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.”
The Hidden Heart Page 2
