“You’ve shown so little skill in that regard,” she said, peering down at Talbot from her perch atop her mare. “This is important. I don’t want anything to go awry.”
Talbot stopped beside her and, snatching her from the saddle, kissed her hard.
She slapped him. It deterred him not at all.
He took his time settling her back onto her mount. “Godspeed,” he said, then slapped the mare on the rump, sending her leaping onto the road.
Chuckling despite his uneasiness, Rannulf urged his palfrey into a jarring trot and followed Lady Catrin toward Bryn Du.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside her chamber—her prison, more like—jolted Gillian from sleep. Moaning as her muscles throbbed, she sat up and swept the tangled fall of her hair out of her face.
What she wouldn’t give for a hot bath and the security to immerse herself in it! She’d held firm to her resolve not to bathe or groom herself since she’d arrived here two days ago, but she hoped she wouldn’t have to do so for much longer. It seemed such a petty thing under the circumstances, to wish she were clean, but she felt so miserable from head to toe.... And it gave her something to dwell upon besides the untenable situation she’d landed in.
The footsteps stopped outside her door; she clambered off the mattress and tugged her gown into place as Steffan entered the room.
“Good morning, my dear.” He set down a tray of food on the table next to the bed and nudged the door closed with his hip.
The scent of hot bread and sharp cheese, usually. a welcome aroma, sent waves of nausea hurtling through her. Feeling faint, she sat abruptly on the bed.
“I’d hoped you would feel better today,” he said. He lifted the lid from a trencher, watching her with an intensity she found difficult to ignore. The smell of mutton rose from the dish; hand over her mouth, she dashed off to the far side of the bed and grabbed the chamber pot.
“Whose child is it, cousin? Who dared sully your purity and spoil my plans?”
Her stomach calmer for the moment, she wiped her face on a towel and rose slowly from the floor.
Steffan’s face twisted with rage. “Who, Gillian?”
He circled the bed and yanked her close. “By Christ—why haven’t you washed?” he snarled, tossing her aside to land hard upon the mattress. “I’ll have answers from you, Gillian, as soon as the servants bathe you.”
He hauled open the door, then spun on his heel to face her again. “Remember one thing, cousin—you are mine, and I shall have you just as soon as I’ve found a way to rid you of that Norman brat.”
Frantic with fear, the moment the door closed Gillian forced herself to sit up and examine yet again the shackle locked round her wrist. The chain tethering it to the bed was sturdy—she knew she’d no way to break it—but perhaps in time she could loosen the shackle and break free.
Of course, she had no idea what she would do in that case, but ’twas a beginning.
She could not wait for help to come, not if she wished to protect Rannulf’s child.
A servant led Lady Catrin and Rannulf—in his guise as a physician—into Steffan’s hall. “I hear you’ve my cousin Gillian visiting here,” Lady Catnn said as soon as she’d introduced the “physician” to Lord Steffan. “I came to see her.” She strode past them toward a doorway across the hall. “Since I also heard she was ill, I’ve brought this esteemed healer to see if he can cure her ills. He’s come here from the court of our kinsman, Llywelyn.”
The Welshman scowled at his cousin and said nothing.
Rannulf huddled deeper into the enveloping robes he wore, as much to hide his hatred for the man as to maintain his disguise. This preening popinjay was the cause of the raids? This fool stole Gillian away and believed she would wed him?
His mind must be lacking in sense and intelligence, to mislead him so thoroughly.
“Steffan, may I take him to her?” she asked, moving to wait near the doorway. “Ian will be so pleased to know I’ve seen her.”
At the mention of Ian, Steffan’s frown deepened. “A moment,” he said, then motioned forward the maid who’d been standing silently near the main entrance. After a whispered conversation he handed the woman a ring of keys and sent her away. “Catrin, you may go with Maud,” he said. ”But I wish to speak with the healer before I will permit him to examine Gillian.”
They watched Lady Catrin follow the servant, then Lord Steffan turned to him. “What do you know of ridding a woman of an unwanted child?”
Rannulf’s hands clenched into fists within his long sleeves as he fought the urge to throttle Steffan where he stood. Rid Gillian of her child? Their child!
Never.
Why try to steal Gillian out of the chamber and lock Lord Steffan in, running the risk of his calling in the guard? He could eliminate him now, he thought frantically. He glanced about the hall. They were alone; he could hear no sounds of servants anywhere about. There would be no better time than this.
He moved closer to Steffan. “What do you mean, milord?” he asked in a low, accented voice.
“She carries another man’s child,” Steffan explained slowly, perhaps believing Rannulf hadn’t understood. “I would be rid of it before I make her my wife.”
A few more steps, past Steffan, then Rannulf whirled and thrust back the sleeves of his robe to free his hands.
He closed his fingers about Steffan’s throat, squeezing hard, ignoring the other man’s muffled attempts to speak, to breathe. He grabbed at Rannulf s hands and tried to pry them loose, but he could not budge them.
He kicked at Rannulf’s shins, his movements less lively now, so Rannulf lifted him until his feet left the floor. “You craven bastard,” he muttered. “‘Tis my child you wish to kill, my woman you stole away.” He cast another look about to make certain no one was coming. “I—don’t—share.” He punctuated each word with a shake, until Steffan hung limp from his grasp, unresponsive.
He didn’t believe he had killed him, but he wouldn’t be chasing them any time soon in his present condition. He tugged a length of rope from beneath his robe and bound Steffan hand and foot, then ripped a strip of fabric from Steffan’s elaborate tunic and gagged him with it.
This could work just as well as their original plan, he told himself. And it had the added reward of removing the man from access to his men and weapons.
Not wanting to waste any more time, Rannulf rolled him beneath a long cloth-covered table and hurried down the hall where Lady Catnn had disappeared. Knocking lightly, he slipped into the chamber and closed the door quietly behind him.
Gillian sat on the bed, pale and wan, but her eyes glowed with an emerald fire. He crossed to her in two strides and wrapped her in his arms. “Are you all right, love?” he murmured into her hair. “He hasn’t harmed you?”
Gillian clung to Rannulf as tightly as she could, drawing strength from him. “I’m fine,” she assured him. “What of you? I saw you fall during the battle.”
“I’m fine now that we’ve got you.”
“This is very touching,” Catrin said. “I do mean that, Gillian,” she added when Gillian glared at her cousin’s tart tone. “But we’re far from safe.” She gestured to the maid, trussed up on the floor on the other side of the bed. “I thought you were bringing Steffan in here so we could lock him up, too.” She stood by the door, listening. “What is he doing while you’re in here?”
“I choked him till he swooned,” Rannulf said dryly. “I didn’t like what he said, and it seemed the best way to silence him. I left him under a table in the hall for the moment, awaiting your pleasure, milady.”
Gillian looked from one to the other, uncertain what they planned to do next. “Could we leave?” she asked. “My stomach isn’t too bad right now, but I’ve no way of knowing how long my good fortune might last.”
Rannulf bent and kissed her brow. “I’m sorry, love.” He turned to Catrin. “What shall we do with him—take him with us as a hostage or a shield, or leave him locked up
in here?”
“Take him with us, at least to leave the manor,” Gillian suggested, though they hadn’t asked her advice. “His men won’t harm us if it might put him in danger. If we leave him here, they’ll just come after us and follow until they catch up.”
Rannulf nodded. “So be it.”
Another concern rose to mind. “I doubt I can ride far,” Gillian told them. “The journey here was pure torture, I felt so ill.”
Catrin reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “Do you believe I’d allow them to drag you through the Marches in your condition? We’re taking you to Gwal Draig. You might need to stay there for a bit, until Ian returns and can help smooth over this situation with Llywelyn, but you should be safe from Steffan there.”
“Should we bring him with us to Gwal Draig?” Rannulf asked. He loosened his hold on Gillian and went to open the door.
“Nay,” Catrin said quietly. “’Twill be difficult enough to talk our way out of this, for I warrant Llywelyn won’t be pleased. For some reason, he seems to like our weaselly cousin,” she added with a frown. “Though I have no idea why.”
“No one’s about,” Rannulf said. “Let’s go.”
They strode boldly out of the chamber and into the still-empty hall, where Rannulf collected Steffan from beneath the table and slung his deadweight over his shoulder. They made it halfway across the small courtyard before anyone tried to stop them, but the sight of Rannulf’s knife pressed against their master’s throat deterred everyone from approaching them.
Gillian rode with Catrin, while Rannulf draped Steffan over March’s withers and leapt into the saddle behind him. They raced out the open gate and onto a trail into the forest, no sounds of pursuit following them.
But their good fortune couldn’t last for long.
“We’re going the wrong way!” Gillian told Catrin as she clung to the saddle and prayed her stomach would remain calm.
“We’re meeting Talbot and Connor FitzClifford,” Catrin said.
“Connor’s here?”.
“Aye—he came with Talbot and Rannulf.”
Gillian reached up to brush her trailing hair from her eyes. “Why aren’t they at Gwal Draig?” Connor’s presence must mean he’d forgiven Rannulf. She hoped their mother had come from FitzClifford as well.
“They were supposed to escort the two of you back to I’Eau Clair,” she said as she tugged on the reins to slow her mount as they entered a thick stand of trees. “This new plan will be better, though, for you’ll be safe with us, and you’ll be able to rest.”
They stopped, and Nicholas and Connor stepped out from behind the trees, leading their horses. Connor looked nothing like she’d expected, for Rannulf had described a very different person than the healthy-looking, brawny man who approached them.
“I’ll take him,” Connor said, lifting Steffan’s still body easily and setting him on the ground.
I hope there’s some poisonous plant growing there, Gillian thought with a burst of anger. He deserved any torment she could devise.
“Will you take him and leave him someplace where he won’t come to too much harm?” Rannulf asked Nicholas.
“Why not kill him?” her guardian asked, making the scheme sound reasonable.
Catrin strolled closer to him. “Because ’twould be a fleeting pleasure, milord—appealing, over too swiftly, leaving naught but regrets. You’re familiar with that feeling, I’d imagine,” she added with a smug smile.
Nicholas’s face reddened and he turned away. “Give me the bastard,” he told Connor. “We can take care of him—you go on to Gwal Draig. We’ll meet you there.”
Catrin set about pampering Gillian as soon as they arrived at Gwal Draig. Gillian climbed into a tub of warm water with a moan of pleasure and didn’t climb out until she’d scrubbed from head to toe. Now she sat drowsing by the fire as her hair dried, her belly full of dry bread and mead. If Rannulf would join her, her happiness would be complete.
It would take a while, she’d imagine, to remove whatever paint he’d covered his face and hands with. Though Catrin had warned her of how he’d appear, she’d been surprised by how different he looked.
But she’d have known him anywhere, no matter how he was garbed.
She heard the door open and close behind her. Smiling, she didn’t bother to turn, for she knew it must be Catrin, come to bully her into something.
The smell of sandalwood warned her of her mistake; the withered apple that dropped into her lap confirmed it. “Rannulf,” she murmured, rising half out of the chair before he gently pressed her back down onto the cushioned seat.
“My love,” he whispered. He moved around the chair to sit on the floor by her feet. He rested his cheek on her knees and settled his palm on her belly. “Did you swallow an apple seed?” he asked her, his voice alight with laughter.
She giggled. “Is that what happened?”
He raised his head and met her gaze, his dark eyes warm and full of love. “I do believe an apple was involved,” he said seriously.
“I believe you’re right.”
He rose on his knees and wrapped his arms about her. “I’m so glad you’re all right,” he whispered, his voice shaking. He buried his face in her hair and held her. “So glad you’re finally mine.”
She savored his touch, the wave of love and contentment that flowed from him to her and back again. “As you are mine, milord.” Framing his face in her hands, she drew back and pressed a kiss to his lips. “And don’t you ever forget it, my love.”
“I’d sooner forget how to breathe.”
In one swift motion he stood, scooped her into his arms and sat down with her nestled in his lap. “We’ve so much to talk about.” She snuggled deeper into his hold and rested her head against his chest. “Your family, my guardian, my cousins, I’Eau Clair, my father’s wishes...”
“Aye, love—I’ve much to tell you,” Rannulf murmured. “Though I hardly know where to begin.”
“Is everyone at I’Eau Clair safe?” she asked, not bothering to disguise her sense of urgency. Her concern for her people and her home had been nigh as strong as her worry about Rannulf the past few days, haunting her thoughts.
His eyes darkened. “Most everyone. Several of the villagers were killed in the crush of battle in the bailey, as were a few of our men, God rest them.” He took her hand in his after she crossed herself and pressed a kiss upon her fingers before placing it palm down against his chest. “But considering the intensity of the fighting, we suffered little harm.”
“Will and Sir Henry?” she asked, her gaze fixed on his face.
A faint smile brightened his expression. “Those two? ’Twould take more than a few Welshmen to best them.” His smile deepened. “A bit battered and bruised when we left, but nothing serious.”
Despite her pleasure at the welcome news, a chill passed through her. “I saw Marged killed,” she whispered, the image etched in her memory tainting her joy at her friends’ survival.
Rannulf’s expression sobered. “Aye, she’s dead— and Richard as well. ’Tis a just payment for their treachery.”
“Treachery?” Gillian shifted in Rannulf’s lap so she might see his face more clearly. “Richard’s hatred of me was clear enough, but Marged—”
“It seems that Marged was Steffan’s spy, my love, and Richard her willing accomplice. Nicholas gleaned that much from Richard before he died of his injuries soon after the Welsh fled I’Eau Clair. One—or both—of them must have seen us using the passageway, and passed the information on to Steffan.”
She thought back over the two servants’ behavior; if they’d been in Steffan’s employ it explained a great deal, for she’d noticed several times that their actions and expressions had seemed odd, furtive. Wrapping her arms about Rannulf’s waist, she laid her head against his chest and held him tightly. “Should we have recognized what they were doing? Were we so distracted by our pleasure that it blinded us to their schemes?”
He stroked her hair and
nestled her closer. “Perhaps.” He brushed a kiss along her cheek. “We’ll never know, love. But there’s naught we can do to change the past. I realize that more than ever now. All we can do is to learn from our mistakes, and vow to do better. I’ve made that promise to my brother, and I intend to keep it.” He eased her away from his chest and framed her face in his hands. “And I make that vow to you, Gillian, and to our child. I’ll never stop regretting that my father died by my hand, but I see now that there’s nothing to be gained by punishing myself for the rest of my life.”
“I refuse to allow you to,” she told him fiercely. “’Tis time to look to your future, to our future—ours and our child’s. Your responsibilities have changed.” Her gaze holding his captive, she asked. “Does this mean you’re finished with your work for my godfather? Will he allow you to stop spying, to lead a normal life?”
Rannulf drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “My task is complete, and I shall not seek another from Pembroke. I know now that Nicholas Talbot is no close friend to the king, and is not deserving of Pembroke’s distrust. Nor do I believe him any threat to you, especially since he’s given me permission—nay, he’s ordered me, as your guardian and my overlord—to make an honest woman of you,” he added, his smile brightening his face and eyes.
Gillian’s heart thumped harder in her chest, sending a wave of anticipation thrumming through her. “Has he indeed?”
“Aye. You’re free of Talbot’s hold, but I hope you’ll soon be caught firmly within mine.” He tightened his hands about her middle. “I feel as though the weight of the past has been lifted from me. All I desire from life is simply to hold you, to show you all I’ve held hidden in my heart these many years.” He, kissed her lips slowly, reverently, in a solemn vow. “Will you marry me, Gillian? Will you help me make a life for us, allow me to make up to you for the pain I’ve caused you?” He laced his fingers with hers and traced his tongue over her palm. “Let me care for you, for our babe,” he added, placing their joined hands on her stomach.
The Hidden Heart Page 24