The Hidden Heart (22 page)

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Authors: Sharon Schulze

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: The Hidden Heart
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Once Nicholas stepped away, Gillian approached March and motioned for Rannulf to lean down. “I've something for you,” she said quietly. She handed him a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. “Don't open it now. Save it till you're away from here.”
He accepted it with a nod of thanks, catching hold of her hand before she could back away. “Think of me while I'm gone.” Leaning down farther, he brought her hand to his lips: “Adieu.”
Releasing her, he waited only until she'd moved back before nudging March into motion. Their hoofbeats echoing in the empty bailey, they rode out through the gate.
Rannulf turned to catch a glimpse of Gillian, compelled to go back lest she disappear while he was gone. Would it always be this way? Would he wonder, every time he left her, if he'd ever see her again?
 
Gillian watched Rannulf and Will ride out, then turned to go back to her chamber—and her bed.
Mayhap this time she'd sleep there, she thought, her quiet laughter sounding loud in the silence.
“Gillian, wait,” Nicholas said, grasping her by the arm and drawing her to a halt under one of the torches that lit the stairs to the keep.
She glanced around. Sir Henry must have returned to his quarters in the gate tower while she watched Rannulf leave, for only she and Nicholas remained in the shadowy bailey. “What is it, milord? We should go inside if you wish to talk.”
He shook his head. “Even at this hour there are too many people in the hall. This suits my purpose well enough.” His touch firm, he spun her about so the torchlight fell on her face. Eyes narrowed, he pushed back her hood. “I don't care to see my ward wearing the look of a woman well loved,” he snarled. “I don't know what game you and Rannulf are playing, milady—”
“'Tis no game, Nicholas,” she said quietly, though she wanted to snarl and rage at him for his words and what they inferred. “Not on my part. Nor on Rannulf's, either, for I trust him to be honest with me.”
“Your trust is easily given to a man who is little more than a stranger to you.” His expression harsh, he released her arm, but stood close to her, holding her there by force of will alone. “I hope you haven't been foolish enough to give your body as well,” he added. Exhaling sharply, he ran a hand back through his hair and gazed intently at her face. “I simply wish to protect you from hurt, Gillian. Not only because you're my ward and it's my duty, but simply because I want to keep you from harm.” He leaned closer. “Although he's my vassal, I know very little about FitzClifford. He seems a decent man, but I could not swear to the fact.”
He sounded sincere, appeared concerned for her. She'd come to trust Rannulf again; would she be a fool to risk trusting Nicholas, as well?
“I know less of you, milord, yet you expect me to trust you,” she said, watching him carefully.
“Unlike Rannulf, however, I want nothing from you.”
“Nothing but my blind obedience,” she said bitterly.
“Nay, how can you say that? All I've asked of you is to be careful.” Nicholas appeared genuinely surprised.
Of course, he knew nothing of her unusual upbringing. 'Twould be a mark of trust on her part to tell him of it. “Unlike most women, milord, I've been taught to defend myself with knife and sword.”
“That won't do you any good if you happen upon a raiding party on your own,” he said, sounding the stern guardian once again.
She opened her mouth to refute his words, until the meaning of them rang clear in her mind.
He'd not said them to insult her, but because of his concern for her. She worried about Rannulf because she cared for him; could it be that she mattered to Nicholas as
Gillian,
rather than some nameless, faceless ward?
If that was true, she'd been insulting him, through that hadn't been her intention.
She placed her hand on his arm and stared up at his face. “I apologize for my thoughtless behavior, milord. Do you think, if we get to know each other, that we might become friends?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
 
 
A
s the days passed with no word from Rannulf, Gillian's unease mounted. Had something happened to him? Had he and Will ever made it to Gwal Draig at all?
What if the raiders had taken them? Could that explain why there had been no further attacks since the one the day before Rannulf left? But if that were the case, she'd expect to have received a ransom demand, or to hear
some
word about their capture.
At least Nicholas didn't suspect Rannulf of having any part in the attacks—‘twas a foolish thought, but not beyond imagining. Besides, the attacks had started long before Rannulf's arrival at I'Eau Clair.
She shook her head. Her mind had become full of such ideas of late, scurrying from thought to thought with scarce a moment's respite—impossible ideas, many of them, but increasingly beyond her ability to control.
Her days were so full, 'twas a wonder she found time to think at all. But the nights... in the dark of night, as she lay in bed wishing Rannulf was nestled by her side, her traitorous mind could believe anything.
Life at I'Eau Clair settled into an uneasy routine of sentries patrolling the boundaries of her lands, of guards dogging her heels whenever she wished to go outside the castle walls for any reason.
'Twas much like being under siege, save for the fact that their enemy remained hidden, unknown to them.
For the most part, she remained within the keep, only venturing to the village every few days to care for the sick. Of late, however, the need for that task had lessened, for the villagers appeared well and happy.
She'd gone to the pool once, accompanied by several heavily armed guards, intending to gather herbs to replace those Rannulf had dumped from her basket of simples It had been a mistake she'd not cared to repeat, for the place seemed haunted by the memories of everything that had happened there between them.
Everything reminded her of Rannulf, it seemed. She'd become a lovesick fool, for not even the press of her duties could ease her longing.
Or her worried mind.
She told herself her concerns were based on nothing more than the fact that she missed Rannulf, ached for him with every fiber of her being. Having lost him once, she felt he was doubly precious to her now. She missed him far more this time than she had in the early days of his absence four years earlier. Perhaps fear alone accounted for it, the fear that once again they'd shared their passion and he'd left her. The situation was different this time—they were different—yet in the depths of the night when she could no longer distract herself with work or the company of others, she could not prevent her misgivings from rising to the fore.
If only Rannulf's father hadn't died, would Rannulf have returned to her sooner? What would their life have been like? Would they have had children by now? she wondered, pressing her hand to her roiling stomach as if she could drive away another worry come to haunt her.
'Twas no use thinking of what might have been, for all she had any hope of controlling was the here and now. Though from what she'd observed, she'd little chance of that, either.
Surprisingly she found Nicholas's company a blessing. They'd come to an understanding of sorts on the day Rannulf left, and had begun to know each other better. She'd discovered a completely different man hidden beneath the pompous courtier sent by the king to watch over her, a decent man who seemed hesitant and afraid to reveal his true self. She liked the new Nicholas. She would never have suspected the sense of humor lurking beneath his handsome viesage, humor directed at himself, often as not. Nor had she realized what a good friend he could be.
He realized how much she missed Rannulf, had come to know some of their story from the conversations they had, yet she'd seen little sign of the overprotective guardian from his early days at I'Eau Clair. His behavior then had been what he thought a guardian should be. Now, though he continued to guard her and her people, he did so with an ease and common sense she found much easier to accept.
She'd even begun to hope he favored a marriage between her and Rannulf.
The question in her mind was whether Rannulf still wished them to be together.
Why hadn't he returned?
But other than a brief message, sent when he reached Gwal Draig, they heard nothing—from Rannulf or from Ian.
Nicholas teased her about her growing malaise, saying she grew sick and wan from pining for Rannulf. If Rannulf didn't return soon, he pointed out with a laugh, she'd dwindle away to nothing. Though he refused to send anyone after them, as the days mounted to weeks, she could see that Nicholas grew anxious as well.
But his words and teasing couldn't cheer her for long, especially once she began to wonder if her sickness was more than longing—and caused by an all-too-likely reality.
Food held little appeal, not that it stayed put for long anyway. It seemed as though everything made her stomach rebel—smells, loud sounds, the mere act of being awake, though
staying
awake had become a challenge, too.
She carried Rannulf's child.
There could be no other explanation for her symptoms. The unremitting nausea, her exhaustion—and her flux had not come since before she and Rannulf had made love.
Add to that the fact that somehow she simply
knew
.... A child, a tangible symbol of their love. How would Rannulf react to the news? Would he be pleased? Feel trapped? Her longing for Rannulf return became nigh an obsession.
Rannulf had been gone for nearly a month. Gillian rose with the sun, dressed and descended the stairs to the hall, her heart heavy, her stomach churning.
Nicholas, seated at the table to break his fast, watched her slow progress across the hall. Once she stepped up onto the dais, he stood and pulled out the bench for her, then pushed a loaf of bread and a cup of watered wine her way. He remained silent until she'd broken off a chunk of bread and washed it down with a sip of wine. “I hope he returns soon,” he said quietly. He slid along the bench to take her hand, giving it a squeeze. “You won't want to wait too long before you wed.”
A glimpse of the concern in his eyes sent the tears she'd held in check since Rannulf left streaming down her cheeks. He slipped his arms about her and simply held her while she sobbed against his shoulder.
Finally, her tears spent, she raised her head. He released her at once, but took hold of her hand again. “You know, I gather?”
He gave a humorless laugh. “'Twould be difficult to miss the signs.” He tugged her veil into place. “I was right in my suspicions about you two, wasn't I?”
“Aye.” Heat flooded her face, but she held his gaze. At least she saw no condemnation in his eyes, only concern.
And questions she shouldn't put off answering any longer.
“You knew him before—quite well, I'd venture. And he'd been here before,” he added, statements of fact, not questions.
“Yes, years ago, before his father died. Everyone believed we would marry.” She picked up her cup and sipped at the wine, hoping to settle her stomach. “How did you know?”
“I might have acted like an arrogant fool—likely I still do—but I hope I can see what's before my eyes once I think to look. And 'twas clear to me from the start that there was something between the two of you.”
She placed her hand on her flat stomach. “And now there will be something more between us,” she said softly.
“FitzClifford will do as he ought, I'm certain.” His expression solemn, he added, “If he cannot, I would be pleased to give you my name, my—”
“Nay, Nicholas, you need not do anything rash—or permanent.” He'd surprised her, but she knew he didn't want her for his wife. “'Tis good of you to offer, but it's not necessary.” Indeed, she prayed it wouldn't be. “Rannulf will be back soon.”
Though he tried to hide his relief, she could see it reflected in his eyes. “If they don't return in the next few days, I'll send a party of men to follow their route to Gwal Draig, find out why they've been delayed.”
“Thank you, milord,” she murmured. -
He stood and climbed over the bench. “Sir Henry was supposed to meet me here. I'd best go discover what's keeping him.” He made a brief, polite bow and left the hall, calling for Richard as he went
Gillian turned her attention back to the dry bread that was all she could stomach and tried not to dwell on what Nicholas had said—and what he had not. Did he believe Rannulf would return, or did he think something had happened to Will and Rannulf?
Something terrible.
A woman's scream echoed through the hall. Heart pounding, Gillian tripped over the bench, then stumbled to her feet and looked around to see what was wrong. A maidservant ran toward her from the corridor behind the dais, her gown torn, her face pale as milk. “Welshmen!” she screamed as she dashed into the center of the room. “Run, milady!”
 
Rannulf rode toward I'Eau Clair at the head of a sizable troop. Ian had been generous in lending them the men they needed; however, because of Llywelyn's prior claim on his resources, it had taken several weeks to bring together an adequate force.
The wait had seemed interminable, although he'd had time aplenty to think—about his past, his family and the life he hoped to have with Gillian.
He'd also taken advantage of Ian's counsel. The talks he had with Gillian's cousin helped him see his life clearly for the first time in many years.
'Twas time to move forward, to stop permitting the past to taint his future. He could not change what he'd done, but he could learn from it, become a better man.
Otherwise, his father had won yet again—from the grave. Wouldn't the cruel old bastard have enjoyed that!
Rannulf refused to let him win this battle.
He'd continue to try to mend the breach with Connor and pry his mother from the convent. 'Twas possible he'd saved their lives by his actions. That must mean something.
Bertram FitzClifford was dead. They need hide from him no longer.
He felt free—free to come to Gillian unhindered, to cease spying for Pembroke. Had he paid his debt for killing his father? He didn't know. But wouldn't the best way to redeem himself be to be a better man, a better father and husband than his father had been?
He touched the embroidered ribbon tied around his upper arm. He hoped when Gillian saw that he wore her gift, her favor, that she'd understand all he meant by doing so. She'd given herself to him, had given him so many gifts... Would she accept the gift of himself?
He thought of the bundle Gillian had given him before he left I'Eau Clair, the memory bringing a smile to his lips yet again. Will had looked askance at the apple wrapped in a piece of silk, but Rannulf merely smiled and tucked it away in the pouch on his belt.
Later, alone in his chamber in Ian's manor, he'd savored the apple, and the heated memories of Gillian it brought to mind.
Rapid hoofbeats on the road ahead jolted him back to the present.
Will, who'd gone ahead to scout the area, sped toward him, his mount lathered. Rannulf halted the troop and waited for Will to reach him.
“There's a large force massed along the trail to I'Eau Clair, right before the village,” he said with a gasp, bringing his horse to a skidding halt. Surprisingly, he grinned. “They bear your banner, milord.”
Praise God! With his men from FitzClifford added to those he'd brought from Gwal Draig, he defied any enemy to elude them.
Smiling himself, he saluted Will as he passed him. “Follow me,”. he shouted. His heart light, he nudged March to a trot and led the way toward the village.
'Twas an impressive force Connor had sent him, Rannulf thought with pride. His men called out greetings and friendly taunts in equal measure as he rode through them to reach the brawny knight mounted at their head. The man had his back to them as he sat atop a mighty stallion, facing the village.
Whom had his brother sent to lead them?
The man swung about in the saddle when he reached him. Rannulf nearly reeled with shock.
'Twas Connor.
He could not mistake his twin's face—the same as his own, save for the long, narrow scar stretched from his left cheekbone to his jaw.
But he'd never seen his brother like this!
The quiet scholar, pale-skinned and slight of build, was gone. Connor sat at his ease in the saddle, strong and tanned, his well-worn armor glinting dully in the sun. Rannulf waited to see how his brother would greet him—
if
he would greet him. When last they'd met, they'd cursed each other, for their sins, and decided to have no further contact with each other.

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