“Call him,” Ian ordered, his voice like ice.
Lady Catrin frowned, but did as she was bidden. As soon as her whistle cut through the air, Idris stepped off Talbot’s chest and abandoned his victim without a backward glance as he ambled to his mistress’s side and sat down beside her.
Rannulf set Gillian gently on her feet and sent her a saucy smile in response to her furious glare. He couldn’t help himself—her eyes sparkled with temper, color rode high on her cheeks, and she looked so beautiful in the sunlight, ’twas beyond his will to resist.
Talbot stood and made a useless attempt to brush the mud from his ruined clothes. The look he turned Lady Catrin’s way now had nothing of the courtier in it.
Evidently his overlord was as capable of foolishness over a woman as any man, Rannulf thought, for who but a fool would take as much abuse from a woman as Talbot had from Lady Catrin and not choose to ignore her completely?
Though from the look of it, that was about to change.
Ian leaned down and spoke to his sister, his words inaudible but his anger clear enough. She shook her head sharply, but allowed him to swing her into his arms. He carried her across the bailey as though the slick mud did not exist and lowered her to her feet before Talbot.
Fury shone from the Dragon’s eyes, but his face wore its usual unruffled expression and his voice was calm. “My apologies, milord, for my sister’s ill manners.” He clapped his hand over her mouth to muffle her angry shriek and continued, “I hope you won’t bar us from visiting Gillian because of it.”
Lady Catrin’s eyes fairly shot sparks, but Ian kept her under control, and Talbot ignored her attempted outburst.
Talbot squared his shoulders and nodded. “Of course not, milord. You are welcome here at any time.” He bowed politely to Lady Catrin. “And I hope you’ll be in a better mood when next you visit us, milady.” Her glare intensified. “But I trust you’ll choose to leave yon beast elsewhere,” he said with a nod toward Idris, seated calmly by the waiting horses. “I wish you a safe journey.”
“Thank you,” Ian said. “Send FitzClifford to me if you have further problems with raids, and I’ll see what I can do to help.”
Rannulf bowed in acknowledgment, although he was surprised that Ian had gone so far as to mention him specifically. ’Twas unlike him.
Perhaps his sister’s actions had rattled his composure. Rannulf glanced at her as she said goodbye to Gillian, both of them looking uncomfortable, their words stilted. He’d never met a woman as unpredictable as Lady Catrin; he couldn’t imagine what Talbot had seen in her. She could be good-hearted and kind one moment, as changeable as a spoiled child the next.
But she was lovely.
Perhaps to a man like Nicholas Talbot that was all that mattered.
Ian hoisted Lady Catrin onto her waiting horse, swung onto his own mount, waved and led his party out through the open gate. Rannulf felt an immediate rise in the tension that had pressed upon him since his arrival at I’Eau Clair...since he’d first learned from Talbot that they’d be traveling there, in fact. Ian was not his friend, but they were allies of a sort.
Talbot gave a gusty sigh and turned to Gillian. “Will you accept my help now, milady?” He eyed his filthy clothes, his smile rueful. “I’ll not offer to carry you back across, but I can lend you my support.” He held out his arm. “Unless you’d rather Rannulf carted you over like a sack of grain.” He glanced from Gillian to Rannulf, his gaze curious, measuring. “’Tis less elegant, but more effective, I’d imagine.”
What did he mean by that look?
When neither of them made a move to do as he’d suggested, it seemed to Rannulf that his curious gaze intensified. “Come. FitzClifford, surely you’ve manners enough to help a lady.”
Rannulf looked at Talbot again—really looked at him, past the fine clothes and polished air—and realized that the expression in his overlord’s eyes, the man peering out at him, didn’t match that elegant shell at all.
Talbot’s arm dropped to his side just as Gillian reached for it, and he shook his head. “Nay, Lady Gillian, I’ll only get you as dirty as I am. Go with FitzClifford.”
Gillian’s face matched Catrin’s for stubbornness. “I need no help getting across my own bailey, milord, though I thank you for the offer. I’m used to fending for myself.” She dropped a swift curtsy, turned on her heel and left before either man could do aught but stare after her.
In two long strides Rannulf caught up to her, grasped her about the middle and tossed her over his shoulder. “Is this necessary?” she asked, sounding short of breath. He shifted her into his arms in a tangle of loosened hair and trailing fabric. She tore off her veil and shoved her hair from her face, revealing her eyes glowing hot with anger. “Or is this simply some crude male ritual to show me who really holds power over me?”
He ran lightly up the stairs to the keep and swept through the doorway—out of Talbot’s view—before setting her on her feet in the hall with a flourishing bow. Her guardian wasn’t the only man here with manners. “It’s been a pleasure, milady.”
“I fear I cannot say the same,” she muttered. Before his curious gaze she seemed to grow weary, her shoulders hunched, the glow in her eyes replaced with a tired resignation.
Conscious of the occasional servant passing through the hall, he moved a step closer to Gillian. “What is it?” he asked, teasing bravado replaced with sincere concern for her. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head and looked past him, but her eyes appeared unfocused, unseeing. “Go on, you’ve done as your master ordered.” She waved him away. “’Tis nothing,” she said when he wouldn’t leave. “I’m just tired, nothing more.”
The circles beneath her eyes attested to the truth of her words, but the shadows lurking within her eyes revealed a weariness of the spirit as well as the body. Never had he seen Gillian appear so disheartened.
“Come to the pool with me,” he offered impulsively. “’Tis quiet there, and no one can bother you. I’ll leave you alone, if you wish. I could guard you while you rest.”
A glimmer of eagerness shone on her face, but she shook her head. “I’ve too much to do.”
“You’ve always too much to do—’tis part of the problem.” He reached for her hand, then released it when boots thumped against the stairs outside.
“Besides, what would Lord Nicholas think if he discovered we rode out there again? I know he learned nothing of the raiders the other day, and it’s been quiet of late. But still, if we leave he’s bound to be suspicious, and you don’t want—” She broke off as raised voices sounded on the other side of the door. Before they could move away, the footsteps faded as the speakers went back down the stairs.
Despite her protests, he could see she was tempted to agree. Coming to a decision, he took a deep breath, clasped her hand firmly in his and drew her across the hall and into the shadow-filled area at the far end beyond the dais. He paused only to snatch an unlit candle from a stand near the table and tuck it into his belt.
“Rannulf!” she whispered frantically. “What are you doing? That must have been Talbot on the stairs. He’ll be back at any moment—what if he sees us?”
“Don’t worry.” Glancing around to make certain they were alone, he led her into a seldom-used narrow corridor, lifted the edge of a long, faded wall hanging and stepped behind it, pulling her in after him. The musty fabric settled back into place behind them, enclosing them in a dark cocoon.
“If this is some trick to get me alone, I’ll—”
He covered her mouth with his hand. “Hush,” he whispered. “Give me a moment, and you’ll understand the reason I brought you here.” Leaning closer to her ear, he added, “Not that I don’t enjoy being alone with you.”
She growled against his fingers. Chuckling quietly, he reluctantly let his hand slip away.
Rannulf held his free hand out in front of them until his questing fingers encountered the smooth wooden edge of a window seat.
“
What is this?” Gillian asked as she reached past him and ran her hand along the outline of the embrasure.
“There used to be a window here, but ’twas walled up before the castle was completed.” He felt beneath the carved end of the seat until his fingers encountered the mechanism hidden there. A firm push against the lever unlatched the bench; Rannulf lifted it up and eased it back to rest against the wall behind it. “I believe your father feared if this embrasure was open and in use, its secrets would be too easily discovered.”
Letting go of her hand, he removed flint and steel from the pouch on his belt and fumbled to kindle the wick. Once it caught fire, he held up the light and gestured toward the dark opening in the embrasure. He climbed over the edge into the chestlike frame of the seat and stood on the top step of the stairs inside. “Shall we go, milady?” he asked as he held out his hand to assist Gillian.
She paused in the act of placing her hand in his, her palm poised just above his, then snatched it away. “Should I trust you?”
He drew in a deep breath. “In this, you may.”
The flickering light cast long shadows in the close space, highlighting her uncertain expression. “This leads outside, I take it?”
“Aye. ’Tis a passageway to the pool.”
“I never knew this was here. How did you learn of it?”
He glanced away for a moment, then met her questioning gaze. “From your father. The last tune I came to I’Eau Clair, he shared its secrets with me.”
Chapter Fourteen
Rannulf’s words sent a wave of betrayal through Gillian, thrusting into her heart like a knife.
How could her father have told Rannulf, but not his own daughter? He could have told her any time in the past few years, or barring that, before he died. His death had not been sudden; he could have let her know....
If he’d wanted to.
The fact that he’d revealed the existence of this passageway to Rannulf—and who knew what else? a sad voice in her mind asked—exposed her father’s plans to her as clearly as if he’d blazoned them on the curtain wall for all to see. He’d believed Rannulf FitzClifford would wed her, be the son he’d never had, protect and defend what he’d labored so long to establish—the powerful Marcher keep of I’Eau Clair.
What else had her father concealed from her?
What else did Rannulf know about her home, her family, that she did not?
An insidious little voice in her mind taunted her. What if the words Rannulf had penned on the betrothal contract were true?
Her heartbeat skipped at the implications of that thought, at the complications that might tear her plans for a future, for children of her own, into shreds, though she knew in her heart that what Rannulf had claimed was naught but a foul lie.
“We cannot stay here all day,” Rannulf whispered. He reached out and took her hand, leaving her little choice but to go with him. “Come on.”
Despite the pain weighing her down, she couldn’t suppress an overwhelming curiosity about the passageway. As a child she and her playmates—her father’s pages, mostly—had explored I’Eau Clair from towers to cellar vaults, yet never had they discovered anything like this.
She gathered up her skirts in one hand, tightened her grasp on Rannulf’s warm, callused palm and climbed over the front of the seat onto steep wooden stairs.
“Let me go down first,” he said once she’d balanced herself on the first tread. “It’s little more than a ladder, and there’s nothing to hold on to.”
Leaning her back against the inside of the “chest,” Gillian watched as he swiftly descended the ladder, the candle flame steady, his steps sure.
How she missed her boyish garb, especially in situations such as this! Her women’s clothing, with its long, trailing sleeves and skirts, seemed designed to trip her up or pin her down. Although wearing proper attire made her more aware that she was a woman, at times she longed for the freedom of movement she’d once had.
In Rannulf’s presence, she’d be glad of anything that helped her forget she was a woman, for he reminded her of that fact far too often—and too easily.
He moved a few paces down the narrow corridor, his light revealing a short, fat candle stub on a pricket in the wall. A swipe of his hand cleared away its shroud of cobwebs before he lit the wick. A shudder slithered down her back as she considered what might dwell there.
She hoped the passage wasn’t very long, although she knew it had to be, to come out near the pool. No matter—she’d simply walk as fast as possible. Rannulf could lead or follow, she didn’t care which, as long as they made the journey quickly.
He dripped hot wax onto a tiny ledge near the stairs and stuck his candle in it. “Here, let me help you.” He reached up, clasped her about the waist and eased her down to the floor.
His strength still amazed her, though he would have to be strong, to fight while garbed from head to toe in mail, to wield a sword for hours on end. Though she’d a modest skill at swordplay, she hadn’t the endurance to fight for long.
More amazing still was the thrill that raced through her when he lifted her so easily or showed his strength in other ways. He had the ability to snap her in two, yet he could also be gentle, tender, kind.
In spite of the walls that stood between them, she knew he would never physically harm her.
She realized she stood staring into his eyes, her hands still grasping his shoulders. Lowering her hands, she broke the spell that held them both.
“Ready?” he asked.
At her nod, he took her hand once again and placed it in the crook of his elbow, picked up his candle and led her through the passageway.
She scarce noticed their surroundings. Rannulf must have realized how uncomfortable she felt in the narrow darkness, for he distracted her with a humorous tale of leprechauns and fairies. He kept his sword at the ready, brandishing it before them to remove any cobwebs in their path.
The candle flickered in a draft, and the muffled sound of running water caught her attention just as he tried to convince her that the passageway was inhabited by the elfin creatures.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” she told him, laughing still at the antics he’d described.
“Hush, you’ll scare them away.” He leaned close to whisper, “They’re really very shy, you know.”
The noise grew louder and muted light glowed up ahead. The pathway rose steeply, to emerge into a shallow cave edged with tumbled boulders. Rannulf extinguished the candle and set it near the end of the passageway.
Gillian moved past him to the mouth of the cave, gasping at the beauty surrounding them. Sunlight streamed through the falling water, bathing them in soft light and a fine mist. Swaths of green showed through—the plants growing down the rock-strewn hillside, no doubt—and the air bore the scent of rich soil and sweet flowers.
It smelled of life.
She spun to face Rannulf. “How lovely! But can we get out of here without getting wet?”
“You mean you don’t want to end up in the pool like we did the last time we were here?” He grinned, his dark eyes warm, inviting her to join in his amusement.
“’Twould make our skulking through the tunnel all for naught, for I’m sure we’d have to explain ourselves this time.” Pushing up her sleeve, she stuck her hand into the shimmering stream of water and scooped some toward her mouth.
Cool and sweet, it tasted heavenly. She cupped her hand for more, less careful this time, and it trickled over her chin and dripped onto the bodice of her bliaut. A shiver raced over her but, ignoring the cold wet spots it made on the light brown linen, she filled her palm with more and held it out to Rannulf. “Have some—it’s wonderful.”
He cradled her hand in his and raised it to his mouth. His gaze held hers captive as he drank, magnifying the sensation of his warm lips against her cool skin. Dragging his tongue over the well of her palm, he finished the water. “Delicious,” he murmured, then trailed his tongue to her wrist to place a lingering kiss there.
She could not breathe or think, nor could she snatch her hand away as she knew she should. It seemed her heart ceased beating in her chest as they remained frozen in place, in time.
His eyes made such promises as they stood there—of pleasure, certainly, but so much more. How could she mistake the emotion shining from his eyes for anything but love?
Tears spilled down her cheeks, jarring her heart into beating again. “Why?” she asked, the word filled with both hope and pain.
Given his cryptic behavior since he’d returned to I’Eau Clair, she didn’t expect an answer. Her heart nearly stopped again when he opened his mouth to speak.
“Because—” He folded her hand between both of his and pressed it against his chest. His pulse thundered beneath her fingers, and she’d have sworn his entire body shook.“—I am not worthy of your love, your respect. You deserve a better man than me in your life.” Raising her hand to his lips, he pressed a gentle kiss into her palm and closed her fingers over it. “If I stay out of your life, perhaps you might find that man.”
What could she say to change his mind? she wondered.
All she knew was that he was wrong—about so many things.
Before she could find the words to tell him so, he stepped back, directly into the stream of water.
He gasped, but let the water pour over his head for a moment. “Little in our lives ever goes as planned, does it?” He moved out of the waterfall and shook his head, sending droplets flying. “Come on.” He took her by the hand and led her to a narrow opening among the boulders strewn in the mouth of the cave. Gillian had no difficulty fitting through the crevice, but Rannulf had to do some wriggling—and to remove his sword from its belt—to make it out of the cavern. “I must have been thinner when your father showed me the way,” he said once they emerged into the sunlight. He hooked the scabbard back onto the belt and buckled it around his waist. “You should have seen him squirm out of there.” Taking her hand in his, he scanned the rock-strewn hillside.
The Hidden Heart Page 13
