The Hidden Heart (9 page)
“Aye. It seemed a fine idea at the time.” He shifted a bit, and she'd have sworn he nestled her more snugly into his arms. “Besides, I have an abiding fondness for allânay, for some, at any rateâthings Welsh.”
His chuckle caused his chest to vibrate against her back.
What did he mean by that? Or did she imagine a hidden meaning where none was meant? She was Welshâhalf Welsh, at least. But he couldn't have meant anything by it... By the Virgin, he could not. 'Twas the taint of her Welsh blood he'd referred to in that accursed betrothal agreement...
Or was it?
'Twas nigh impossible to think clearly while cuddled so closely to him. Frantic to dismount and drag her reluctant body away from temptation and confusion, she noted that they'd reached the path into the forest and gave silent thanks. “We cannot ride through the trees, can we?”
“Of course we can,” he replied, and gathered her more firmly into his hold.
Gillian closed her eyes, not for fear of injury, but so she might concentrate on ignoring the way her entire body betrayed her.
After all that had gone before, all that had happened between them in the past week, how could she still want him to hold her?
How could she ache to hear him murmur against the sensitive flesh of her neck, regardless of the words he spoke, simply to feel once more the shiver of delight heâhe alone, she fearedâsent dancing along her spine?
March stopped. Opening her eyes, she greeted the sight of the pool in all its splendor with a sigh of relief.
Worst of all, how could her own mind betray her, swamping her with emotions that carried the power to overcome her intellect?
Mindful of what their haste had cost her the last time she dismounted, she waited with a patience she did not feel for Rannulf to slip from the saddle and help her down. Once her feet touched the ground, she could have knelt and kissed the mossy soil in gratitude.
She placed the basket safely away from March's restless hooves and headed immediately for the pool. Kneeling on the rocky bank, she slipped off her veil, pushed her loose sleeves above her wrists and scooped the cool water into her hands.
She let it trickle through her fingers, easing her heated blood, before raising her hands to her flushed cheeks.
“What are we looking for here?” Rannulf asked as he joined her. He paced along the rocks, his boots slipping on the wet moss, peering down at the flowers growing along the water's edge.
“You'll be looking at the bottom of the pool if you don't have a care,” she warned. Feeling cooler now, more composed, she rose and made to move away from the stones just as Rannulf jumped from one large rock to another.
They met on the same slick ledge, slid into each other and, clutching hold of each other for support, instead pitched sideways into the water.
Chapter Nine
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hey landed with a huge splash, both of them dropping beneath the surface until they hit hard against the rock-strewn bottom.
hey landed with a huge splash, both of them dropping beneath the surface until they hit hard against the rock-strewn bottom.
Gillian's skirts tangled about her legs, and Rannulf lay half atop her besides, pinning her under the water and rendering her unable to move. She'd landed in the cold layer along the bottom, the chill shocking her motionless for a brief moment.
Panicking, she struggled to stand, then burst into the sunlight when Rannulf found his footing and hauled her upright and onto her feet.
Gasping for air, she leaned against his solid form, allowing him to support her until she caught her breath. As soon as she thought she could stand without his help, she tried to move away from him, but the bottom was so slick with muck and weeds where they'd landed that she slipped and would have gone under again if Rannulf hadn't caught her by the arms.
“Take your time,” he cautioned. “Let me hold you until you're steady.”
She gazed up at him through her wet lashes, then stared at his eyes, his face, stark and handsome, slick with moisture that glistened in the sun.
Rannulf appeared equally transfixed by the sight of her, for his eyes trailed heat as they roamed her face, then down over her body in its sodden, clinging garments. “My lady,” he whispered, his gaze fixed on her face once more. His brown eyes holding her captive, he bent his head and lowered his mouth to hers.
No glancing touch this, no forbidden brush of lips laden with guilt and sorrow. He traced his mouth over hers, his tongue darting out to lick away the water beaded on her lips, teasing at the sensitive corners of her mouth until, with a moan of surrender, she opened and let him in.
His taste was familiar, the sweetest subtlety, sustenance after loss and pain. Gillian accepted the caress and returned it full measure, letting him feel all she'd once felt for him....
Felt for him still, to her shame.
But shame held no sway over her now, with her love in her arms once again.
She dragged her hands over his chest and up to measure the width of his shoulders, broader than before, the feel of his leashed strength beneath her palms making desire smolder hotter still within her veins. Fingers trembling, she carried the caress higher, to frame his face, moaning when he deepened the kiss.
Rannulf tightened his hold, one hand slipping low to cup her bottom and raise her until her feet scarce touched the slippery ground, the other buried at her nape in the soaking mass of her hair. His heat branded her as he molded her to him, front to front, her aching mouth still captured by his lips.
He groaned low in his chest, a rumbling vibration that echoed within her own body before he eased his mouth from hers and lowered her until she could stand. “You taste sweeter than wine,” he murmured, raising his hand to brush his knuckles lightly over her cheek. He stroked a finger along her throat, then used it to tilt her chin. “How I've missed you,” he whispered before reclaiming her lips.
Even as she savored the warmth of his touch, a chill settled within her as his words sank into her consciousness.
He'd missed her? Missed whatâthis? She herself, or the passion they'd once shared?
Although the movement made her feel as if she were wrenching her heart from her breast, Gillian tore her mouth from his and took a step back. Despite the uncertain footing, she managed to reach the shore without further mishap. Her gown streaming water, she trudged onto the grassy bank of the pool and sank to her knees.
She heard Rannulf sloshing toward her, but concentrated on wringing out her sopping skirts until an icy droplet landed on her head. “Gillian, what's wrong?”
Her attention focused on the task with an intensity the well-worn garment didn't deserve, she ignored him until the drop became a steady stream of cold water pouring over her head.
“You bastard!” she gasped. Rolling out of the way, she struggled to her feet and looked at him. He lowered his tunicâwhich he'd removed and held over her as he wrung it outâand grinned unrepentantly. Her teeth chattered. “Haven't you done enough already?”
He cast aside the tunic and stalked after her as she retreated toward the trees. “Not nearly enough,” he said low-voiced.
“Let me be!” she shrieked as he snatched her off her feet and back into his arms.
His lips felt warm against her chilled skin, brushing flame over her cheek, her chin, her eyelids before settling on her mouth. “Rannulf,” she moaned, fighting the temptation to sink once more into the heated morass of his caress.
Sheer force of will kept her hands down at her sides, fighting the compulsion to touch him in return. But neither could she force herself to move away. He continued to kiss her, easing her down his body to stand on her own while he stroked his callused fingertips along the sensitive flesh of her throat, her nape, until her skin felt burnished with sensations too compelling to bear.
Finally the gentle assault gave way to his arms about her, holding her snug against the firm strength of his chest. She could feel his warmth through the thin linen of his shirt, hear the racing of his heart beneath her ear slow to its normal pace. When he finally laid his cheek atop her head and held her to him, Gillian lifted her arms and returned his embrace.
How long they stood thus before he spoke, she could not say, but between Rannulf's hold and the midday sun, she no longer felt cold.
“I didn't mean for this to happen,” he murmured into her hair. “But I've no will to resist you, it appears.” With a sigh, he slid his arms away and set her free. His expression solemn, he reached out and smoothed her hair back from her face. “I don't know how I ever thought I could.”
“There was a time when it seemed you felt no need to.” She caught his gaze and held it captive with her own. “Will you tell me why that changed?”
His eyes grew darker still, shadow-filled and cold. “I cannot.”
There was a time he'd kept no secrets from her, or so she'd believed. “Cannot?” she asked, challenge in her voice, her stance. “Or will not?”
He looked away from the intensity of her questioning gaze. “Does it matter which?” He picked up his wet tunic and shook it out. “The outcome is the same either way,” he said before drawing the rumpled garment over his head, hiding his face, his eyes from her completely.
When his head emerged from the neckline, his face bore no expression at all. “You've come to no harm?”
“Would you care if I had?” she couldn't resist asking. She bent to wring her sodden skirts once more, not even bothering to watch him further.
Why bother? 'Twas clear he'd reverted to the man she didn't recognize...the man who'd refused her hand.
Rannulf made no reply, simply settled his sword belt about his middle and went to untie March's reins from a tree.
How dare he toy with her, make a mockeryâto her mind, âtwas what he was doingâof what they'd once shared? She'd have sworn he'd been as deeply affected as she but a brief time ago, though he exhibited little sign of those feelings now. Mayhap she could find some way to make him payâor at the least, to make him suffer. 'Twould go some distance toward easing the hurts he'd caused her.
âTwas clear to her that one thing hadn't changed between them; it seemed he still wanted her physically, if for nothing else. Even if 'twas naught but lust on his part, what better way to make him suffer than to play upon his ardor, taunt him with that lust?
Then refuse to satisfy it.
Had she the strength to brave the fire of passion with Rannulf once again and emerge unscathed?
She'd never shied from a challenge, and she'd not begin now. Decisiveness lending her a peace she'd not felt since before Rannulf arrival at I'Eau Clair, Gillian hid her triumphant smile and awaited his return.
He led the stallion to a small boulder she could use as a mounting block. “We've tarried here too long. We'll have to come back another time to search for the plants.”
Gillian stepped up onto the rock and clambered onto March's back. She waited until he'd handed her the basket and was in the midst of swinging up into the saddle to ask, “Tarried, did we?” He landed in the saddle with an abrupt thump. She wriggled about until she sat nearly in his lap. “Is that what you call what we were doing?”
A sound suspiciously like a growl issued from deep in Rannulf's chest, all the answer he gave.
'Twas enough. She leaned back against his broad chest and permitted her smile to grow, now that he couldn't see it.
“Sit still, damn it,” he snarled, voice dagger-sharp. He urged March into motion and remained silent as they wove through the ancient trees.
Gillian settled back to enjoy the ride. This plot of hers bore unforeseen rewards already, the pleasure of Rannulf s lean, muscular body nudging against hers with every step March took a prize she intended to savor.
She bit back a laugh at her success when Rannulf set March to a fast trot up the road to the castle. Mayhap he was eager to be rid of her?
If that was so, she planned to see that he was doomed to disappointment.
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Rannulf urged March up the last of the path to I'Eau Clair at a fast clip, the stallion eager for a run for even so short a distance.
He, on the other hand, was simply eager for this hellish morn to be over.
Much of the trouble had been his own fault, âtwas true. His carelessness every time he spent any time in Gillian's presence seemed to tie him in knots, his behavior erratic and confusingâto them both, from the' look of it. He could scarcely blame Gillian for wondering at his actions.
He didn't understand them himself.
In all the years he'd spent in Pembroke's serviceâas a squire, then later as essentially a noble spyâhe'd carried out his duties swiftly, efficiently, with little difficulty. Oftentimes, especially in the past few years, he'd found himself in situations where the slightest mistake on his part could lead to deathâfor himself, and sometimes for others as well. But his training had been thorough and complete, and he did his job well.
Why, then, did barely a moment's time spent in Gillian's company render him a complete idiot without one whit of self-control?
If he didn't leave her alone, Talbot was bound to realize they'd something between them.
God help them both if her guardian ever discovered the truth.
As soon as they reached the stables, he dismounted and helped Gillian from the saddle. She accepted his assistance with a serene smile and murmured words of thanks completely at odds with the Gillian he'd known of late...the woman he'd faced by the pool.
Suspicions aroused, he excused himself to go change out of his wet clothing and left her to return to the keep on her own. Though he'd been taught better manners, he didn't trust this pleasant, amenable woman a bit. He'd be best served to get away from her as soon as possibleâand stay away.
He'd complications enough to deal with for the nonce, without adding the ultimate complication of Gillian to his already overflowing agenda.
His step lighter already, Rannulf crossed the bailey and entered the keep, intent upon finally doing the work he'd been sent here to perform.
Spying on Nicholas Talbot.
But when Rannulf entered the hall, intent upon reaching his chamber to dry off, then going about his business, he arrived on the heels of a messenger from the gatehouse tower.
He used the chaos of servants preparing the room for the midday meal to make his way across the long chamber undetected.
“FitzCliffordâjust in time.” At the sound of his overlord's voice, he halted near the door to the stairwell and turned to face the dais.
He should have known he wouldn't make it, he thought with a groan. He bowed. “Milord?”
Talbot descended from the dais and joined him, drawing him into the stairwell where it was relatively private. “Much is happening of a sudden,” he said, his voice holding more excitement than Rannulf had ever heard him express. “While Sir Henry was patrolling the southern border he discovered signs that a sizable party camped there recently. We'll need to go out there, look over the area, as soon as possible.” He nodded toward the departing messenger. “But that will have to wait, for I've received word that a large party of Welshmen are headed here. Sir Henry is still out guarding what he found, and Will has gone to watch over a work party repairing the damage at an outlying farm. I don't believe there's any connection between what Sir Henry discovered and the party coming this way, but it pays to be prepared for the worst.”
“Aye, milord.” Rannulf kept his tone even, but his impatience must have shown through, to judge by Talbot's sudden, sharp look. “What would you have me do?”
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