The Hidden Heart

by Sharon Schulze

  Gillian couldn’t help wondering, however, how he’d react once he’d become acquainted with Catrin’s rather forceful personality.

  “I’m pleased to welcome you to I’Eau Clair,” Lord Nicholas said. “And I’m certain Gillian will be glad of your company, though her well-being is now my concern.”

  “Is that so? ‘Tis her family’s duty—our right—to care for our own,” Ian said, subtle menace threading through his silky voice, his hand moving to his sword. “What brings you to I’Eau Clair, milord, that you believe you’ve any say over my cousin’s welfare?”

  Lord Nicholas’s welcoming expression faded, transforming to a look of...challenge? Gillian’s instincts sharpened.

  His lips curled into a smile that made her distinctly uneasy. “Didn’t Gillian tell you? Her overlord, King John himself, made me guardian of your cousin and all she possesses.”

  Standing so close to Catrin, Gillian heard her cousin’s indrawn breath at Lord Nicholas’s provocation; she only hoped her guardian didn’t notice. She didn’t want him suspicious of anyone or anything associated with I‘Eau Clair, although he could hardly suspect her family’s concern for her. ’Twas bad enough he had some degree of power over her and her life—too much power, in her estimation.

  “Come within the keep where we may all be comfortable,” she suggested. “’Tis nearly time for dinner.” Lord Nicholas and Ian each eyed her with a proprietary air; she wouldn’t be surprised if they began to snap and snarl at any moment.

  Just so had she seen two dogs act, when faced with one juicy bone between the two of them, she thought with disgust.

  Did they think her a pawn to do battle over?

  Outrage—and a lingering aura of helplessness she refused to acknowledge—stiffened her spine. She linked arms with Catrin and led her cousin around the two men and toward the keep, striking up a conversation about their journey. A glance over her shoulder showed Lord Nicholas and Ian walking in silence behind them.

  Their bearing, however, spoke more loudly than words of the tension sparking between them.

  “Lady Gillian,” Lord Nicholas called. She halted, released Catrin’s arm and turned to face him. “Have you seen FitzClifford since you returned from the village? I sent him out here when I heard of your cousins’ approach.”

  “Aye, he was on the wall and ordered the gates opened.” She gave him an innocent smile; she’d done enough to conceal Rannulf’s intrigues for one day. “But he left as soon as he gave the order. I don’t know where he went,” she added with a shrug.

  Her guardian frowned, but motioned for her to proceed. Gillian turned and focused her attention on Catrin, though she could barely concentrate on her cousin’s words. The weight of too many concerns pressed upon her. Their unknown attackers, Lord Nicholas, Rannulf...and now Ian and Catnn arrived to add spice to her melee of cares and woes.

  Never before had the thought of escape—of actually picking up her skirts and running until she’d left the walls of her home far behind—seemed so appealing as it did at that moment.

  Catrin’s fingers tightened about Gillian’s arm and Gillian ceased her inconsequential chatter. Catrin paused at the top of the stairs, suspicion darkening her steady gray gaze. “What’s wrong?” Catrin murmured, her words hidden from the others’ notice by the creak of the great door into the keep as Ian opened it.

  Gillian shook her head and gestured for them to go on to the table on the dais, already prepared for the midday meal. Servants swarmed about the room, carrying in dishes and pitchers of drink to set out on the trestle tables in the hall. “Would you care to retire for a bit, refresh yourselves before you eat?” she asked her cousins.

  “Nay—later will be fine,” Catrin said. She leaned close to Gillian and whispered, “You cannot expect us to wander away now.”

  What had she been thinking? Gillian wondered wryly. “Then please, sit and be comfortable,” she suggested, leading them to the head of the room and waiting to see them take their places at the long, narrow table. She motioned for a servant to lay two more settings. “Help yourselves. I’ll join you once I’ve arranged for your chambers to be prepared.”

  It suddenly occurred to her that her guardian stood behind the table arrayed for battle. Had he been about to leave when her cousins arrived? Or had he believed Ian’s party a force come to attack I’Eau Clair?

  Either way, she could not imagine her so-proper guardian would wish to dine while wearing mail.

  “Lord Nicholas, I apologize for my thoughtlessness. Would you like to change before we begin?”

  He shook his head sharply. “Nay—I’ll be leaving soon. Proceed with the meal,” he added, lowering himself to the chair at the center of the table.

  “As you wish.” She motioned for the two pages who would serve her guests to come forward with their basins of warm water and towels before turning to face the hall, where the rest of her household were pulling up benches to the tables arrayed there. “You needn’t wait for my return,” she told them, raising her voice to be heard over the din. “Go ahead and eat.”

  Ella met her as soon as she left the hall, and they quickly decided where to lodge the newcomers. Catrin could share her chamber—she’d done so before, and it would give them a chance to talk—but Gillian made certain that Ian had a room of his own.

  She couldn’t imagine asking either Rannulf or Lord Nicholas to share their quarters with Ian, or with each other. Three more independent and stubborn men she’d never met! Indeed, ’twould be a miracle if they could make it through this meal peacefully. Though she shouldn’t be surprised by it, it seemed that Ian and Lord Nicholas together could prove a most volatile combination. Once Rannulf joined them...

  Whether it would be dangerous or entertaining, she couldn’t decide.

  Mayhap ’twould be both.

  After a swift stop in her chamber to change out of her still-damp clothes and cover her disheveled hair with a fresh veil, Gillian returned to the hall.

  Hot on Rannulf’s heels.

  She could hardly ignore him, so she resigned herself to...to what? Would he be civil, or treat her with the coldly impersonal air she’d seldom seen? She had come to loathe it, though she knew she ought to welcome it.

  Rannulf mounted the step up onto the dais, then paused and glanced over his shoulder at her as though he’d heard her behind him—unlikely, given the volume of sound filling the hall. His face solemn, his expression one of polite disinterest, he waited for her to reach him.

  She focused on his face—and then upon the sight of him in a dark green tunic that hugged his lean form. It reminded her of the way his muscular chest had looked garbed in wet linen, had felt beneath her hands earlier this morn. Distracted, she didn’t notice his hand, outstretched to assist her onto the platform, until he quirked a brow and held out his hand to her, palm up. “Milady.”

  She had no choice but to place her hand upon his and accept his escort. They approached the table and halted before it.

  Rannulf released her with a slight bow.

  Mindful of his earlier instructions that Talbot believe her cousins were strangers to him, Gillian dropped a curtsy in return and introduced Rannulf to Ian and Catrin.

  ’Twas a blessing Lord Nicholas’s attention seemed centered on her, not on Ian and Catrin, for their reactions would most certainly have roused his suspicion. Ian’s scowl appeared much too extreme for a simple introduction, though his response sounded civil enough. Catrin, however, gifted Rannulf with a welcoming smile, her eyes widened in appreciation, before she turned a teasing glance in Gillian’s direction.

  Wise to Catrin’s scheme, nonetheless Gillian narrowed her eyes at her cousin in promised retribution.

  “’Tis a pleasure to meet you, milord.” Catrin held out her hand to Rannulf over the table.

  He brought it to his lips. “The pleasure is mine, milady,” he said smoothly, the provocative look he gave her when he straightened enough to tempt Gillian to take her boot to his backside.

&
nbsp; Preferably while he stood perched atop the battlements.

  Instead, the amenities over, she allowed him to lead her around the table to her seat.

  “Join me, milord,” Catrin offered. She slid over on the bench to make a place for him.

  Deciding her cousin had much to answer for, Gillian resolved to ignore them both and concentrate her attention upon maintaining the flow of conversation between Ian and Lord Nicholas.

  But it seemed her guardian had other plans.

  “FitzClifford, if you’re through slavering over Lady Catrin’s hand, perhaps you’d care to join me so we might complete our earlier discussion.” He pushed his chair back and stood, turning a strained smile upon the others at the table. “If you’ll excuse us, ladies, milord?” His bow as terse as his tone, he headed off toward what had once been Lord Simon’s private lair without so much as a backward glance to see if Rannulf followed.

  His face expressionless, Rannulf waited until Talbot had passed halfway down the long hall before bowing to Gillian. “By your leave, milady.” With a nod to Ian and Catrin, he left as well.

  Catrin scarce waited until Rannulf had moved out of earshot before turning to Gillian, her lips curved into a satisfied smile. “This may turn out to be a far more interesting visit than I expected.”

  Her mind awhirl as she sought some meaning to Lord Nicholas’s behavior, Gillian reluctantly dragged her attention away from Rannulf and swung on the bench to frown at her cousin. “I’m so gratified you’ll be suitably entertained,” she said dryly. “I’ve never been able to provide you with this level of intrigue before.”

  “Enough, both of you,” Ian snapped. His gaze pensive, he stared out over the busy hall for a moment, then faced Gillian and reached for the platter of mutton. “All right, Gillian, now that your keeper’s gone, tell me everything you know about Talbot.” He stabbed a slice of meat and laid it on her trencher before serving himself.

  Gillian nodded her thanks, picked up the pitcher of mead and filled Catrin’s goblet. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Ian pushed his cup toward her and gave her a smile that sent a shiver down her spine. What did he want of her? She set down the pitcher and shoved the empty cup back to him. “Ian?”

  “If you cannot tell me about your new guardian, perhaps you can tell me what FitzClifford is doing here.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Huw settled into the saddle and raised the wineskin to his lips, savoring the heady wine while his master fumed silently beside him. He enjoyed his noble lordship’s frustration as much as the wine, and the sense of power he felt at that moment was even more intoxicating. He lowered the skin and glanced over at the man glowering at him. “You needn’t worry. They haven’t any idea that we’re behind it, milord. No idea at all.”

  “So you say.” Leather creaked as the other man shifted in his saddle, sending his showy stallion prancing dangerously on the steep slope. “How much longer must you keep this up before I can have her?” he growled. “I cannot wait forever, you know.”

  “You can scarcely ride into I’Eau Clair and take her, either. Especially since her ladyship refuses to allow you entrance.”

  “She said they’d sickness within,” he growled, his eyes snapping with fury. “I vow ’twas a ruse, nothing more.”

  “Judging from the number of people going in and out of the place, you’ve got the right of it.”

  “Fractious bastard,” Lord Steffan growled. Huw fought back a smile as his master slipped from the saddle when the stallion—sensing the anger emanating from the man atop his back—refused to settle down. Looping the reins about a tree, he stepped away from the beast.

  Probably afraid he’d get pushed and tumble down the mountainside.

  “Perhaps you’d better leave him home next time, milord,” Huw suggested. “He doesn’t seem too quiet. Wouldn’t want them to catch us, would we?” he added with a nod toward the Normans poking around at the abandoned campsite below.

  Lord Steffan’s scowl worsened, twisting his face into a gross mockery of his usual pleasant mien. Huw shook his head. What was it about this woman that drove his master to such lengths to have her? Aye. she was a comely armful, but if ’twas a bedmate he sought, women were easy enough to come by.

  Especially if you were a handsome lord gifted with property and influence, he thought, burying his bitterness deep before dismounting to join Lord Steffan.

  Of course, the woman herself was not the only lure driving Lord Steffan to this madness. L’Eau Clair boasted a position of power in the Marches, and Lady Gillian had connections to men of prominence on both sides of the border.

  Men whose loyalty and aid a middling Welsh lord could not hope to command otherwise.

  They moved to the edge of the clearing and watched the troops from I’Eau Clair as they milled about in the valley below. “What are they waiting for?” Lord Steffan asked. “Can’t they see they’re too late?”

  Huw moved away from the edge and shrugged. “Perhaps they think to find something that will tell them who was there.” He spat on the ground. “As if I’d be so careless. All they’ll see is what I wanted them to find—clues to lead them away from us.”

  Lord Steffan walked over to untie his horse. “That’s all well and good, Huw, but we’re not out here to toy with Gillian’s men.” He swung up into the saddle and adjusted his cloak. “I want her with me. If I cannot have her at I‘Eau Clair, then bring her to me at Bryn Du. Once she’s by my side, ’twill be easier to wrest control of I’Eau Clair from the Normans. I don’t understand how you’ve allowed the fools to foil your efforts.”

  “I’ve set plans in motion, milord, but they’ll take time before they come to fruition.” Huw mounted his own horse, barely resisting the urge to reach out and nudge Lord Steffan’s steed with his sword and send the foolish beast, and its even more foolish master, careering down the mountain.

  But that would solve nothing, and lose him what little power he had, never mind all he stood to gain once he’d done as Lord Steffan demanded. “Just be patient a while longer,” he said, the words spoken as much to reassure himself as the other man.

  “You’d best bring my cousin within my grasp, Huw, and quickly, else I’ll find someone who can,” he threatened, his voice vibrating with rage. “I refuse to wait for Gillian and I’Eau Clair much longer.”

  Rannulf caught up with Talbot on the stairs, both maintaining their silence until they’d entered Talbot’s lair and closed the door behind them.

  Curious as to what Talbot had to say, Rannulf remained on his feet, his expression one of polite deference. Patience would serve him best, until he knew precisely what his overlord wanted of him.

  Talbot tossed his sword belt onto the documents scattered across the table and dragged a hand through his hair. “Why aren’t you wearing your mail?” he demanded. “Guests or not, we’ve little time to be doing the civil when we should be riding out to join Sir Henry, looking over what he found.”

  Rannulf nodded. “Aye. But since I didn’t know if you’d want me to stay here or go with you, I chose the middle ground,” he said with a glance down at his well-worn tunic. “It will take but a moment to don my mail, if you want me to accompany you. But I wasn’t certain whether you’d rather I stayed here, kept an eye on your ward—and her guests.”

  “You’re right,” Talbot admitted with a sigh. He rustled through the parchments piled haphazardly at the head of the table until he found the one he sought. “Someone should remain here with Lady Gillian, make sure she doesn’t decide to go off with her cousin—or that he doesn’t try to use her to his own ends. Do you think he’d try to take I’Eau Clair through her?”

  “I doubt it. He didn’t bring many men, and he doesn’t appear to have come here armed for war.” Besides, the Dragon’s methods were generally more direct, Rannulf thought, though ’twas wise of Talbot to have considered the possibility.

  “There’s something about Lord Ian I don’t trust,” Talbot said, a pensive express
ion on his face.

  How far should he carry his ruse? Rannulf wondered. The Dragon’s reputation was well-known along the Marcher border, even into the fastness of England itself within some circles. If he feigned complete ignorance, it might appear as strange as if he knew too much.

  But Talbot appeared little-schooled in much of the local political situation. Doubtless he’d not suspect Rannulf of concealing information, whichever approach he took.

  Still, he’d not care to seem too uninformed. “Have you never heard of Llywelyn’s Dragon, milord?” he asked, relaxing his stance enough to lean back against the heavy planks of the door even as he observed his overlord with a keen eye.

  “Vaguely. He’s rumored to be a ruthless enforcer of Llywelyn’s will, is he not?” Talbot picked up the map he’d pulled from the pile and tilted it toward the light from the narrow window.

  “That’s one of the many legends attached to him. In fact, he is Llywelyn’s kin. And Lady Gillian’s as well. Lord Ian is the Dragon.”

  Talbot’s attention focused on Rannulf with surprising speed, his violet eyes taking on a steely hue. “What!” He tossed aside the map and rounded the table. “What were you thinking of, remaining silent when we left him alone with Gillian?”

  “Hold, milord,” Rannulf said, slapping his palm on the door to keep Talbot from opening it. “He’s hardly alone with her. His sister is right there with them, as are nearly the entire household. What harm do you think he could do to her in a hall full of people?” He lowered his hand when Talbot stepped back a pace. “The Dragon may be a legendary warrior, but I doubt even he is capable of that much,” he added wryly.

  Talbot turned toward the table and retrieved his sword belt, focusing his attention upon buckling it. “You’re right,” he admitted. “Instead of taking you to task, I should be thanking you for preventing me from making a complete fool of myself.” He glanced up at Rannulf and gave a rueful grin. “This guardian business is enough to drive a man mad. I find it far less horrifying than I feared back in London, but the task holds many surprises I never envisioned as well.”