will glanced down at Steffan. “Look at him. The fool’s nigh hopping with impatience.”
“Aye, the lad’s right,” Sir Henry added with disgust. “Lord Steffan’s got something stuck in his craw. The sooner you meet with him, find out what he wants, the quicker you can send him on his way.”
Gillian nodded. “All right. Best to take care of this now.” Her mood brightened. “Mayhap after this, I’ll never need to see Steffan again.”
She returned to the embrasure. “I’ll speak with you, but you cannot come within. Wait for me by the door,” she said, then turned away.
She passed through the guardroom, Will and Sir Henry on her heels, and came to a halt at the head of the stairs. “My shadows,” she muttered. “You need not accompany me. He cannot harm me if I stay within, and he remains outside.”
“Who’s to say he’ll obey you?” Will growled. “He’s ne’er shown any inclination to listen to anyone but himself, so far’s I’ve seen. You need one of us there to make certain he behaves himself.”
Though she didn’t believe Steffan meant her any harm—and she knew the threat of sickness would keep him from entering I’Eau Clair—Will could be right. Steffan seemed more determined than she’d ever seen him.
But she’d no desire to prolong the agony of holding a conversation with him, either. “Sir Henry, come with me. If it looks as though Steffan plans anything too dangerous, I’m sure a glare from you will put him in his place.” She chuckled. “Your presence alone, especially once he sees the scowl on your face, should be spur enough to speed him on his way.”
As Gillian and Sir Henry made their way through the now-silent bailey, Gillian kept her expression relaxed, nodding to the group of villagers milling about near the stairs to the keep. Steffan was no threat to any of them—to anyone, most like. No sense adding more fuel to the already smoldering tension tearing at her people.
Sir Henry dismissed the man guarding the doorway and unbolted the heavy portal himself. He swung it open just far enough to reveal Steffan standing nigh upon the doorsill, one hand resting against the frame.
He straightened and reached for Gillian’s hand as she stepped into the narrow opening.
“None of that, milord,” Sir Henry growled, making as if to move in front of Gillian.
She stood her ground. “Nay, Sir Henry. I’m sure Lord Steffan knows I’ve been caring for the sick. If he wishes to risk illness himself, ’tis his affair.”
’Twas almost beyond her to stifle a laugh at Steffan’s swift retreat. Once he stood several paces away from the doorway, he bowed once more.
Face composed, she curtsied. “What did you wish to speak with me about?” she asked with more haste than grace.
He took one step closer to her, then glared past her at Sir Henry. “I wished to be private, cousin,” he hissed.
She permitted herself a faint smile. “We are private, milord.”
“As private as you’ll get,” Sir Henry muttered.
Gillian silenced the knight with a glance over her shoulder. “Sir Henry is privy to all my business, milord, for ‘tis his business to protect I’Eau Clair and all who dwell here.” She gathered her skirts in her hands, prepared to leave. “Speak or remain silent, it matters naught to me. But you’ll say your piece before us both, or not at all.”
She could practically hear Steffan’s teeth grinding, though his frustration showed only in his eyes, not upon his face. “I’ve come to offer my hand and heart, Gillian, to claim you as my bride.” He swept a hand through his dark curls, sighed heavily, then held both hands out to her in supplication. “You must see, ‘tis a perfect match. With the two of us ruling I’Eau Clair as one, our blood—the blood of Welsh princes—joined together in our sons, our dynasty will be a force to be reckoned with in the Marches. Welsh and Norman both will cede to us the power we deserve.”
She could scarce draw breath after his outrageous words, could barely restrain herself from grabbing for the glossy hair swinging to his shoulders and wrenching his throat back for her blade.
Instead she used her body to block the doorway and hold back a cursing Sir Henry, though her fingers closed tight around the hilt of the dainty jeweled eating knife at her waist. “Sir Henry!” she snapped when the knight clamped his hand about her arm and tugged her from the doorway. He released her at once. “One madman is all I can deal with for the moment.”
She stepped back into the doorway just as Steffan whipped a dagger from the sheath on his sword belt and held it toward Sir Henry. “You dare lay hands upon your lady?” Steffan snarled. Gillian drew her own blade and raised it threateningly when he would have lunged past her at her man. The unmistakable sound of Sir Henry’s sword slipping free behind her sent a chill through her.
“Enough, both of you!” She glanced from the naked steel glinting in the sunlight to the fire raging in Steffan’s eyes, then sighed. “We’ve all gone mad, it seems.” She lowered her knife. “Have done, both of you. I’m no piece of meat for you to fight over.”
Steffan rammed his dagger home, scowling his displeasure. Gillian feared ’twould take little to push him past reason.
“Sir Henry?” She peered back at him and saw that he’d sheathed his sword, but hadn’t bothered to hide his temper. Hot color tinted his cheeks, and he looked ready to burst.
This had been a bad idea from the start; she’d best end it now, before the next flash of steel—and she’d no doubt they’d come to that point again, should she attempt to converse with that lunatic Steffan.
Gillian raised her chin and looked Steffan in the eye. “I’m honored by your offer, milord.” How she forced those words past her lips, she’d no notion. “But ’tis not for me to say who I must wed,” she murmured. “My hand and inheritance are King John’s to give.” She lowered her gaze, then glanced up at him through her lashes. “You are welcome to apply to my liege, if you truly wish to marry me.”
Steffan’s expression didn’t appear so pleasant now, she noted with a secret smile. And his bow was so abrupt as to be insulting. “What of your father’s wishes in the matter? When last we met, but a few months ago, he led me to believe he thought us well matched.”
The hint of amusement she’d felt at taunting Steffan fled as swiftly as it had arrived. “Indeed?” she asked, her curt tone matching his. “Since my father’s death I’ve looked through all his papers. I’ve found nothing to indicate he ever thought of you at all.”
She couldn’t be certain whether ’twas her words, or Sir Henry’s muffled snort that overset Steffan’s fine manners. Whatever the reason, she could only offer up silent thanks.
“You’ve not heard the last of this, Gillian,” he sneered, all trace of the handsome courtier gone. He stared long and hard at her, then shifted his gaze to Sir Henry. “I’ll go to your king, if need be.” He reached for her arm, then evidently thought better of such a foolhardy act and let his hand drop just short of her. “You will be mine.” He turned on his heel and headed for his mount, pausing a few paces from the showy beast. “And once you are, I swear you’ll never mock me again.”
Chapter Three
The look Steffan gave her just before he spurred his horse into a gallop haunted Gillian through the rest of the day. She’d never cared for him in the slightest; indeed, she’d felt nothing but scorn for him for as long as she could remember. Her other Welsh kin—her distant cousins Ian and Catrin, especially—were dear to her. She welcomed their rare visits to I’Eau Clair. Her father had respected them, had encouraged her to nurture these ties to her mother’s family.
Now that she was seated at the table in her solar to tally the accounts, she could hold back her thoughts no longer.
She tossed aside the quill she’d been using and settled back in her chair, tugging off her veil and unplaiting her tightly braided hair. The thought of taking Steffan as her husband disgusted her. Had Rannulf FitzClifford spoiled her taste for all other men? When she thought back to his last visit, to the closeness they’d shared...
How could she ever hope to have that with another?
And to abandon her as he had—without warning, without reason. Had he gained all he wanted from her, and desired her no more? Or had he found her lacking?
The answer was beyond her ability to understand. She’d never have an opportunity to learn the answers from him, that much had been clear from the message he’d penned upon the betrothal contract.
She fought the urge to draw the crumpled parchment from the box where she’d locked it away. In the week since she’d found the missive, her mind refused to set her free of it. Her thoughts circled, distracting her as she sought some way to protect her people, her home.
Was she doomed to mourn his loss yet again?
Rannulf FitzClifford did not deserve her attention or the time she’d wasted upon the lost cause he represented.
Matters of far greater import weighed heavy on her. How to provide for her people, to protect them, to uncover the miscreants who seemed set upon destroying all her father had established. She raked her hands through the trailing mass of her hair and pressed her fingers against the throbbing ache at her temples.
The sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs to her solar provided a welcome distraction. She rose and opened the door.
Will reached the top of the spiral stair and hurried to her. “Riders approach, milady,” he said, his urgent tone matching his expression.
Gillian drew the door closed behind her and sighed. “Not Steffan again?” she asked, already racking her brain for another way to keep him outside the gates.
“Nay, milady. ‘Tis far worse.” Will motioned for her to precede him down the stairs. “’Tis a war party, Lady Gillian, nigh a hundred strong. They’re armed to the teeth and provisioned for siege, to judge from the size of their baggage train.”
Her heartbeat raced, increasing the sense of urgency flying through her veins. Was this the attack she’d feared since the raids began? She’d known ‘twas but a matter of time before I’Eau Clair itself became the target!
Her boots clattered on the stone risers as she hastened down them, snatching up her hem and running once she reached the great hall. “Muster anyone who can fight in the bailey at once,” she told Will, who followed hot on her heels. “And send the older women and the children to wait in here.” Her maid met them near the door. ”Ella, you’d best prepare to care for the wounded in here as well,” she said.
“Aye, milady,” Ella said, then snatched at Gillian’s arm as she made to pass through the door Will held open. “Here now, where are you going?”
Gillian drew a deep breath. “To the walls.”
“Nay, child, ’tis no place for you.”
Gillian reached down and took Ella’s hand in hers and lifted it, freeing herself. She gave Ella’s fingers a quick squeeze before releasing her. “Where else should I be? I command I‘Eau Clair now. ’Tis my place to lead my people.” She pressed a kiss to Ella’s wrinkled cheek and gathered up her skirts again. “I’ll be fine,” she said before she turned and left the hall.
“Where is my sword?” she asked Will as they hastened through the crowd already gathering in the bailey.
Will stopped in his tracks. “You’ve no need for that,” he said, his voice more stern than she’d ever heard it. “Do you think to lead us in battle? By Christ’s blood, Gil—”
“Bring me a sword, Will. Now.” Not waiting to see if he’d heed her command, she continued on and raced up the gatehouse stairs.
A lad dashed after them, calling for Will, and entered the gatehouse in their wake. “A moment, milady,” Will called as Gillian headed for the wall walk.
He took her sword from the boy and handed it to her, his lips twisted into a rueful smile.
“You know me too well,” she said as she slid free the blade and set aside the scabbard. Fingers clenched tight about the hilt, Gillian drew a deep breath to settle herself and stepped out onto the walk. Still not ready, she moved past the first merlon, catching a glimpse of what awaited them below.
She paused for a moment, scarce able to breathe, then forced herself to turn and look over the wall.
“Holy Mary save us,” she whispered. She leaned into the crenel, her free hand braced on the low stone wall as she gazed, transfixed, at the army spread out across the crest of the hill.
They were doomed.
Rannulf sat atop his stallion before the familiar gray walls of I’Eau Clair Keep and fought back the wave of memories threatening to flood his mind. He could not permit his heart to reign over his head, no matter the provocation.
He would not allow himself close to Gillian again.
A flash of red—Gillian’s hair, no mistaking it—moved swiftly past the crenels of the gatehouse tower, making his heartbeat trip and falter for a moment.
He doubted the battle between heart and mind would ever cease. The moment he’d dreaded since the night he met Talbot had arrived, and he felt no more in command of himself now than he had the last time he’d seen Gillian.
He took a deep breath and reached up to tug his helm lower over his brow—a more comfortable position, true, but also a way to hide his identity from Gillian’s keen eyes for a little while longer.
By the rood, his reaction to her this time was stronger than ever before, and he’d yet to face her.
’Twas all he could do to stay put, and not spur his mount far away from the one woman he’d prayed he would never have to face again.
Nicholas nudged his mount closer to Rannulf’s. “How long do they expect us to sit here before someone comes to answer our summons?” Nicholas asked, low-voiced.
“There’s some movement on the wall,” Rannulf said, just as Gillian came fully into view between two tall crenels.
The sight of her traveled from his eyes to his brain, and then to land like a blow from a mailed fist to his chest.
How could he have forgotten how lovely she was? Her unbound hair framed the pale alabaster glow of her face, the wavy mass hanging past her waist to disappear behind the wall.
“By the Virgin,” Talbot declared, his expression as awestruck as his tone. “Please let that be my ward.” He urged his horse forward and whipped off his helm. “Milady,” he called. He bowed so low, Rannulf noted with disgust, ’twas a wonder he didn’t fall from the saddle.
Gillian straightened and moved nearer the edge of the wall, revealing the sword she held in her left hand—and the full beauty of her form, outlined against the deep blue sky. Rannulf bit back a smile of admiration at the sight of her courage. His heart sank at Talbot’s obvious appreciation, although Talbot had yet to notice the blade of Gillian’s weapon gleaming in the sunlight, he’d wager. He doubted armed women were Talbot’s style.
However, ’twas Rannulf’s misfortune that Gillian, armed or no, was all the woman he could ever desire.
If she’d changed since he’d last seen her, ’twas only to become more beautiful.
And more stubborn? a voice in the back of his mind mocked. Her sweet temper turned bitter by your betrayal?
“Milord.” She responded to Talbot’s greeting with a curt nod—the perfect accompaniment to the sharpness of her voice—and no smile of welcome brightened her face. “Who are you, and why are you here?”
Talbot’s shoulders stiffened. “I am Lord Nicholas Talbot of Ashby, sent by King John to protect Lady Gillian and her lands. Have I the honor of speaking to my ward? Pray open the gates at once, that I might meet you.”
“To any preening fool who rides up to the door? I think not.” She leaned forward. “What proof have you of your claim?”
“The king’s writ, signed and sealed by our liege himself,” Talbot replied, his tone as cold as hers.
He turned to Rannulf and motioned him forward.
Rannulf rode up to join him, careful to center his attention on the man beside him, not the siren poised above him. Would she be able to feel his presence, as he was all too aware of hers?
“Milord?” he asked, pitching his voice low.
Talbot reached into a leather pouch on his saddle and drew forth a rolled parchment. He held it out toward Rannulf. “Will you permit my vassal to carry the writ within?”
Gillian stared down at Lord Nicholas Talbot. He appeared far too self-assured and handsome—and arrogantly aware of the fact, ’twas easy to see—for her to trust him any more than she’d trusted Steffan that very morn.
She eyed the vassal, who had yet to take the scroll from Talbot. Did the fellow await her permission? Somehow she couldn’t imagine that was the case, but who knew what his hesitation might mean? She could not judge him by his expression, with his face hidden by his helm, but that he was a warrior she could readily see by his strong build and well-worn armor.
She tugged Will aside. “What think you?” she whispered.
He shook his head.
“Aye, why allow a fox amongst the chickens?” A few more whispered words sent Will on his way.
She stepped back toward the crenel. “Your vassal may remain where he belongs, milord—by your side,” she called to Talbot. “Have one of your lackeys bring the writ to my man who awaits him below.” She pointed to the door in the wall beneath her. “He will bring it to me.”
Talbot frowned, then called to a man in servant’s livery from among the mounted men ranged behind him. “As you command, milady,” he replied with ill grace. He handed off the scroll to the manservant who approached him on foot and settled back in the saddle to stare up at her.
Gillian fought the urge to glare back as she waited while Talbot’s man gave the parchment to Will and Will hurried to her side, Sir Henry following hard on his heels.
“I was watchin’ from the other tower, but I figured you’d want me over here,” Sir Henry said.
“Aye. I’d appreciate your counsel.” She set aside her sword and reached for the message Will held out to her.
She stood behind the bulk of a merlon to read the scroll, out of sight of Talbot and his men, for she’d no desire to provide a show for their enjoyment, depending upon her reaction to what the parchment revealed.
Her hands remained steady as she unrolled the writ, examined the seal—King John’s, that much at least was true—and began to scan the words scrawled boldly across the page.
She finished reading, then closed her eyes for a moment before handing the king’s writ to Sir Henry. “He has the right of it,” she murmured. “We’re to welcome Lord Nicholas Talbot, such vassals as he’s brought along and all their men, to ‘aid in the defense and protection of the keep of I’Eau Clair, and specifically the person of its heir and lady—’” She drew in a deep breath. “Me.”
Scowling, Sir Henry looked up from perusing the document. “We’ve no choice but to let them in.” He gave back the parchment. “Though I must admit, all those men’ll come in handy, should we be attacked again.”
Will glanced over the wall. “That they will. Most of them look as though they know how to fight.” He nodded. “And I’d rather fight with ‘em than against ’em.”
Both of them were right. And wasn’t this what she’d hoped for? Help for her people, protection for I’Eau Clair—it seemed her prayers had been answered after all.
How could she regret giving up command of the keep, when it would benefit them all?
“Tell them to lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis,” she ordered. Once Will left to relay her command, she took up her sword once more. The scroll clasped tight in her right hand, her sword in her left, Gillian left the merlon’s protection and composed herself to be hospitable. “My lord Talbot.” She curtsied. “You and your men may enter l’Eau Clair and be welcome.”
Gillian used the brief time it took for Talbot and his party to enter I’Eau Clair to twist her unruly hair back into a rough braid and cover it with a piece of veiling. Emma had just settled a copper circlet upon the finely woven linen when the pounding of booted feet on the stairs heralded Talbot’s arrival.
She dismissed her maid and, heart racing, settled back into the commodious seat of her father’s great chair and reached out to clasp the carved armrests in her hands. The appearance, at least, of command. The chair held pride of place on the dais at the far end of the great hall from the stairs, providing her with a clear view of the entire chamber. It also placed her on display.
Talbot led the way, the sunlight streaming through the tall windows gleaming off his blond hair and the silver embroidery adorning his surcoat. Some might count him handsome, but to her he appeared too polished, too finely turned out for a true warrior.
Gillian lowered her gaze lest he find her staring, and remained seated when he stepped up onto the dais and swept a low bow before her. “Lady Gillian.” He reached for her right hand and raised it to his lips, allowing her a glimpse of his unusual violet eyes before she glanced past him at his men. “Rumors of your beauty did you scant justice, I fear.”
“Milord,” she murmured. She bit back a snort of disgust at his empty flattery and sought to look more closely at his retinue where they stood grouped before her on the main floor of the hall, for something seemed familiar....
“Permit me to introduce my men,” Talbot said as he moved aside, allowing her a clear view of them. “Chief among my vassals is—”
Gillian rose to her feet when the man stepped up onto the dais and swept her a bow so low, it seemed almost a mockery. It took all her control not to lash out with her hand to strike his beloved, lying face.
Only the faint negative shake of his head kept her from saying the name before Talbot did, that and the fact that her shock at the sight of him was so great, she doubted she could force a sound past her lips.
Talbot’s words sounded in her muddled brain, echoed loud over the confusion reigning there.
Rannulf FitzClifford.
Chapter Four
She’d never thought to see him again.
Now that he was here, what should she do?
Force of will alone lent Gillian the strength to remain on her feet, to jolt her heartbeat back to its familiar rhythm, to steady her hand and allow her to rest her fingers upon Rannulf’s battle-hardened palm. “I am honored, milady,” he murmured. The low, rough timbre of his voice, combined with the heated glance he sent her way, sent a traitorous ache throughout her body even before he brushed his lips over the back of her hand.
His gaze returned to her face, his eyes widening for some reason before they fixed upon her. The questions she saw within the deep brown warmth of his eyes startled her from her reverie.
How dare he stare at her thus? She looked away and focused on a point just past the breadth of his shoulders.
“Milord,” she said, giving a terse nod.
The urge to snatch her hand free was nigh impossible to fight, but she eased her fingers from Rannulf’s grasp and tried to ignore his presence as Talbot presented the lesser of his vassals. Calling upon Lady Alys’s training, Gillian remained polite but cool, her welcome no more than courtesy demanded.
Once Talbot had finished, she motioned Sir Henry and Will forward. She made them known to the others, wondering all the while if they’d reveal, through word or deed, that Rannulf FitzClifford was no stranger to them. But neither man betrayed by so much as a scowl any reaction to his sudden presence.
Gillian felt her ire—and her confusion—rise to even greater heights. Did no one but she wish to rant and scream, to show some response to the traitor in their midst?
Her men knew nothing of Rannulf betrayal, she reminded herself. She drew in a deep breath and willed herself to calm. They knew the man, even though they were ignorant of what he’d done. Why didn’t they...?
Sir Henry leaned close. “Milady, you don’t intend to keep ’em standing about in here much longer, I trust,” he whispered, his tone. dry. He urged her to turn slightly away from the others. “You’d best bring this audience to an end soon, else your guardian’s apt to start slavering like a hound down the front of that fancy surcoat of his.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Talbot. Indeed, his eyes held the look of a man much taken with what he saw. And she found the smile lighting his handsome face far too arrogant to acknowledge. Stifling a shudder, she nodded and resumed her seat in the great chair.
“Sir Henry will show your captains to their lodgings,” she told Talbot. “And you may trust Will to settle the reminder of your troops in the barracks.” Curling her fingers about the carved armrests, she drew comfort from the memory of her father’s hands lingering in the selfsame spots. “You and Lord Rannulf are welcome to stay within the keep, of course.”
Talbot’s grin widened at her words, and he accepted with a nod.
While her men led the others away, Gillian rose with as much grace as she could muster and motioned Ella forward. “If you would care to bathe now, Ella will show you to the bathing chamber and assist you. I will have food prepared for you, and your rooms readied, while you refresh yourselves.”
Ella stepped down from the dais and curtsied. “If you’ll come with me, milords?”
Talbot bowed to Gillian. “I’ll see you at supper, then, milady, if you’ll deign to join us?” he asked.
“Of course,” she murmured.
His smile broadening, he bowed again and turned to follow Ella.
Rannulf stepped forward and reached for Gillian’s hand once again. She gave it reluctantly, fuming while he pressed his lips to her fingers, then grasped her hand more tightly when she would have pulled free. “I would speak with you later, milady,” he told her. His dark brown eyes held hers captive. “When we’ve a chance to be private.”
“I think not, milord,” she said, her voice as cold as her heart.
“FitzClifford,” Talbot called. Gillian took advantage of Rannulf’s start of surprise to free herself. “Leave my ward alone,” he chided, his tone amused. “Else you’ll frighten her off with your ardor. At least allow us a chance to know her.” He paused near the door. “Are you coming?”
“Later, Gillian,” Rannulf repeated, his voice too low for Talbot to hear. He straightened. “I beg your pardon, milord,” he called as he turned on his heel and crossed the hall. “‘Twas not my intention to disturb the lady.” He joined Talbot and Ella. “I was much struck by her beauty, ’tis all.”
“Indeed?” His unusual violet eyes alight with amusement, Talbot sent yet another bow her way. Seething, Gillian nodded in return, polite but cool, and stood watching, waiting for them to leave, but it seemed Talbot wasn’t finished yet. “I cannot fault your taste, FitzClifford,” he added as he turned to leave the chamber. “But see that you keep your distance. I find that I’m feeling protective of my ward....”
Gillian remained on her feet as Talbot’s voice trailed away. As soon as the sound of their boots upon the stairs faded, however, she slumped into the chair. Hands shaking, she reached up and slid the veil and circlet from her head and dropped them into her lap.
Blessed Mary save her, how could she bear this? She closed her eyes, but all she could see was her new guardian’s well-tailored clothes, the fantastic, elaborately embroidered design covering his surcoat from neckline to hem. The man had journeyed from London into the fastness of the Marches, yet he appeared more finely turned out than anyone she’d seen in her life. Did the king honestly believe that a man like Talbot—naught but a showy popinjay, from what she’d seen thus far—could protect her people?
She drew her hand over her face and opened her eyes, erasing the image. ‘Twould serve her better to send word to Prince Llywelyn...nay, even to her cousin Steffan himself, to come take command of I’Eau Clair, than to believe Lord Nicholas Talbot competent enough at the art of war to defend them against the most meager of threats.
Could that be why he’d brought Rannulf with him? No matter what she thought of Rannulf—and what did she think of him? she asked herself—she could not deny he was a fierce warrior, strong and well trained. Her father had believed Rannulf capable of holding I’Eau Clair, had offered him her hand and all that went with it—the keep, the lands, her heart....
Her fingers tightened about the metal band in her hand until the jeweled cabochons bit into her palm. To see Rannulf here, once again within these walls, was a situation she’d given up all thought of ever having to face.
Gillian looked down at the circlet and felt her heart falter. It had been months, perhaps years, since she’d last seen it. Why today, of all days, had Ella placed this circlet upon her head?
Giving vent to the rage welling up from deep inside her, she leapt to her feet and hurled the offending item across the room. It clattered against the stone wall and fell to the floor, the puny sound in the cavernous room doing little to satisfy her.
Weariness weighting her movements, she left the dais and crossed the rush-strewn floor, the sharp scent of mint rising from beneath her boots serving to clear away her anger.
She stooped to pick up the circlet, smoothed her fingertips over the flowers etched into the soft copper as she’d done so often in the past. How many times over the years had she sat staring out the window, the copper and jade band clutched in her hands while she stroked the beautiful design and turned her thoughts upon the man who’d given it to her?
A tear trickled down her cheek as she smoothed her fingers over the misshapen circle, then pressed the cool metal to her lips.
’Twas as battered as her heart, she thought, choking back a mirthless laugh. And her heart was like to become more bruised yet, the longer Rannulf remained within her sight.
Gillian dabbed at her wet cheek with the trailing end of her sleeve and straightened her shoulders.
’Twas no wonder Rannulf had stared at her—she could only imagine what he’d thought, to see that circlet upon her head.
But how could Ella have suspected Rannulf FitzClifford’s presence in Talbot’s party?
Rannulf followed Talbot and Ella to the bathing chamber near the laundry, his mind brimming with confusion. He went through the motions of bathing, his brain registering Talbot’s continuing commentary about Gillian’s beauty even as he silently berated himself for a fool.
If he kept on as he’d started, ’twould be no time at all before Talbot discovered far more about Rannulf FitzClifford than Rannulf had ever planned to reveal. By the rood, once he’d noticed the copper circlet Gillian wore—his gift to her the day she’d given herself to him body and soul—it had been all he could manage to keep from sweeping her into his arms, Talbot be damned!
He drew in a deep breath and ducked his head beneath the steaming water, drowning out Talbot’s voice and allowing himself a few moments to clear his thoughts. He could not continue to remind himself of the past. ’Twas long gone, taking the dreams of his youth—and any hope of a future with Gillian—with it.
He could scarce afford to jeopardize all that he had accomplished for Pembroke, simply for the gift of Gillian’s presence in his life.
Not that she’d have aught to do with him at any rate, to judge by her attitude toward him and Talbot both. The Gillian he’d come to know would have welcomed guests to I’Eau Clair with warmth and a genuine smile.
The cold, imperious woman who had greeted them from the dais was a stranger to him, the circlet notwithstanding.
Rannulf popped his head up out of the water and took a gulp of air. He’d be naught but a fool to read anything into the fact that she’d worn his gift. She’d no way of knowing he was part of Talbot’s party. ’Twas a coincidence, nothing more.
Though ’twas surprising she’d kept it after his defection, he mused.
He rubbed his eyes. At least she’d no knowledge of the hateful words he’d penned upon the betrothal agreement. Otherwise he’d never have escaped the hall intact.
He accepted the towel Ella held out to him and wiped his face, then glanced up at the old woman m surprise once her stern glare made an impression upon his befuddled brain.
“My lady is a virtuous maiden, milord,” she said, indignation lending her voice an arrogance not usually heard from a servant.
In his shock, he barely resisted the urge to snap out a response—any response—to her words. Did she think to take him to task here? Now?
And did she suspect...?
Her scowl deepening, Ella looked past him to Talbot, settled into a tub nearer the fire, and he realized she’d spoken to his overlord, not to him. What had Talbot said that he’d missed?
“I care not what the custom is elsewhere, milord, but at I‘Eau Clair ’tis not proper for a young lady, innocent and unwed, to bathe a man.” Ella drew a length of toweling from the stack draped over her arm and fairly snapped it into Talbot’s outstretched hand.
“‘Innocent’ and ‘unwed’ don’t necessarily go together,” Talbot pointed out with a grin. Ella drew herself up and stared down her nose at him. Talbot sat up straighter and held out a placating hand before she could say more. “Though I’ve no doubt your mistress is pure as the Blessed Mother herself, of course.”
Rannulf watched Talbot carefully; the other man’s apparent sincerity lightened the burden of concern he carried. He’d troubles enough to deal with already, without having to worry that Talbot might see Gillian as tainted goods, fair game for his obvious attraction to her.
And if Talbot ever discovered the full truth of Gillian’s purity or lack thereof—and Rannulf’s part in it...
No sense wandering down that peril-strewn path unless they must.
He knew of no reason why the subject should ever arise, so long as he found a chance to speak with Gillian as soon as possible.
Assuming she agreed to do as he asked.
“Indeed, you’d better believe it.” Ella gave a rude snort. “And as for the bathing, I care not whether the guest be King John himself! My lamb’ll not be helping any man with that chore, not while I’m here to stop it,” she added with a decisive nod.
Stifling a chuckle at Ella’s vehemence, Rannulf rose, wrapped the towel about his waist and climbed out of the tub. He turned to face Talbot, curious about how the arrogant lord reacted to the maidservant’s words.
He didn’t seem to have taken offense. Indeed, he appeared at his ease as he slicked back his hair with his free hand and swiped the towel over his face. “I’m pleased to see that my ward has so staunch a champion.” He settled back against the padded edge of the tub with a sigh. “’Twill make my task easier, for I know little about protecting a lady’s virtue.”
Ella bobbed a brusque curtsy in response and turned away, muttering under her breath all the while. “Too busy relieving ’em of it, most like,” Rannulf heard her say as she walked past him, crossed the chamber and knelt by the hearth to tend the fire.
Talbot’s servant, Richard, swept into the room, one arm loaded with Talbot’s clothes, Rannulf’s saddlebag clutched in the other. “These lodgings are not so fine as those we left in London, milord,” the man said with a sniff. He cast a measuring glance about him, his lean face twisted into a frown. “Though I suppose they’ll be sufficient for the nonce.”
Ella rose and turned to face them. “Lord William Marshal, the earl of Pembroke, has broken his journey behind these walls and counted himself well lodged,” she said, her wrinkled visage alight with pride. “They’re more than enough for the likes o’ you, I trow.” She nodded toward Talbot. “No offense, milord.”
“None taken,” Talbot replied as he climbed from the bath and wrapped himself in a towel.
Richard’s scowl more pronounced, he dumped the pack at Rannulf’s feet, then scurried across the room to place his master’s belongings carefully on a table near the hearth. “It’s not as if we have any choice in the matter, at any rate.” He began to sort through the garments, shaking his head and continuing to mumble beneath his breath.
“Cease your prattle, you fool,” Talbot commanded, although his lazy tone lent little weight to the order.
‘Twas no wonder he’d taken no insult at Ella’s words, Rannulf decided, for he tolerated an amazing amount of insolence from his own servant. ’Twas yet another example of how little he understood his overlord. The longer he spent in Talbot’s company, the more confused he felt. He’d thought to get to know the other man on the long journey into the Marches, but Nicholas Talbot remained a mystery he’d yet to unravel.
’Twas an annoyance, and a hindrance, too, for how could he decide how to deal with Talbot—how to work around him to carry out Pembroke’s dictates—when he never knew from one moment to the next which facet of the man he’d encounter?
Talbot accepted another towel from Ella and dragged the linen over his chest. “Lord knows how your last master stood your rantings without relieving you of your tongue, Richard. If you’d turn your energies to your duties, instead of finding fault with everything, I might be dressed and out of here before Lady Gillian has the tables cleared away.”
Rannulf shook his head and turned his attention from the fractious servant. Mayhap if he left now, while Talbot lingered here, he might find a way to speak with Gillian before everyone gathered for supper.
’Twould be best to find her and get it over with, before they had to rub along in Talbot’s presence. Spurred on by his eagerness to see her again, even though the encounter was bound to be unpleasant, he snatched his bag from the floor. He pulled out a shirt and drew it over his head, muffling the sudden sound of raised voices.
He tugged down the shirt in time to see the towelclad Talbot lunge across the chamber and grab Richard by the shoulder. He gave the wiry little man a shake like to set his teeth clacking and lifted him till his feet cleared the floor. “Enough, you fool. If you ever speak of the lady so foully again, I’ll see you suffer for it.” Richard still held in his grasp like a terrier with a rat, Talbot turned and thrust the servant toward the door. “Get you gone from my sight,” he added, nudging him on his way with a cuff aside the head.
Talbot stalked over to stand by the blazing fire while Richard stumbled from the room. “By Christ’s bones, where did he come up with such filth?” he asked, dragging a hand through his hair. “Scarce arrived, and already running his mouth.”
What could Richard have said in so brief a time? Rannulf wondered. To judge by his master’s reaction, it must have been vile. A swift glance at Ella showed that the old woman appeared shaken; he’d ask her for the details later.
Despite his ignorance of the offense, he’d best make some response. “Mayhap the journey addled his wits,” he suggested. He stepped into his braes and knotted the drawstring at his waist.
“Who knows?” Talbot shrugged. “I’ll not put up with any more of his foolishness, I assure you.” Draping the towel he’d used to dry his hair around his shoulders, he rubbed his hand over his chin. “And now” I’ve sent him off before he could perform any of his duties.” He grimaced. ”Mayhap that’s his game. ’Tis hardly the first time he’s angered me enough to send him away with his work undone, the clever bastard.”
Ella stepped toward him. “If ’tis a shave you’re wanting, milord, I can do it, and trim your hair as well, if you wish. I helped care for Lord Simon in his last months, and I’ve a careful hand with the blade.”
Precisely the opportunity he needed! Rannulf shoved his feet into his boots before Talbot had finished agreeing to Ella’s offer. He grabbed the first tunic he found in his pack and didn’t even bother to put it on, slung his belt and sword belt over his shoulder, and headed for the door.
“FitzClifford, where are you going in such a hurry? Come, take your ease, let Ella shave you. We’ve journeyed hard and fast to get here—there’s no need to rush about now that we’ve arrived.”
“Nay, I thank you. I wish to speak with my captains, and I thought I’d seek out Sir Henry, see what he can tell me of the situation here. I trust there’ll be some work to occupy us, else our men will grow fat and lazy.”
Shaking his head, Talbot took a seat on the stool Ella pulled up for him near the hearth and waved a dismissal. “Go, then. But there’s no reason to hurry. We’ve plenty of time yet before the evening meal, haven’t we, Ella?”
“Aye, milord.” Ella moved to stand behind Talbot and adjusted the towel draped round his shoulders. “I’m sure that Lady Gillian is still busy seeing to your chambers and arranging for a fitting meal for your lordships.” She motioned for Rannulf to go. “We’ll not dine until dusk tonight, I venture, and ’tis still full light. You’ve time to spare to attend to your duties, sir.”
He sketched a brief bow. “Until this evening, then,” he said. His step light, he headed off to seek out Gillian.
Chapter Five
Rannulf paused halfway up the spiral stairway to peer out a window into the bailey. Troops, servants and children bustled about, filling the courtyard with life and sound. The scene reminded him of his first visit to I‘Eau Clair as a squire in the earl of Pembroke’s service. The bailey had been more chaotic that day, and more exciting when he faced off in a contest of arms against a lad purported to be one of I’Eau Clair’s better swordsmen, according to the youths gathered round.
And Gilles had been a good fighter. Though he was slight of build, his reach was long, his movements swift and sure. The wooden practice swords had clattered together many times before Rannulf slipped beneath Gilles’s guard and knocked him to the muddy ground. Even then, Gilles had managed to take him down with him. They’d landed together in a tangled sprawl of arms, legs and long red hair.
Gillian stared up at him, her green eyes wary and confused.
And thus Rannulf had met his fate.
Mayhap she’d met her fate that day as well, for she remained unwed. And was not spoken for, either, else her betrothed should be here by her side.
The sight of Gillian leaving the stables and heading for the keep roused him from his reverie. He’d gain nothing by lurking about, woolgathering and delaying his meeting with her.
He hurried up the stairs to the second floor and down the corridor that led to her solar. She was bound to end up there, or in her nearby chamber, before the evening meal. He didn’t mind the wait.
The hallway and stairwell were empty, the servants no doubt busy settling in I‘Eau Clair’s newest residents. She wouldn’t realize he was here until ’twas too late for her to do anything about it—the only way he’d manage to see her, for he knew she’d refuse him an audience should he ask again.
He slipped into the solar and shut the door.
Little had changed since his last visit here. The chamber reflected its owner—the Gillian he’d known and loved, not the icy woman he’d met today. A large embroidery frame stood before a cushioned bench near the hearth, and a book held pride of place upon the table next to it. Gillian was both lady and scholar, skilled in housewifery, as well as languages and history—and in the healing arts, he recalled, taking note of a tray of herbs set out near the simple fireplace.
A warrior, too, he reminded himself, catching sight of her sword in its scabbard leaning against the wall near the door. Gillian de I’Eau Clair was a woman of many talents, some of them unusual, all of them intriguing. She was all the woman he could ever want, and far more than he deserved.
He’d do well to remind himself of that fact, now that he was near her once more.
A chill permeated the air and the afternoon light had begun to fade. Rannulf set his tunic and belts on the bench and stirred up the banked fire in the hearth before kindling a taper from the growing flames. After lighting a branch of candles on the table, he closed the shutters and settled on a stool near the door to await Gillian’s return.
As warmth filled the chamber, Rannulf relaxed back against the smooth plaster wall, surrounded by a sense of comfort and welcome he’d not felt in far too long. The scent of lavender and roses—Gillian’s scent—mellowed by the smoke of the fire, enveloped him until he could almost imagine ’twas four years past, and that he sat waiting for his love to join him once again.
The door creaked open, dispelling the illusion, and Gillian entered the room, thumped the door closed and went directly to the fire.
She dropped to her knees upon the hearthstones and reached up to slip off her veil, then slumped down and lowered her head into her hands. Rannulf rose and turned the key in the lock in one swift motion, the quiet click of metal against metal bringing her head up and around before he had time to move away from the door.
“I suggest you try locking it with yourself on the other side, Lord FitzClifford. You are not welcome here.” She rose and turned, tripped over her skirts and pitched backward toward the fire. Rannulf lunged and caught her, swinging her away from the fireplace and setting her on her feet in the middle of the floor.
“Are you all right?” he asked, maintaining his grip on her arms.
Gillian shrugged free of Rannulf’s firm grasp and took a step back, all her shaking legs would permit. She couldn’t be certain if ’twas her near-mishap or Rannulf’s touch that set her nerves aquiver. Whichever the cause, she’d best lock her knees and stiffen her spine, for she refused to back down—to sit and look up at him—in her own solar.
Nay, she’d not allow him the slightest opportunity to believe he held any power over her, in any way.
She shook out her tangled sleeves, straightened her bliaut and found the strength to move another step away. “Perhaps you did not realize that this is my private chamber, milord,” she said, her tone cold. Lowering her hands to her sides, she resisted the urge to tighten her fingers in the fabric of her skirts. “You must also be unaware that ’tis most unseemly for us to be here unchaperoned.” She met his eyes, tried to ignore the heat she saw smoldering there. “I suggest you leave at once, before my guardian discovers you here. I am certain he wouldn’t approve.”
Rannulf closed the space between them and leaned close, his breath warm against her cheek. “You never used to mind us being alone together, Gillian.” He raised his hand, brushed his fingertip along her chin. “Indeed, I think you welcomed it.” Tracing his finger up to her mouth, he outlined her lips, sending a tingle of awareness thrumming through her. “Welcomed me.” She began to breathe again when he lifted his finger from her lips, then nearly gasped as he moved his assault upon her senses to the flesh of her throat.
Jerking back from him she said, her voice little more than a croak of sound, “You, sir, are no gen-. tleman.”
He reached toward her again, capturing the end of one of her braids and winding it slowly around his hand. “And you, milady, knew that already.” He drew closer as his hand crept nearer her chest. “I believe ’twas one of the things you liked best about me.”
“Enough!” She tried to pull free, but he refused to release her. “Rannulf, please,” she whispered, reaching up to cover his hand with her own.
To her surprise, a flush of color rose to stain his face. “I beg your pardon, milady.” He unwound his hand from her hair and stepped back from her, then turned and went to kneel at the hearth and tend the fire.
Gillian took the opportunity to catch her breath while he faced the leaping flames, settling herself upon the bench and smoothing her skirts about her, taking up a small piece of embroidery simply for something to occupy her trembling hands. Why was he here?
Finally he stood, brushed off his hands and turned to face her. “I’m sorry I startled you, milady. And I apologize for trespassing upon your privacy, but ’tis imperative I speak with you alone, without Talbot’s knowledge.”
Gone was the imploring tone, the heated glance, in its place a cool, impersonal courtesy.
’Twas what she wanted, was it not?
Why, then, did she feel a wave of sadness sweep over her, and moisture begin to pool in her eyes?
Blinking back the tears, she laid her needlework in her lap and gazed unseeing at the pattern of vines outlined on the linen scrap. “I see now that I should have agreed to your request, milord, rather than summarily refuse to speak with you.” More composed now, she risked a glance at his face.
He appeared no more willing to look at her than she to watch him. Perhaps they might get through this interview without further mishap, emotions intact.
Emotions hidden, ’twas what she really meant, she reminded herself. Her emotions, at any rate.
What Rannulf might feel, she no longer cared to know.
“Please, tell me what you wished to speak to me about. The hour grows late, and we must go down for supper soon.”
Rannulf paced the length of the solar, coming to a halt in front of her and clearing his throat. “Talbot doesn’t know I’ve been here before.”
“Does it matter if he does?”
“It might.” He resumed pacing, sending her nerves jittering.
“Sit down,” she told him. She waited until he drew the stool away from the doorway and took a seat. “You’d best explain yourself—and quickly, for we mustn’t linger here much longer.”
“Your godfather, Lord William—”
“I know who my godfather is,” she cut in. His voice sounded strange. Could he be nervous?
“Lord William asks that you and your people forget they ever saw me or knew aught of me. He does not wish Talbot to know I have any ties to I’Eau Clair.”
Her heart skipped a beat before settling into a faster pace. If only it were that easy to forget him! She drew in a deep breath and willed her pulse to slow to its normal rhythm, bit back the bitterness welling from deep within her before she spoke. “You have no ties to I’Eau Clair, milord. You saw to that yourself already.”
Rannulf glanced up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“You know very well, milord.” She tossed aside her sewing and clasped her hands together in her lap, restraining her own desire to leap up and pace the room.
She’d not give Rannulf the satisfaction of seeing her agitation. ’Twas bad enough to admit she’d seen—
“What do you mean, Gillian?” he demanded.
Her movements slow, as steady as she could manage, she stood and went to the large table pushed against the wall on the far side of the room. She fumbled with the ring of keys hanging from her belt, found the one she sought and unlocked the small, iron-bound coffer set near the back of the table. Reaching inside, she pulled out the betrothal contract.
The parchment clutched in her hand, all pretense of calm gone, she spun and hurried to stand before him.
“Mayhap I should ask you what you meant, milord,” she snarled, tossing the crumpled roll into his lap. He looked down at it and picked it up, but made no move to unroll the document. Instead he simply looked up at her, his dark eyes as blank, as emotionless, as his face. “But there’s no need to ask. Your words state your feelings clear enough.”
He glanced away for a moment, but when his gaze returned to her face, ’twas as expressionless as before. “The past matters not. Will you do as I ask?”
How could he say that? The past did matter. But now was clearly not the time to discuss it. So be it.
“I grant your request, Lord FitzClifford. I know not the reason, nor do I wish to know why we must keep our knowledge of you secret, but it shall be as Lord William requires. None here shall admit, or show by their actions, that they have ever seen you before. For the love and respect I bear my godfather, I shall do what you ask.” She picked up his tunic and belt from the bench and held them out to him. “Will you send Sir Henry to me immediately? It might be too late to inform my people, for they may have already revealed your secret.”
“We’ll simply have to hope all will be well.” Rannulf rose slowly to his feet and bowed. “I thank you for your generosity, milady. No doubt ‘tis more than I deserve.” He took his belongings from her and slipped the tunic over his head, then buckled his belt about his waist. “May I have my sword belt?” he asked, raising his left eyebrow. “Or did you plan to keep me weaponless until I leave I’Eau Clair?”
Temper seething at his baiting tone, Gillian peered behind the bench and found the sword on the floor.
He reached past her and picked it up by the scabbard. “I am no danger to you and yours, Gillian,” he said quietly. He straightened and took her hand. It took all her will not to snatch it free, especially when he captured her gaze with his. “I swear to you I am not.” He raised her hand to his lips and, turning it over, pressed a kiss to her palm.
He bowed, released her and turned to leave before she realized he’d not returned the parchment, but held it still in his left hand. “I’ll have that back, milord,” she said, pointing to the roll.
“’Tis of no value,” he said quietly. “I thought to be rid of it.”
She held out her hand. “It has meaning for me, milord. Pray return it.”
Rannulf set the parchment into her outstretched hand, but he would not meet her challenging gaze.
Clearly he must recall the words he’d written there.
Sword clutched in one hand, he made a formal bow. “I thank you for your patience with one who does not deserve it,” he murmured. “Adieu.”
He slipped from the room and closed the door before she could respond. ’Twas just as well, for his last statement had left her uncertain what she would have said.
Rannulf hurried down to the barracks in the ground floor of the keep, securing his sword belt around his waist as he went. He guessed he’d find Sir Henry there, or someone who’d know where the crusty old soldier might be. Gillian’s request dovetailed nicely with his own plans, as it happened.
He hadn’t lied when he’d told Talbot he needed to settle his men, either, though he’d scant time to take care of business before the call to supper.
Several of his men had been to I‘Eau Clair with him years ago. While he’d warned them before they set out on this ill-favored trek that they must pretend ’twas their first visit to the place, it would do no harm to remind them, now that they’d arrived, that they must be especially careful not to slip up in front of Talbot’s men when they encountered their old friends among the castle troops.
Actually, his men didn’t concern him so much as keeping Gillian’s people quiet did. He’d brought along a select cadre of his vassals on several of the tasks he’d performed for Pembroke, men he trusted. He knew he could count on them to guard their backs—and their tongues—no matter what the situation.
Fortune favored him for once as he discovered Sir Henry preparing to leave the barracks when he entered them. He met the other man’s respectful nod with one of his own. “A moment of your time, Sir Henry?”
“Aye, milord,” the soldier said, motioning for Rannulf to precede him into the corridor outside. “How can I be of service?”
“Lady Gillian wishes to speak with you at once in her solar,” Rannulf told him as they walked away from the barracks door.
“Does she now, milord?” Rannulf felt his face start to color beneath Sir Henry’s speculative gaze. “And how did you come to be her message boy, eh? You being a stranger here and all,” he added in a low voice, a spark of amusement lighting his sharp blue eyes.
“I’m merely doing a favor for her, nothing more.”
Sir Henry led Rannulf deeper into the shadow-filled corridor. “I know not what your game is, milord, but I’ll not give it away for the nonce.”
A relief to hear, though not completely a surprise. “I appreciated your silence earlier, ’tis true. Though I didn’t expect it.”
“Man’d have to be a half-wit not to realize something’s going on. You’d never greet my lady thus, so cold and indifferent, without a damned good reason. Christ’s bones, lad—” he nudged Rannulf in the ribs with his elbow “—you ran tame behind these walls for far too long to be treating us like strangers now, unless there’s some plot afoot.” When Rannulf didn’t respond, his stare became more intense. “You do have a reason, don’t you?”
“Aye. Several, though the only one that truly matters is that Pembroke wishes it so.” Of a certainty, that was the only reason he planned to give Sir Henry. Details of the situation between him and Gillian had remained private for this long—he had no intention of delving into them again now.
And certainly not with the man who’d been a mentor to him, and Gillian’s protector all her life.
At the least that way would cut short his stay at I’Eau Clair, if it didn’t bring his very existence to an abrupt end, he thought wryly.
“That Pembroke asks is reason enough for me,” Sir Henry said. “’Tis a shame he’s at odds with the king. Is that why John gave my lady into another’s keeping?”
“Aye,” Rannulf replied shortly. “Though I cannot tell you more now.”
“I’d be glad to hear more about it once we’ve a chance to share a pitcher of mead and the details.”
That he could do. “You shall have them as soon as we’re settled,” he agreed. He glanced out the narrow window above them and saw that the light was nearly gone. “You’d best hurry if you’re to see Gillian before supper.”
Sir Henry nodded. “Aye, I’ll get to it right away, milord. Though I’ve already warned our people to treat you and your men as strangers in our midst, same way we’ll treat Lord Talbot’s men till we come to know ’em better. Seemed wise to do so until I had the chance to hear just what was going on.”
“I thank you,” Rannulf said. “I know that’s one thing Gillian wanted to speak with you about. There could be more, so I’ll let you be on your way.”
To his surprise, Sir Henry clapped him on the back. “‘Tis glad I am to see you here again, milord. I don’t mind telling you, you’ve been sorely missed these years past. Your lady needs you now that her father’s gone, more than ever before. ’Tis good to see you where you belong.”
Before Rannulf could respond, the older man gave another nod and headed for the stairs, whistling under his breath.
Rannulf shook his head and tried not to let his evergrowing burden of guilt weigh him down further. “Ah, Sir Henry, if you only knew the truth,” he muttered. He turned back toward the barracks. Though I’m more glad than I can say that you do not.
He paused for a moment outside the door, reaching into the pouch on his belt, drawing forth a heavily embroidered riband and holding it up to the flickering torchlight.
Copper threads shimmered, their brightness untarnished by years of handling. Gillian had done such a fine job of copying the circlet’s design, the resemblance was truly remarkable.
Although he knew the scent had long ago faded beyond detection, this time when he raised the favor to his lips he could almost imagine he smelled the essence of rose and lavender...Gillian’s fragrance.
He tucked the favor back into the pouch, but he could not elude the truth it represented.
No matter what he might say or do, or that he could never claim her, Gillian remained his lady, ever and always, the one truth hidden deep within his heart where it could not fade away.
Chapter Six
Gillian dragged the crude stool across the hard-packed dirt floor of the cotter’s daub-and-wattle hut and set it down next to her patient’s straw pallet. Rowena had given birth to a stillborn child the week before—the second child she’d lost—and despite Gillian’s best efforts to build up her strength with an elixir of healing herbs and good food from the castle kitchen, Rowena remained weak and pale upon her bed.
“How long, milady, ‘fore...you know, ’fore I can try again?” Rowena asked, her pale cheeks tinged pink. She peered into the cup of tonic Gillian handed her.
Although Rowena was no more than a year her senior, Gillian’s cheeks heated. She’d never had a female friend her own age to talk with about such things. But Rowena depended upon her to give her aid and advice, so she’d offer what she could.
“You know ’tis too soon to even be thinking of that,” she cautioned.
“‘Tis easy to see you’re a maiden still, milady,” Rowena said, her pale lips curled into a faint smile. “Else you’d know the men think o’ little else.”
“True as that may be, ’tis much too soon. Allow your body to mend, at least.” She stood and concentrated on gathering her simples together in her basket. “It may better your chance of carrying a live babe next time, if you’ve regained your strength beforehand.”
What must it be like, to carry a babe beneath your heart, tangible proof of the love you’d shared with your husband—your lover?
And to lose a child... Mayhap she was better off than she knew, to be yet unwed.
And like to stay that way, if her luck held. Lord Nicholas seemed unlikely to pledge her elsewhere, now that he’d seen what a fine holding he’d the governing of. He’d be a fool to let it slip from his grasp.
So long as he didn’t decide she should wed him herself, she thought with a grimace. Despite his handsome face and form, he didn’t appeal to her in the least.
Rannulf’s reasons for refusing her hand rose to her mind yet again. The mere image of his words upon the page sent a chill of loss and dread through her heart.
Perhaps she was not fit to be wife or mother at all.
She took up the basket of simples and rose to leave. “I’ll come again tomorrow,” she said, pausing by the door. “See that you take care of yourself.”
“I thank you for your help, milady,” Rowena said. “’Tis a fine mistress you are, to make time to care for such as me.” She settled back onto the pallet. “May God bless you and keep you safe.”
Touched, and uncertain how to respond, Gillian nodded and left the hut.
Many duties awaited her within the keep, especially now that their numbers had increased so dramatically. Evidently the king had received her request for aid, for Talbot had brought a sizable train with him—and supplies to help feed them, she’d been grateful to learn. But it was bound to take some time before they all settled into the new regime.
Her step lagged the closer she drew to the track leading up to the castle. Gillian stood and stared at the hum of activity, the people everywhere she looked, and knew she could not face them yet.
The pool in the nearby forest gave the castle its name. There, as she’d done so often in the past, she could escape for a little while, clear her mind and dream her dreams. It was exactly what she needed.
She turned and set off through the greening fields until she reached the edge of the forest. Her step growing lighter by the moment, she settled her basket of simples upon her arm, kilted up her trailing skirts to avoid the underbrush and wove her way through the trees.
Eventually she came to a clearing nestled deep within the older trees, an island of peace and beauty not visible from the castle walls. ’Twas a sylvan glade straight from ancient lore. A sparkling waterfall emptied into a small, flower-bedecked pool, blending its restful murmur with the solitude of the forest.
A smile upon her lips, Gillian set aside her basket under a towering fir and made her way over the smooth carpet of new grass and spring flowers to the moss-covered stones scattered around the edge of the water.
Perhaps here, in her childhood retreat, she might regain her composure, settle her thoughts.
She settled onto a mound of rocks beside the pool that formed a seat of sorts, and stared down into the water. Clearing her mind of all thought, all fear, she let it roam where it would.
But the journey she took in her mind’s eye was not one she’d have chosen to relive. ‘Twas Rannulf she saw there, a Rannulf younger than the man who’d arrived at I’Eau Clair the day before.
Younger in more than years, for that other Rannulf FitzChfford bore the glint of laughter in his eyes, and an expression of joy upon his handsome face. They’d been so happy that day, carefree and innocent. They’d escaped Lady Alys’s vigilance and gone seeking adventure and privacy. Closing her eyes, she felt again the warmth of his hand holding hers, heard the laughter in his voice as he led her headlong through the forest to this very glade.
The sun had shimmered on the water that day, sparking rainbows from the mist at the base of the falls, lending a magical glow to the air. How could she forget the cool water lapping against her body as she waded, clad only in her thin linen shift, into the depths of the pool, the heat of Rannulf’s gaze as he joined her there all she needed to warm her?
Opening her eyes, she reached down and trailed her fingertips through the water, sending ripples coursing over the smooth surface and distorting her reflection. She stared at the wavy surface until the water stilled, then started at the new image mirrored there.
“Rannulf!” she gasped, whirling to see if he was there behind her in truth, or naught but a creation of her imagination.
“Good day to you, milady.” He stepped away from her, but reached out a hand to steady her when she wavered on her rocky perch. The touch of his fingers on her arm was firm, impersonal... and lingered a moment too long for her peace of mind. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you would have heard me coming through the forest,” he said with a glance to where his huge chestnut warhorse stood tethered to a tree.
’Twas a wonder she hadn’t noticed, a measure of how deeply enmeshed she’d been in the past.
“What do you here, milord?” she asked, her voice as cold as she could make it, given the heated memories still lurking in her brain. “Are you lost?”
“Nay, Lady Gillian. I sought you in the village. When I couldn’t find you there, a lad told me he’d seen you head this way.”
“Are you following me, milord?” If that was his plan, for her own sanity she must set him from that path at once.
For how could she survive his constant presence, the continual reminder of what had been?
And what could be, whispered a taunting voice within her traitorous mind.
He raised an eyebrow in inquiry. “Following you? Why should I do that, milady?”
Gillian felt her temper flare. “I know of no reason, sir, none at all.” The trembling that had beset her since she noticed him behind her disappeared, replaced by a wave of determination.
She’d show him his error! She would not permit him to torment her any longer.
Her legs firm beneath her, she stood, shook out her skirts and threw back her shoulders in a deliberate display of bravado.
Rannulf held his ground in the face of her show of spirit, not out of any desire to flee, but rather to fight the urge to leap more fully into the fray. Dear God, but she was magnificent!
His arms ached to reach out to her, to enclose her in their grasp, to pull her flush against him and appease the hunger burning for satisfaction. Four years of yearning howled for appeasement, and though he knew ’twas impossible, his body refused to accept that answer.
He wanted her, not just to gratify a physical hunger, though his body throbbed with wanting. Nay, simply to feel the joy of Gillian held tight within his arms, to know he’d never have to give her up again... ’Twas a pleasure worth any price.
Except that of his honor.
And her safety.
Taking his time, he glanced about the glade, not permitting his gaze to linger anywhere, lest the memories of this place etched within his memory take control of his reason and destroy his will to resist them.
When his wandering attention returned to Gillian, he shrugged. “And why would I follow you here of all places, milady?” he asked. Though he kept his tone light, he added a taunting edge to his voice that sent a flush of color into Gillian’s pale cheeks. “Your guardian sent me to fetch you back to the keep, ’tis all.”
“Does he think to lock me away within the castle walls like some helpless damsel?” She stirred into motion, pacing away from him, her fingers going to the hilt of her eating dagger. She looked as though she’d like to draw the blade and spit someone with it—himself, most like.
He suppressed a chuckle at the image. Aye, that would be a sight to stir any man!
And why not rouse her anger further? He found Gillian de I‘Eau Clair difficult to resist under any circumstances, but when she had that soft, remembering look in her sparkling green eyes as he’d peered at her reflection in the pool, ’twas all too easy to give in to the compulsion to join her there. They’d both be better off sniping and snapping at each other.
And that way, there’d be no chance he’d give himself away before Nicholas Talbot, as he’d so nearly done too many times the day before.
At least if Gillian were angry with him, she’d do her best to avoid him.
Aye, he could not ask for a better plan.
“You, a helpless damsel?” he mocked. “How could he ever make that mistake?” Taking his time, he joined her at the water’s edge, then followed her when she stalked past him toward the trees. “You’re about as helpless as a she-wolf. If the king had known anything about you, he’d never have bothered to send you a guardian.”
He’d swear her eyes glistened with tears before she turned her back to him, her knuckles white as they tightened about the dagger.
It felt as though she’d stabbed that blade deep into his heart, but he kept at it.
“Did you know that Ella took Talbot to task yesterday when he asked why you had not come to help us bathe?” The morning sun fell on her hair where it hung below her veil, igniting the fiery locks with warmth, momentarily distracting him from his purpose. He shook his head and forced himself to forge on. “She told him you were an innocent maiden whom she’d protect to the death, most like, should he seek to change your state.” He gave in to temptation and reached for the end of her braid, tugging until she turned to face him. “Interesting that she doesn’t know the truth.”
“What truth is that, milord?” Gone was any hint of tears, her eyes instead alight with righteous anger. “That you took my innocence—here, in this very spot?”
He nearly glanced over his shoulder to the grassy bank she referred to, but that would be an act of monumental stupidity. Better he keep his eyes fixed upon Gillian’s face, Gillian’s anger, for ’twould serve to remind him why he’d led them down this path. Instead he released her hair and folded his arms across his chest. “Did I?”
Rannulf leveled a measuring look upon her, till she wanted to squirm beneath that cool, dark gaze. She realized her fingers had nigh gone numb from clutching her knife, and eased her grip. Did he realize, she wondered, how close she’d come to drawing the blade? Merely to keep him away, of course.
’Twas a mistake to let down her guard, she saw at once, for he stepped nearer to her, forcing her to retreat. “Did I indeed?” he asked.
She pressed her back against the rough trunk of an ancient oak and raised her chin in challenge. “Do you deny I was a virgin when you took me to your bed?”
He gave an aborted laugh and reached out to tug once again on a lock of her hair hanging loose over her shoulder. “My bed?” He wound the end around his wrist as he’d done the day before, bringing his captive hand ever closer to her breast, even as his eyes held hers hostage. He leaned so near, his words brushed her lips.
Though she knew she should try to free herself, Gillian could not make her reluctant body obey the dictate of her mind, could scarcely draw breath for fear of pulling him nearer still.
“There was no bed involved, as I recall, save the one we fashioned from my tunic and your bliaut.” His stubbled cheek grazed her face from temple to chin, sending a shiver down her spine. “I’ll never forget the sight of your hair glowing in the sun—” He released her hair and trailed his freed hand along its length, his knuckles coasting over her shoulder in the barest of caresses. “And the shadow here...”
She jerked away before his wandering fingers could settle against her bosom, but he trapped her hand in his.
His fingers intertwined with hers and he tugged her into his arms. “Gillian,” he breathed against her lips. His touch gentle, he wrapped her into his embrace.
He’d slipped off her veil before she realized what he was about, and buried his fingers in the mass of her hair, loosening her braid and sliding his hands up through the wavy mass to cradle her face.
Her eyes drifted closed, her breath caught on a sob as he nuzzled her cheek, pressed his body against hers in a caress devastating in its tenderness. Force she might have withstood, but this gentle assault proved beyond her will to resist.
She opened her eyes to stare into the familiar brown depths of Rannulf’s questioning gaze, lost herself in the web of desire he wove around them so effortlessly, watched as he lowered his lips to hers slowly, so slowly she could feel his touch before their mouths met.
Warmth flowed from his lips to her heart, set up a sense of loss so deep it spilled over into tears that flowed down her cheeks even as her lips clung to Rannulf’s.
He gasped against her mouth, his hand sliding up her cheek to capture a teardrop, then slowly stepped away. He fixed his gaze somewhere beyond her shoulder and drew in a deep breath. “Forgive me. I hadn’t intended to touch you.”
Before her disbelieving gaze he cast off the languor of desire and resumed the mantle of warrior—or tormentor. Somehow all emotion drained away from his features, leaving behind a shell of the man she’d seen.
The man she’d known so long ago.
“You’ve grown even more lovely these years past, milady. I don’t suppose you’d care to pick up where we left off back then, would you?” he asked, his mouth curved into an insolent grin. “If we’re careful enough, Talbot need never know.”
She had the knife free of its sheath before her stunned brain could form the words to curse him straight to hell where he belonged.
Grin still intact, Rannulf eased away from her, one hand held in front of him as though to ward her off. “No one need know you’re no longer a maiden. I wouldn’t want to harm your chances of making a decent marriage, although with a dowry such as yours, combined with your beauty, I doubt most men would care.”
Gillian drew in a gasp of air and, knife upraised, snatched her skirts into her free hand and charged after him. “Whoreson knave,” she growled, stalking him as he backed through the trees toward his mount. “Get you gone, else I’ll gut you where you stand.”
He believed her threat, it seemed, for he spun on his heel and leapt into the saddle. “Let me know if you change your mind, milady,” he called, gathering the reins and nudging the stallion into motion. “At any time.”
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Sharon Schulze
T'was a Love to Remember… Lady Gillian de l'Eau Clair would never forget what she had once shared with Rannulf FitzClifford. How could she, when he had disappeared so suddenly, leaving her with nothing but a cryptic message scrawled upon their betrothal contract?Now, four years later, Rannulf had returned under the guise of being a stranger. And though she wanted nothing to do with him, she'd agreed to keep his secret from her guardian. For Gillian could not deny that despite what he had done, Rannulf FitzClifford would always hold her heart.
Praise for Sharon Schulze’s previous books (#uad9c007e-710a-5c11-96ec-c7f7b8e4fdf8)The Hidden Heart (#u2bc218d3-f03a-50c5-85ec-70e51eb768c1)“Perhaps you did not realize that this is my private chamber, milord,” Gillian said, her tone cold. (#u92998826-6a5b-5652-ae2a-b140dbea6a40)Letter to Reader (#u2a90dbd7-1aac-5d94-88bc-0fbbdef9e090)Title Page (#u4e8b075c-e244-5532-b0b8-6e64a765e0dc)About the Author (#u454b1380-39e8-5c4a-9c20-33ebbace98fd)Dedication (#ufe4cc76d-6860-5961-8c07-fea457355ab3)Prologue (#u21295b44-3b1b-5210-b4a7-7ee7c9e08853)Chapter One (#uf73253bc-e301-5288-b492-4202f4aa1890)Chapter Two (#ue8f731b1-d41e-58e6-821d-2fc5f6be08d9)Chapter Three (#ub632d2e9-ae6a-5db6-900e-a98a01b373a6)Chapter Four (#u3b87f2dc-87be-5052-b0bb-c8298288cb0a)Chapter Five (#u0377ae0f-40f7-5c29-939a-dc549f75bdc2)Chapter Six (#ucb2085ef-2773-5806-bcdf-e3306029b89f)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise for Sharon Schulze’s previous books
The Shielded Heart
“A fine addition to the author’s l’Eau Clair Chronicles, and one that will make readers look foward to more!”
—Romantic Times Magazine
To tame a Warrior’s Heart
“One swashbuckler readers will enjoy.
K.I.S.S. of the Month.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
Heart of the Dragon—1995 Golden Heart Finalist
“A moving and vastly entertaining tale...”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
The Hidden Heart
Harlequin Historicla #484—November 1999
DON’T MISS THESE OTHER TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:
#483 LADY SARAH’S SON
Gayle Wilson
#485 COOPER’S WIFE
Jillian Hart
#486 THE DREAMMAKER
Judith Stacy
“Perhaps you did not realize that this is my private chamber, milord,” Gillian said, her tone cold.
“You must also be unaware that ’tis most unseemly for us to be here unchaperoned.” She met Rannulf’s eyes, tried to ignore the heat she saw smoldering there.
“I suggest you leave at once, before my guardian discovers you here. I am certain he wouldn’t approve.”
Rannulf closed the space between them and leaned close, his breath warm against her cheek. “You never used to mind us being alone together, Gillian. Indeed, I think you welcomed it...welcomed me.”
Jerking back from him, she said, her voice little more than a croak of sound, “You, sir, are no gentleman.”
“And you, milady, knew that already.” He drew closer as his hand crept nearer her chest. “I believe ’twas one of the things you liked best about me.”
Dear Reader,
Welcome to Harlequin Historicals—stories that will capture your heart with unforgettable characters and the timeless fantasy of falling in love!
Sharon Schulze returns this month with the fourth book in her popular L’EAU CLAIR CHRONICLES, The Hidden Heart. Since Sharon’s debut in our 1997 March Madness Promotion with Heart of the Dragon, critics have hailed her work as “rich” and “satisfying.” In this medieval novel, a beautiful noblewoman must guard her heart from the only man she has ever really loved—the Earl of Wynfield, who has returned to her keep on a dangerous secret mission. Watch love begin anew!
Fans of Western romance will no doubt enjoy Cooper’s Wife by Jilhan Hart, the heartwarming tale of single parents—a lonely sheriff and a troubled widow—who marry to protect their children, but find a lasting love. And in The Dreammaker by Judith Stacy, also a Western, two people who are swindled by the same man go into business together to recoup their losses and realize their dreams—when love, the dream of a lifetime, is right in front of them! Award-winning author Gayle Wilson’s latest Regency-style historical, Lady Sarah’s Son, is the heart-wrenching tale of sweethearts, torn apart by tragedy, who come together again in a marriage of convenience and can no longer deny their enduring love....
Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell, Senior Editor
P.S. We’d love to hear what you think about Harlequin Historicals! Drop us a line at:
Harlequin Historicals
300 E. 42nd Street, 6th Floor
New York, NY 10017
The Hidden Heart
Sharon Schulze
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SHARON SCHULZE
began writing romances while pursuing her first career as a civil engineer, and discovered that confirmed day-dreamer /bookaholics can practice their craft anywhere, even somewhere as unromantic as a wastewater treatment plant. In her writing, she gets the chance to experience days gone by—without encountering disease, vermin and archaic plumbing!
A New Hampshire native, she now makes her home in Connecticut with her husband, Cliff, their children, Patrick and Christina, and her “lovely assistant”—Samantha, a miniature dachshund. In her ever-shrinking spare time she enjoys movies, music and poking around in antique shops.
Readers may contact her at P.O. Box 180, Oakville, CT 06779.
With love and appreciation to my husband,
Clifford—
ever and always my hero.
Prologue
The Welsh Marches, spring 1213
Gillian de I’Eau Clair leaned over the curtain wall of I’Eau Clair Keep and stared down at the new grass covering her father’s grave. Nigh two months gone, yet the pain of his loss had scarce eased. And now to find this among her father’s papers! She crushed the unsigned betrothal contract clasped in her hand with all the strength of her aching heart and cursed the man who’d scrawled his stark refusal where his acceptance should have been.
Rannulf FitzClifford—once the friend of the child she’d been, later her heart’s desire. As she had been his, so he’d led her to believe. The date on the agreement remained etched upon her brain—her seventeenth birthday, more than two years past—not long after his visits to I’Eau Clair had suddenly ceased, as if he’d vanished from her world forever.
It seemed her father hadn’t allowed that fact to prevent him from trying to further his plan to see her and Rannulf wed.
She raised her arm to toss the useless document away, then paused and let it fall to her feet. She dropped to her knees and pressed her cheek against the uneven stones as she fought the despair threatening to overwhelm her.
She’d sent word of her father’s death to her godfather, the earl of Pembroke; her kinsman, Prince Llywelyn of Wales; everyone she thought might help her fight off the unknown foe who had harried her people and her lands since her father’s passing. She stifled a bitter laugh. By the Virgin, she’d even sent a messenger to her overlord, King John, though she hadn’t a bit of hope he’d bother to fulfill his duty.
Though it had been two months, none had bothered to reply.
In her desperation, she’d thought to put aside her wounded pride and contact Rannulf. She had searched through the documents stored away in her father’s chamber for some hint of how to reach him.
What she’d found destroyed that plan, for ’twas clear by his words he wanted naught to do with her.
The icy wind beat against her, whipped her unbound hair about her face and sent the crumpled missive skittering toward the edge of the wooden walkway. “Nay,” she cried, and lunged to grab it. The parchment grasped tight in one hand, the edge of the crenel in the other, she rose to her feet and let the cold, powerful gusts blow away the fear and cowardice she’d allowed to beset her.
She smoothed out the contract and forced herself to read the hurtful message once more. She’d keep it as a reminder, lest she forget yet again that the only person she could depend upon was herself.
Chapter One
Rannulf strode through the dark and silent streets of London, taking care to avoid the noisome puddles, more easily smelled than seen in the fitful moonlight. He’d rather have waited till morning to obey his overlord’s command, but judging from the message he’d received upon his arrival in the city, Lord Nicholas would be put off no longer.
He’d managed to escape meeting Nicholas Talbot for nigh two years, sending his men under the able command of his lieutenant whenever Talbot required his aid. He’d served Talbot’s uncle, the previous lord of Ashby, long enough to know he’d no desire to deal with another Talbot if he could avoid it.
Raking his hand through his still-damp hair, he paused before the prosperous-looking merchant’s house Talbot had hired to billet his troops. He’d not arrived too late, alas, for light still showed golden through the shutters. ’Twas past time to learn if this Talbot would prove to be another branch of the same twisted tree as his uncle had been.
The servant who answered his summons led him through the barracks set up on the ground floor—full of men tossing dice and swilling ale—and up a flight of stairs at the far end of the room. The lackey thrust aside the curtain covering the doorway at the top and motioned Rannulf into the room. “’Tis Lord Rannulf FitzClifford, milord,” he said.
The tall man who rose from the settle before the fire and turned to face him wore the look of both warrior and courtier—a dangerous combination seen all too often in King John’s court. Rannulf bit back a groan and shoved his travel weariness aside. It seemed Lord William Marshal, the earl of Pembroke, had the right of it when he warned Rannulf he’d best be on guard in his overlord’s presence. Nicholas Talbot would bear watching.
Rannulf stepped into the chamber and bowed. “My lord.”
“FitzClifford.” Talbot motioned him to a chair before the fire. “’Tis a pleasure to meet you at last.” He picked up an intricately chased ewer from a nearby table. “Wine?” he asked as he poured a measure into a silver goblet.
“Aye, thank you.” Rannulf took the drink, casting a swift look about him while Talbot poured himself wine and resumed his seat on the settle.
The lord of Ashby enjoyed his comforts, from the look of it, for his garments appeared as costly as his surroundings. Gold threads shimmered in the fanciful design embroidered about the neck and cuffs of his deep green tunic, and his boots and belt were the finest leather. Rannulf sipped his wine—a vintage worthy of the cup, he noted without surprise—and glanced down at his own much simpler garb. Though the soft wool and well-worn leather were of good quality, he’d never felt the need to adorn himself in the vivid colors and elaborate embellishments so popular at court.
Besides, why should he bother? He’d no desire to draw attention to himself, be it from his peers—or from women.
He’d no place for either in his life.
Why, then, did the mere thought set up a deep yearning for all he’d lost?
He quashed the hint of weakness and buried it once again. He deserved nothing more than this new life he’d fashioned for himself—one of duty, of honorable toil, of atonement for his sins.
Though it would never be enough, he could do naught but try.
Rannulf forced himself to sit back in the chair and bring the chalice to his lips, to savor the wine and smile with pleasure at finally meeting his overlord.
“I’m pleased you’re able to join me at last, FitzClifford. I’ve need of your men, ’tis true, but I’ll be glad of your company as well.” Talbot’s mouth curved in a wry smile as he shook his head. “Especially in this latest venture the king has set me upon.”
Interest piqued, Rannulf straightened. “And why is that, milord?” He raised his cup and took his time draining it, watching Talbot closely all the while.
“It seems I’ve angered the king yet again.” Talbot thumped down his goblet on a side table and leaned forward.
“Yet again?” Rannulf asked. “‘Tis’a habit, I take it?”
“So it seems,” the other man muttered. “Although perhaps ‘angered’ is too strong a word. Our liege finds me more of an annoyance, a fly buzzing along the fringe of his notice.” He grimaced.
“’Tis dangerous to upset the king, milord, no matter the degree. Best pray he doesn’t decide to slap away the annoyance with the blade of his sword.” It wouldn’t be the first time their liege had dealt thus with his own nobles. But Talbot must know the king well enough to realize that fact. “I’m surprised you’re still here to tell of it.”
Talbot sighed and glanced up, meeting Rannulf’s curious gaze. “I’ll not be here for much longer,” he said wryly. “Nor will you. By the king’s decree, we’ve been banished to the hinterlands—at least until his anger abates, or he grows bored and calls me back.”
By Christ’s bones, was he to be tarred with the same brush as Talbot? Rannulf bit back a groan of frustration. While ’twas his intent to stay close to Talbot for the nonce, he’d no desire to draw King John’s attention.
Though he had no intention of sharing that bit of information.
“Where are we bound, milord?” he asked, though the answer mattered to him not a whit. He had his orders and his obligation to his overlord to consider as well. ’Twas idle curiosity that brought the question to his lips, nothing more.
Talbot rose and crossed to the table to pour more wine, then set his cup aside untouched. “I’ve the writ here someplace,” he muttered. He opened a plain wooden box—conspicuous in its simplicity—that sat next to the ewer of wine, and shuffled through the jumble of scrolls before drawing forth a beribboned parchment. “The king leaves little to chance,” he said, moving closer to the fire. “My orders are set forth here, couched in such terms as to make it appear that I deserve congratulations on my good fortune. I’m to be warden of a keep, and guardian of its lady.” He unrolled the missive and scanned it. “Of course, judging by the king’s mood when he bestowed this upon me—” he brandished the parchment in the air “—’tis just as likely that condolences would be appropriate.” Scowling, he cast another glance at the decree, then held it out to Rannulf. “What do you think this means?”
Rannulf rose and took the scroll, turning the document into the light as he held it open to read.
The words shone dark and clear to his disbelieving gaze before the shadows he’d thought locked deep within his heart broke free and jumbled the letters into a meaningless scrawl.
But that one brief glimpse had been time enough to etch the image upon his brain—and his heart.
Talbot had become guardian of the lady of I’Eau Clair....
Gillian.
Rannulf could have sworn his heart ceased to beat for a moment from the shock of seeing her name. It took several attempts before he could force his voice past his lips. “Congratulations, milord,” he said, his hearty tone at odds with the sense of panic rushing through his veins. “A Marcher keep, it says.” He reached for his drink and brought it halfway to his mouth before he remembered ’twas empty. Biting back a curse, he pretended to drink, then set the cup aside and scanned the words again. He’d best proceed with care, lest he reveal more information than the brief missive contained. “And a noble lady.” He glanced up at Talbot, who stood poised by the fireplace, worry—or was that confusion?—written on his handsome face. By sheer force of will Rannulf curled his mouth into a careless grin. “Just think of the possibilities.”
“Believe me, I have.” Talbot sat down abruptly, slumping into the chair, his fingers clasped tightly on the carved arms. “Given the king’s mood, I‘Eau Clair Keep is likely naught more than a crumbling ruin, and its lady a crone stooped and withered with age.” He grabbed his wine from the table and gulped it down. “Or a babe still wrapped in swaddling bands. Either way, ’tis no prize I’ve won, FitzClifford. Of that I have no doubt.” He stared into the flickering fire, his expression grim.
Rannulf’s mind reeled. If Talbot knew the truth of the situation, they’d have left London already. He could only be grateful for his overlord’s ignorance.
But such good fortune couldn’t last. Talbot could scarce avoid the king’s command for long. Rannulf considered ways to elude this trap before Talbot was ready to set out for I’Eau Clair, but even as his frantic brain sought shelter from his predicament, he knew there was no escape.
He had his orders, to stay with Talbot at all costs, to observe this crony of the king’s. ’Twas a stroke of luck that the man was his overlord, giving him the perfect opportunity to obey Pembroke’s command. Even if it were possible to send word of the situation to Pembroke, Rannulf knew his orders would not change. Indeed, he could well imagine Pembroke’s pleasure that fate had placed Rannulf in the perfect position to not only keep a close eye on Talbot, but on Pembroke’s godchild as well. Pembroke could not have arranged the matter better had he set it up himself.
Had Pembroke arranged it thus? He bit back a curse. Nay, his foster father would have told him of Lord Simon’s death, warned him that Talbot was bound for I’Eau Clair. Besides, wouldn’t Pembroke have arranged the wardship for himself, had he any say in the matter? Despite his quarrels with the king, he was Gillian’s godfather. Who better to protect her, after all?
By Christ’s bones, he sought plots where there were none! He closed his eyes for a moment, then blinked them open again to dispel the image of Gillian that rose to fill his mind. The mere thought of her held the power to addle his wits. Time and hard-won maturity had not changed that fact, it seemed.
He glanced at Talbot, still enthralled by the fire. His displeasure at his fate would be short-lived, Rannulf had no doubt, for once Nicholas Talbot arrived at the mighty stronghold of I’Eau Clair and caught sight of his beautiful ward, the man would count himself twice blessed.
And Rannulf would be cursed to a purgatory worse than Satan himself could devise.
’Twas his lot in life—why expect change now? He’d a job to do. He stood, poured himself a generous measure of wine, then topped off Talbot’s goblet and held it out to him.
“Come, milord, drink to your good fortune.”
Talbot looked up, his strange violet eyes still troubled, and accepted the wine. “Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “You’re not the one who might be saddled with a child, or an old woman past her prime.”
Aye, but I’d gladly be burdened with the lady of I‘Eau Clair. ’Twas all Rannulf could manage to hold back the words. “It cannot be any worse than you’ve surmised,” he said instead.
Talbot rose. “I pray you’re right, FitzClifford.” He raised his goblet. “To Lady Gillian,” he said. “May she be a beauty beyond compare, a paragon among women....” He drank.
Rannulf brought his wine to his lips and sipped the heady brew, then nearly choked at Talbot’s next words.
“...a meek, sweet, silent dove with not a thought of her own.” Grinning now, Talbot quaffed the rest of his wine and slammed the goblet down on the table.
Rannulf set his own wine aside. Unless Gillian had changed—drastically—in the past few years, his overlord could not have been more wrong about the woman who would be his ward.
He’d not have a moment’s peace between here and the Marches, he could see that clear enough. And once they arrived at I’Eau Clair... Rannulf shook his head. It appeared his time in purgatory had already begun.
Chapter Two
The distant thunder of hoofbeats beyond the castle walls captured Gillian’s attention as she crossed the bailey to the keep. “Riders approaching!” cried a guard. “Close the gates!”
Several women shrieked and hurried toward the stairs to the hall, while the men in the bailey clustered near the gatehouse. A man-at-arms stepped into the narrow doorway beside the gate to urge several villagers up the path to the castle, then slammed the door closed behind them as the portcullis began its ponderous descent.
Heart racing, Gillian gathered up her skirts and headed back toward the curtain wall.
She cast a swift glance at the heavy wooden gate—already barred against intruders, she noted gratefully—before mounting the steep stairs to the guardhouse atop the wall.
“What do you see, Will?” she asked the guard when she reached the top.
“‘Tis a party of riders, milady,” he replied. “They’ve got no engines of war, but I can see the sun shinin’ off their armor.” He stepped back from the arrow slit so she could join him. “They rode straight by the village.”
“Praise God.” She breathed a sigh of relief at that blessing. Though many of the villagers had moved within the castle wall since the attacks on the outlying farms of her demesne, still the fields needed to be tilled and the cattle and sheep pastured outside. Unless faced with a direct attack, life beyond the walls of I’Eau Clair must go on, lest they all starve come winter.
Gillian turned to slip farther into the slit, accepting Will’s help to kneel within the deep embrasure. Bracmg herself with one hand, she raised the other to shade her eyes against the bright spring sun. “Holy Mary save us,” she whispered when the breeze snapped open the pennon atop the lead rider’s lance.
She could not mistake the raven blazoned stark and bold upon the shimmering silver cloth.
The device of her Welsh kinsman, Steffan ap Rhys.
What could he want with her? She feared she knew the answer to that only too well. A shudder swept over her as she recalled the last time they’d met, the feel of his heated gaze, foul and possessive, creeping over her from head to toe. Nay, she’d not permit him to worm his way within these walls by accepting so much as a crust of bread from him.
“Milady?”
She slumped back against the cold stones and closed her eyes for a moment. “Keep the gates barred, Will, and man the walls.” Why him—and why now? Hadn’t she enough troubles to deal with?
“Shall we heat stones and oil, milady?”
She opened her eyes at the eagerness in Will’s voice. “I doubt that will be necessary.” Straightening, she slid from the slit unassisted, shook out her skirts and adjusted her veil. “Much as I’d enjoy seeing my cousin’s reaction to such a greeting, ‘tis no way to welcome him to I’Eau Clair.” She brushed past Will and headed for the door leading to the battlements. “Of course, he doesn’t deserve much better than that as a welcome, either, the arrogant knave,” she muttered to herself. She stepped through the portal, then turned to the guard at the door. “Send for Sir Henry to join us, if he’s within.”
“Aye, milady.” He bowed and left.
“Will, come with me. Steffan’s so thickheaded, it just may take a show of force to convince him to leave.”
Will chuckled. “I remember Lord Steffan well,” he said. They left the gatehouse, and Gillian led the way to a spot where they’d have the best view of the track to I’Eau Clair. “Do you recall the time, milady, not so many years past, when we crept into his chamber and hid all his fancy clothes while he was in the bath?”
Heat flooded Gillian’s face. “I do, though it does neither of us credit.” She stared out over the treetops. “Lady Alys was sorely disappointed. She thought she’d made a lady of me.”
Will snorted.
Gillian jabbed at his ribs with her elbow—a reaction left over from their childhood—then groaned as she connected with his mail hauberk.
He somehow contrived to look wounded. “You might have had the look of a lady by then, but inside you were still Gilles, the brave lad who used to join in all our schemes.”
“Steffan thought I was a lady even then, unfortunately.” She couldn’t keep a trace of bitterness from her voice, but she thought she at least hid her fear.
Will had the right of it, though she’d never admit it. Her transformation from “lad” to lady had taken far longer than she’d ever imagined it would. And there were times—few and far between, ’twas true—when she wished it had never happened. “The miles of thread I spun and wove as punishment for that jest cured me of the last of my old ways,” she said. “Gilles disappeared many years ago, by my choice.”
Steffan and his men rode out from the trees between the village and the castle and trotted up the last rise at a decorous pace, casting her thoughts of the past to the back of her mind where they belonged.
She’d trouble enough to face in the here and now. Gillian squared her shoulders and moved into the opening of an embrasure where she’d be visible from the area across the moat.
Steffan and his party—eight men-at-arms and a standard-bearer—halted on the bank of the moat. He slipped off his helm and placed it on the high pommel of his saddle.
Still atop his mount, he bowed with all the finesse of a French courtier, his handsome face alight with pleasure from the look of it. Straightening, he scanned her face with a piercing look. “My dearest cousin.”
“Milord,” she called down to him, her voice cold as death. ’Twould take more than that display to impress her! “What brings you here, so far from home?”
“Once I heard your sad news, I had to come at once to offer my condolences—and my support. You and I have much to discuss. May we enter I’Eau Clair and take our ease?” he asked, including his men with a sweep of his hand.
Take his ease? He’d want more than that, of that she had no doubt. “I thank you for your sympathy, milord. ’Tis much appreciated. But I fear we cannot permit you—or anyone,” she added lest he question her choices, “to come within.”
Steffan drew in a deep breath and his face went still and cold—a remarkable transformation, but one that did not surprise Gillian in the least. He concealed his true self behind the veil of elaborate manners and fine clothes, but she’d been in Steffan’s presence often enough over the years to know him for a sly weakling. He was all talk and little action.
She’d no desire to waste her time listening to the likes of Steffan ap Rhys jabber on about nothing.
Especially not now.
Before she could draw breath to speak, Steffan’s expression had regained its usual urbanity. He tossed his helm to the man beside him and slipped from the saddle, bowing once more.
Did he truly believe his airs would change her mind?
“Cousin, I must speak with you.” Another motion of his hand and a sharp nod sent his men riding a short distance down the trail toward the village. He headed toward the door beside the gate with a confident stride.
“Hold, milord,” Gillian called.
Steffan stopped and stared up at her, the expression on his handsome face still pleasant, but his dark eyes glowing with some other, fiercer emotion.
At the sound of firm footsteps on the stairs, she glanced over her shoulder. Sir Henry, the captain of the guard, crossed the guardroom and joined her and Will. “I wondered how long ’twould be before yon popinjay dared show his face here again,” Sir Henry muttered, scorn etched deep upon his bearded visage. “Especially now that your father’s not here to send him on his way yet again—”
Gillian cut him off with a hand on his mail-clad arm. “Fear not—he’ll find no welcome here,” she assured the grizzled warrior. She smiled. “I know just what to do to send him on his way,” she added, low-voiced. She clasped her fingers tight about Sir Henry’s arm for a moment, taking comfort from the strength tensed beneath her grip before she released him and turned her attention back to Steffan.
“Milord, we’ve sickness within the keep. Surely you noticed the graves outside the wall.” ’Twas no effort to imbue her voice with sorrow for those words, but to strengthen her tone for the next... aye, that was a chore. “I would not have you risk your health—perhaps even your life—merely to speak with me,” she said, eyes downcast. “Nothing could be that important.”
Sir Henry snorted, turning the sound into a cough when Steffan eyed him suspiciously.
A look of distaste—nay, fear—crossed Steffan’s face, so fleeting she could almost believe she’d imagined it.
Almost. She fought back a smile.
“I must speak with you, cousin,” Steffan demanded. “Is there not some way we can talk privately?”
Will gestured for Gillian to move back from the wall. “A moment, milord,” she said, then stepped behind the cloaking mass of a merlon.
“He’ll not leave until he gets his way, milady. You know it as well as I.” Will glanced down at Steffan. “Look at him. The fool’s nigh hopping with impatience.”
“Aye, the lad’s right,” Sir Henry added with disgust. “Lord Steffan’s got something stuck in his craw. The sooner you meet with him, find out what he wants, the quicker you can send him on his way.”
Gillian nodded. “All right. Best to take care of this now.” Her mood brightened. “Mayhap after this, I’ll never need to see Steffan again.”
She returned to the embrasure. “I’ll speak with you, but you cannot come within. Wait for me by the door,” she said, then turned away.
She passed through the guardroom, Will and Sir Henry on her heels, and came to a halt at the head of the stairs. “My shadows,” she muttered. “You need not accompany me. He cannot harm me if I stay within, and he remains outside.”
“Who’s to say he’ll obey you?” Will growled. “He’s ne’er shown any inclination to listen to anyone but himself, so far’s I’ve seen. You need one of us there to make certain he behaves himself.”
Though she didn’t believe Steffan meant her any harm—and she knew the threat of sickness would keep him from entering I’Eau Clair—Will could be right. Steffan seemed more determined than she’d ever seen him.
But she’d no desire to prolong the agony of holding a conversation with him, either. “Sir Henry, come with me. If it looks as though Steffan plans anything too dangerous, I’m sure a glare from you will put him in his place.” She chuckled. “Your presence alone, especially once he sees the scowl on your face, should be spur enough to speed him on his way.”
As Gillian and Sir Henry made their way through the now-silent bailey, Gillian kept her expression relaxed, nodding to the group of villagers milling about near the stairs to the keep. Steffan was no threat to any of them—to anyone, most like. No sense adding more fuel to the already smoldering tension tearing at her people.
Sir Henry dismissed the man guarding the doorway and unbolted the heavy portal himself. He swung it open just far enough to reveal Steffan standing nigh upon the doorsill, one hand resting against the frame.
He straightened and reached for Gillian’s hand as she stepped into the narrow opening.
“None of that, milord,” Sir Henry growled, making as if to move in front of Gillian.
She stood her ground. “Nay, Sir Henry. I’m sure Lord Steffan knows I’ve been caring for the sick. If he wishes to risk illness himself, ’tis his affair.”
’Twas almost beyond her to stifle a laugh at Steffan’s swift retreat. Once he stood several paces away from the doorway, he bowed once more.
Face composed, she curtsied. “What did you wish to speak with me about?” she asked with more haste than grace.
He took one step closer to her, then glared past her at Sir Henry. “I wished to be private, cousin,” he hissed.
She permitted herself a faint smile. “We are private, milord.”
“As private as you’ll get,” Sir Henry muttered.
Gillian silenced the knight with a glance over her shoulder. “Sir Henry is privy to all my business, milord, for ‘tis his business to protect I’Eau Clair and all who dwell here.” She gathered her skirts in her hands, prepared to leave. “Speak or remain silent, it matters naught to me. But you’ll say your piece before us both, or not at all.”
She could practically hear Steffan’s teeth grinding, though his frustration showed only in his eyes, not upon his face. “I’ve come to offer my hand and heart, Gillian, to claim you as my bride.” He swept a hand through his dark curls, sighed heavily, then held both hands out to her in supplication. “You must see, ‘tis a perfect match. With the two of us ruling I’Eau Clair as one, our blood—the blood of Welsh princes—joined together in our sons, our dynasty will be a force to be reckoned with in the Marches. Welsh and Norman both will cede to us the power we deserve.”
She could scarce draw breath after his outrageous words, could barely restrain herself from grabbing for the glossy hair swinging to his shoulders and wrenching his throat back for her blade.
Instead she used her body to block the doorway and hold back a cursing Sir Henry, though her fingers closed tight around the hilt of the dainty jeweled eating knife at her waist. “Sir Henry!” she snapped when the knight clamped his hand about her arm and tugged her from the doorway. He released her at once. “One madman is all I can deal with for the moment.”
She stepped back into the doorway just as Steffan whipped a dagger from the sheath on his sword belt and held it toward Sir Henry. “You dare lay hands upon your lady?” Steffan snarled. Gillian drew her own blade and raised it threateningly when he would have lunged past her at her man. The unmistakable sound of Sir Henry’s sword slipping free behind her sent a chill through her.
“Enough, both of you!” She glanced from the naked steel glinting in the sunlight to the fire raging in Steffan’s eyes, then sighed. “We’ve all gone mad, it seems.” She lowered her knife. “Have done, both of you. I’m no piece of meat for you to fight over.”
Steffan rammed his dagger home, scowling his displeasure. Gillian feared ’twould take little to push him past reason.
“Sir Henry?” She peered back at him and saw that he’d sheathed his sword, but hadn’t bothered to hide his temper. Hot color tinted his cheeks, and he looked ready to burst.
This had been a bad idea from the start; she’d best end it now, before the next flash of steel—and she’d no doubt they’d come to that point again, should she attempt to converse with that lunatic Steffan.
Gillian raised her chin and looked Steffan in the eye. “I’m honored by your offer, milord.” How she forced those words past her lips, she’d no notion. “But ’tis not for me to say who I must wed,” she murmured. “My hand and inheritance are King John’s to give.” She lowered her gaze, then glanced up at him through her lashes. “You are welcome to apply to my liege, if you truly wish to marry me.”
Steffan’s expression didn’t appear so pleasant now, she noted with a secret smile. And his bow was so abrupt as to be insulting. “What of your father’s wishes in the matter? When last we met, but a few months ago, he led me to believe he thought us well matched.”
The hint of amusement she’d felt at taunting Steffan fled as swiftly as it had arrived. “Indeed?” she asked, her curt tone matching his. “Since my father’s death I’ve looked through all his papers. I’ve found nothing to indicate he ever thought of you at all.”
She couldn’t be certain whether ’twas her words, or Sir Henry’s muffled snort that overset Steffan’s fine manners. Whatever the reason, she could only offer up silent thanks.
“You’ve not heard the last of this, Gillian,” he sneered, all trace of the handsome courtier gone. He stared long and hard at her, then shifted his gaze to Sir Henry. “I’ll go to your king, if need be.” He reached for her arm, then evidently thought better of such a foolhardy act and let his hand drop just short of her. “You will be mine.” He turned on his heel and headed for his mount, pausing a few paces from the showy beast. “And once you are, I swear you’ll never mock me again.”
Chapter Three
The look Steffan gave her just before he spurred his horse into a gallop haunted Gillian through the rest of the day. She’d never cared for him in the slightest; indeed, she’d felt nothing but scorn for him for as long as she could remember. Her other Welsh kin—her distant cousins Ian and Catrin, especially—were dear to her. She welcomed their rare visits to I’Eau Clair. Her father had respected them, had encouraged her to nurture these ties to her mother’s family.
Now that she was seated at the table in her solar to tally the accounts, she could hold back her thoughts no longer.
She tossed aside the quill she’d been using and settled back in her chair, tugging off her veil and unplaiting her tightly braided hair. The thought of taking Steffan as her husband disgusted her. Had Rannulf FitzClifford spoiled her taste for all other men? When she thought back to his last visit, to the closeness they’d shared...
How could she ever hope to have that with another?
And to abandon her as he had—without warning, without reason. Had he gained all he wanted from her, and desired her no more? Or had he found her lacking?
The answer was beyond her ability to understand. She’d never have an opportunity to learn the answers from him, that much had been clear from the message he’d penned upon the betrothal contract.
She fought the urge to draw the crumpled parchment from the box where she’d locked it away. In the week since she’d found the missive, her mind refused to set her free of it. Her thoughts circled, distracting her as she sought some way to protect her people, her home.
Was she doomed to mourn his loss yet again?
Rannulf FitzClifford did not deserve her attention or the time she’d wasted upon the lost cause he represented.
Matters of far greater import weighed heavy on her. How to provide for her people, to protect them, to uncover the miscreants who seemed set upon destroying all her father had established. She raked her hands through the trailing mass of her hair and pressed her fingers against the throbbing ache at her temples.
The sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs to her solar provided a welcome distraction. She rose and opened the door.
Will reached the top of the spiral stair and hurried to her. “Riders approach, milady,” he said, his urgent tone matching his expression.
Gillian drew the door closed behind her and sighed. “Not Steffan again?” she asked, already racking her brain for another way to keep him outside the gates.
“Nay, milady. ‘Tis far worse.” Will motioned for her to precede him down the stairs. “’Tis a war party, Lady Gillian, nigh a hundred strong. They’re armed to the teeth and provisioned for siege, to judge from the size of their baggage train.”
Her heartbeat raced, increasing the sense of urgency flying through her veins. Was this the attack she’d feared since the raids began? She’d known ‘twas but a matter of time before I’Eau Clair itself became the target!
Her boots clattered on the stone risers as she hastened down them, snatching up her hem and running once she reached the great hall. “Muster anyone who can fight in the bailey at once,” she told Will, who followed hot on her heels. “And send the older women and the children to wait in here.” Her maid met them near the door. ”Ella, you’d best prepare to care for the wounded in here as well,” she said.
“Aye, milady,” Ella said, then snatched at Gillian’s arm as she made to pass through the door Will held open. “Here now, where are you going?”
Gillian drew a deep breath. “To the walls.”
“Nay, child, ’tis no place for you.”
Gillian reached down and took Ella’s hand in hers and lifted it, freeing herself. She gave Ella’s fingers a quick squeeze before releasing her. “Where else should I be? I command I‘Eau Clair now. ’Tis my place to lead my people.” She pressed a kiss to Ella’s wrinkled cheek and gathered up her skirts again. “I’ll be fine,” she said before she turned and left the hall.
“Where is my sword?” she asked Will as they hastened through the crowd already gathering in the bailey.
Will stopped in his tracks. “You’ve no need for that,” he said, his voice more stern than she’d ever heard it. “Do you think to lead us in battle? By Christ’s blood, Gil—”
“Bring me a sword, Will. Now.” Not waiting to see if he’d heed her command, she continued on and raced up the gatehouse stairs.
A lad dashed after them, calling for Will, and entered the gatehouse in their wake. “A moment, milady,” Will called as Gillian headed for the wall walk.
He took her sword from the boy and handed it to her, his lips twisted into a rueful smile.
“You know me too well,” she said as she slid free the blade and set aside the scabbard. Fingers clenched tight about the hilt, Gillian drew a deep breath to settle herself and stepped out onto the walk. Still not ready, she moved past the first merlon, catching a glimpse of what awaited them below.
She paused for a moment, scarce able to breathe, then forced herself to turn and look over the wall.
“Holy Mary save us,” she whispered. She leaned into the crenel, her free hand braced on the low stone wall as she gazed, transfixed, at the army spread out across the crest of the hill.
They were doomed.
Rannulf sat atop his stallion before the familiar gray walls of I’Eau Clair Keep and fought back the wave of memories threatening to flood his mind. He could not permit his heart to reign over his head, no matter the provocation.
He would not allow himself close to Gillian again.
A flash of red—Gillian’s hair, no mistaking it—moved swiftly past the crenels of the gatehouse tower, making his heartbeat trip and falter for a moment.
He doubted the battle between heart and mind would ever cease. The moment he’d dreaded since the night he met Talbot had arrived, and he felt no more in command of himself now than he had the last time he’d seen Gillian.
He took a deep breath and reached up to tug his helm lower over his brow—a more comfortable position, true, but also a way to hide his identity from Gillian’s keen eyes for a little while longer.
By the rood, his reaction to her this time was stronger than ever before, and he’d yet to face her.
’Twas all he could do to stay put, and not spur his mount far away from the one woman he’d prayed he would never have to face again.
Nicholas nudged his mount closer to Rannulf’s. “How long do they expect us to sit here before someone comes to answer our summons?” Nicholas asked, low-voiced.
“There’s some movement on the wall,” Rannulf said, just as Gillian came fully into view between two tall crenels.
The sight of her traveled from his eyes to his brain, and then to land like a blow from a mailed fist to his chest.
How could he have forgotten how lovely she was? Her unbound hair framed the pale alabaster glow of her face, the wavy mass hanging past her waist to disappear behind the wall.
“By the Virgin,” Talbot declared, his expression as awestruck as his tone. “Please let that be my ward.” He urged his horse forward and whipped off his helm. “Milady,” he called. He bowed so low, Rannulf noted with disgust, ’twas a wonder he didn’t fall from the saddle.
Gillian straightened and moved nearer the edge of the wall, revealing the sword she held in her left hand—and the full beauty of her form, outlined against the deep blue sky. Rannulf bit back a smile of admiration at the sight of her courage. His heart sank at Talbot’s obvious appreciation, although Talbot had yet to notice the blade of Gillian’s weapon gleaming in the sunlight, he’d wager. He doubted armed women were Talbot’s style.
However, ’twas Rannulf’s misfortune that Gillian, armed or no, was all the woman he could ever desire.
If she’d changed since he’d last seen her, ’twas only to become more beautiful.
And more stubborn? a voice in the back of his mind mocked. Her sweet temper turned bitter by your betrayal?
“Milord.” She responded to Talbot’s greeting with a curt nod—the perfect accompaniment to the sharpness of her voice—and no smile of welcome brightened her face. “Who are you, and why are you here?”
Talbot’s shoulders stiffened. “I am Lord Nicholas Talbot of Ashby, sent by King John to protect Lady Gillian and her lands. Have I the honor of speaking to my ward? Pray open the gates at once, that I might meet you.”
“To any preening fool who rides up to the door? I think not.” She leaned forward. “What proof have you of your claim?”
“The king’s writ, signed and sealed by our liege himself,” Talbot replied, his tone as cold as hers.
He turned to Rannulf and motioned him forward.
Rannulf rode up to join him, careful to center his attention on the man beside him, not the siren poised above him. Would she be able to feel his presence, as he was all too aware of hers?
“Milord?” he asked, pitching his voice low.
Talbot reached into a leather pouch on his saddle and drew forth a rolled parchment. He held it out toward Rannulf. “Will you permit my vassal to carry the writ within?”
Gillian stared down at Lord Nicholas Talbot. He appeared far too self-assured and handsome—and arrogantly aware of the fact, ’twas easy to see—for her to trust him any more than she’d trusted Steffan that very morn.
She eyed the vassal, who had yet to take the scroll from Talbot. Did the fellow await her permission? Somehow she couldn’t imagine that was the case, but who knew what his hesitation might mean? She could not judge him by his expression, with his face hidden by his helm, but that he was a warrior she could readily see by his strong build and well-worn armor.
She tugged Will aside. “What think you?” she whispered.
He shook his head.
“Aye, why allow a fox amongst the chickens?” A few more whispered words sent Will on his way.
She stepped back toward the crenel. “Your vassal may remain where he belongs, milord—by your side,” she called to Talbot. “Have one of your lackeys bring the writ to my man who awaits him below.” She pointed to the door in the wall beneath her. “He will bring it to me.”
Talbot frowned, then called to a man in servant’s livery from among the mounted men ranged behind him. “As you command, milady,” he replied with ill grace. He handed off the scroll to the manservant who approached him on foot and settled back in the saddle to stare up at her.
Gillian fought the urge to glare back as she waited while Talbot’s man gave the parchment to Will and Will hurried to her side, Sir Henry following hard on his heels.
“I was watchin’ from the other tower, but I figured you’d want me over here,” Sir Henry said.
“Aye. I’d appreciate your counsel.” She set aside her sword and reached for the message Will held out to her.
She stood behind the bulk of a merlon to read the scroll, out of sight of Talbot and his men, for she’d no desire to provide a show for their enjoyment, depending upon her reaction to what the parchment revealed.
Her hands remained steady as she unrolled the writ, examined the seal—King John’s, that much at least was true—and began to scan the words scrawled boldly across the page.
She finished reading, then closed her eyes for a moment before handing the king’s writ to Sir Henry. “He has the right of it,” she murmured. “We’re to welcome Lord Nicholas Talbot, such vassals as he’s brought along and all their men, to ‘aid in the defense and protection of the keep of I’Eau Clair, and specifically the person of its heir and lady—’” She drew in a deep breath. “Me.”
Scowling, Sir Henry looked up from perusing the document. “We’ve no choice but to let them in.” He gave back the parchment. “Though I must admit, all those men’ll come in handy, should we be attacked again.”
Will glanced over the wall. “That they will. Most of them look as though they know how to fight.” He nodded. “And I’d rather fight with ‘em than against ’em.”
Both of them were right. And wasn’t this what she’d hoped for? Help for her people, protection for I’Eau Clair—it seemed her prayers had been answered after all.
How could she regret giving up command of the keep, when it would benefit them all?
“Tell them to lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis,” she ordered. Once Will left to relay her command, she took up her sword once more. The scroll clasped tight in her right hand, her sword in her left, Gillian left the merlon’s protection and composed herself to be hospitable. “My lord Talbot.” She curtsied. “You and your men may enter l’Eau Clair and be welcome.”
Gillian used the brief time it took for Talbot and his party to enter I’Eau Clair to twist her unruly hair back into a rough braid and cover it with a piece of veiling. Emma had just settled a copper circlet upon the finely woven linen when the pounding of booted feet on the stairs heralded Talbot’s arrival.
She dismissed her maid and, heart racing, settled back into the commodious seat of her father’s great chair and reached out to clasp the carved armrests in her hands. The appearance, at least, of command. The chair held pride of place on the dais at the far end of the great hall from the stairs, providing her with a clear view of the entire chamber. It also placed her on display.
Talbot led the way, the sunlight streaming through the tall windows gleaming off his blond hair and the silver embroidery adorning his surcoat. Some might count him handsome, but to her he appeared too polished, too finely turned out for a true warrior.
Gillian lowered her gaze lest he find her staring, and remained seated when he stepped up onto the dais and swept a low bow before her. “Lady Gillian.” He reached for her right hand and raised it to his lips, allowing her a glimpse of his unusual violet eyes before she glanced past him at his men. “Rumors of your beauty did you scant justice, I fear.”
“Milord,” she murmured. She bit back a snort of disgust at his empty flattery and sought to look more closely at his retinue where they stood grouped before her on the main floor of the hall, for something seemed familiar....
“Permit me to introduce my men,” Talbot said as he moved aside, allowing her a clear view of them. “Chief among my vassals is—”
Gillian rose to her feet when the man stepped up onto the dais and swept her a bow so low, it seemed almost a mockery. It took all her control not to lash out with her hand to strike his beloved, lying face.
Only the faint negative shake of his head kept her from saying the name before Talbot did, that and the fact that her shock at the sight of him was so great, she doubted she could force a sound past her lips.
Talbot’s words sounded in her muddled brain, echoed loud over the confusion reigning there.
Rannulf FitzClifford.
Chapter Four
She’d never thought to see him again.
Now that he was here, what should she do?
Force of will alone lent Gillian the strength to remain on her feet, to jolt her heartbeat back to its familiar rhythm, to steady her hand and allow her to rest her fingers upon Rannulf’s battle-hardened palm. “I am honored, milady,” he murmured. The low, rough timbre of his voice, combined with the heated glance he sent her way, sent a traitorous ache throughout her body even before he brushed his lips over the back of her hand.
His gaze returned to her face, his eyes widening for some reason before they fixed upon her. The questions she saw within the deep brown warmth of his eyes startled her from her reverie.
How dare he stare at her thus? She looked away and focused on a point just past the breadth of his shoulders.
“Milord,” she said, giving a terse nod.
The urge to snatch her hand free was nigh impossible to fight, but she eased her fingers from Rannulf’s grasp and tried to ignore his presence as Talbot presented the lesser of his vassals. Calling upon Lady Alys’s training, Gillian remained polite but cool, her welcome no more than courtesy demanded.
Once Talbot had finished, she motioned Sir Henry and Will forward. She made them known to the others, wondering all the while if they’d reveal, through word or deed, that Rannulf FitzClifford was no stranger to them. But neither man betrayed by so much as a scowl any reaction to his sudden presence.
Gillian felt her ire—and her confusion—rise to even greater heights. Did no one but she wish to rant and scream, to show some response to the traitor in their midst?
Her men knew nothing of Rannulf betrayal, she reminded herself. She drew in a deep breath and willed herself to calm. They knew the man, even though they were ignorant of what he’d done. Why didn’t they...?
Sir Henry leaned close. “Milady, you don’t intend to keep ’em standing about in here much longer, I trust,” he whispered, his tone. dry. He urged her to turn slightly away from the others. “You’d best bring this audience to an end soon, else your guardian’s apt to start slavering like a hound down the front of that fancy surcoat of his.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Talbot. Indeed, his eyes held the look of a man much taken with what he saw. And she found the smile lighting his handsome face far too arrogant to acknowledge. Stifling a shudder, she nodded and resumed her seat in the great chair.
“Sir Henry will show your captains to their lodgings,” she told Talbot. “And you may trust Will to settle the reminder of your troops in the barracks.” Curling her fingers about the carved armrests, she drew comfort from the memory of her father’s hands lingering in the selfsame spots. “You and Lord Rannulf are welcome to stay within the keep, of course.”
Talbot’s grin widened at her words, and he accepted with a nod.
While her men led the others away, Gillian rose with as much grace as she could muster and motioned Ella forward. “If you would care to bathe now, Ella will show you to the bathing chamber and assist you. I will have food prepared for you, and your rooms readied, while you refresh yourselves.”
Ella stepped down from the dais and curtsied. “If you’ll come with me, milords?”
Talbot bowed to Gillian. “I’ll see you at supper, then, milady, if you’ll deign to join us?” he asked.
“Of course,” she murmured.
His smile broadening, he bowed again and turned to follow Ella.
Rannulf stepped forward and reached for Gillian’s hand once again. She gave it reluctantly, fuming while he pressed his lips to her fingers, then grasped her hand more tightly when she would have pulled free. “I would speak with you later, milady,” he told her. His dark brown eyes held hers captive. “When we’ve a chance to be private.”
“I think not, milord,” she said, her voice as cold as her heart.
“FitzClifford,” Talbot called. Gillian took advantage of Rannulf’s start of surprise to free herself. “Leave my ward alone,” he chided, his tone amused. “Else you’ll frighten her off with your ardor. At least allow us a chance to know her.” He paused near the door. “Are you coming?”
“Later, Gillian,” Rannulf repeated, his voice too low for Talbot to hear. He straightened. “I beg your pardon, milord,” he called as he turned on his heel and crossed the hall. “‘Twas not my intention to disturb the lady.” He joined Talbot and Ella. “I was much struck by her beauty, ’tis all.”
“Indeed?” His unusual violet eyes alight with amusement, Talbot sent yet another bow her way. Seething, Gillian nodded in return, polite but cool, and stood watching, waiting for them to leave, but it seemed Talbot wasn’t finished yet. “I cannot fault your taste, FitzClifford,” he added as he turned to leave the chamber. “But see that you keep your distance. I find that I’m feeling protective of my ward....”
Gillian remained on her feet as Talbot’s voice trailed away. As soon as the sound of their boots upon the stairs faded, however, she slumped into the chair. Hands shaking, she reached up and slid the veil and circlet from her head and dropped them into her lap.
Blessed Mary save her, how could she bear this? She closed her eyes, but all she could see was her new guardian’s well-tailored clothes, the fantastic, elaborately embroidered design covering his surcoat from neckline to hem. The man had journeyed from London into the fastness of the Marches, yet he appeared more finely turned out than anyone she’d seen in her life. Did the king honestly believe that a man like Talbot—naught but a showy popinjay, from what she’d seen thus far—could protect her people?
She drew her hand over her face and opened her eyes, erasing the image. ‘Twould serve her better to send word to Prince Llywelyn...nay, even to her cousin Steffan himself, to come take command of I’Eau Clair, than to believe Lord Nicholas Talbot competent enough at the art of war to defend them against the most meager of threats.
Could that be why he’d brought Rannulf with him? No matter what she thought of Rannulf—and what did she think of him? she asked herself—she could not deny he was a fierce warrior, strong and well trained. Her father had believed Rannulf capable of holding I’Eau Clair, had offered him her hand and all that went with it—the keep, the lands, her heart....
Her fingers tightened about the metal band in her hand until the jeweled cabochons bit into her palm. To see Rannulf here, once again within these walls, was a situation she’d given up all thought of ever having to face.
Gillian looked down at the circlet and felt her heart falter. It had been months, perhaps years, since she’d last seen it. Why today, of all days, had Ella placed this circlet upon her head?
Giving vent to the rage welling up from deep inside her, she leapt to her feet and hurled the offending item across the room. It clattered against the stone wall and fell to the floor, the puny sound in the cavernous room doing little to satisfy her.
Weariness weighting her movements, she left the dais and crossed the rush-strewn floor, the sharp scent of mint rising from beneath her boots serving to clear away her anger.
She stooped to pick up the circlet, smoothed her fingertips over the flowers etched into the soft copper as she’d done so often in the past. How many times over the years had she sat staring out the window, the copper and jade band clutched in her hands while she stroked the beautiful design and turned her thoughts upon the man who’d given it to her?
A tear trickled down her cheek as she smoothed her fingers over the misshapen circle, then pressed the cool metal to her lips.
’Twas as battered as her heart, she thought, choking back a mirthless laugh. And her heart was like to become more bruised yet, the longer Rannulf remained within her sight.
Gillian dabbed at her wet cheek with the trailing end of her sleeve and straightened her shoulders.
’Twas no wonder Rannulf had stared at her—she could only imagine what he’d thought, to see that circlet upon her head.
But how could Ella have suspected Rannulf FitzClifford’s presence in Talbot’s party?
Rannulf followed Talbot and Ella to the bathing chamber near the laundry, his mind brimming with confusion. He went through the motions of bathing, his brain registering Talbot’s continuing commentary about Gillian’s beauty even as he silently berated himself for a fool.
If he kept on as he’d started, ’twould be no time at all before Talbot discovered far more about Rannulf FitzClifford than Rannulf had ever planned to reveal. By the rood, once he’d noticed the copper circlet Gillian wore—his gift to her the day she’d given herself to him body and soul—it had been all he could manage to keep from sweeping her into his arms, Talbot be damned!
He drew in a deep breath and ducked his head beneath the steaming water, drowning out Talbot’s voice and allowing himself a few moments to clear his thoughts. He could not continue to remind himself of the past. ’Twas long gone, taking the dreams of his youth—and any hope of a future with Gillian—with it.
He could scarce afford to jeopardize all that he had accomplished for Pembroke, simply for the gift of Gillian’s presence in his life.
Not that she’d have aught to do with him at any rate, to judge by her attitude toward him and Talbot both. The Gillian he’d come to know would have welcomed guests to I’Eau Clair with warmth and a genuine smile.
The cold, imperious woman who had greeted them from the dais was a stranger to him, the circlet notwithstanding.
Rannulf popped his head up out of the water and took a gulp of air. He’d be naught but a fool to read anything into the fact that she’d worn his gift. She’d no way of knowing he was part of Talbot’s party. ’Twas a coincidence, nothing more.
Though ’twas surprising she’d kept it after his defection, he mused.
He rubbed his eyes. At least she’d no knowledge of the hateful words he’d penned upon the betrothal agreement. Otherwise he’d never have escaped the hall intact.
He accepted the towel Ella held out to him and wiped his face, then glanced up at the old woman m surprise once her stern glare made an impression upon his befuddled brain.
“My lady is a virtuous maiden, milord,” she said, indignation lending her voice an arrogance not usually heard from a servant.
In his shock, he barely resisted the urge to snap out a response—any response—to her words. Did she think to take him to task here? Now?
And did she suspect...?
Her scowl deepening, Ella looked past him to Talbot, settled into a tub nearer the fire, and he realized she’d spoken to his overlord, not to him. What had Talbot said that he’d missed?
“I care not what the custom is elsewhere, milord, but at I‘Eau Clair ’tis not proper for a young lady, innocent and unwed, to bathe a man.” Ella drew a length of toweling from the stack draped over her arm and fairly snapped it into Talbot’s outstretched hand.
“‘Innocent’ and ‘unwed’ don’t necessarily go together,” Talbot pointed out with a grin. Ella drew herself up and stared down her nose at him. Talbot sat up straighter and held out a placating hand before she could say more. “Though I’ve no doubt your mistress is pure as the Blessed Mother herself, of course.”
Rannulf watched Talbot carefully; the other man’s apparent sincerity lightened the burden of concern he carried. He’d troubles enough to deal with already, without having to worry that Talbot might see Gillian as tainted goods, fair game for his obvious attraction to her.
And if Talbot ever discovered the full truth of Gillian’s purity or lack thereof—and Rannulf’s part in it...
No sense wandering down that peril-strewn path unless they must.
He knew of no reason why the subject should ever arise, so long as he found a chance to speak with Gillian as soon as possible.
Assuming she agreed to do as he asked.
“Indeed, you’d better believe it.” Ella gave a rude snort. “And as for the bathing, I care not whether the guest be King John himself! My lamb’ll not be helping any man with that chore, not while I’m here to stop it,” she added with a decisive nod.
Stifling a chuckle at Ella’s vehemence, Rannulf rose, wrapped the towel about his waist and climbed out of the tub. He turned to face Talbot, curious about how the arrogant lord reacted to the maidservant’s words.
He didn’t seem to have taken offense. Indeed, he appeared at his ease as he slicked back his hair with his free hand and swiped the towel over his face. “I’m pleased to see that my ward has so staunch a champion.” He settled back against the padded edge of the tub with a sigh. “’Twill make my task easier, for I know little about protecting a lady’s virtue.”
Ella bobbed a brusque curtsy in response and turned away, muttering under her breath all the while. “Too busy relieving ’em of it, most like,” Rannulf heard her say as she walked past him, crossed the chamber and knelt by the hearth to tend the fire.
Talbot’s servant, Richard, swept into the room, one arm loaded with Talbot’s clothes, Rannulf’s saddlebag clutched in the other. “These lodgings are not so fine as those we left in London, milord,” the man said with a sniff. He cast a measuring glance about him, his lean face twisted into a frown. “Though I suppose they’ll be sufficient for the nonce.”
Ella rose and turned to face them. “Lord William Marshal, the earl of Pembroke, has broken his journey behind these walls and counted himself well lodged,” she said, her wrinkled visage alight with pride. “They’re more than enough for the likes o’ you, I trow.” She nodded toward Talbot. “No offense, milord.”
“None taken,” Talbot replied as he climbed from the bath and wrapped himself in a towel.
Richard’s scowl more pronounced, he dumped the pack at Rannulf’s feet, then scurried across the room to place his master’s belongings carefully on a table near the hearth. “It’s not as if we have any choice in the matter, at any rate.” He began to sort through the garments, shaking his head and continuing to mumble beneath his breath.
“Cease your prattle, you fool,” Talbot commanded, although his lazy tone lent little weight to the order.
‘Twas no wonder he’d taken no insult at Ella’s words, Rannulf decided, for he tolerated an amazing amount of insolence from his own servant. ’Twas yet another example of how little he understood his overlord. The longer he spent in Talbot’s company, the more confused he felt. He’d thought to get to know the other man on the long journey into the Marches, but Nicholas Talbot remained a mystery he’d yet to unravel.
’Twas an annoyance, and a hindrance, too, for how could he decide how to deal with Talbot—how to work around him to carry out Pembroke’s dictates—when he never knew from one moment to the next which facet of the man he’d encounter?
Talbot accepted another towel from Ella and dragged the linen over his chest. “Lord knows how your last master stood your rantings without relieving you of your tongue, Richard. If you’d turn your energies to your duties, instead of finding fault with everything, I might be dressed and out of here before Lady Gillian has the tables cleared away.”
Rannulf shook his head and turned his attention from the fractious servant. Mayhap if he left now, while Talbot lingered here, he might find a way to speak with Gillian before everyone gathered for supper.
’Twould be best to find her and get it over with, before they had to rub along in Talbot’s presence. Spurred on by his eagerness to see her again, even though the encounter was bound to be unpleasant, he snatched his bag from the floor. He pulled out a shirt and drew it over his head, muffling the sudden sound of raised voices.
He tugged down the shirt in time to see the towelclad Talbot lunge across the chamber and grab Richard by the shoulder. He gave the wiry little man a shake like to set his teeth clacking and lifted him till his feet cleared the floor. “Enough, you fool. If you ever speak of the lady so foully again, I’ll see you suffer for it.” Richard still held in his grasp like a terrier with a rat, Talbot turned and thrust the servant toward the door. “Get you gone from my sight,” he added, nudging him on his way with a cuff aside the head.
Talbot stalked over to stand by the blazing fire while Richard stumbled from the room. “By Christ’s bones, where did he come up with such filth?” he asked, dragging a hand through his hair. “Scarce arrived, and already running his mouth.”
What could Richard have said in so brief a time? Rannulf wondered. To judge by his master’s reaction, it must have been vile. A swift glance at Ella showed that the old woman appeared shaken; he’d ask her for the details later.
Despite his ignorance of the offense, he’d best make some response. “Mayhap the journey addled his wits,” he suggested. He stepped into his braes and knotted the drawstring at his waist.
“Who knows?” Talbot shrugged. “I’ll not put up with any more of his foolishness, I assure you.” Draping the towel he’d used to dry his hair around his shoulders, he rubbed his hand over his chin. “And now” I’ve sent him off before he could perform any of his duties.” He grimaced. ”Mayhap that’s his game. ’Tis hardly the first time he’s angered me enough to send him away with his work undone, the clever bastard.”
Ella stepped toward him. “If ’tis a shave you’re wanting, milord, I can do it, and trim your hair as well, if you wish. I helped care for Lord Simon in his last months, and I’ve a careful hand with the blade.”
Precisely the opportunity he needed! Rannulf shoved his feet into his boots before Talbot had finished agreeing to Ella’s offer. He grabbed the first tunic he found in his pack and didn’t even bother to put it on, slung his belt and sword belt over his shoulder, and headed for the door.
“FitzClifford, where are you going in such a hurry? Come, take your ease, let Ella shave you. We’ve journeyed hard and fast to get here—there’s no need to rush about now that we’ve arrived.”
“Nay, I thank you. I wish to speak with my captains, and I thought I’d seek out Sir Henry, see what he can tell me of the situation here. I trust there’ll be some work to occupy us, else our men will grow fat and lazy.”
Shaking his head, Talbot took a seat on the stool Ella pulled up for him near the hearth and waved a dismissal. “Go, then. But there’s no reason to hurry. We’ve plenty of time yet before the evening meal, haven’t we, Ella?”
“Aye, milord.” Ella moved to stand behind Talbot and adjusted the towel draped round his shoulders. “I’m sure that Lady Gillian is still busy seeing to your chambers and arranging for a fitting meal for your lordships.” She motioned for Rannulf to go. “We’ll not dine until dusk tonight, I venture, and ’tis still full light. You’ve time to spare to attend to your duties, sir.”
He sketched a brief bow. “Until this evening, then,” he said. His step light, he headed off to seek out Gillian.
Chapter Five
Rannulf paused halfway up the spiral stairway to peer out a window into the bailey. Troops, servants and children bustled about, filling the courtyard with life and sound. The scene reminded him of his first visit to I‘Eau Clair as a squire in the earl of Pembroke’s service. The bailey had been more chaotic that day, and more exciting when he faced off in a contest of arms against a lad purported to be one of I’Eau Clair’s better swordsmen, according to the youths gathered round.
And Gilles had been a good fighter. Though he was slight of build, his reach was long, his movements swift and sure. The wooden practice swords had clattered together many times before Rannulf slipped beneath Gilles’s guard and knocked him to the muddy ground. Even then, Gilles had managed to take him down with him. They’d landed together in a tangled sprawl of arms, legs and long red hair.
Gillian stared up at him, her green eyes wary and confused.
And thus Rannulf had met his fate.
Mayhap she’d met her fate that day as well, for she remained unwed. And was not spoken for, either, else her betrothed should be here by her side.
The sight of Gillian leaving the stables and heading for the keep roused him from his reverie. He’d gain nothing by lurking about, woolgathering and delaying his meeting with her.
He hurried up the stairs to the second floor and down the corridor that led to her solar. She was bound to end up there, or in her nearby chamber, before the evening meal. He didn’t mind the wait.
The hallway and stairwell were empty, the servants no doubt busy settling in I‘Eau Clair’s newest residents. She wouldn’t realize he was here until ’twas too late for her to do anything about it—the only way he’d manage to see her, for he knew she’d refuse him an audience should he ask again.
He slipped into the solar and shut the door.
Little had changed since his last visit here. The chamber reflected its owner—the Gillian he’d known and loved, not the icy woman he’d met today. A large embroidery frame stood before a cushioned bench near the hearth, and a book held pride of place upon the table next to it. Gillian was both lady and scholar, skilled in housewifery, as well as languages and history—and in the healing arts, he recalled, taking note of a tray of herbs set out near the simple fireplace.
A warrior, too, he reminded himself, catching sight of her sword in its scabbard leaning against the wall near the door. Gillian de I’Eau Clair was a woman of many talents, some of them unusual, all of them intriguing. She was all the woman he could ever want, and far more than he deserved.
He’d do well to remind himself of that fact, now that he was near her once more.
A chill permeated the air and the afternoon light had begun to fade. Rannulf set his tunic and belts on the bench and stirred up the banked fire in the hearth before kindling a taper from the growing flames. After lighting a branch of candles on the table, he closed the shutters and settled on a stool near the door to await Gillian’s return.
As warmth filled the chamber, Rannulf relaxed back against the smooth plaster wall, surrounded by a sense of comfort and welcome he’d not felt in far too long. The scent of lavender and roses—Gillian’s scent—mellowed by the smoke of the fire, enveloped him until he could almost imagine ’twas four years past, and that he sat waiting for his love to join him once again.
The door creaked open, dispelling the illusion, and Gillian entered the room, thumped the door closed and went directly to the fire.
She dropped to her knees upon the hearthstones and reached up to slip off her veil, then slumped down and lowered her head into her hands. Rannulf rose and turned the key in the lock in one swift motion, the quiet click of metal against metal bringing her head up and around before he had time to move away from the door.
“I suggest you try locking it with yourself on the other side, Lord FitzClifford. You are not welcome here.” She rose and turned, tripped over her skirts and pitched backward toward the fire. Rannulf lunged and caught her, swinging her away from the fireplace and setting her on her feet in the middle of the floor.
“Are you all right?” he asked, maintaining his grip on her arms.
Gillian shrugged free of Rannulf’s firm grasp and took a step back, all her shaking legs would permit. She couldn’t be certain if ’twas her near-mishap or Rannulf’s touch that set her nerves aquiver. Whichever the cause, she’d best lock her knees and stiffen her spine, for she refused to back down—to sit and look up at him—in her own solar.
Nay, she’d not allow him the slightest opportunity to believe he held any power over her, in any way.
She shook out her tangled sleeves, straightened her bliaut and found the strength to move another step away. “Perhaps you did not realize that this is my private chamber, milord,” she said, her tone cold. Lowering her hands to her sides, she resisted the urge to tighten her fingers in the fabric of her skirts. “You must also be unaware that ’tis most unseemly for us to be here unchaperoned.” She met his eyes, tried to ignore the heat she saw smoldering there. “I suggest you leave at once, before my guardian discovers you here. I am certain he wouldn’t approve.”
Rannulf closed the space between them and leaned close, his breath warm against her cheek. “You never used to mind us being alone together, Gillian.” He raised his hand, brushed his fingertip along her chin. “Indeed, I think you welcomed it.” Tracing his finger up to her mouth, he outlined her lips, sending a tingle of awareness thrumming through her. “Welcomed me.” She began to breathe again when he lifted his finger from her lips, then nearly gasped as he moved his assault upon her senses to the flesh of her throat.
Jerking back from him she said, her voice little more than a croak of sound, “You, sir, are no gen-. tleman.”
He reached toward her again, capturing the end of one of her braids and winding it slowly around his hand. “And you, milady, knew that already.” He drew closer as his hand crept nearer her chest. “I believe ’twas one of the things you liked best about me.”
“Enough!” She tried to pull free, but he refused to release her. “Rannulf, please,” she whispered, reaching up to cover his hand with her own.
To her surprise, a flush of color rose to stain his face. “I beg your pardon, milady.” He unwound his hand from her hair and stepped back from her, then turned and went to kneel at the hearth and tend the fire.
Gillian took the opportunity to catch her breath while he faced the leaping flames, settling herself upon the bench and smoothing her skirts about her, taking up a small piece of embroidery simply for something to occupy her trembling hands. Why was he here?
Finally he stood, brushed off his hands and turned to face her. “I’m sorry I startled you, milady. And I apologize for trespassing upon your privacy, but ’tis imperative I speak with you alone, without Talbot’s knowledge.”
Gone was the imploring tone, the heated glance, in its place a cool, impersonal courtesy.
’Twas what she wanted, was it not?
Why, then, did she feel a wave of sadness sweep over her, and moisture begin to pool in her eyes?
Blinking back the tears, she laid her needlework in her lap and gazed unseeing at the pattern of vines outlined on the linen scrap. “I see now that I should have agreed to your request, milord, rather than summarily refuse to speak with you.” More composed now, she risked a glance at his face.
He appeared no more willing to look at her than she to watch him. Perhaps they might get through this interview without further mishap, emotions intact.
Emotions hidden, ’twas what she really meant, she reminded herself. Her emotions, at any rate.
What Rannulf might feel, she no longer cared to know.
“Please, tell me what you wished to speak to me about. The hour grows late, and we must go down for supper soon.”
Rannulf paced the length of the solar, coming to a halt in front of her and clearing his throat. “Talbot doesn’t know I’ve been here before.”
“Does it matter if he does?”
“It might.” He resumed pacing, sending her nerves jittering.
“Sit down,” she told him. She waited until he drew the stool away from the doorway and took a seat. “You’d best explain yourself—and quickly, for we mustn’t linger here much longer.”
“Your godfather, Lord William—”
“I know who my godfather is,” she cut in. His voice sounded strange. Could he be nervous?
“Lord William asks that you and your people forget they ever saw me or knew aught of me. He does not wish Talbot to know I have any ties to I’Eau Clair.”
Her heart skipped a beat before settling into a faster pace. If only it were that easy to forget him! She drew in a deep breath and willed her pulse to slow to its normal rhythm, bit back the bitterness welling from deep within her before she spoke. “You have no ties to I’Eau Clair, milord. You saw to that yourself already.”
Rannulf glanced up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“You know very well, milord.” She tossed aside her sewing and clasped her hands together in her lap, restraining her own desire to leap up and pace the room.
She’d not give Rannulf the satisfaction of seeing her agitation. ’Twas bad enough to admit she’d seen—
“What do you mean, Gillian?” he demanded.
Her movements slow, as steady as she could manage, she stood and went to the large table pushed against the wall on the far side of the room. She fumbled with the ring of keys hanging from her belt, found the one she sought and unlocked the small, iron-bound coffer set near the back of the table. Reaching inside, she pulled out the betrothal contract.
The parchment clutched in her hand, all pretense of calm gone, she spun and hurried to stand before him.
“Mayhap I should ask you what you meant, milord,” she snarled, tossing the crumpled roll into his lap. He looked down at it and picked it up, but made no move to unroll the document. Instead he simply looked up at her, his dark eyes as blank, as emotionless, as his face. “But there’s no need to ask. Your words state your feelings clear enough.”
He glanced away for a moment, but when his gaze returned to her face, ’twas as expressionless as before. “The past matters not. Will you do as I ask?”
How could he say that? The past did matter. But now was clearly not the time to discuss it. So be it.
“I grant your request, Lord FitzClifford. I know not the reason, nor do I wish to know why we must keep our knowledge of you secret, but it shall be as Lord William requires. None here shall admit, or show by their actions, that they have ever seen you before. For the love and respect I bear my godfather, I shall do what you ask.” She picked up his tunic and belt from the bench and held them out to him. “Will you send Sir Henry to me immediately? It might be too late to inform my people, for they may have already revealed your secret.”
“We’ll simply have to hope all will be well.” Rannulf rose slowly to his feet and bowed. “I thank you for your generosity, milady. No doubt ‘tis more than I deserve.” He took his belongings from her and slipped the tunic over his head, then buckled his belt about his waist. “May I have my sword belt?” he asked, raising his left eyebrow. “Or did you plan to keep me weaponless until I leave I’Eau Clair?”
Temper seething at his baiting tone, Gillian peered behind the bench and found the sword on the floor.
He reached past her and picked it up by the scabbard. “I am no danger to you and yours, Gillian,” he said quietly. He straightened and took her hand. It took all her will not to snatch it free, especially when he captured her gaze with his. “I swear to you I am not.” He raised her hand to his lips and, turning it over, pressed a kiss to her palm.
He bowed, released her and turned to leave before she realized he’d not returned the parchment, but held it still in his left hand. “I’ll have that back, milord,” she said, pointing to the roll.
“’Tis of no value,” he said quietly. “I thought to be rid of it.”
She held out her hand. “It has meaning for me, milord. Pray return it.”
Rannulf set the parchment into her outstretched hand, but he would not meet her challenging gaze.
Clearly he must recall the words he’d written there.
Sword clutched in one hand, he made a formal bow. “I thank you for your patience with one who does not deserve it,” he murmured. “Adieu.”
He slipped from the room and closed the door before she could respond. ’Twas just as well, for his last statement had left her uncertain what she would have said.
Rannulf hurried down to the barracks in the ground floor of the keep, securing his sword belt around his waist as he went. He guessed he’d find Sir Henry there, or someone who’d know where the crusty old soldier might be. Gillian’s request dovetailed nicely with his own plans, as it happened.
He hadn’t lied when he’d told Talbot he needed to settle his men, either, though he’d scant time to take care of business before the call to supper.
Several of his men had been to I‘Eau Clair with him years ago. While he’d warned them before they set out on this ill-favored trek that they must pretend ’twas their first visit to the place, it would do no harm to remind them, now that they’d arrived, that they must be especially careful not to slip up in front of Talbot’s men when they encountered their old friends among the castle troops.
Actually, his men didn’t concern him so much as keeping Gillian’s people quiet did. He’d brought along a select cadre of his vassals on several of the tasks he’d performed for Pembroke, men he trusted. He knew he could count on them to guard their backs—and their tongues—no matter what the situation.
Fortune favored him for once as he discovered Sir Henry preparing to leave the barracks when he entered them. He met the other man’s respectful nod with one of his own. “A moment of your time, Sir Henry?”
“Aye, milord,” the soldier said, motioning for Rannulf to precede him into the corridor outside. “How can I be of service?”
“Lady Gillian wishes to speak with you at once in her solar,” Rannulf told him as they walked away from the barracks door.
“Does she now, milord?” Rannulf felt his face start to color beneath Sir Henry’s speculative gaze. “And how did you come to be her message boy, eh? You being a stranger here and all,” he added in a low voice, a spark of amusement lighting his sharp blue eyes.
“I’m merely doing a favor for her, nothing more.”
Sir Henry led Rannulf deeper into the shadow-filled corridor. “I know not what your game is, milord, but I’ll not give it away for the nonce.”
A relief to hear, though not completely a surprise. “I appreciated your silence earlier, ’tis true. Though I didn’t expect it.”
“Man’d have to be a half-wit not to realize something’s going on. You’d never greet my lady thus, so cold and indifferent, without a damned good reason. Christ’s bones, lad—” he nudged Rannulf in the ribs with his elbow “—you ran tame behind these walls for far too long to be treating us like strangers now, unless there’s some plot afoot.” When Rannulf didn’t respond, his stare became more intense. “You do have a reason, don’t you?”
“Aye. Several, though the only one that truly matters is that Pembroke wishes it so.” Of a certainty, that was the only reason he planned to give Sir Henry. Details of the situation between him and Gillian had remained private for this long—he had no intention of delving into them again now.
And certainly not with the man who’d been a mentor to him, and Gillian’s protector all her life.
At the least that way would cut short his stay at I’Eau Clair, if it didn’t bring his very existence to an abrupt end, he thought wryly.
“That Pembroke asks is reason enough for me,” Sir Henry said. “’Tis a shame he’s at odds with the king. Is that why John gave my lady into another’s keeping?”
“Aye,” Rannulf replied shortly. “Though I cannot tell you more now.”
“I’d be glad to hear more about it once we’ve a chance to share a pitcher of mead and the details.”
That he could do. “You shall have them as soon as we’re settled,” he agreed. He glanced out the narrow window above them and saw that the light was nearly gone. “You’d best hurry if you’re to see Gillian before supper.”
Sir Henry nodded. “Aye, I’ll get to it right away, milord. Though I’ve already warned our people to treat you and your men as strangers in our midst, same way we’ll treat Lord Talbot’s men till we come to know ’em better. Seemed wise to do so until I had the chance to hear just what was going on.”
“I thank you,” Rannulf said. “I know that’s one thing Gillian wanted to speak with you about. There could be more, so I’ll let you be on your way.”
To his surprise, Sir Henry clapped him on the back. “‘Tis glad I am to see you here again, milord. I don’t mind telling you, you’ve been sorely missed these years past. Your lady needs you now that her father’s gone, more than ever before. ’Tis good to see you where you belong.”
Before Rannulf could respond, the older man gave another nod and headed for the stairs, whistling under his breath.
Rannulf shook his head and tried not to let his evergrowing burden of guilt weigh him down further. “Ah, Sir Henry, if you only knew the truth,” he muttered. He turned back toward the barracks. Though I’m more glad than I can say that you do not.
He paused for a moment outside the door, reaching into the pouch on his belt, drawing forth a heavily embroidered riband and holding it up to the flickering torchlight.
Copper threads shimmered, their brightness untarnished by years of handling. Gillian had done such a fine job of copying the circlet’s design, the resemblance was truly remarkable.
Although he knew the scent had long ago faded beyond detection, this time when he raised the favor to his lips he could almost imagine he smelled the essence of rose and lavender...Gillian’s fragrance.
He tucked the favor back into the pouch, but he could not elude the truth it represented.
No matter what he might say or do, or that he could never claim her, Gillian remained his lady, ever and always, the one truth hidden deep within his heart where it could not fade away.
Chapter Six
Gillian dragged the crude stool across the hard-packed dirt floor of the cotter’s daub-and-wattle hut and set it down next to her patient’s straw pallet. Rowena had given birth to a stillborn child the week before—the second child she’d lost—and despite Gillian’s best efforts to build up her strength with an elixir of healing herbs and good food from the castle kitchen, Rowena remained weak and pale upon her bed.
“How long, milady, ‘fore...you know, ’fore I can try again?” Rowena asked, her pale cheeks tinged pink. She peered into the cup of tonic Gillian handed her.
Although Rowena was no more than a year her senior, Gillian’s cheeks heated. She’d never had a female friend her own age to talk with about such things. But Rowena depended upon her to give her aid and advice, so she’d offer what she could.
“You know ’tis too soon to even be thinking of that,” she cautioned.
“‘Tis easy to see you’re a maiden still, milady,” Rowena said, her pale lips curled into a faint smile. “Else you’d know the men think o’ little else.”
“True as that may be, ’tis much too soon. Allow your body to mend, at least.” She stood and concentrated on gathering her simples together in her basket. “It may better your chance of carrying a live babe next time, if you’ve regained your strength beforehand.”
What must it be like, to carry a babe beneath your heart, tangible proof of the love you’d shared with your husband—your lover?
And to lose a child... Mayhap she was better off than she knew, to be yet unwed.
And like to stay that way, if her luck held. Lord Nicholas seemed unlikely to pledge her elsewhere, now that he’d seen what a fine holding he’d the governing of. He’d be a fool to let it slip from his grasp.
So long as he didn’t decide she should wed him herself, she thought with a grimace. Despite his handsome face and form, he didn’t appeal to her in the least.
Rannulf’s reasons for refusing her hand rose to her mind yet again. The mere image of his words upon the page sent a chill of loss and dread through her heart.
Perhaps she was not fit to be wife or mother at all.
She took up the basket of simples and rose to leave. “I’ll come again tomorrow,” she said, pausing by the door. “See that you take care of yourself.”
“I thank you for your help, milady,” Rowena said. “’Tis a fine mistress you are, to make time to care for such as me.” She settled back onto the pallet. “May God bless you and keep you safe.”
Touched, and uncertain how to respond, Gillian nodded and left the hut.
Many duties awaited her within the keep, especially now that their numbers had increased so dramatically. Evidently the king had received her request for aid, for Talbot had brought a sizable train with him—and supplies to help feed them, she’d been grateful to learn. But it was bound to take some time before they all settled into the new regime.
Her step lagged the closer she drew to the track leading up to the castle. Gillian stood and stared at the hum of activity, the people everywhere she looked, and knew she could not face them yet.
The pool in the nearby forest gave the castle its name. There, as she’d done so often in the past, she could escape for a little while, clear her mind and dream her dreams. It was exactly what she needed.
She turned and set off through the greening fields until she reached the edge of the forest. Her step growing lighter by the moment, she settled her basket of simples upon her arm, kilted up her trailing skirts to avoid the underbrush and wove her way through the trees.
Eventually she came to a clearing nestled deep within the older trees, an island of peace and beauty not visible from the castle walls. ’Twas a sylvan glade straight from ancient lore. A sparkling waterfall emptied into a small, flower-bedecked pool, blending its restful murmur with the solitude of the forest.
A smile upon her lips, Gillian set aside her basket under a towering fir and made her way over the smooth carpet of new grass and spring flowers to the moss-covered stones scattered around the edge of the water.
Perhaps here, in her childhood retreat, she might regain her composure, settle her thoughts.
She settled onto a mound of rocks beside the pool that formed a seat of sorts, and stared down into the water. Clearing her mind of all thought, all fear, she let it roam where it would.
But the journey she took in her mind’s eye was not one she’d have chosen to relive. ‘Twas Rannulf she saw there, a Rannulf younger than the man who’d arrived at I’Eau Clair the day before.
Younger in more than years, for that other Rannulf FitzChfford bore the glint of laughter in his eyes, and an expression of joy upon his handsome face. They’d been so happy that day, carefree and innocent. They’d escaped Lady Alys’s vigilance and gone seeking adventure and privacy. Closing her eyes, she felt again the warmth of his hand holding hers, heard the laughter in his voice as he led her headlong through the forest to this very glade.
The sun had shimmered on the water that day, sparking rainbows from the mist at the base of the falls, lending a magical glow to the air. How could she forget the cool water lapping against her body as she waded, clad only in her thin linen shift, into the depths of the pool, the heat of Rannulf’s gaze as he joined her there all she needed to warm her?
Opening her eyes, she reached down and trailed her fingertips through the water, sending ripples coursing over the smooth surface and distorting her reflection. She stared at the wavy surface until the water stilled, then started at the new image mirrored there.
“Rannulf!” she gasped, whirling to see if he was there behind her in truth, or naught but a creation of her imagination.
“Good day to you, milady.” He stepped away from her, but reached out a hand to steady her when she wavered on her rocky perch. The touch of his fingers on her arm was firm, impersonal... and lingered a moment too long for her peace of mind. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you would have heard me coming through the forest,” he said with a glance to where his huge chestnut warhorse stood tethered to a tree.
’Twas a wonder she hadn’t noticed, a measure of how deeply enmeshed she’d been in the past.
“What do you here, milord?” she asked, her voice as cold as she could make it, given the heated memories still lurking in her brain. “Are you lost?”
“Nay, Lady Gillian. I sought you in the village. When I couldn’t find you there, a lad told me he’d seen you head this way.”
“Are you following me, milord?” If that was his plan, for her own sanity she must set him from that path at once.
For how could she survive his constant presence, the continual reminder of what had been?
And what could be, whispered a taunting voice within her traitorous mind.
He raised an eyebrow in inquiry. “Following you? Why should I do that, milady?”
Gillian felt her temper flare. “I know of no reason, sir, none at all.” The trembling that had beset her since she noticed him behind her disappeared, replaced by a wave of determination.
She’d show him his error! She would not permit him to torment her any longer.
Her legs firm beneath her, she stood, shook out her skirts and threw back her shoulders in a deliberate display of bravado.
Rannulf held his ground in the face of her show of spirit, not out of any desire to flee, but rather to fight the urge to leap more fully into the fray. Dear God, but she was magnificent!
His arms ached to reach out to her, to enclose her in their grasp, to pull her flush against him and appease the hunger burning for satisfaction. Four years of yearning howled for appeasement, and though he knew ’twas impossible, his body refused to accept that answer.
He wanted her, not just to gratify a physical hunger, though his body throbbed with wanting. Nay, simply to feel the joy of Gillian held tight within his arms, to know he’d never have to give her up again... ’Twas a pleasure worth any price.
Except that of his honor.
And her safety.
Taking his time, he glanced about the glade, not permitting his gaze to linger anywhere, lest the memories of this place etched within his memory take control of his reason and destroy his will to resist them.
When his wandering attention returned to Gillian, he shrugged. “And why would I follow you here of all places, milady?” he asked. Though he kept his tone light, he added a taunting edge to his voice that sent a flush of color into Gillian’s pale cheeks. “Your guardian sent me to fetch you back to the keep, ’tis all.”
“Does he think to lock me away within the castle walls like some helpless damsel?” She stirred into motion, pacing away from him, her fingers going to the hilt of her eating dagger. She looked as though she’d like to draw the blade and spit someone with it—himself, most like.
He suppressed a chuckle at the image. Aye, that would be a sight to stir any man!
And why not rouse her anger further? He found Gillian de I‘Eau Clair difficult to resist under any circumstances, but when she had that soft, remembering look in her sparkling green eyes as he’d peered at her reflection in the pool, ’twas all too easy to give in to the compulsion to join her there. They’d both be better off sniping and snapping at each other.
And that way, there’d be no chance he’d give himself away before Nicholas Talbot, as he’d so nearly done too many times the day before.
At least if Gillian were angry with him, she’d do her best to avoid him.
Aye, he could not ask for a better plan.
“You, a helpless damsel?” he mocked. “How could he ever make that mistake?” Taking his time, he joined her at the water’s edge, then followed her when she stalked past him toward the trees. “You’re about as helpless as a she-wolf. If the king had known anything about you, he’d never have bothered to send you a guardian.”
He’d swear her eyes glistened with tears before she turned her back to him, her knuckles white as they tightened about the dagger.
It felt as though she’d stabbed that blade deep into his heart, but he kept at it.
“Did you know that Ella took Talbot to task yesterday when he asked why you had not come to help us bathe?” The morning sun fell on her hair where it hung below her veil, igniting the fiery locks with warmth, momentarily distracting him from his purpose. He shook his head and forced himself to forge on. “She told him you were an innocent maiden whom she’d protect to the death, most like, should he seek to change your state.” He gave in to temptation and reached for the end of her braid, tugging until she turned to face him. “Interesting that she doesn’t know the truth.”
“What truth is that, milord?” Gone was any hint of tears, her eyes instead alight with righteous anger. “That you took my innocence—here, in this very spot?”
He nearly glanced over his shoulder to the grassy bank she referred to, but that would be an act of monumental stupidity. Better he keep his eyes fixed upon Gillian’s face, Gillian’s anger, for ’twould serve to remind him why he’d led them down this path. Instead he released her hair and folded his arms across his chest. “Did I?”
Rannulf leveled a measuring look upon her, till she wanted to squirm beneath that cool, dark gaze. She realized her fingers had nigh gone numb from clutching her knife, and eased her grip. Did he realize, she wondered, how close she’d come to drawing the blade? Merely to keep him away, of course.
’Twas a mistake to let down her guard, she saw at once, for he stepped nearer to her, forcing her to retreat. “Did I indeed?” he asked.
She pressed her back against the rough trunk of an ancient oak and raised her chin in challenge. “Do you deny I was a virgin when you took me to your bed?”
He gave an aborted laugh and reached out to tug once again on a lock of her hair hanging loose over her shoulder. “My bed?” He wound the end around his wrist as he’d done the day before, bringing his captive hand ever closer to her breast, even as his eyes held hers hostage. He leaned so near, his words brushed her lips.
Though she knew she should try to free herself, Gillian could not make her reluctant body obey the dictate of her mind, could scarcely draw breath for fear of pulling him nearer still.
“There was no bed involved, as I recall, save the one we fashioned from my tunic and your bliaut.” His stubbled cheek grazed her face from temple to chin, sending a shiver down her spine. “I’ll never forget the sight of your hair glowing in the sun—” He released her hair and trailed his freed hand along its length, his knuckles coasting over her shoulder in the barest of caresses. “And the shadow here...”
She jerked away before his wandering fingers could settle against her bosom, but he trapped her hand in his.
His fingers intertwined with hers and he tugged her into his arms. “Gillian,” he breathed against her lips. His touch gentle, he wrapped her into his embrace.
He’d slipped off her veil before she realized what he was about, and buried his fingers in the mass of her hair, loosening her braid and sliding his hands up through the wavy mass to cradle her face.
Her eyes drifted closed, her breath caught on a sob as he nuzzled her cheek, pressed his body against hers in a caress devastating in its tenderness. Force she might have withstood, but this gentle assault proved beyond her will to resist.
She opened her eyes to stare into the familiar brown depths of Rannulf’s questioning gaze, lost herself in the web of desire he wove around them so effortlessly, watched as he lowered his lips to hers slowly, so slowly she could feel his touch before their mouths met.
Warmth flowed from his lips to her heart, set up a sense of loss so deep it spilled over into tears that flowed down her cheeks even as her lips clung to Rannulf’s.
He gasped against her mouth, his hand sliding up her cheek to capture a teardrop, then slowly stepped away. He fixed his gaze somewhere beyond her shoulder and drew in a deep breath. “Forgive me. I hadn’t intended to touch you.”
Before her disbelieving gaze he cast off the languor of desire and resumed the mantle of warrior—or tormentor. Somehow all emotion drained away from his features, leaving behind a shell of the man she’d seen.
The man she’d known so long ago.
“You’ve grown even more lovely these years past, milady. I don’t suppose you’d care to pick up where we left off back then, would you?” he asked, his mouth curved into an insolent grin. “If we’re careful enough, Talbot need never know.”
She had the knife free of its sheath before her stunned brain could form the words to curse him straight to hell where he belonged.
Grin still intact, Rannulf eased away from her, one hand held in front of him as though to ward her off. “No one need know you’re no longer a maiden. I wouldn’t want to harm your chances of making a decent marriage, although with a dowry such as yours, combined with your beauty, I doubt most men would care.”
Gillian drew in a gasp of air and, knife upraised, snatched her skirts into her free hand and charged after him. “Whoreson knave,” she growled, stalking him as he backed through the trees toward his mount. “Get you gone, else I’ll gut you where you stand.”
He believed her threat, it seemed, for he spun on his heel and leapt into the saddle. “Let me know if you change your mind, milady,” he called, gathering the reins and nudging the stallion into motion. “At any time.”
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Sharon Schulze
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: T′was a Love to Remember… Lady Gillian de l′Eau Clair would never forget what she had once shared with Rannulf FitzClifford. How could she, when he had disappeared so suddenly, leaving her with nothing but a cryptic message scrawled upon their betrothal contract?Now, four years later, Rannulf had returned under the guise of being a stranger. And though she wanted nothing to do with him, she′d agreed to keep his secret from her guardian. For Gillian could not deny that despite what he had done, Rannulf FitzClifford would always hold her heart.