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Authors: Sharon Schulze

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BOOK: The Hidden Heart
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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
 
 
R
annulf 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.
BOOK: The Hidden Heart
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