Sharon Schulze - The Hidden Heart

Could that be why he’d brought Rannulf with him? No matter what she thought of Rannulf—and what did she think of him? she asked herself—she could not deny he was a fierce warrior, strong and well trained. Her father had believed Rannulf capable of holding I’Eau Clair, had offered him her hand and all that went with it—the keep, the lands, her heart....

Her fingers tightened about the metal band in her hand until the jeweled cabochons bit into her palm. To see Rannulf here, once again within these walls, was a situation she’d given up all thought of ever having to face.

Gillian looked down at the circlet and felt her heart falter. It had been months, perhaps years, since she’d last seen it. Why today, of all days, had Ella placed this circlet upon her head?

Giving vent to the rage welling up from deep inside her, she leapt to her feet and hurled the offending item across the room. It clattered against the stone wall and fell to the floor, the puny sound in the cavernous room doing little to satisfy her.

Weariness weighting her movements, she left the dais and crossed the rush-strewn floor, the sharp scent of mint rising from beneath her boots serving to clear away her anger.

She stooped to pick up the circlet, smoothed her fingertips over the flowers etched into the soft copper as she’d done so often in the past. How many times over the years had she sat staring out the window, the copper and jade band clutched in her hands while she stroked the beautiful design and turned her thoughts upon the man who’d given it to her?

A tear trickled down her cheek as she smoothed her fingers over the misshapen circle, then pressed the cool metal to her lips.

’Twas as battered as her heart, she thought, choking back a mirthless laugh. And her heart was like to become more bruised yet, the longer Rannulf remained within her sight.

Gillian dabbed at her wet cheek with the trailing end of her sleeve and straightened her shoulders.

’Twas no wonder Rannulf had stared at her—she could only imagine what he’d thought, to see that circlet upon her head.

But how could Ella have suspected Rannulf FitzClifford’s presence in Talbot’s party?

Rannulf followed Talbot and Ella to the bathing chamber near the laundry, his mind brimming with confusion. He went through the motions of bathing, his brain registering Talbot’s continuing commentary about Gillian’s beauty even as he silently berated himself for a fool.

If he kept on as he’d started, ’twould be no time at all before Talbot discovered far more about Rannulf FitzClifford than Rannulf had ever planned to reveal. By the rood, once he’d noticed the copper circlet Gillian wore—his gift to her the day she’d given herself to him body and soul—it had been all he could manage to keep from sweeping her into his arms, Talbot be damned!

He drew in a deep breath and ducked his head beneath the steaming water, drowning out Talbot’s voice and allowing himself a few moments to clear his thoughts. He could not continue to remind himself of the past. ’Twas long gone, taking the dreams of his youth—and any hope of a future with Gillian—with it.

He could scarce afford to jeopardize all that he had accomplished for Pembroke, simply for the gift of Gillian’s presence in his life.

Not that she’d have aught to do with him at any rate, to judge by her attitude toward him and Talbot both. The Gillian he’d come to know would have welcomed guests to I’Eau Clair with warmth and a genuine smile.

The cold, imperious woman who had greeted them from the dais was a stranger to him, the circlet notwithstanding.

Rannulf popped his head up out of the water and took a gulp of air. He’d be naught but a fool to read anything into the fact that she’d worn his gift. She’d no way of knowing he was part of Talbot’s party. ’Twas a coincidence, nothing more.

Though ’twas surprising she’d kept it after his defection, he mused.

He rubbed his eyes. At least she’d no knowledge of the hateful words he’d penned upon the betrothal agreement. Otherwise he’d never have escaped the hall intact.

He accepted the towel Ella held out to him and wiped his face, then glanced up at the old woman m surprise once her stern glare made an impression upon his befuddled brain.

“My lady is a virtuous maiden, milord,” she said, indignation lending her voice an arrogance not usually heard from a servant.

In his shock, he barely resisted the urge to snap out a response—any response—to her words. Did she think to take him to task here? Now?

And did she suspect...?

Her scowl deepening, Ella looked past him to Talbot, settled into a tub nearer the fire, and he realized she’d spoken to his overlord, not to him. What had Talbot said that he’d missed?

“I care not what the custom is elsewhere, milord, but at I‘Eau Clair ’tis not proper for a young lady, innocent and unwed, to bathe a man.” Ella drew a length of toweling from the stack draped over her arm and fairly snapped it into Talbot’s outstretched hand.

“‘Innocent’ and ‘unwed’ don’t necessarily go together,” Talbot pointed out with a grin. Ella drew herself up and stared down her nose at him. Talbot sat up straighter and held out a placating hand before she could say more. “Though I’ve no doubt your mistress is pure as the Blessed Mother herself, of course.”

Rannulf watched Talbot carefully; the other man’s apparent sincerity lightened the burden of concern he carried. He’d troubles enough to deal with already, without having to worry that Talbot might see Gillian as tainted goods, fair game for his obvious attraction to her.

And if Talbot ever discovered the full truth of Gillian’s purity or lack thereof—and Rannulf’s part in it...

No sense wandering down that peril-strewn path unless they must.

He knew of no reason why the subject should ever arise, so long as he found a chance to speak with Gillian as soon as possible.

Assuming she agreed to do as he asked.

“Indeed, you’d better believe it.” Ella gave a rude snort. “And as for the bathing, I care not whether the guest be King John himself! My lamb’ll not be helping any man with that chore, not while I’m here to stop it,” she added with a decisive nod.

Stifling a chuckle at Ella’s vehemence, Rannulf rose, wrapped the towel about his waist and climbed out of the tub. He turned to face Talbot, curious about how the arrogant lord reacted to the maidservant’s words.

He didn’t seem to have taken offense. Indeed, he appeared at his ease as he slicked back his hair with his free hand and swiped the towel over his face. “I’m pleased to see that my ward has so staunch a champion.” He settled back against the padded edge of the tub with a sigh. “’Twill make my task easier, for I know little about protecting a lady’s virtue.”

Ella bobbed a brusque curtsy in response and turned away, muttering under her breath all the while. “Too busy relieving ’em of it, most like,” Rannulf heard her say as she walked past him, crossed the chamber and knelt by the hearth to tend the fire.

Talbot’s servant, Richard, swept into the room, one arm loaded with Talbot’s clothes, Rannulf’s saddlebag clutched in the other. “These lodgings are not so fine as those we left in London, milord,” the man said with a sniff. He cast a measuring glance about him, his lean face twisted into a frown. “Though I suppose they’ll be sufficient for the nonce.”

Ella rose and turned to face them. “Lord William Marshal, the earl of Pembroke, has broken his journey behind these walls and counted himself well lodged,” she said, her wrinkled visage alight with pride. “They’re more than enough for the likes o’ you, I trow.” She nodded toward Talbot. “No offense, milord.”