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.
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, ‘twas true. His carelessness every time he spent any time in Gillian’s presence seemed to tie him in knots, his behavior erratic and confusing—to 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 service—as a squire, then later as essentially a noble spy—he’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 death—for 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 possible—and 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.
“FitzClifford—just 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?”
“I need you to go to the gatehouse tower, gauge what’s happening there while I begin to muster our forces. I’ve just sent word to sound the alarm for the villagers to seek shelter here at once.”
“Lady Gillian and I returned from the village not long ago, milord. I noticed nothing unusual outside the walls.”
Talbot dragged a hand back through his hair. “Of course not—the message I received came from a sentry posted along the northern boundary. He likely rode in just before you did. We’ve plenty of time to set our defenses, if we get to it now,” he said, his tone finally tinged with command.
“Aye, milord.”
Rannulf took one step, then came to a halt when Talbot reached out and caught him by the arm. He surveyed Rannulf’s garments, eyes narrowed. “Since you’ve supposedly just left my ward, I trust you have a good reason why you’re soaking wet on a sunny day.” For the first time since Rannulf had met his overlord, Talbot exuded menace.
’Twould be a mistake to underestimate the man, a fact he should have assumed all along.
“Aye, milord—an excellent reason, one I’ll share with you at the first opportunity.” Bowing once again, Rannulf left the hall to carry out Talbot’s bidding.
L’Eau Clair’s soldiers had been well trained. Preparations to defend against an attack were already under way when Rannulf crossed the bailey to the gate tower. Although he couldn’t imagine a Welsh war party riding straight for the castle, or permitting themselves to be detected, Talbot was right to prepare for the worst.
He was curious to hear what Sir Henry had to report once he returned, as well.
Rannulf gazed down the road to the village from his vantage point on the wall walk near the gatehouse tower, the same spot where Gillian had awaited his party when they arrived. The position commanded an excellent view of the surrounding area, although not, he was relieved to see, of the pool in the forest.
All he needed was for one of Talbot’s men to have seen him with Gillian the two times they’d visited the spot.
If that had happened, he’d likely be residing in the cellars now, under lock and key while he awaited some well deserved punishment, instead of helping to defend I’Eau Clair.
Safe for the moment, he reminded himself. If he’d half a brain, he’d see he stayed that way.
The Welsh arrived much sooner than Talbot had led him to believe they would. Rannulf heard them before he saw them, for they made no secret of their approach. The thunder of hooves on the hard-packed track heralded their arrival before they came into view.
Once he saw them, he knew they’d no need to bar the gates, for it appeared they rode well armed for defense while they traveled, not for war.
A massive wolfhound l
oped ahead of them, gamboling about like a frisky pup until a sharp command from a dark-haired woman near the front of the column brought the dog to a stop near the edge of the moat.
She looked familiar. Rannulf scanned the group spread out below him, then cursed roundly when he caught a clear look at their leader. By Christ’s bones, could he ask for worse luck? he wondered as the man nudged his horse forward and hailed them.
“Why is this keep closed up tight?” he demanded. “Where is your lady?”
The guard posted near the gatehouse stairs to relay messages ran up to Rannulf. “You must let him in, milord,” he gasped. “Lady Gillian’ll be right furious when she learns we slammed the gate nigh in her cousin’s face.”
He’d the right of that, Rannulf knew, though he could not admit he knew anything about it.
There might be hell to pay for this insult, and Rannulf would rather not be on the receiving end of the transaction.
Too bad Talbot hadn’t taken to the walls, instead of sending him. It would have prevented—or at least postponed—what could prove to be a delicate situation.
For him, at any rate.
Rannulf took a deep breath. His work here might be over almost before it had begun, should Lord Ian ap Dafydd take it into his head to tell Talbot everything he knew about Rannulf FitzClifford.
Chapter Ten
A woman’s angry shriek carried across the bailey, followed by her raised voice echoing up the stairs. Rannulf didn’t even bother to turn and look, for he knew it was Gillian. She’d be here soon enough.
She strode onto the walk, skirts flying, her eyes flashing emerald fire. “Open the, gate at once!” She shouted additional orders down to the guards, then, ignoring Rannulf’s presence, leaned into a crenel and gazed down at her kin.
“Go tell them to do it,” Rannulf said to the guard at his side. “Then go to Talbot and tell him we needn’t muster the troops just yet,” he added before sending the man racing down the stairs.
“Ian,” she called. “My apologies.”
“Gillian, what is going on?” the woman below called. “Do you need help?”
Rannulf peered over the wall and shook his head when he saw how angry the woman looked No surprise there; from what he knew of her, she was rarely in any other mood.
A ponderous creaking heralded the lowering of the drawbridge and the portcullis’s slow climb. Straightening, Rannulf moved to stand beside Gillian, careful to avoid her fiery gaze. “Enter, and be welcome,” he shouted. Not waiting for a response, he took Gillian by the arm and led her away from the guards near the tower.
“You must talk to Ian at once,” he said quickly. “Make him understand....”
She sighed, but she nodded. “Yes, milord, I’ll speak to Ian and Catrin about keeping your secret—” she gave him a searching glance “—whatever it is, as soon as they’re within.” She stared at his hand, still clutching her arm, until he released her. “But you must promise me that no harm will come to them while they’re here.”
“No harm? Who would harm the Dragon? For the love of God, Gillian, the man is Llywelyn’s assassin. Mayhap you should show some concern for Talbot,” he suggested dryly. “I doubt Lord Ian will be pleased to learn you’ve a Norman—King John’s man—as your guardian. Have you considered how he’ll react to that?”
“Ian is my cousin, lest you forget. I’ll thank you to cease insulting him.” He allowed her to pull free of his hold. “He’s also no fool. Nor am I,” she added with a pointed look. “I cannot wait to learn all the reasons why we must hide you in our midst. You do intend to explain it all to me eventually, I trust.”
“Perhaps.” Perhaps when hell froze over. Or if she had him pinned in a corner with her sword while he was tied up and unarmed. He glanced away so she wouldn’t notice the amusement—and heat—in his eyes when his mind conjured that image. In that situation he’d give her anything she wanted, he thought.
By the rood, in any situation he’d give her whatever she wanted, he thought with a frown, for where Gillian was concerned it seemed he’d no will to refuse her anything.
What had brought about that strange expression on Rannulf’s face? Gillian wondered. Humor and lust together, it appeared to her, followed by frustration. Or disgust? But whatever thoughts were passing through his mind mattered not a whit to her, especially now that Ian and Catrin had arrived. She could count on them for anything, she knew. If she could convince them to lend her their support, perhaps all her troubles might be resolved.
She glanced at Rannulf, patiently waiting, and felt her heartbeat falter. Nay, some problems would never disappear so easily.
She forced her pulse to steady. He’d drive her mad before long, she knew it. But she could not ignore him, no matter how hard she tried.
Almost every moment she’d spent in his company since he returned to I‘Eau Clair, she felt as though they were carrying on conversations on several different levels at once—or speaking at cross purposes much of the time. ’Twas enough to confuse the most clear-minded person, a description she wouldn’t apply to herself when she was anywhere near Rannulf.
As for her earlier plan to entice him, to make him long for her, to make him suffer...she must have been mad to consider such a foolish notion. Even if it worked, she’d likely suffer just as much as he, if not more. She had loved him once, after all. How could she bear to lose him again?
The hollow clatter of hooves on the drawbridge roused her to motion. “I’ll go down to welcome them,” she said She shook out her skirts and grimaced when her hands touched the cold, damp material; she’d forgotten what she—what they both, she added, peering quickly through her lashes at Rannulf—looked like after their unplanned swim. She shrugged. ’Twas too late to do aught about it now. “You stay out of sight until I’ve had a chance to speak privately with Ian and Catrin.”
He nodded, then glanced over the rail of the walkway into the bailey and frowned. Following his gaze, she saw her guardian, garbed for battle in mail hauberk and leggings, on the stairs outside the keep, speaking with the guard who’d just left them. “You’d best get moving, before Talbot comes to greet them,” he said. He bowed, then turned and headed away from her along the wall walk.
Casting a last, despairing glare at her dress—afraid to even consider how her hair looked—Gillian shrugged and hurried down to the bailey. Most of the time she took care with her appearance, but she’d very little vanity about it. Still, her cousins might be startled by her disheveled state, though they’d seen her dressed worse than this. Lord Nicholas, however, had not.
What he thought of how she looked mattered nothing to her. She only hoped he wouldn’t ask how she’d ended up that way.
Especially if he’d noticed Rannulfs similar condition.
Ian had just helped Catrin from her mount when Gillian joined them. Catrin turned to enfold her in her arms at once, a stream of Welsh words flowing from her lips so quickly, ’twas all Gillian could do to follow half of them. “Slowly, else I won’t know what you’re saying.” She leaned down a bit and gladly returned her cousin’s warm embrace, more grateful than she could say for the wave of love and comfort that washed over her. Fighting back tears, she gave Catrin a last squeeze.
“You obviously need more practice,” Catrin admonished, slowing her speech to a more understandable pace. “We must visit you more often. We cannot allow you to forget your heritage.” She gave Gillian another squeeze, more gentle this time. “We were sorry to hear of your father’s death. He was a good man,” she murmured. “And following so close upon losing Lady Alys....”
Gillian nodded her appreciation, but did not try to speak, for she knew her voice would betray her sense of loss.
Once Catrin released her, Ian swung Gillian up into his arms and held her tight for a moment. “Are you all right?” he asked urgently as he set her on her feet. He bent close enough to whisper, “You’re not being held here against your will, are you?”
“What?” Startled as much by his ins
istent tone as his words, she looked up and met eyes as green as her own—though she didn’t believe hers ever held the questing drive that was so much a part of Ian’s very being. “Of course not. What would make you think such a thing?”
Catrin stepped closer. “I cannot imagine,” she said dryly. “Never before have the gates of I’Eau Clair been shut tight against us, and the guards are strangers to us, as well.” She reached out and touched the tangled end of Gillian’s braid. “And do you have any idea how you look?”
Gillian laughed. “Aye—like a madwoman, most likely.” She raised her hand to her hair and shoved it back over her shoulder. “That I can explain later. But I’ve more important concerns for the moment.” Catching sight of Lord Nicholas drawing near, she took Ian by the hand. “Rannulf FitzClifford is here, but Talbot doesn’t know we know him. You must not let Talbot know that—”
Ian cut off her frantic whisper with a sharp nod. “’Tis all right, Gillian. You can tell us the rest later.”
“Talbot?” Catrin asked. “Who might he be?” She peered past Ian at Lord Nicholas bearing down on them, his handsome face solemn, his dress, even when hurriedly garbed for battle, perfect as always.
Particularly when compared to her own, Gillian thought as she fought back a smile.
“Who is this pretty popinjay?” Catrin asked in Welsh. Gillian bent close to her cousin and jabbed at her side with her elbow, then straightened to drop a polite curtsy when her guardian halted before them.
“Lord Nicholas Talbot, may I introduce my cousins, Lady Catrin uerch Dafydd and her brother Lord Ian ap Dafydd? They’ve just heard of my father’s death and have come to offer their sympathy and to see to my welfare.”
Lord Nicholas bowed, the movement far more elaborate than Ian’s terse bow in reply. His eyes lingered on Catrin, Gillian noted without surprise, for a moment longer than mere civility required. Catrin, petite and lovely, her dark hair streaming down her back in a glorious cascade, possessed a dainty beauty certain to appeal to any man with eyes to see.
The Hidden Heart Page 9
