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 wa
s 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 fl
oor 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.
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