The Hidden Heart

by Sharon Schulze

  It compelled her to turn her head to meet his gaze, a mistake, she realized at once, for his deep brown eyes held a warmth nigh impossible to resist. Her senses seemed suddenly magnified—the feel of the sun’s heat beating down on her clothing, the smell of the greening earth in the fields around them, the faint, exotic scent of sandalwood and leather enveloping the man who held her pressed against him.

  Her heart beat faster in response and her mouth grew dry; she wet her lips with her tongue, even that innocent motion suddenly invested with a new, sensual awareness.

  Rannulf drew in a deep breath and willed his hands to remain light and easy on the reins instead of grabbing Gillian and lifting her to meet his yearning body, his aching mouth. The feel of her weight against him, the sight of her so near him, was almost more than he could bear. Dear God in heaven, he thought, closing his eyes on the sight of temptation personified, how could he have been so misguided as to believe he could sit here with Gillian practically riding in his lap and remain unaffected?

  He nudged March to a faster pace, eager to reach the village before he came to the end of his endurance. At the edge of the wide main street he brought the stallion to a halt, nearly leaping from the saddle. He reached up and grasped Gillian about the waist and lowered her to the ground with more speed than grace.

  Her basket tumbled from her hold and fell into the muddy road, scattering dried herbs and small parchment packets across the puddled surface. “No!” she cried, dropping to her knees in the muck and gathering up what she could.

  Feeling lower than a snake, he stooped to help her. Despite his ignorance about healing, he could tell that what had spilled from the basket had been ruined through his impatience. Once he’d retrieved the last small bundle, he straightened, holding out the befouled items he’d collected. “I’m sorry, Gillian,” he murmured. “I should have been more careful.”

  “Wait.” She pulled a piece of linen from the basket and held it spread open so he could place everything in it. After wiping the worst of the mud from her hands on the edge of the material, she tied the corners together and looped the parcel over her wrist.

  Her gaze lowered, her face pale and solemn, she took up the basket in one hand, clutched the linen packet firmly in the other and started to walk away. Rannulf caught hold of her arm, his touch gentle but insistent. “Gillian, wait.”

  Since he gave her no choice but to stop, she halted, but continued to look ahead, not at him. “Will you still have enough medicines to care for the sick?” he asked, unable to mask his concern.

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice flat. “I’ll need to look everything over, see what’s been spoiled.” She met his gaze now, her green eyes glowing with some strong emotion—anger, most like, righteous anger. How could he guess what harm he might have done? “Some of the simples I carry are not easily come by, or must be compounded and left to blend before they can be used. I may not be able to replace them any time soon.”

  Rannulf felt his face heat. Someone might be harmed by his carelessness... nothing new about that, unfortunately. “Then I pray you’ll have no need for any of those medicines.” He released her arm and stepped back to let her go on. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you restore what you’ve lost. Give you coin to buy what you need, help you gather plants and such or assist you in the stillroom....” He met her gaze and held it with his own, sb she’d not doubt him in this. “Simply tell me what you want of me, and you shall have it.”

  Gillian watched his face, his eyes, to judge if he meant what he said. His regret, and his offer, seemed sincere, and she’d hold him to his word.

  Beginning now.

  “Indeed, milord? Then I accept your apology, and thank you in advance for your help.” She started toward Rowena’s hut, glancing over her shoulder when she heard no sounds of movement behind her.

  He stood in the road, his stallion’s reins held loosely in his hands, his expression pensive. “What are you waiting for, milord? Come along. We’ve much to do, and scant time to waste by standing in the street talking about it.” Not lingering to see if he obeyed, she resumed walking. The creak of saddle leather and the quiet rattle of Rannulf’s scabbard soon followed her. “If we finish here quickly enough, we might have time to stop by the pool before returning to the keep. Many healing herbs grow near the water.”

  She could only pray the blessed Virgin would protect her, and keep her from wishing to indulge any of her foolish desires while they were there.

  As soon as they reached Rowena’s, Gillian took a moment to spread out her simples and assess her losses. She’d been fortunate, for most of what had ended up in the muddy street had been powders compounded from local plants, and herbs she grew in the castle gardens. Replenishing them would take some time and effort on her part—and Rannulf’s, she thought with a smile—but they could be replaced.

  Before they were through, he might be sorry he’d offered to help.

  She frowned. So, perhaps, might she.

  She left him standing guard outside Rowena’s hut while she examined the village woman, then had him do the same at the next three places she visited to treat the sick. At her last stop, she enlisted his aid in setting the dislocated shoulder of a young lad of five who’d taken a tumble from a tree.

  He soon held the boy enthralled with tales about the wild exploits of a strange Irish creature called a leprechaun. While she couldn’t prevent the boy feeling some pain when she reset the joint, Rannulf’s stories distracted the lad from the worst of it; she was glad he was there to help.

  The sun had not yet reached its zenith when they left the boy’s home, his mother’s grateful thanks sending them on their way in a far better state than they’d arrived in the village earlier that mom. Casting a glance at the sky, Gillian smiled. “Good—we’ve time enough to go looking for plants before dinner.”

  Rannulf, adjusting the girth on his saddle, paused. “You know that Talbot doesn’t wish you to be gone from the keep for long.”

  “The plants grow nearby. ’Twill take no time at all to gather them.”

  He finished tightening the strap and stepped toward her, hand outstretched to take her basket. “Despite the fact that it’s been quiet here of late, you still shouldn’t be wandering through the woods,” he cautioned.

  “Lord Nicholas simply said that I should take my guard with me whenever I leave the keep. Sir Henry is keeping him busy plotting ways to improve our defenses—they’ll have no need of my help.” She set aside the basket and adjusted her skirts so Rannulf could boost her into the saddle. “You’re here.” Pointing to the sword and wickedly long dagger on the belt strapped around his waist, she added, “And well armed, I see.” She waited until he met her gaze. “Do you doubt you can protect me?”

  “You know I can,” he muttered. Shaking his head, he clasped his hands about her waist and lifted her into the saddle, then passed her simples to her before swinging up behind her. “Come along, March,” he said, nudging the stallion with his boot heels.

  “What did you call him?”

  “March.”

  Gillian ignored the shiver his voice in her ear sent skittering down her spine and, seeking a distraction, sought to satisfy her curiosity. “’Tis a strange name for a horse.”

  He leaned over her right shoulder to peer at her face. Unfortunately, the action also brought his lips even nearer to her ear. “Not so strange, if you realize I gave him a Welsh name.”

  Eyes fixed on the track in front of them, she laughed. “You’re not serious?” His nod of agreement tapped his chin on her shoulder. “You named him Stallion.”

  “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 all—nay, for some, at any rate—things 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 Welsh—half
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 he—he alone, she feared—sent 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

  They 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 what—this? 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 tunic—which he’d removed and held over her as he wrung it out—and 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 b
ack 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 mockery—to her mind, ‘twas what he was doing—of 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 pay—or at the least, to make him suffer. ’Twould go some distance toward easing the hurts he’d caused her.

  ‘Twas 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?