The Hidden Heart (19 page)

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Authors: Sharon Schulze

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: The Hidden Heart
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“The details don't really matter,” Talbot said with a dismissing wave of his hand. “But why didn't you see fit to tell me this when I wondered if—” Looking uncomfortable, he cast a fleeting glance at Gillian. Rannulf suppressed a smile at the memory of Talbot's initial conjectures about his unknown ward; they weighed upon his mind now that he'd met her, no doubt. Did he worry that Rannulf might tell Gillian about those trivial assumptions?
As for Talbot's assumption that how Gillian was raised had no bearing... Rannulf shook his head at Talbot's shortsightedness. Sooner or later, her guardian might have cause to regret his lack of knowledge about his ward.
By the rood, hadn't he noticed that she'd had a sword in her hand when she opened her door?
“It matters little now, but 'twould have eased my mind to know more of the situation,” Talbot said.
“There was little I could tell you, milord, that would have helped you in any way.” A true statement, and yet not the whole truth. “I know my duty to you. I'd not hide information that might bring harm to you.”
“That's gratifying to know,” Talbot muttered. “But what you've said thus far does nothing to give me the answers I seek.” He eased back in the chair. “Tell me instead about this morning. Where were you both, that no one could find you?”
“There's a place in the herb gardens that's very sheltered, a bolt-hole of sorts.” True as well, although he doubted Gillian was privy to that secret, either. He glanced down at her, then met his overlord's measuring gaze. “Truth to tell, milord, I heard voices—the search party, perhaps?—but I ignored them, being too—” he reached down, smoothed his hand over Gillian's wildly curling hair and settled it upon her shoulder once again, clasping it in a cautionary grip “—too pleasantly occupied to wish interruption.”
Gillian tensed beneath his grasp, but remained seated and silent
That's my love,
he thought, pleased by her trust.
Talbot looked far from calm, however. Had he gone too far, he wondered?
Half rising from his seat, Talbot growled, “You'd better not have taken—”
“Gillian remains as she was before, milord.” His face already flushed from this conversation, Rannulf felt it heat more at Talbot's inference, his free hand clenching into a fist at his side.
“Enough, both of you,” Gillian cried. “I'll not be discussed as though I'm not here.” He could feel her tension beneath his fingers, but he refused to release his gentle hold upon her, for he found the connection between them helped calm him—and he hoped it helped her as well. “Lord Nicholas, I realize your questions arise from your concern for me, but you must believe that Rannulf has not harmed me in any way.” She reached up and gave Rannulf's hand a squeeze, then rose gracefully to her feet. “I'm grateful for your concern, but there's no need for it.”
Talbot stood and laid a hand upon Gillian's arm, stopping her when she would have walked past him. “You're wrong, milady, there's every need. King John himself set me to look after you, and I'll not violate that trust. Stay away from my vassal—from any of my men. They're not fit company for you.” Though he spoke to Gillian, he sent Rannulf a look that promised more questions, retribution...Lord knew what else. “Obviously I haven't kept him busy enough before now, but 'tis time for that to change,” he said firmly. “I'll see that he stays away from you.”
Rannulf held his eyes and his expression to a calm he didn't feel—something he'd had plenty of practice doing his entire life.
If he could face down Bertram FitzClifford, then Nicholas Talbot didn't seem such a challenge. Unlike his father, his overlord had the dubious virtue of being a decent man, at least in his concern for Gillian's well-being.
How could he fault him for that?
The thud of running feet heralded a pounding outside the door. “Milady!” a man shouted.
“Enter,” Gillian called. She broke free of Talbot's hold and hastened to the door just as Will flung it open.
“Good, you're here, milords,” Will said breathlessly. “There's been another attack—if we hurry, mayhap this time we'll catch 'em. This time, the messenger had a horse and got to us quicker.”
“Let's go,” Talbot urged, leading the way out onto the landing, Rannulf, Will and Gillian right behind him. They raced down the stairwell, the sounds of chaos rising from the hall.
When they reached the foot of the stairs, Talbot waved Will on ahead, then halted for a moment and caught Gillian by the arm. “You, milady, are to stay within the keep,” he ordered. “I mean it—no matter what happens, you will remain here. If we meet with delay or misfortune, you must be ready to defend I'Eau Clair. Promise me you'll obey me in this.”
She nodded. “Aye, milord, you have my word.”
“Thank you.” He released her and turned to leave, then spun on his heel. “FitzClifford, you go impose some order on those fools in the hall, then bring them to meet us in the bailey.”
“Aye, milord.” At least Talbot still trusted him to do his duty.
Gillian remained on the landing once Talbot went , out through the hall and left them alone. “Promise me you'll be careful,” she murmured, moving to stand so close to him their chests were nearly touchmg.
But he would not leave Gillian without saying goodbye, not even for so brief a journey as this. He scanned the area, but everyone's attention seemed focused elsewhere. “You've given me reason aplenty to do so,” he whispered. He leaned down and brushed his lips over hers, savored her taste when she deepened the caress, regretfully lowered his hands to his sides before he succumbed to the temptation to crush her against him. “You'll do as Talbot asked?”
“I will.” One last kiss, fleeting and sweet, and she stepped away from him. “We've both work to do,” she added, heading toward the hall.
He swept his gaze over her, chuckling when the sight of her garb broke through his distraction. She never had finished dressing—or undressing—and her hair hung all about her in a wild disarray that sent a surge of heat rushing through his veins. Catching her about the waist, he swung her back to the foot of the stairs. “While I find your attire very appealing, love, first you'd better go put on some clothes.”
She glanced down at her rumpled undertunic, gave a cry of dismay, and swiftly mounted the first few steps. Pausing, she leaned down and whispered, “Have a care, my love,” then scampered up the stairs.
Her words hastened him on his way, his heart, despite the fact that he was going into battle, feeling lighter than it had in years.
It seemed that Gillian loved him still.
With that knowledge embedded in his heart, there was nothing he couldn't do.
Chapter Nineteen
 
 
G
illian peered out her window and watched the men ride away. Even from this distance, she could see that Rannulf and Lord Nicholas appeared involved in a heated discussion. What she wouldn't give to hear what they were saying!
What she wouldn't give to, just once, have a chance to go along, to help defend her home.
Would she ever grow accustomed to the sense of uselessness that assailed her whenever a threat to I'Eau Clair arose?
And how did ladies—delicate, noble ladies—learn to accept the fact that in the greater scheme of things, they'd no power?
While she might chafe at the restrictions placed upon her by her sex, she could not regret the “unusual” upbringing that had taught her to wield a sword, to think for herself, to want those rights a man took for granted.
Not that any of those things made a whit of difference, now that Lord Nicholas Talbot had come along to protect her.
Given the chance, he'd protect her from every threat. Even from her own base desires, could he but know it.
As if she'd allow him, or any man, to dictate what she could do, who she gave herself to!
Since she doubted he'd accept her decisions, she'd simply have to make certain he didn't find out.
Stay away from Rannulf?
Impossible! That was one order she had no intention of obeying.
 
Talbot scarce waited until they were in the saddle before resuming his interrogation of Rannulf, and his patience clearly had worn thin after his earlier attempts had proved useless—although now he seemed less interested in discovering exactly what Rannulf and Gillian had been doing this morning, or where they'd been, than he was in tossing threats Rannulf's way.
Threats that didn't intimidate Rannulf in the least.
Gillian was his, now and forever, and he'd no intention of allowing Talbot—or anyone—to keep them apart.
It had been a blessing when the path became too narrow to ride abreast, but as soon as the trail widened, Talbot dropped back and seemed ready to pick up his tirade where he'd left off. They had more important concerns for the moment, however, and Talbot had harped on the topic enough. “I understand you, milord, I assure you,” Rannulf told him before he could start in again. “Wouldn't we be better served to focus our attention on what we're about to face? We're nearly there.”
“Aye, you're right.” Talbot's mouth curled in a rueful smile, a vast change from his previous cold anger. “Damn women anyway,” he said. “They cause me nothing but trouble. I used to believe I had trouble with women because nigh every beautiful woman tempted me, but I tell you, FitzClifford, Lady Gillian proves me wrong. I know she's lovely—you surely must find her so, else I cannot understand why you'd have risked my wrath to do whatever you two were doing earlier.” He shrugged. “But I tell you, she doesn't attract me in the least. I enjoy her company, but that's all.” His bewilderment was clear.
“She's not like other women,” Rannulf agreed.
One of the things he found most appealing about her.
“Perhaps that's it,” Talbot mused. He scanned the area they rode through, though there was little enough to see but the heavy forest surrounding the path.
The trail widened to a road, and they rode fast and hard through the thickly wooded hills, their troops somehow staying with them in the rough terrain, until they could smell, then see, a faint cloud of smoke winding through the trees. Talbot reined in and waited for everyone to catch up to them before he spoke. “FitzClifford, you take the men of I'Eau Clair and attack from here once you hear my signal. I'll lead the others around to the far side of the holding. We'll hammer them between us,” he said, low-voiced and urgent.
Rannulf nodded and gathered his men about him. Leaving a couple of youths with the horses, they crept through the thickening smoke and waited near the edge of the tree line.
The sounds of combat came through the murk, distorted and misleading. He couldn't distinguish much of what he heard, only the occasional clash of steel or pain-filled cry. Battle tension sent a fire through him, readying his muscles for work and sharpening his senses. For the first time in weeks he felt he could think clearly, free of the burden of emotion. 'Twas hard to wait for Talbot's signal when he wanted to rush out into the clearing and do what he could to help.
Will hunkered down next to Rannulf, his grin wide in a face alight with anticipation. “Seems like old times, don't it, milord?”
“Aye,” Rannulf whispered back. “But this time, the enemy is real, not part of some childish game.”
“And I don't have Gillian here to guard my back,” Will added with a quiet laugh.
“Thank God.” At least Gillian was safe within the walls of I'Eau Clair.
Talbot's signal sounded, piercing through the air. His war cry on his lips, sword in hand, Rannulf surged up and raced into the clearing, Gillian's men at his side.
As always, battle filled Rannulf with a cool, clean appreciation for life, an exhilaration that carried him through swordplay and dirty, punishing hand-to-hand combat with naught but a few scrapes and bruises. The addition of their men to the few who'd been sent to guard the holding carried the day. Dead men—raiders, mostly—littered the open space between the barn and outbuildings. Sword in hand, Rannulf stood catching his breath, wondering if any attackers were left alive, when several horses broke clear of the trees and raced past them, the riders masked behind plain armor and closed helms.
A few of their men gave chase on foot, but they couldn't catch up to the horses. “Will, take three men, get your mounts and go after them,” Rannulf ordered, though he didn't hold much hope of capturing them.
Talbot crossed the clearing with angry strides. “Get anyone?” he growled.
Rannulf shook his head. “By Christ, when we find out who is doing this, I vow I'll spit the bastards and roast them over their own hearth!”
“Aye.” Talbot sheathed his sword and peered through the smoke. “But in the meantime, we've flames aplenty to snuff out.”
Fires continued to burn around them, mostly small, smoldering blazes that hadn't done much damage as yet, but couldn't be left unattended. They turned their attention to battling the fires before they spread from house to barn, fields to forest, while waiting for Will and the others to return.
Rannulf took out his frustrations by beating at the creeping flames with a blanket and helping to dig a ditch around the one barn that had somehow escaped the attackers' torches unscathed. He didn't mind turning his hands to such mindless work, for it gave him ample opportunity to ponder anew the situation.
How could they continue to be attacked, over and over, yet never catch the culprit? They needed more men, to guard the outlying areas more closely, to catch the attackers in the act and perhaps capture someone who could give name or face to the person behind this harassment.
For that was what it amounted to, he realized. Property had been damaged, and a few people killed or injured—but Gillian had not been harmed, nor had the more valuable of her properties been destroyed.
Obviously the person behind all this didn't want to inflict too much damage on I'Eau Clair because they wanted the place intact.
And its mistress with it?
Mind racing with possibilities—when he wasn't mentally kicking himself in the backside for his stupidity—Rannulf gazed about him and saw that, thanks to the number of men they'd brought with them, the fires had been extinguished but for a few ruined outbuildings that still smoldered fitfully.
He discovered his overlord leaning on a shovel on the far side of the most damaged barn. “Milord, are we nearly through here?”
Talbot nodded. “We'll leave a heavy guard, of course, and send some men from the keep to begin repairs. Will has been gone so long, I doubt there's any sense in us waiting for him here. If he'd anything urgent to report, he'd have come back by now. If he needs help—” He shook his head. “We're nowhere close to give it, but we cannot linger here. 'Twill be dark soon. We'd best take our dead and injured and head home.” He turned to one of his men. “Wait here and tell Will to meet us at the castle when he returns,” he ordered, handing over the shovel and heading toward the forest where they'd left the horses.
“I've some ideas about the situation, milord, and some suggestions,” Rannulf told him as they mounted up.
Talbot gave a weary nod. “Good. We need to take a different approach. Perhaps you've seen something I haven't.” He climbed into the saddle. “Meet me in my chamber once we've had a chance to clean up.”
Rannulf mounted his stallion and nodded, though Talbot had scarce lingered long enough to notice. There'd be no nagging chat on the journey back to the keep, he decided with relief. His overlord could badger as well as any shrew! Setting spur to March, he fell into line with the others, alert for any further signs of their assailants.
 
By the time the men returned near dusk, tired, hungry and incredibly filthy from their exertions, Gillian had had ample time to restore her usual neat appearance and to prepare for the wounded.
Plenty of time to think.
Although they'd lost several men in the attack, fortunately none of the injured had been badly hurt—an unexpected blessing. She gave a silent prayer of thanks as she herded men toward the laundry to wash and pointed out the food readied for them in the hall.
She couldn't help but look Rannulf over from head to toe, to assure herself he'd come through the battle unscathed. Though she'd always worried about him, actually watching him ride off to fight raised her concern for him to new heights.
Especially now that they'd begun to come to an understanding between them.
Her guardian stopped beside her. She could only stare to see the impeccable Lord Nicholas so filthy, even worse than after Idris's attack.
He surprised her further when he laughed. “Aye, I'm a sight.” He laughed harder as she drew back her hand when he reached for it. “Fear not, I'll not sully your perfection with my dirt,” he added, although she'd have sworn the amusement faded from his eyes at the words. “Twice in a week—'tis a new record for me.” He sobered. “FitzClifford and I will eat in your father's private room,” he told her, surprising her by referring to the chamber as her father's, not his. “Send Sir Henry to us as well, for we've things to discuss and plans to make. His counsel would be welcome.”
“What of me, milord?” she asked. “May I join you?”
His reluctance obvious, he glanced past her for a moment, appearing deep in thought.
“'Tis my home, milord, and my people being harmed.” She could not avoid sounding as though she were making an impassioned plea—she was, and she didn't care if he knew it. “I would know what you believe is going on.” Head held high, hands clutched tight in the fabric of her bliaut, she awaited his decision.
He focused his eyes on her, his gaze measuring. She felt as though he were looking at her for the first time,
seeing
her in a way he hadn't before. “Join us,” he said at last, his voice abrupt. Giving her a brief bow, he hurried off toward the laundry.
 
Huw reined in his stallion and waited for the others—the few who had escaped with him—to catch up before they traveled on to their camp. They'd lost more men than he could afford this time, playing Lord Steffan's foolish game of cat and mouse. The man did enjoy taunting his opponent, although in this version of the game, Huw couldn't say for certain whether his master saw Lady Gillian as the enemy or the prize.
Whatever she was, he wished Lord Steffan would act, do something
real.
An attack with form and substance, not these niggling little jabs at Lady Gillian and her Norman warden.
But the addition of the Normans into the game— once Lord Steffan recovered from his rage—had evidently lent new spice to the challenge.
Mayhap he needed to remind Lord Steffan that I'Eau Clair
was
the prize. The longer the Normans had to become entrenched there, the harder it would be to shake them loose from the place. They'd have been better served to strike the castle itself when Talbot first arrived and his party likely still in disarray—and before Lady Gillian had a chance to grow used to her guardian, become loyal to him.
But how long Lord Steffan planned to drag this out, Huw couldn't begin to guess. Hopefully they'd act soon—'twas damned uncomfortable making camp near Lord Steffan's mountaintop cottage, not to mention a hardship on the men and horses to traverse the narrow, winding trail that led to it.
And the longer they remained there, the greater the chance the Normans would find their hideaway.
'Twas by the grace of God alone that they'd lost their pursuers this time. He watched the others as they rode up—the best of his men, and now naught but the bare backbone of a decent troop—the horses foam-flecked and blown, the men battle-weary. “Take a moment to rest,” he told them. “We'll be safe enough here.”

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