The Hidden Heart (18 page)

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Authors: Sharon Schulze

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: The Hidden Heart
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Rannulf swept his hand through his hair, smoothing back the tangled curls and searching his equally disordered brain for a reply. When none rose to the fore, he simply shut the door and turned to face the other man. “Something like that.”
Talbot nudged aside a shutter and stood silhouetted against the bright sky beyond. “'Twould be interesting to know where you've been since we broke our fast. So far as I could discover, you were not within these walls, yet no one saw you leave or return.”
On the attack? He shouldn't be surprised, for he and Gillian had been hard-pressed to conceal their passion for each other. He'd been careful to do everything his overlord asked of him, to leave no task unfinished, before he sought Gillian's company.
Rannulf's pulse picked up its pace at his overlord's words, calmly spoken though they'd been. But he refused to be baited. Talbot knew nothing of his tryst with Gillian. If he did, he'd not be standing there so unruffled. If he could only see Talbot's face, he'd have a better idea where he stood.
Best keep his mouth shut. No sense falling into any trap of Talbot's making. He should have realized—or perhaps accepted was more accurate—that there was more to his overlord than he'd thought. He knew better than most that hardly anyone showed their true face to the world.
He'd not make that mistake again.
Whether Talbot proved sharper than he'd believed or no, this was likely naught but an attempt to lure him into revealing himself—assuming, of course, that Talbot believed he had anything to reveal.
It could also be that Talbot suspected nothing, and that guilt—over any number of things—was turning him into an apprehensive fool.
Best to wait and see what Talbot had to say.
“I was about the place the entire morn, milord,” he said. He gestured toward a seat before the empty hearth in the hope that he could move Talbot from in front of the window, but Talbot shook his head and remained where he was. “Busy with the work you set me to. It seems I never crossed paths with whoever sought me, 'tis all.”
“Then Gillian must have been with you, for she's been missing all morning as well,” Talbot said, his tone harsher now, challenging. He sauntered away from the window and moved toward the fireplace, ignoring the chair Rannulf had offered and instead leaning back against the mantle, arms folded across his chest.
Rannulf could see him clearly now, and what he saw did not reassure him in the slightest. Talbot's strange violet eyes looked hard, assessing, and his expression, his stance, all spoke of a confrontational attitude he'd not displayed before.
Should he speak the truth, at least so far as that Gillian
had
been with him? Would that satisfy Talbot's curiosity—for that had to be all it was—or would it be better to attempt to mislead him?
“I'd no idea 'twas so difficult to tell if Gillian was with you.” Talbot laughed, the rough sound jarring against Rannulf's overstretched nerves. “I'd think you'd have noticed. God knows, she's a hard woman to ignore.”
“Aye, she was with me for part of the morning.”
Talbot's nod held approval, but his questioning gaze as it swept over Rannulf once more seemed to see too much, delve too deeply. “Perhaps I should have awaited Gillian's return rather than yours,” he mused, stepping away from the hearth and circling Rannulf. “A woman's appearance might reveal more than a man's.”
“Reveal what, milord?” Rannulf asked, though he knew full well what Talbot meant. Damn the man! Were the morning's activities writ upon him somehow, or did Talbot simply have a suspicious mind?
“Does her garb appear as disheveled as yours, I wonder?” Talbot reached out and plucked something from the back of Rannulf's tunic. “Although under the circumstances I'd think 'twould be hay adorning you, not this.” He held out a small clump of grass. “I can't think of anyplace here where you'd have picked this up without someone noticing what you were about.”
“Are you accusing me of something, milord?” Rannulf asked. “If you are, do so and be done with it, for I've no patience to stand here while you—”
“While I do a guardian's duty?” Talbot snapped, his voice cold as ice now. “Aye, and an overlord's as well.” Gone was every hint of the courtier. In his place stood a warrior who would brook no rebellion. “By Christ's bones, you wasted no time going after my ward!”
Rannulf's hand went to his waist to grab for his dagger—not so much to draw it as to clutch its comforting weight—but he'd removed his belt before Talbot's arrival. 'Twas just as well, for if Talbot continued along this vein, he might be tempted to a foolhardy reaction.
Lord knew, after the range of emotions he'd already experienced today, his temper had nigh reached its limits.
“What is it you accuse me of, milord?” he asked, forcing calm into his voice, his demeanor.
“I can see I'll get no answers from you,” Talbot snarled. He stalked to the door and wrenched it open. “Mayhap I can convince my ward to tell me what I wish to know.” His glare a challenge, he flung the door wide and started down the corridor.
Chapter Eighteen
 
 
“T
albot, wait!” Rannulf shouted. He ran out of the chamber, snatching up his sword belt along the way, and hastened after Talbot.
His overlord strode along the corridor, determination on his face and in his step—and Rannulf hard on his heels. “Milord,” Rannulf called again, grasping the other man by the arm to stop him.
“Hands off, FitzClifford,” Talbot said. He jerked his arm free. “You had your chance. Now I'd rather see Gillian, hear what she has to say about what you two were doing this morning.” Not bothering to see if Rannulf followed him, he headed for the stairs, stopping on the first riser. “I warn you now,” he said, looking Rannulf straight in the eye. “If you've caused Gillian the slightest harm, I'll see you suffer for it.”
His temper flaring anew at the suggestion that he'd harm Gillian, Rannulf followed Talbot up the spiral stair, silent and uncertain what he should do. Other than telling Talbot that he'd attacked Gillian, he couldn't think of any other response but to admit the truth. Since that truth involved Gillian as well, he didn't feel it was solely his decision to make.
Whether Talbot would listen to anything he said at this point was unlikely, though he could try. 'Twould spare Gillian an unpleasant scene, at any rate. “Lord Nicholas,” he called, but the other man ignored him completely.
He still held his belts in his hand, so he buckled them both about his waist. Perhaps he could block him from entering Gillian's chamber if he hurried.
As soon as they reached the landing they saw Ella bustling toward them from Gillian's room, her arms filled with clothing.
“Are those Gillian's?” Talbot asked.
Ella stopped. “Aye, milord.”
Talbot placed a hand on her shoulder and turned her back the way she'd come. “Follow me.”
“I'm to take these to the laundry, milady said,” she protested. “She told me to do it right away.” She shifted the bundle and gathered it more tightly to her chest. “If you'll wait but a moment, milord, I'll be back to do whatever you need me for.”
“I need you right here,” he said, herding her along the corridor to Gillian's door.
Ella cast a curious look at them both. “She was dressing, milord. I doubt she's had time to finish.”
Brushing her aside, Talbot pounded on the door. “Gillian, are you decently covered?”
“Milord!” Ella protested. She tossed her burden on the floor and, moving faster than Rannulf would have believed possible, slipped between Talbot and the door. Her hands on her hips and bright color riding high upon her wrinkled cheeks, she made a surprisingly effective obstacle. “You cannot go barging into milady's chamber.”
Rannulf folded his arms across his chest and looked on with satisfaction. He'd not need to do anything after all—for the moment, anyway. He couldn't imagine Talbot would attempt to remove the old woman by force, and he doubted Ella would cease guarding her charge any other way.
His satisfaction was short-lived, however, for the door flew open and Gillian stood framed in the opening, clad only in her shift, sword at the ready. “Ella, what's wrong?” she asked, grabbing the maid by the arm and pulling her into the room.
Gillian looked past Ella, spied Lord Nicholas and Rannulf in the corridor and felt her pulse speed up even more. She shrieked and ducked behind the door until only her head showed. “What are you doing here?” she gasped. “Go away till I've finished dressing.”
The expression on Talbot's face looked fierce enough to stop her heart altogether. What did he want?
And why did he have Rannulf with him?
Talbot picked up a tunic from the pile in front of her door and tossed it toward her. “You'd better cover yourself, milady, for we're coming in now.”
“I think not,” she said, already swinging the door shut.
He stopped her by the simple act of stepping into the opening. “Come on, FitzClifford,” he called over his shoulder. “Get in here.”
Clutching her undertunic to her chest, she backed into the room. “Can you not wait until I'm decently garbed?” she asked sharply.
Talbot's implacable expression hardened further. “Nay—I've questions for you, and I'll have the answers now.” He took up a position by the door and motioned Rannulf farther into the room. “Don't be shy, FitzClifford,” he said, something in his voice sending a chill down her spine.
Rannulf entered the chamber and crossed to stand between her and her guardian. Grateful, she stepped behind him and used his body to screen herself from Lord Nicholas.
“Milord, there's no need to do this,” Rannulf said quietly. “If you'll leave here, permit Lady Gillian her privacy, I'll tell you whatever you wish to know.”
What
was Rannulf talking about? she wondered. What did her guardian want to know? To judge by his expression, she'd not like the answer.
“Nay, we'll not drag this out any longer.” Lord Nicholas reached over and shut the door, the soft click of the latch sounding loud in the silent chamber.
And she'd not remain here with this crowd while scarce dressed, either. Still using Rannulf as a shield, she turned her back to Lord Nicholas and shook out her tunic, then wriggled it over her head.
The fabric tangled about her, trussing her arms to her body like a Christmas goose. “Damnation!” she muttered, squirming to free herself.
Rannulf turned to face her, reaching for the material bunched at her shoulders. “Here, let me help.”
Unwilling to have his hands upon her now, with this audience, she stepped away, nearly falling over in the process. “Turn around,” she ordered. Heat rose to her cheeks as she peered past him and caught Lord Nicholas gaping at her. “Both of you,” she added. He frowned; but complied, as did Rannulf after sending her a look she didn't know how to interpret.
Ella, who'd stood motionless just inside the room till now, hurried to help her. “Let me do it, my lamb,” she said. “Don't know what this world's coming to, with noblemen—” she glanced up from untangling the tunic to glare at Rannulf and Lord Nicholas “—barging into a lady's chamber when she's not decently covered.” A final tug and the material settled around Gillian as it ought. “And look at you, your hair's not covered....”
“Enough,” Lord Nicholas snarled. “Go sit somewhere out of the way, Ella. You may stay and guard your ‘lamb,' but you'll not speak unless I tell you to.”
“Yes, milord,” she said, meekly dropping a curtsy while sending him a scathing look.
‘Twas all Gillian could do to refrain from echoing Ella's attitude. She'd been sorely pressed of late, from the moment she rose and had to face Catrin—nay, since Rannulf and Nicholas arrived at I'Eau Clair—until she opened her door a few moments ago to this invasion. She was tired, hungry, and her mind—and body—still reeled from everything she and Rannulf had said and done.
She'd no patience to deal with this.
She could make her displeasure known, however, though she'd not reveal her embarrassment. If they'd not leave so she could dress and do something about her hair, she'd simply behave as if their presence didn't trouble her in the least.
If she could manage to preserve that bit of fiction long enough to endure whatever Lord Nicholas had in mind.
Gathering her unruly curls together and drawing them over one shoulder, she took up her brush and went to sit on the bench before the cold hearth. “If you're through ordering my personal servant about, and if you're determined to remain here infringing upon my privacy, you might as well be comfortable, my lords.” Pointing with her brush, she indicated a chair and stool on the other side of the fireplace. “Though I think you'd be better served to go down to the hall and eat your dinner. Mayhap a hearty meal will help to improve your temper, Lord Nicholas,” she added with an insincere smile. “You should take Lord Rannulf with you, of course.”
Talbot glared at her and paced to the window without speaking. Did he realize, she wondered, how much she wanted to leap up and rap him smartly with the brush?
She used Lord Nicholas's distraction to cast Rannulf a questioning look. He raised his eyebrows in reply—a useless show of innocence if ever she'd seen one—and sauntered over to sit on the stool across from her. He'd scarce said a word since they'd arrived, though she'd venture from his expression, and his continued silence, that he knew full well why his overlord had come to force his way into
her
chamber.
Not that his knowledge would do her any good since he didn't seem inclined to share it. Men! she fumed. They complicated her life nigh beyond bearing.
Though to be honest, he'd had no chance to say much of anything, and was probably wise not to try, given his overlord's present mood.
She glanced at Rannulf again, unable to resist the temptation, and was rewarded when a flush mounted his cheeks and he sent her a fleeting grin.
Some men—
one
man—was worth the bother, she thought with an answering smile as memories of that morn overtook her.
Lord Nicholas chose that moment to pound his fist on the table by the window, breaking the spell and startling her.
“By Christ's bones, I've had enough of this place!” he growled. He crossed the room and halted between her and Rannulf. “Conversations stop whenever I come near, servants go behind my back carrying mysterious messages...” He paused and looked first at Rannulf, then fixed his accusing stare on her. “My ward and my vassal creep away together more than once, so gossip would have it.”
Rannulf stood and faced his overlord, his stance relaxed, his eyes reflecting his calm demeanor. “Aye, milord, you're right about that. We did steal away to be together this morning.”
About to protest, to say
something,
Gillian held her tongue when she caught the swift, cautionary glance he sent her way. Her mind spun, though, as she wondered what he was about.
She'd have to trust him in this, as she had resolved to do in so many things.
Apparently Rannulf's admission satisfied some of Lord Nicholas's displeasure, for he dropped into the chair with a sigh.
However, the frown he sent their way once he sat up and raked his hand back through his tidy blond hair sent a different message. “I ought to lock you up at once for your effrontery, FitzClifford,” he snarled. “I may do so yet, unless you give me some damned good reasons why I should not. Gillian is a lady, nobly born and gently reared. How
dare
you impose upon her delicate nature by—”
Gillian's burst of laughter cut through his stern lecture. “I beg your pardon, milord, but 'tis too ridiculous,” she said, unable to keep the laughter from her voice. “You don't know me at all, if you believe a single thing you just said is true.”
Now confusion added itself to the stew of emotions writ upon her guardian's face. “What do you mean?” he asked warily.
“She means her upbringing was a trifle unusual,” Rannulf added, his eyes alight with amusement—or mischief, perhaps, she couldn't tell for sure which.
“Indeed? And how would you know that?” Her guardian rose from the chair as he asked the question. “I want answers, and I'll have them now—from one of you or the other.” His frown grew. “I'm beginning to suspect either of you will do.”
Gillian started to rise, but Rannulf stepped toward her, placed his hand on her shoulder and eased her back down onto the bench. “I'll do it,” he told her quietly. He moved behind her to face Lord Nicholas, his hand still resting on her shoulder—lending his support, his strength to her, or so she'd assume, for she found his touch a comfort. “If I'd answered his questions before, we'd not have come to chase you down.”
“I wouldn't count on that,” Lord Nicholas drawled. “My mind was already chock-full of mysteries before I ran you to ground, FitzClifford. All you've done since then—” his sweeping look encompassed them both “—is to raise even more.” He shook his head and gave a wry laugh. “I believed I'Eau Clair would be a boring place after the king's court. How could I have been so wrong?”
Rannulf squeezed her shoulder, then released her. Though she missed his touch at once, 'twas just as well he'd done so. Who knew what Lord Nicholas might make of a continued show of unity?
Rannulf glanced down at Gillian, seated in front of him on the bench and pondered how much he should reveal—to Talbot and Gillian both. He'd not told her all his secrets, nor had he decided if and when he should. But he'd rather not say much of anything, about either Gillian or himself. Still, the man would clearly not be put off any longer.
“I'd heard of Lady Gillian before we came here, milord,” Rannulf said. The other man's expression grew more piercing at that revelation, but Rannulf ignored his show of interest. “You may be aware that the earl of Pembroke is her godfather.” At Talbot's nod, he added, “I fostered with Pembroke, earned my spurs in his service. I heard her mentioned a time or two over the years. Believe me when I say her upbringing was different than most women's.... Or ask Gillian yourself,” he added, for it seemed foolish for him to tell Talbot, not to mention risky. Just how much might he have “heard” about her, after all? Nay, let Gillian decide how much her guardian should know.

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