The Hidden Heart

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.