The Hidden Heart

by Sharon Schulze

  That must have been quite a sight, for her father had been a tall, burly man, much heavier about the middle than Rannulf.

  Rannulf stopped outside the cave and scanned the area. “I know there’s been no trouble nearby, but I still should look around, make certain no one is lurking about, before you go down there.”

  Although she appeared impatient to go down to the pool, Gillian nodded.

  “Wait inside the cave until I return,” he told her. “If anything happens, don’t come out to help me. Go back to I’Eau Clair through the passage at once. You can send reinforcements from there.”

  She did as he bid her and reentered the cavern, though he couldn’t be sure she’d obey his dictate should he come under attack. He’d have to trust that she’d remember her early training and do the most logical thing—what he’d ordered her to do.

  He scouted the area surrounding the pool quickly. He found nothing unusual or suspicious as he passed through the trees; more at ease, he climbed the slope to rejoin Gillian. He’d brought her here to escape the tensions back at the keep, not to lead her into further difficulty.

  “’Tis safe,” he told her. She crawled back out between the boulders, pausing to straighten her clothing and tuck the hem of her gown into her woven belt.

  Rannulf paused to look back over his shoulder at Gillian as she followed him. Her face alight with wonder, she gazed down at the pool below, a faint smile brightening her face. She’d smiled so seldom since he’d returned to I’Eau Clair—his fault, at least in part. He hoped he could help her find some happiness, if only by bringing her here.

  At least ‘twas more peaceful than I’Eau Clair had been the past few days.

  They both remained silent, giving Rannulf the opportunity to take himself to task. The cool water atop his head could not have come at a more opportune moment, just as he’d been about to commit the ultimate folly of unburdening himself to Gillian. His heart constantly made a fool of him; all he had to do was gaze into the crystal purity of Gillian’s eyes and all sense of self-preservation flew straight out of his head.

  Exposing himself—his true self—to her could serve no purpose, save make her loathe him more, perhaps. Since she already knew the foul untruths he’d penned on the betrothal agreement, she knew him to be without conscience, without any scruples at all.

  How else could he have taken the gift of her virginity—in this very place, he reminded himself—and then refused her the protection of his name?

  Not that there was much pride or honor left to the FitzClifford name, at least not in the eyes of anyone who knew his family well.

  A man who tormented and beat his wife and sons, who was cruel just for sport, and a son who’d killed his father and torn his family apart. There was a legacy worth sharing with his bride, he thought, disgusted by the notion.

  Yet he’d had the gall to question her bloodlines, to insult her mother, a woman long dead. Even if what he’d said was true, he was in no position to cast aspersions on anyone else’s family.

  But Lord Simon’s offer of Gillian’s hand had come hard on the heels of his father’s death, catching him in the darkest depth of his guilt and pain. He’d lashed out at Lord Simon’s offer of happiness. Once he’d refused, how could he later take back his words, accept an offer that was never tendered again?

  The silence stretched like a cord between them as they worked their way to the bottom of the hill, the tension growing until he could not bear it a moment longer. He released Gillian’s hand immediately, turned his back on her and walked around to the opposite side of the pool. Perching on a rock near the water’s edge, he picked up a shiny stone and held it clenched tight in his fist as he stared down into the greenish depths of the water.

  “Rannulf?”

  He looked up from his contemplation of nothing and peered over his shoulder. She stood right beside him, though he hadn’t heard her approach. She sat next to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. “There’s much you need to say, I think. Whether it will help you to tell me, I don’t know, but I’m willing to listen if you wish.”

  He could not meet her sympathetic gaze. By the rood, he’d rather she hated him than pitied him! He turned away and tossed the rock he held into the bushes far across the pond.

  How could he tell her? How could he admit his sins, his cowardice...and the fact that he’d lay down his life for her gladly, should it be necessary?

  How could he tell her without also admitting that he’d already sacrificed everything he’d ever wanted when he gave up any chance of a life with her?

  But what else had he left to lose?

  “You have no idea how bad it is, Gillian.” He drew in a deep breath and shook his head. “I don’t even know if I can tell you....” Closing his eyes, he wished himself anywhere but here.

  That childish trick had never worked before, as he well knew, and it wasn’t likely to start now. If it had to be done, ’twas best to do it quickly, without tormenting either of them any longer.

  Gillian leaned over his shoulder and brushed a kiss on his cheek. She eased closer to him, pressed herself against his back and wrapped her arms around his waist, leaned her cheek on his shoulder. “You can tell me, you know.” She gave a weak laugh and swiped her cheek against his shoulder—to blot away her tears? “It cannot be any worse than what I’ve imagined since I found the betrothal contract among my father’s papers.”

  He reached down to his waist to clasp her hands beneath his own. “You must know that I didn’t mean those lies-I wrote, that much I can tell you freely. I only wish your father was still alive, so I might apologize to him for what I said. He was a good man who always treated me far better than I deserved. I could have found some better way to refuse your hand than that.” He tightened his fingers about hers. “I know the words can never be enough, but I offer them to you, Gillian. I am more sorry than I can say that I wrote what I did.”

  “Is that true, or are you only sorry I know what you wrote?” she murmured, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

  “The correspondence was between Lord Simon and me. I didn’t know you would ever see the contract.”

  She drew in a deep breath and straightened, easing her weight from his back, but not releasing him completely. “When I didn’t hear from you again, I assumed you’d gotten what you wanted, and had no further use for me.”

  Her words struck his heart like a blow from a dagger’s blade—biting, deadly. “That’s not true,” he said quietly.

  “What else was I to believe? You left here afterward, and I never heard from you again.”

  He closed his eyes against the pain he’d caused, and because he would hurt her more, before this discussion was over. “You believed what I wanted you to.”

  She pulled away from him slightly, so he no longer felt her sweet warmth along his back. “I never knew about the agreement until recently—only a short time before you arrived, in fact. But I believed you lost to me long ago, Rannulf.” Grabbing him by the shoulder, she forced him to turn and face her. “How do you think I felt, after I gave myself to you in love and joy, and heard nothing from you ever again?” Tears streamed unhindered down her cheeks, winding the pain wrapped around his heart tighter.

  “At first I told myself something had happened to you—you’d been wounded, or sent somewhere so far away there was no way to send word to me.” She seized the front of his tunic in both hands and held tight. “After a time, I believed you must be dead, for you’d not ignore me for so long otherwise.” Her eyes held him pinned in place as securely as her hands. “But then I realized my godfather would have sent word to me if that were so.”

  He had nothing to say in his defense, so he let her hold him there. She deserved the chance to tell him how he’d hurt her.

  “What if we’d made a child together that day?” she asked, her voice ragged. “Did that possibility ever once cross your mind?”

  He reached up and cupped her face in his hands. “You don’t know how much I wished
we had,” he said, smoothing his thumbs over the softness of her skin. He closed his eyes for a moment, afraid for her to see the hope, the yearning that lingered still. When he looked at her again, he let all he felt, joy and sorrow both, shine from his eyes. “If we’d made a child—” he shook his head, uncertain how to express himself “—your father would probably have forced me to marry you.”

  “Forced?” Gillian released her grip on his tunic and pushed against his chest. “No one could force me to wed a man I didn’t want, whether I carried his child or not! I have no use for a reluctant groom.”

  How could he make her understand? He took her hands in his and held them tightly. “Reluctant? Only because I felt I wasn’t worthy of you. I wasn’t then, and I’m not now. But if we’d made a child, your father might have forced the issue, insisted we wed—if he could accept what I’d done.”

  “‘What you’d done’? I don’t understand. What did you do that was so terrible?”

  “I cannot tell you like this, when you comfort me,” he said. His heart heavy with the loss, he released her hands and stood. “In truth, your father would never have forgiven me enough for what I did to give you into my keeping, nor should he have. He’d never have offered me your hand at all had he known that I killed my father—” He met her stunned gaze and forced himself to hold it with his own. “And that I’d do so again, if I had to.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Shock tumbled through her, brought her to her feet. “I don’t believe you!” she cried. “How dare you concoct so horrible an excuse? If you don’t want me, then say so.” When he backed away from her, she swung her skirts out of her way and stalked after him. “You need not go to such lengths to turn me away. Even your insults to my mother were not so bad as this...this fabrication.”

  His bitter laugh sent a chill of unease skittering along her spine. “‘Tis no lie, Gillian. I did kill my father. ’Tis not widely known, but it is the truth. Lord William knows of it. Send word to him if you don’t believe me.”

  Her mind reeling, she seized upon the first thought that came to her notice. “Then why did he never say anything about it? If not to me, then to my father?” she demanded. “My godfather must have known that my father wished us to marry. Surely he’d have shared that important bit of news with him—if he believed it mattered.”

  “I don’t know why he didn’t say anything to Lord Simon, but it certainly does matter, Gillian. I am a murderer.”

  He sank down on a large, flat rock, his face weary and strained. When he looked up and met her pleading gaze, she could see nothing but honesty in his eyes.

  Perhaps it was the truth, as he understood it, at any rate.

  “Couldn’t you be wrong?” she asked, hoping—nay, pleading—for him to admit ’twas a mistake.

  “I lay injured beside him as his life’s blood drained away, my dagger thrust into his chest, my hand clenched about the hilt.” His movements slow, tired, he shook his head. “There’s no mistake, Gillian. My father is dead, and by my own hand.” He held his hand out to her, then let it fall into his lap. “Now do you see why we could not wed?”

  She sat down beside him, her gaze fixed on his face, his eyes—so full of sorrow, of pain. Her heart ached for him, yearned to absorb some of his pain and give him ease. “You must have had a good reason, an important one,” she said softly. She believed that with every fiber of her being. The Rannulf FitzClifford she’d known four years ago, the man she’d grown to love, could not have committed such a deed without one.

  Rannulf ignored the hand she settled on his arm, but she left it there anyway, determined to offer him what comfort she could whether he wanted it or not. “What reason could possibly make patricide acceptable?” he asked despairingly. Reaching down, he squeezed her hand before moving it to rest in her lap. “You cannot rationalize it, Gillian, nor make it go away by finding some justification for what I did. It simply is, it happened, and nothing we can do now will change that.” He glanced away from her, out over the water. “Believe me, if there were a way out of this coil, I’d have found it by now.”

  Despite his protests to the contrary, she knew he was wrong. His torment was plain to see, written large upon his face, glowing from deep within his dark eyes.

  She’d have sworn, however that what weighed the most heavily upon him was not so much the sin of his deed as it was guilt for what he’d done.

  Or for something associated with it.

  “If it was as you say, without reason or excuse, I doubt you’d be free. You’d have been executed for the crime. Pembroke would not permit you to live if you’d slain your father in cold blood!” She caught his chin in her hand and tugged until he faced her. “Make me understand, Rannulf,” she pleaded. “This is important to me as well, for I refuse to sit idly by while you brand yourself a murderer.”

  Though he didn’t try to pull free of her hold, he remained silent.

  Before her eyes Rannulf’s expression changed—sharpened to the face of a warrior. “Aye, you’re right that there’s more,” he snarled. His hold firm but gentle, he slid her hand away from his chin and held it fast within his. “But you’re wrong that we can explain it all away.” He leaned closer, until his lips moved beside her cheek and she could scarcely see his eyes. “If there were an explanation to be found, no matter how weak, I would accept it.” Tipping her chin with his free hand, he pressed his mouth to hers, his kiss both promise and demand. He brushed his mouth over hers again, then whispered, “Rather than ever give you up.”

  Did he love her still? The words echoed through her mind, drowning all else he’d said in a sea of hope.

  He released her and stood. He would have turned away, would have abandoned her there with her emotions naked and raw. Every time they came close to talking about the past—and their present—one of them put a stop to it before they could ever come to a resolution, a conclusion, to anything.

  She was tired of confusion, of half-spoken words, of half-truths that led them deeper into the morass that was her relationship with Rannulf.

  She’d not stand for it a moment longer!

  Gillian rose and grabbed Rannulf by the hand to pull him back to her, wrapping him in her arms and raising her hand to press her palm against his cheek. “Can you give me up so easily?” she asked softly, brushing her lips over his mouth, ignoring his resistance to her touch. “Is your guilt stronger than your love?”

  “Gillian, stop!”

  “Why?” she demanded. She framed his face with both hands, forcing him to meet her eyes, lending him her strength, her determination. “Tell me why, damn you! Tell me everything. Did you mean to kill him?”

  “No!” He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, stopped trying to avoid her searching gaze, brought his hands up to cover hers and drew them down to rest, still joined, upon his chest. “But I wanted him dead,” he added more quietly. “More than you can imagine. So many times I thought of killing him that once the deed was done, I could scarce believe ’twas true.”

  She flattened her palms against his chest, felt the fast, steady thrum of his heart beneath her fingers as she considered what that might mean. “What had he done to make you hate him so?”

  He sighed and slid his hands to her shoulders. “He was the cruelest bastard who ever lived.”

  Frustration mounting, she drew him down to sit beside her on the boulder. “This serves nothing!” she cried. “How can you expect this wound to heal when you keep it walled up inside you to fester? It has already tainted your entire life. Will you allow it to continuing growing until you’ve nothing left?”

  “I have nothing left.”

  “You have me,” she said, the words a solemn vow.

  His eyes burning with some inner fire, he snatched her hands up in his and interlaced their fingers, his grip firm. “So be it,” he said, his voice barely above a gravelly whisper. “What kind of man abuses his sons’ trust—beats them simply for the sport of it? A warrior who refuses to permit his son to lear
n a warrior’s ways, then mocks and belittles him till he is afraid to meet anyone’s eyes, instead skulking from shadow to shadow, from room to room, like a frightened animal, like a ghost of the child he used to be?”

  Within the nest of their fingers, his hands shook. Gillian couldn’t tell if ’twas Rannulf’s reaction, or her own. “My mother could not protect us—she couldn’t protect herself. So many times he hurt her, and we could do nothing to stop him.” She trembled inside at the images his words conjured up, although she doubted what she pictured could be anywhere close to the terrible reality of it.

  “No one could stop him. I was more fortunate than Connor, my younger brother—my twin. When I was seven, Lord William came to my father and offered to take me with him, train me to be a knight. My father let me go.” He gave a shaky laugh. “‘Twas the only thing he ever did that surprised me. I believed he’d refuse simply to torment me, for he had to have known how badly I wanted to leave. Anything I ever wanted, he took away for his own amusement. I missed my mother and brother, ’tis true, but I thanked God every day for allowing me to escape.”

  And buried himself with guilt because his mother and Connor had to stay.

  “Lord William saved my life by his offer, for as I grew older, grew in size and strength, eventually my father and I would have come to blows. I doubt I’d have had the patience to hold off until I had the skill to best him, for even at seven my hatred of him smoldered within me till I thought I’d burst with it. When he’d go after Mother or Connor...” He glanced away, but not before she saw the shame in his eyes, in his face.

  She loosened one hand from his hold and stroked his cheek. “’Tis not your fault they couldn’t leave.”

  He pressed his lips to her palm, his expression under control once more. “What kind of monster punishes his wife for not bearing him more children when he already has two healthy sons? Or mocks her for her foreign blood even as he enjoys the benefits reaped from the holdings she brought to him in another land?” His gaze never leaving hers, he shook his head, even as a flush rose to his face. “Perhaps I’m more like him than I realized.”