The Hidden Heart

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.