The Hidden Heart (12 page)

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Authors: Sharon Schulze

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: The Hidden Heart
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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
 
 
R
annulf 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.
How were they to know they'd a spy in their midst? Richard's booted feet pounded harder against the stone steps as his ire grew. And the traitor little more than the meanest churl in the place, emptying slops and scouring pots, watching and listening all the while, as it turned out, for juicy tidbits to feed the master.
The sly bastard! Evidently he'd kept closer watch than any of them had suspected; he'd known every detail of the scheme the upper servants had hatched to skim money from the household expenses. He'd even known about Richard's private arrangements to trade some of the master's fine clothes in exchange for little luxuries for himself.
The lot of them had been tossed out in the street with nothing but the clothes on their backs—and in Richard's case, the master had examined him from head to toe first, to be certain he'd stolen nothing more.
He'd been lucky to escape with his life—cold comfort when he'd had nowhere to go.
It had been a stroke of good fortune that brought him to Talbot's notice, or so he'd believed at the time. Of course, by then he'd been desperate for a roof over his head and a crust to eat. How was he to know that in a matter of months they'd fetch up here, in a crude wilderness filled with coarse, ill-clothed louts who believed they were noble?
And the mistress of this place... She bore little resemblance to any noblewoman he'd ever seen! Ladies did not carry swords, or dirty their hands by laboring alongside their servants. And any true lady would have recognized Richard for the superior servant he was, he thought bitterly, instead of ordering him about as though he were nothing more than a lowly scullion.
Still seething, Richard rounded the corner at the foot of the stairs and slammed headlong into the woman coming the other way. They collided with enough force to slam them both to the floor, their burdens scattering around them like leaves in the wind.
“You should watch where you're going, you great lout!” she gasped. Dark eyes flashing, she squirmed beneath him, her ample body cushioning him in all the right places and sending a lightning bolt of fire rushing straight to his loins.
“Have a care who you call a lout, wench.” He tightened his arms about her and pressed himself against her belly.
Her eyes and body softened, and her hands slid down his back to press him more firmly against her. “I always did have a soft spot for a man who's ready for battle,” she murmured, her voice a throaty purr. “Could be you're not so bad after all.”
Lost to any thought but that of the woman beneath him, Richard ground his mouth against hers and thrust his tongue between her lips to duel with hers, his groan of pleasure rising to echo her breathy moans.
Mayhap this place wasn't so bad after all.
 
Gillian descended the stairs slowly, her mind still focused upon her conversation—or should she call it a confrontation?—with Catrin. Though she hadn't kept her cousin from learning something of her former relationship with Rannulf, at least she'd managed to escape without revealing everything. How could she share with her Welsh kin the words Rannulf had penned on the betrothal agreement—that he believed her Welsh blood tainted and unfit to join with his? Evidently she'd been good enough to dally with, but not to wed. If Catrin didn't strike him down for the insult, Ian surely would once he heard of it.
He'd not learn of it from her.
She nearly trod upon the couple writhing on the landing before their passionate moans broke through her preoccupation. Halting beside them, she grabbed the man by the hair and gave a sharp tug. “Get off her at once!” she demanded.
Richard, Talbot's manservant, rolled aside, revealing Marged, one of the new maids she'd brought in to help in the keep since Talbot's arrival. The woman lay sprawled on the stone floor, shirts and apples scattered everywhere, her headrail askew about her rosy face and her skirts rucked up above her knees.
Clearly neither of them had any sense of decency, or of propriety, at any rate. “I will not tolerate such goings-on in my hall!”
Marged rose slowly to her feet without any offer of assistance from her erstwhile lover. Richard, his face twisted once again into his usual expression of distaste, merely lounged back against the plastered wall. “Beg pardon, milady,” Marged said quietly, dropping a respectful curtsy. “It'll not happen again, I swear it.”
It would happen again where she'd not catch them at it, more like, Gillian thought wryly. Still, as long as they indulged their passions elsewhere, beyond the common view and in their free time, there was little she could do to prevent them.
But she could make them pay for today's transgression. “If you wish to behave as animals, you shall be punished accordingly.” She resisted the temptation to fist her hands upon her hips like the village alewife and instead straightened her spine and, recalling Lady Alys's training, assumed the pose of a proud dame pronouncing judgment. “Marged, you may feed and care for the swine and geese for the next few days.”

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