The Hidden Heart (11 page)

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Authors: Sharon Schulze

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: The Hidden Heart
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It suddenly occurred to her that her guardian stood behind the table arrayed for battle. Had he been about to leave when her cousins arrived? Or had he believed Ian's party a force come to attack I'Eau Clair?
Either way, she could not imagine her so-proper guardian would wish to dine while wearing mail.
“Lord Nicholas, I apologize for my thoughtlessness. Would you like to change before we begin?”
He shook his head sharply. “Nay—I'll be leaving soon. Proceed with the meal,” he added, lowering himself to the chair at the center of the table.
“As you wish.” She motioned for the two pages who would serve her guests to come forward with their basins of warm water and towels before turning to face the hall, where the rest of her household were pulling up benches to the tables arrayed there. “You needn't wait for my return,” she told them, raising her voice to be heard over the din. “Go ahead and eat.”
Ella met her as soon as she left the hall, and they quickly decided where to lodge the newcomers. Catrin could share her chamber—she'd done so before, and it would give them a chance to talk—but Gillian made certain that Ian had a room of his own.
She couldn't imagine asking either Rannulf or Lord Nicholas to share their quarters with Ian, or with each other. Three more independent and stubborn men she'd never met! Indeed, 'twould be a miracle if they could make it through this meal peacefully. Though she shouldn't be surprised by it, it seemed that Ian and Lord Nicholas together could prove a most volatile combination. Once Rannulf joined them...
Whether it would be dangerous or entertaining, she couldn't decide.
Mayhap 'twould be both.
After a swift stop in her chamber to change out of her still-damp clothes and cover her disheveled hair with a fresh veil, Gillian returned to the hall.
Hot on Rannulf's heels.
She could hardly ignore him, so she resigned herself to...to what? Would he be civil, or treat her with the coldly impersonal air she'd seldom seen? She had come to loathe it, though she knew she ought to welcome it.
Rannulf mounted the step up onto the dais, then paused and glanced over his shoulder at her as though he'd heard her behind him—unlikely, given the volume of sound filling the hall. His face solemn, his expression one of polite disinterest, he waited for her to reach him.
She focused on his face—and then upon the sight of him in a dark green tunic that hugged his lean form. It reminded her of the way his muscular chest had looked garbed in wet linen, had felt beneath her hands earlier this morn. Distracted, she didn't notice his hand, outstretched to assist her onto the platform, until he quirked a brow and held out his hand to her, palm up. “Milady.”
She had no choice but to place her hand upon his and accept his escort. They approached the table and halted before it.
Rannulf released her with a slight bow.
Mindful of his earlier instructions that Talbot believe her cousins were strangers to him, Gillian dropped a curtsy in return and introduced Rannulf to Ian and Catrin.
'Twas a blessing Lord Nicholas's attention seemed centered on her, not on Ian and Catrin, for their reactions would most certainly have roused his suspicion. Ian's scowl appeared much too extreme for a simple introduction, though his response sounded civil enough. Catrin, however, gifted Rannulf with a welcoming smile, her eyes widened in appreciation, before she turned a teasing glance in Gillian's direction.
Wise to Catrin's scheme, nonetheless Gillian narrowed her eyes at her cousin in promised retribution.
“'Tis a pleasure to meet you, milord.” Catrin held out her hand to Rannulf over the table.
He brought it to his lips. “The pleasure is mine, milady,” he said smoothly, the provocative look he gave her when he straightened enough to tempt Gillian to take her boot to his backside.
Preferably while he stood perched atop the battlements.
Instead, the amenities over, she allowed him to lead her around the table to her seat.
“Join me, milord,” Catrin offered. She slid over on the bench to make a place for him.
Deciding her cousin had much to answer for, Gillian resolved to ignore them both and concentrate her attention upon maintaining the flow of conversation between Ian and Lord Nicholas.
But it seemed her guardian had other plans.
“FitzClifford, if you're through slavering over Lady Catrin's hand, perhaps you'd care to join me so we might complete our earlier discussion.” He pushed his chair back and stood, turning a strained smile upon the others at the table. “If you'll excuse us, ladies, milord?” His bow as terse as his tone, he headed off toward what had once been Lord Simon's private lair without so much as a backward glance to see if Rannulf followed.
His face expressionless, Rannulf waited until Talbot had passed halfway down the long hall before bowing to Gillian. “By your leave, milady.” With a nod to Ian and Catrin, he left as well.
Catrin scarce waited until Rannulf had moved out of earshot before turning to Gillian, her lips curved into a satisfied smile. “This may turn out to be a far more interesting visit than I expected.”
Her mind awhirl as she sought some meaning to Lord Nicholas's behavior, Gillian reluctantly dragged her attention away from Rannulf and swung on the bench to frown at her cousin. “I'm so gratified you'll be suitably entertained,” she said dryly. “I've never been able to provide you with this level of intrigue before.”
“Enough, both of you,” Ian snapped. His gaze pensive, he stared out over the busy hall for a moment, then faced Gillian and reached for the platter of mutton. “All right, Gillian, now that your keeper's gone, tell me everything you know about Talbot.” He stabbed a slice of meat and laid it on her trencher before serving himself.
Gillian nodded her thanks, picked up the pitcher of mead and filled Catrin's goblet. “I don't know what to say.”
Ian pushed his cup toward her and gave her a smile that sent a shiver down her spine. What did he want of her? She set down the pitcher and shoved the empty cup back to him. “Ian?”
“If you cannot tell me about your new guardian, perhaps you can tell me what FitzClifford is doing here.”
Chapter Eleven
 
 
H
uw settled into the saddle and raised the wineskin to his lips, savoring the heady wine while his master fumed silently beside him. He enjoyed his noble lordship's frustration as much as the wine, and the sense of power he felt at that moment was even more intoxicating. He lowered the skin and glanced over at the man glowering at him. “You needn't worry. They haven't any idea that we're behind it, milord. No idea at all.”
“So you say.” Leather creaked as the other man shifted in his saddle, sending his showy stallion prancing dangerously on the steep slope. “How much longer must you keep this up before I can have her?” he growled. “I cannot wait forever, you know.”
“You can scarcely ride into I'Eau Clair and take her, either. Especially since her ladyship refuses to allow you entrance.”
“She said they'd sickness within,” he growled, his eyes snapping with fury. “I vow 'twas a ruse, nothing more.”
“Judging from the number of people going in and out of the place, you've got the right of it.”
“Fractious bastard,” Lord Steffan growled. Huw fought back a smile as his master slipped from the saddle when the stallion—sensing the anger emanating from the man atop his back—refused to settle down. Looping the reins about a tree, he stepped away from the beast.
Probably afraid he'd get pushed and tumble down the mountainside.
“Perhaps you'd better leave him home next time, milord,” Huw suggested. “He doesn't seem too quiet. Wouldn't want them to catch us, would we?” he added with a nod toward the Normans poking around at the abandoned campsite below.
Lord Steffan's scowl worsened, twisting his face into a gross mockery of his usual pleasant mien. Huw shook his head. What was it about this woman that drove his master to such lengths to have her? Aye. she was a comely armful, but if 'twas a bedmate he sought, women were easy enough to come by.
Especially if you were a handsome lord gifted with property and influence, he thought, burying his bitterness deep before dismounting to join Lord Steffan.
Of course, the woman herself was not the only lure driving Lord Steffan to this madness. L'Eau Clair boasted a position of power in the Marches, and Lady Gillian had connections to men of prominence on both sides of the border.
Men whose loyalty and aid a middling Welsh lord could not hope to command otherwise.
They moved to the edge of the clearing and watched the troops from I'Eau Clair as they milled about in the valley below. “What are they waiting for?” Lord Steffan asked. “Can't they see they're too late?”
Huw moved away from the edge and shrugged. “Perhaps they think to find something that will tell them who was there.” He spat on the ground. “As if I'd be so careless. All they'll see is what I wanted them to find—clues to lead them away from us.”
Lord Steffan walked over to untie his horse. “That's all well and good, Huw, but we're not out here to toy with Gillian's men.” He swung up into the saddle and adjusted his cloak. “I want her with me. If I cannot have her at I‘Eau Clair, then bring her to me at Bryn Du. Once she's by my side, 'twill be easier to wrest control of I'Eau Clair from the Normans. I don't understand how you've allowed the fools to foil your efforts.”
“I've set plans in motion, milord, but they'll take time before they come to fruition.” Huw mounted his own horse, barely resisting the urge to reach out and nudge Lord Steffan's steed with his sword and send the foolish beast, and its even more foolish master, careering down the mountain.
But that would solve nothing, and lose him what little power he had, never mind all he stood to gain once he'd done as Lord Steffan demanded. “Just be patient a while longer,” he said, the words spoken as much to reassure himself as the other man.
“You'd best bring my cousin within my grasp, Huw, and quickly, else I'll find someone who can,” he threatened, his voice vibrating with rage. “I refuse to wait for Gillian and I'Eau Clair much longer.”
 
Rannulf caught up with Talbot on the stairs, both maintaining their silence until they'd entered Talbot's lair and closed the door behind them.
Curious as to what Talbot had to say, Rannulf remained on his feet, his expression one of polite deference. Patience would serve him best, until he knew precisely what his overlord wanted of him.
Talbot tossed his sword belt onto the documents scattered across the table and dragged a hand through his hair. “Why aren't you wearing your mail?” he demanded. “Guests or not, we've little time to be doing the civil when we should be riding out to join Sir Henry, looking over what he found.”
Rannulf nodded. “Aye. But since I didn't know if you'd want me to stay here or go with you, I chose the middle ground,” he said with a glance down at his well-worn tunic. “It will take but a moment to don my mail, if you want me to accompany you. But I wasn't certain whether you'd rather I stayed here, kept an eye on your ward—and her guests.”
“You're right,” Talbot admitted with a sigh. He rustled through the parchments piled haphazardly at the head of the table until he found the one he sought. “Someone should remain here with Lady Gillian, make sure she doesn't decide to go off with her cousin—or that he doesn't try to use her to his own ends. Do you think he'd try to take I'Eau Clair through her?”
“I doubt it. He didn't bring many men, and he doesn't appear to have come here armed for war.” Besides, the Dragon's methods were generally more direct, Rannulf thought, though 'twas wise of Talbot to have considered the possibility.
“There's something about Lord Ian I don't trust,” Talbot said, a pensive expression on his face.
How far should he carry his ruse? Rannulf wondered. The Dragon's reputation was well-known along the Marcher border, even into the fastness of England itself within some circles. If he feigned complete ignorance, it might appear as strange as if he knew too much.
But Talbot appeared little-schooled in much of the local political situation. Doubtless he'd not suspect Rannulf of concealing information, whichever approach he took.
Still, he'd not care to seem
too
uninformed. “Have you never heard of Llywelyn's Dragon, milord?” he asked, relaxing his stance enough to lean back against the heavy planks of the door even as he observed his overlord with a keen eye.
“Vaguely. He's rumored to be a ruthless enforcer of Llywelyn's will, is he not?” Talbot picked up the map he'd pulled from the pile and tilted it toward the light from the narrow window.
“That's one of the many legends attached to him. In fact, he is Llywelyn's kin. And Lady Gillian's as well. Lord Ian is the Dragon.”
Talbot's attention focused on Rannulf with surprising speed, his violet eyes taking on a steely hue. “What!” He tossed aside the map and rounded the table. “What were you thinking of, remaining silent when we left him alone with Gillian?”
“Hold, milord,” Rannulf said, slapping his palm on the door to keep Talbot from opening it. “He's hardly alone with her. His sister is right there with them, as are nearly the entire household. What harm do you think he could do to her in a hall full of people?” He lowered his hand when Talbot stepped back a pace. “The Dragon may be a legendary warrior, but I doubt even
he
is capable of that much,” he added wryly.
Talbot turned toward the table and retrieved his sword belt, focusing his attention upon buckling it. “You're right,” he admitted. “Instead of taking you to task, I should be thanking you for preventing me from making a complete fool of myself.” He glanced up at Rannulf and gave a rueful grin. “This guardian business is enough to drive a man mad. I find it far less horrifying than I feared back in London, but the task holds many surprises I never envisioned as well.”
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.

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