The Hidden Heart

by Sharon Schulze

  They’d tarried here long enough—especially since Rannulf had little desire to discuss Talbot’s ward with him. “Shall I stay here to guard Lady Gillian, or would you rather do so?” he asked. He grinned. “’Twould provide you with the perfect opportunity to know Lady Catrin better.”

  “An aspiration to be avoided at all costs,” Talbot said, his voice full of dread. “She’s lovely, but I’d venture she’s a waspish tongue.” Talbot shook his head and reached for the door latch, tugging the portal open. “Perhaps I should worry more about Lady Catrin’s influence upon my ward,” he added with a rueful laugh. “Lady Gillian has proved compliant thus far, and I’d hate to see that change.”

  Rannulf choked back a laugh of his own at that untruth, turning it into a cough when Talbot looked at him curiously. “As you say, milord.”

  “Nay, I’ll leave the dubious pleasure of Lady Catrin’s company to you, FitzClifford. You stay here with the ladies. I’m dressed for fighting,” he pointed out with a glance at his hauberk. “I’ll go join Sir Henry.” He glanced out the window. “And I’d best get to it.”

  The lucky bastard, Rannulf thought, but he kept that sentiment to himself. “Until later, then,” he said, giving a brief bow as Talbot preceded him out the door.

  Pulling the door closed behind him, he headed off down the corridor toward the hall, his footsteps lagging.

  He couldn’t decide which of them had gotten the better bargain.

  By the time the meal ended and the women retired to the solar, leaving the men to go about their business, Gillian was ready to do violence to anyone who so much as glanced at her the wrong way. Exhausted by Ian’s demand for information, confused by Rannulf’s ever-vacillating ways, and hungry besides—for how could she eat under these circumstances?—she wanted nothing more than to escape to the peacefulness of the forest pool.

  Alone this time. She could stare into the water streaming from the rock-strewn hillside to her heart’s content, enjoy the sweet-scented flowers and clear her mind of all thoughts, all feelings.

  But ’twas a beautiful dream, nothing more.

  Instead she ushered Catrin into her solar, closed the door behind them with a decisive snap and turned the key in the lock.

  “Am I to understand you have a death wish?” Gillian demanded as she tore the veiling from her hair and snatched her hairbrush from the table. She unwound her braid, nearly dry now, and began to draw the brush through the tangled strands with long, soothing strokes as she paced the confines of the room. She paused before the cracking fire and whirled to face her cousin. “Or do you simply enjoy flirting with danger?”

  Catrin settled onto the bench with a sigh. “Danger? From whom—Talbot?” She made a rude noise. “Don’t you think I named him properly when I called him a pretty popinjay?”

  “He probably heard what you said,” Gillian said, exasperated.

  “He wouldn’t have known what I said even if he did hear me. He’s a pretty fool, nothing more.”

  “Looks can deceive, Catrin, as you well know.”

  She’d swear Catrin’s face paled, though perhaps ’twas naught but the shifting afternoon light, for her cousin’s voice resounded with its usual tartness when she spoke. “Aye, I know it well. But there’s naught to Lord Nicholas but a pair of fine eyes in a handsome shell.”

  “Whether that is true or not doesn’t concern me.” Though her body nearly quivered with pent-up energy, in the aftermath of the day’s events—and ‘twas scarce past noon—she felt so shaken that ’twas all she could do to stand. She drew forward a stool and sank down upon it with a sigh. “Though I’d not dismiss my guardian so easily, not after today.” She pulled her hair over her shoulder to spill into her lap and stroked the brush through several times, eyes downcast, while she marshaled her thoughts.

  And her courage.

  “Perhaps the danger comes from you,” Catrin commented. Gillian glanced at her cousin’s sharp gray eyes, questioning as they focused on Gillian’s face. “There’s little more dangerous than a jealous woman.”

  She met Catrin’s patient look. “I meant Rannulf when I spoke of danger.”

  “Did you?” Catrin asked. “To whom—me? I only flirted with him to annoy Ian. You know how he can be about Normans.” She rose and came to stand beside Gillian, placing a hand upon her shoulder. “And perhaps to tease you a bit, I admit, though ‘twas cruel of me to do so.” She bent and pressed her cheek to Gillian’s for a moment. “Forgive me, please,” she murmured as she stood back. “I didn’t mean to cause you pain. But I didn’t realize until ’twas too late that all is not well between you.”

  Gillian gave a bitter laugh. “You could tell that easily enough, I’d imagine.” Tears welled in her eyes, tears she’d held back too often this week past.

  Knowing Catrin would understand, she gave up the battle and let the tears fall.

  Once started, she could not stop. A sob rose from deep within her, carrying all the pain and confusion swirling inside her.

  Catrin knelt beside Gillian and enfolded her in her arms. “Hush, dearling, hush. Tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll mend it, see that all is well.”

  Gillian felt wrapped about with her cousin’s love and care, and sobbed all the harder at the uncommon sensation. “You cannot mend this,” she whispered.

  “Is it so bad, then?” Catrin asked against the mass of Gillian’s hair. “Rannulf loves you, ’tis clear enough to see. He would never hurt you or do you harm. Come, tell me and I’ll go speak with him.”

  “There’s naught you can do,” Gillian told her, pulling away from her cousin. “Whatever Rannulf felt for me is long gone.”

  Catrin stood and smoothed her skirts. “How can you say that? I saw for myself this very day how he looks at you.”

  Gillian snuffed out the tiny flicker of hope kindled in her heart by Catrin’s words before it could take root and torment her more. “Don’t confuse lust with love, Catrin,” she said. “I made that mistake once.” Rising, she poured a cup of mead from the ewer on the table and handed it to Catrin. Several deep breaths gave her the opportunity to calm herself, to ease her shaking hands and pounding heart. More composed, she filled a mug for herself and drank deeply of the sweet brew. “I don’t intend to make it again.”

  Her cousin thumped down her drink untasted and took a step toward Gillian, her gaze fixed on Gillian’s face. “What do you mean?”

  Lying to Catrin would be next to impossible, ’twas clear, but she had to try, for if Catrin decided to take Rannulf to task, there’d be no stopping her.

  And Catrin in a temper was more than she could bear to face at the moment.

  Gillian placed her mug on the table, took up her hairbrush and resumed her seat on the stool. “I simply mean that I believed Rannulf loved me long ago, when I was too young and ignorant to know any better.” She worked the brush through a tangle, making it appear her attention was focused upon the task, rather than the storm of anger she could see brewing on her cousin’s face. “Now, with the passage of time, I see nothing but lust in his eyes when he looks at me.” She paused, glanced up and held her gaze steady as she met the questions in Catrin’s eyes. “’Tis nothing more than that. Watch him when next we meet—you’ll see it for yourself.”

  The sound Catrin made in response was as insulting as a curse. “Do you believe I’m a fool?” she demanded. “I’ve already seen how he looks at you. Aye, there’s lust in his eyes.” Hands on her hips, she paced around the table, stopping before the hearth and whirling to face Gillian. “And why shouldn’t there be? You’re lovely, desirable—and he is a normal man, I assume. Jesu save us, I’d be more surprised if I didn’t see lust in his eyes when he looks at you.”

  “There, you see—”

  “I see far more than you wish me to, I warrant. What I noticed at dinner today was two fools too proud—too stupid, more like—to reveal what they feel for each other. Those feelings were clear enough to me, however.”

  “You’re mistaken. You don’
t understand how it was...how it is between us.” And please don’t make me explain, Gillian pleaded silently. How can I admit what a fool I was? The fool I still am, if truth be told?

  Something of her thoughts must have shone in her face, for Catrin’s eyes narrowed and her expression grew more determined than before as she stalked around the table.

  She halted in front of Gillian, hands still on her hips, and huffed out a breath. “Tell me you didn’t do what I think you did,” she said, low-voiced.

  Gillian’s pulse quickened, though she remained outwardly calm—no shaking, at least—as she adopted an arrogant pose. “I don’t know what you mean.” But she could not withstand the weight of Catrin’s knowing stare; she lowered her gaze and rose, going to tend the fire so she could turn away and hide her cowardice.

  It made no difference. “Don’t think you can escape me so easily,” Catrin said, following her and taking her by the arm. “You might as well face me, cousin, for I’ll not stop until you give me the answers I seek.”

  Gillian stirred the fire with the poker, then dropped it to clatter against the hearthstones as she shrugged free of Catrin’s hold and rose to face her. “What if I tell you ’tis no business of yours? Will you let me be? Or will you hammer away at me until I admit my sin to you?” Her heart pounding wildly in her ears, she choked back a sob and looked her cousin in the eyes. “Aye, Catrin, I did exactly what you suspect I did four years ago. Rannulf told me he loved me, wanted me for his wife. It was my heart’s desire. So I gave myself to him, body and soul.” At Catrin’s gasp, she added, “And I’ve spent the time since—since he left me without another word—wishing I could repent my sin, but I cannot.” A tear traced a warm path down her cheek. “Because, despite all that’s happened since, I fear I’d do it again in an instant, should he but ask me to.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Rannulf slipped from the dim hallway filled with late-afternoon shadows into his darkened chamber and slumped back against the door for a moment. Christ’s bones, but he’d no stomach for doing this work here! he thought, straightening and unbuckling his sword belt.

  Always before he’d enjoyed the thrill of ferreting out information, of being Pembroke’s eyes and ears, traveling about where Pembroke could not go. It had been the perfect occupation for him after he’d abandoned all hope of a life with Gillian.

  After he’d killed his father.

  He gave a weary sigh. What had he left to lose at that point, after all? His life had been worthless once his father was gone, not that he’d ever been any kind of a father to him or Connor. But ’twas by his hand that Bertram FitzClifford had met his well-deserved death, a death Rannulf had had no right to mete out.

  And afterward, his mother disappeared into the fastness of the convent—never to leave it, for all he knew. Her loss pained him deeply, as did that of his brother, Connor... his twin, the better part of him, with his quiet ways and lack of temper.

  He’d naught but his own temper to blame for the break with Connor, to his shame, but he hadn’t a clue how to go about mending the breach, assuming Connor could ever forgive him for all he’d said and done.

  But more and more of late he’d felt he had to try. Before he’d left London for I’Eau Clair he’d sent a messenger to Connor at FitzClifford. Though he had no skill with words, he’d written from the depths of his soul, hoping Connor would understand.

  Giving up Gillian had been a natural extension of it all, for how could a man who’d killed his own father—destroyed his family—expect the same joys a better man might have? Wife, family, love and hope? All gone now, and no one’s fault but his own.

  All he could do now was to make amends for his sins, if that were possible, before God saw fit to send him on his way to another version of hell.

  “I was beginning to wonder if you’d found yourself a warm and willing wench and disappeared for the night,” Ian said from the chair beside the cold hearth. Rannulf caught his breath in surprise, though he should have expected this visit. Ian would want to know why Rannulf was really here, what Pembroke was about.

  They’d dealt together often enough over the past few years. Rannulf knew the Dragon as well as anyone knew him, save for Catrin and Gillian, perhaps. He did know that Ian would not care to remain in ignorance for long.

  Flint struck steel with a snap, kindling a spark, then a candlewick. The growing flame illuminated Ian’s face, lending a satiric cast to his features. “Or is my cousin still your heart’s desire?” he asked, his voice as cold as the emerald glow of his eyes.

  It appeared Ian knew him as well, unfortunately. Read him too well. So far as Rannulf could recall, he’d never revealed his feelings for Gillian to her kinsman.

  ‘Twas just as well he had not, for ’twas clear the idea found no favor with Ian.

  He set down his sword on the bed, then turned to his uninvited guest. “I wondered how long ’twould be before you sought me out,” he said, his steady voice revealing nothing. He took a candle from the tall stand beside the bed and went to light it from the one Ian had kindled. “I should have realized you wouldn’t wait long.”

  “I doubted you’d be in any hurry to tell me what you’re doing here, with Gillian.”

  “I’m not here for Gillian’s sake.” The truth, so far as it went.

  “I’m pleased to hear you admit it.” The chair creaked as Ian shifted in his seat. “You don’t belong anywhere near her, FitzClifford.”

  “I’m here by Pembroke’s command, for no other reason,” he snarled. “Do you think I’d inflict myself upon her otherwise?” Hot tallow dripped on his hand; with a muttered curse he crossed to the stand and thrust the candle onto the pricket, then shook his hand to cool it. “I know as well as you do that I’m not fit company for her.”

  “See that you don’t forget it,” Ian snapped.

  “I’m sure you’ll remind me if I do,” Rannulf replied, his tone as cold as Ian’s. He took up the candle and lit the remaining tapers on the stand, filling the chamber with a warm glow at odds with the chilly atmosphere between him and Ian. Sinking down onto the bed, he set his head in his hands for a moment, closed his eyes and prayed for patience—with Ian, and with himself. After a moment he looked up at the other man. “I’d have stayed away if I could,” he said quietly. “But Pembroke needs me here, for reasons that have nothing to do with her, as far as I know. I prayed I’d never have to see her again. This is pure hell for me, I assure you.”

  Ian raised a drinking horn to his lips, watching Rannulf over the rim of his drink, his eyes measuring, weighing the truth of Rannulf’s words. “Do not hurt her more,” he warned. “Else I’ll see to it you pay with your life.”

  Rannulf nodded. “I’d hand you the knife myself.”

  He would, too, to save Gillian from harm. His life for hers. ’Twas an exchange he’d make gladly.

  “You’re here to watch Talbot, I assume?” Ian asked.

  “Aye.” Rannulf rose and went to open the window shutters, breathing deeply of the cool, fresh air. “He’s become close to the king in a short time, and although he claims that John sent him here as punishment for some misdeed, Pembroke—and others—don’t believe it. Despite the fact that the king has disposed of boon companions as easily and more permanently before, no one could discover that Talbot did anything amiss.”

  “It may be naught but a ruse,” Ian suggested. “An excuse to send him here. Although Gillian told me she did send a message to the king after Lord Simon died, asking for his help.” He paused, drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “The timing is convenient, though.”

  Rannulf thrust a hand through his hair and spun to face Ian. “You’ve seen Talbot. He’s so precise, so perfect, I’m tempted to push him, see how far I can go before he breaks down and does something human,” he said with disgust. “And when I find him watching Gillian...”

  “He watches her the way any man would watch a beautiful woman,” Ian told him. His wry tone caught Rannulf’s attention as much as
his words. “In fact, you’d best pray he never catches you watching her in an unguarded moment. Face it, FitzClifford. You’re jealous.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” He turned back toward the window, as much to hide his flushed face as to let the slight breeze cool it. “I didn’t see you looking at her that way.”

  Ian chuckled. “She’s my kin, if you’ve forgotten. I’d no more feel lust for Gillian than I would for my own sister. Besides, in my mind she’s still the same scrappy, smudge-faced brat in braes that she was before Simon let Lady Alys take her in hand to make a lady of her.”

  Rannulf’s blood cooled. “She’s still that, but there’s so much more to her now.”

  “I know.” Ian took another sip of his drink. “But you need not list her virtues, for I know them well. Besides,” he added with a taunting grin, “I’ve no desire to sit here listening to the maundering of a love-struck fool. Tell me about Talbot instead.”

  Aye, ’twould be a relief to change the subject, for he found Ian’s insistence upon bringing his feelings for Gillian, past and present, into the conversation an annoyance. It would be a relief to discuss Talbot with Ian, to hear his opinion of what Rannulf had discovered thus far. He drew à stool closer to Ian’s chair, sat down and began to share what he’d learned.

  His arms filled with a bundle of Lord Nicholas’s shirts bound for the laundry, Richard made his way down the steep spiral stairs, his attention fixed yet again on the fine position he’d held in London, far away from this barbaric backwater. He’d been the personal manservant to a wealthy merchant awash with ambition to buy his way into the nobility. ’Twas a snug berth, and he’d believed a secure one as well, for his master had been so busy currying favor, he’d scarce a spare moment to notice what his servants had been up to in his absence.