So long as he didn’t decide she should wed him herself, she thought with a grimace. Despite his handsome face and form, he didn’t appeal to her in the least.
Rannulf’s reasons for refusing her hand rose to her mind yet again. The mere image of his words upon the page sent a chill of loss and dread through her heart.
Perhaps she was not fit to be wife or mother at all.
She took up the basket of simples and rose to leave. “I’ll come again tomorrow,” she said, pausing by the door. “See that you take care of yourself.”
“I thank you for your help, milady,” Rowena said. “’Tis a fine mistress you are, to make time to care for such as me.” She settled back onto the pallet. “May God bless you and keep you safe.”
Touched, and uncertain how to respond, Gillian nodded and left the hut.
Many duties awaited her within the keep, especially now that their numbers had increased so dramatically. Evidently the king had received her request for aid, for Talbot had brought a sizable train with him—and supplies to help feed them, she’d been grateful to learn. But it was bound to take some time before they all settled into the new regime.
Her step lagged the closer she drew to the track leading up to the castle. Gillian stood and stared at the hum of activity, the people everywhere she looked, and knew she could not face them yet.
The pool in the nearby forest gave the castle its name. There, as she’d done so often in the past, she could escape for a little while, clear her mind and dream her dreams. It was exactly what she needed.
She turned and set off through the greening fields until she reached the edge of the forest. Her step growing lighter by the moment, she settled her basket of simples upon her arm, kilted up her trailing skirts to avoid the underbrush and wove her way through the trees.
Eventually she came to a clearing nestled deep within the older trees, an island of peace and beauty not visible from the castle walls. ’Twas a sylvan glade straight from ancient lore. A sparkling waterfall emptied into a small, flower-bedecked pool, blending its restful murmur with the solitude of the forest.
A smile upon her lips, Gillian set aside her basket under a towering fir and made her way over the smooth carpet of new grass and spring flowers to the moss-covered stones scattered around the edge of the water.
Perhaps here, in her childhood retreat, she might regain her composure, settle her thoughts.
She settled onto a mound of rocks beside the pool that formed a seat of sorts, and stared down into the water. Clearing her mind of all thought, all fear, she let it roam where it would.
But the journey she took in her mind’s eye was not one she’d have chosen to relive. ‘Twas Rannulf she saw there, a Rannulf younger than the man who’d arrived at I’Eau Clair the day before.
Younger in more than years, for that other Rannulf FitzChfford bore the glint of laughter in his eyes, and an expression of joy upon his handsome face. They’d been so happy that day, carefree and innocent. They’d escaped Lady Alys’s vigilance and gone seeking adventure and privacy. Closing her eyes, she felt again the warmth of his hand holding hers, heard the laughter in his voice as he led her headlong through the forest to this very glade.
The sun had shimmered on the water that day, sparking rainbows from the mist at the base of the falls, lending a magical glow to the air. How could she forget the cool water lapping against her body as she waded, clad only in her thin linen shift, into the depths of the pool, the heat of Rannulf’s gaze as he joined her there all she needed to warm her?
Opening her eyes, she reached down and trailed her fingertips through the water, sending ripples coursing over the smooth surface and distorting her reflection. She stared at the wavy surface until the water stilled, then started at the new image mirrored there.
“Rannulf!” she gasped, whirling to see if he was there behind her in truth, or naught but a creation of her imagination.
“Good day to you, milady.” He stepped away from her, but reached out a hand to steady her when she wavered on her rocky perch. The touch of his fingers on her arm was firm, impersonal... and lingered a moment too long for her peace of mind. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you would have heard me coming through the forest,” he said with a glance to where his huge chestnut warhorse stood tethered to a tree.
’Twas a wonder she hadn’t noticed, a measure of how deeply enmeshed she’d been in the past.
“What do you here, milord?” she asked, her voice as cold as she could make it, given the heated memories still lurking in her brain. “Are you lost?”
“Nay, Lady Gillian. I sought you in the village. When I couldn’t find you there, a lad told me he’d seen you head this way.”
“Are you following me, milord?” If that was his plan, for her own sanity she must set him from that path at once.
For how could she survive his constant presence, the continual reminder of what had been?
And what could be, whispered a taunting voice within her traitorous mind.
He raised an eyebrow in inquiry. “Following you? Why should I do that, milady?”
Gillian felt her temper flare. “I know of no reason, sir, none at all.” The trembling that had beset her since she noticed him behind her disappeared, replaced by a wave of determination.
She’d show him his error! She would not permit him to torment her any longer.
Her legs firm beneath her, she stood, shook out her skirts and threw back her shoulders in a deliberate display of bravado.
Rannulf held his ground in the face of her show of spirit, not out of any desire to flee, but rather to fight the urge to leap more fully into the fray. Dear God, but she was magnificent!
His arms ached to reach out to her, to enclose her in their grasp, to pull her flush against him and appease the hunger burning for satisfaction. Four years of yearning howled for appeasement, and though he knew ’twas impossible, his body refused to accept that answer.
He wanted her, not just to gratify a physical hunger, though his body throbbed with wanting. Nay, simply to feel the joy of Gillian held tight within his arms, to know he’d never have to give her up again... ’Twas a pleasure worth any price.
Except that of his honor.
And her safety.
Taking his time, he glanced about the glade, not permitting his gaze to linger anywhere, lest the memories of this place etched within his memory take control of his reason and destroy his will to resist them.
When his wandering attention returned to Gillian, he shrugged. “And why would I follow you here of all places, milady?” he asked. Though he kept his tone light, he added a taunting edge to his voice that sent a flush of color into Gillian’s pale cheeks. “Your guardian sent me to fetch you back to the keep, ’tis all.”
“Does he think to lock me away within the castle walls like some helpless damsel?” She stirred into motion, pacing away from him, her fingers going to the hilt of her eating dagger. She looked as though she’d like to draw the blade and spit someone with it—himself, most like.
He suppressed a chuckle at the image. Aye, that would be a sight to stir any man!
And why not rouse her anger further? He found Gillian de I‘Eau Clair difficult to resist under any circumstances, but when she had that soft, remembering look in her sparkling green eyes as he’d peered at her reflection in the pool, ’twas all too easy to give in to the compulsion to join her there. They’d both be better off sniping and snapping at each other.
And that way, there’d be no chance he’d give himself away before Nicholas Talbot, as he’d so nearly done too many times the day before.
At least if Gillian were angry with him, she’d do her best to avoid him.
Aye, he could not ask for a better plan.
“You, a helpless damsel?” he mocked. “How could he ever make that mistake?” Taking his time, he joined her at the water’s edge, then followed her when she stalked past him toward the trees. “You’re about as helpless as a she-wolf. If the king
had known anything about you, he’d never have bothered to send you a guardian.”
He’d swear her eyes glistened with tears before she turned her back to him, her knuckles white as they tightened about the dagger.
It felt as though she’d stabbed that blade deep into his heart, but he kept at it.
“Did you know that Ella took Talbot to task yesterday when he asked why you had not come to help us bathe?” The morning sun fell on her hair where it hung below her veil, igniting the fiery locks with warmth, momentarily distracting him from his purpose. He shook his head and forced himself to forge on. “She told him you were an innocent maiden whom she’d protect to the death, most like, should he seek to change your state.” He gave in to temptation and reached for the end of her braid, tugging until she turned to face him. “Interesting that she doesn’t know the truth.”
“What truth is that, milord?” Gone was any hint of tears, her eyes instead alight with righteous anger. “That you took my innocence—here, in this very spot?”
He nearly glanced over his shoulder to the grassy bank she referred to, but that would be an act of monumental stupidity. Better he keep his eyes fixed upon Gillian’s face, Gillian’s anger, for ’twould serve to remind him why he’d led them down this path. Instead he released her hair and folded his arms across his chest. “Did I?”
Rannulf leveled a measuring look upon her, till she wanted to squirm beneath that cool, dark gaze. She realized her fingers had nigh gone numb from clutching her knife, and eased her grip. Did he realize, she wondered, how close she’d come to drawing the blade? Merely to keep him away, of course.
’Twas a mistake to let down her guard, she saw at once, for he stepped nearer to her, forcing her to retreat. “Did I indeed?” he asked.
She pressed her back against the rough trunk of an ancient oak and raised her chin in challenge. “Do you deny I was a virgin when you took me to your bed?”
He gave an aborted laugh and reached out to tug once again on a lock of her hair hanging loose over her shoulder. “My bed?” He wound the end around his wrist as he’d done the day before, bringing his captive hand ever closer to her breast, even as his eyes held hers hostage. He leaned so near, his words brushed her lips.
Though she knew she should try to free herself, Gillian could not make her reluctant body obey the dictate of her mind, could scarcely draw breath for fear of pulling him nearer still.
“There was no bed involved, as I recall, save the one we fashioned from my tunic and your bliaut.” His stubbled cheek grazed her face from temple to chin, sending a shiver down her spine. “I’ll never forget the sight of your hair glowing in the sun—” He released her hair and trailed his freed hand along its length, his knuckles coasting over her shoulder in the barest of caresses. “And the shadow here...”
She jerked away before his wandering fingers could settle against her bosom, but he trapped her hand in his.
His fingers intertwined with hers and he tugged her into his arms. “Gillian,” he breathed against her lips. His touch gentle, he wrapped her into his embrace.
He’d slipped off her veil before she realized what he was about, and buried his fingers in the mass of her hair, loosening her braid and sliding his hands up through the wavy mass to cradle her face.
Her eyes drifted closed, her breath caught on a sob as he nuzzled her cheek, pressed his body against hers in a caress devastating in its tenderness. Force she might have withstood, but this gentle assault proved beyond her will to resist.
She opened her eyes to stare into the familiar brown depths of Rannulf’s questioning gaze, lost herself in the web of desire he wove around them so effortlessly, watched as he lowered his lips to hers slowly, so slowly she could feel his touch before their mouths met.
Warmth flowed from his lips to her heart, set up a sense of loss so deep it spilled over into tears that flowed down her cheeks even as her lips clung to Rannulf’s.
He gasped against her mouth, his hand sliding up her cheek to capture a teardrop, then slowly stepped away. He fixed his gaze somewhere beyond her shoulder and drew in a deep breath. “Forgive me. I hadn’t intended to touch you.”
Before her disbelieving gaze he cast off the languor of desire and resumed the mantle of warrior—or tormentor. Somehow all emotion drained away from his features, leaving behind a shell of the man she’d seen.
The man she’d known so long ago.
“You’ve grown even more lovely these years past, milady. I don’t suppose you’d care to pick up where we left off back then, would you?” he asked, his mouth curved into an insolent grin. “If we’re careful enough, Talbot need never know.”
She had the knife free of its sheath before her stunned brain could form the words to curse him straight to hell where he belonged.
Grin still intact, Rannulf eased away from her, one hand held in front of him as though to ward her off. “No one need know you’re no longer a maiden. I wouldn’t want to harm your chances of making a decent marriage, although with a dowry such as yours, combined with your beauty, I doubt most men would care.”
Gillian drew in a gasp of air and, knife upraised, snatched her skirts into her free hand and charged after him. “Whoreson knave,” she growled, stalking him as he backed through the trees toward his mount. “Get you gone, else I’ll gut you where you stand.”
He believed her threat, it seemed, for he spun on his heel and leapt into the saddle. “Let me know if you change your mind, milady,” he called, gathering the reins and nudging the stallion into motion. “At any time.”
She gave a scream of outrage and let the dagger fly, sending it to land, quivering like her shaking limbs, in the thick tree trunk near where they’d kissed.
Though she knew ’twas foolish, she watched him guide his mount through the trees, listened to the hoofbeats fade away, before she roused herself to motion. Not until she knew he’d gone beyond her reach did she dare to relax her guard.
Then, her thundering heart the only sign of her anger and pain, she gathered her disordered locks together and began to fashion them into a neat braid.
No one must know, she reminded herself. Not only that she and her servants knew Rannulf, but especially all that had happened between them.
In both the past and the present.
She settled her veil on her hair, then tugged the dagger free and slid it into its sheath.
She picked up her basket and set off for the track back to I’Eau Clair.
Her step faltered when she walked past her father’s grave, and she paused to say a prayer. He’d never have suspected the kind of man Rannulf had become, she thought as Rannulf’s parting words echoed in her mind. She knelt beside the grave and laid her hand atop the tender grass, then dashed a traitorous tear from her cheek. He’d never have offered her to Rannulf otherwise, she knew. What had gone through his mind when he’d received the betrothal agreement, with its detestable message, back from Rannulf? Often these past few weeks she’d wondered why her father hadn’t told her what he’d done. Perhaps he’d sought to spare her the pain he knew she’d suffer if she knew how Rannulf had responded to the offer of her hand.
’Twas no use thinking of what she’d lost yet again, although with Rannulf there as a constant reminder, how could she ever forget?
Chapter Seven
Rannulf stood on the battlements and observed Gillian’s progress. He’d spurred his mount hard so he might avoid her as she headed back, yet he felt compelled to watch over her, If only from afar. A stiff breeze tugged at his hair and whipped his tunic snug against his body, but it could not scour away the sickness roiling in his belly and stabbing at his heart over his cruelty to Gillian.
He greatly feared ‘twas beyond him to maintain that pose for long, so he’d taken the cowardly way and run from her. The blade she’d brandished nigh in his face had not threatened him—by the rood, he’d permit her to have at him with her sword, knowing full well she might spit him with it—if he thought ’twould help promote hi
s ruse.
But after holding her in his arms, ’twas almost beyond him to let her go.
He saw her pause near a grave in the fields alongside the path to the castle—her father’s, perhaps?—drop to her knees beside it and reach out to place her hand on the mounded soil.
Lord Simon de I’Eau Clair. An honorable man, decent and true, who had never done him ill. Who had made him welcome here. A far better man than his own sire, he thought bitterly—in every way.
And what had Rannulf done to repay Lord Simon, when he offered Rannulf his greatest treasure, his daughter’s hand? It shamed him to recall how he’d repaid his generosity, for not only had he refused his gift, but insulted him and his daughter with his heartless words, made a mockery of so many things—hospitality, love, honor.
’Twas no doubt he was indeed his father’s son. How else could he have done the things he’d done—said the words he’d forced from his lips this very day, smiling all the while like the most false-hearted knave at court?
Who would ever believe he had reasons for what he’d done? And to his shame, he continued to believe his reasons valid and true.
He continued to watch as Gillian rose and brushed dirt from her bliaut, then raised her hand and swiped at her cheeks as well. Her tears were all that had saved him from insanity by the pool this morn, jarring him from his selfish greed as he stole from Gillian—her taste, her touch, the priceless gift of peace he felt within her arms.
His brief respite over, Rannulf descended the stairs and went to the bailey to await Gillian’s return. He’d told Gillian one truth this morning, for Talbot did wish to see her.
Supper the night before had been a strained and stilted affair, the presence of Talbot—and himself, he had no doubt—at the high table seeming to rob Gillian of her appetite and her conversation. Perhaps Talbot was more observant than Rannulf gave him credit for, since he excused Gillian from attending him after the meal, instead postponing his meeting with her until today.
But the time of reckoning—if that was what Talbot intended—had arrived. Since Rannulf was still attempting to establish himself with his overlord, he’d best do as he was bid and bring Talbot his ward.
The Hidden Heart Page 6