The Hidden Heart. Sharon Schulze

his belt and sword belt over his shoulder, and headed for the door.

      “FitzClifford, where are you going in such a hurry? Come, take your ease, let Ella shave you. We’ve journeyed hard and fast to get here—there’s no need to rush about now that we’ve arrived.”

      “Nay, I thank you. I wish to speak with my captains, and I thought I’d seek out Sir Henry, see what he can tell me of the situation here. I trust there’ll be some work to occupy us, else our men will grow fat and lazy.”

      Shaking his head, Talbot took a seat on the stool Ella pulled up for him near the hearth and waved a dismissal. “Go, then. But there’s no reason to hurry. We’ve plenty of time yet before the evening meal, haven’t we, Ella?”

      “Aye, milord.” Ella moved to stand behind Talbot and adjusted the towel draped round his shoulders. “I’m sure that Lady Gillian is still busy seeing to your chambers and arranging for a fitting meal for your lordships.” She motioned for Rannulf to go. “We’ll not dine until dusk tonight, I venture, and ’tis still full light. You’ve time to spare to attend to your duties, sir.”

      He sketched a brief bow. “Until this evening, then,” he said. His step light, he headed off to seek out Gillian.

      Chapter Five

      

      

      Rannulf paused halfway up the spiral stairway to peer out a window into the bailey. Troops, servants and children bustled about, filling the courtyard with life and sound. The scene reminded him of his first visit to I‘Eau Clair as a squire in the earl of Pembroke’s service. The bailey had been more chaotic that day, and more exciting when he faced off in a contest of arms against a lad purported to be one of I’Eau Clair’s better swordsmen, according to the youths gathered round.

      And Gilles had been a good fighter. Though he was slight of build, his reach was long, his movements swift and sure. The wooden practice swords had clattered together many times before Rannulf slipped beneath Gilles’s guard and knocked him to the muddy ground. Even then, Gilles had managed to take him down with him. They’d landed together in a tangled sprawl of arms, legs and long red hair.

      Gillian stared up at him, her green eyes wary and confused.

      And thus Rannulf had met his fate.

      Mayhap she’d met her fate that day as well, for she remained unwed. And was not spoken for, either, else her betrothed should be here by her side.

      The sight of Gillian leaving the stables and heading for the keep roused him from his reverie. He’d gain nothing by lurking about, woolgathering and delaying his meeting with her.

      He hurried up the stairs to the second floor and down the corridor that led to her solar. She was bound to end up there, or in her nearby chamber, before the evening meal. He didn’t mind the wait.

      The hallway and stairwell were empty, the servants no doubt busy settling in I‘Eau Clair’s newest residents. She wouldn’t realize he was here until ’twas too late for her to do anything about it—the only way he’d manage to see her, for he knew she’d refuse him an audience should he ask again.

      He slipped into the solar and shut the door.

      Little had changed since his last visit here. The chamber reflected its owner—the Gillian he’d known and loved, not the icy woman he’d met today. A large embroidery frame stood before a cushioned bench near the hearth, and a book held pride of place upon the table next to it. Gillian was both lady and scholar, skilled in housewifery, as well as languages and history—and in the healing arts, he recalled, taking note of a tray of herbs set out near the simple fireplace.

      A warrior, too, he reminded himself, catching sight of her sword in its scabbard leaning against the wall near the door. Gillian de I’Eau Clair was a woman of many talents, some of them unusual, all of them intriguing. She was all the woman he could ever want, and far more than he deserved.

      He’d do well to remind himself of that fact, now that he was near her once more.

      A chill permeated the air and the afternoon light had begun to fade. Rannulf set his tunic and belts on the bench and stirred up the banked fire in the hearth before kindling a taper from the growing flames. After lighting a branch of candles on the table, he closed the shutters and settled on a stool near the door to await Gillian’s return.

      As warmth filled the chamber, Rannulf relaxed back against the smooth plaster wall, surrounded by a sense of comfort and welcome he’d not felt in far too long. The scent of lavender and roses—Gillian’s scent—mellowed by the smoke of the fire, enveloped him until he could almost imagine ’twas four years past, and that he sat waiting for his love to join him once again.

      The door creaked open, dispelling the illusion, and Gillian entered the room, thumped the door closed and went directly to the fire.

      She dropped to her knees upon the hearthstones and reached up to slip off her veil, then slumped down and lowered her head into her hands. Rannulf rose and turned the key in the lock in one swift motion, the quiet click of metal against metal bringing her head up and around before he had time to move away from the door.

      “I suggest you try locking it with yourself on the other side, Lord FitzClifford. You are not welcome here.” She rose and turned, tripped over her skirts and pitched backward toward the fire. Rannulf lunged and caught her, swinging her away from the fireplace and setting her on her feet in the middle of the floor.

      “Are you all right?” he asked, maintaining his grip on her arms.

      Gillian shrugged free of Rannulf’s firm grasp and took a step back, all her shaking legs would permit. She couldn’t be certain if ’twas her near-mishap or Rannulf’s touch that set her nerves aquiver. Whichever the cause, she’d best lock her knees and stiffen her spine, for she refused to back down—to sit and look up at him—in her own solar.

      Nay, she’d not allow him the slightest opportunity to believe he held any power over her, in any way.

      She shook out her tangled sleeves, straightened her bliaut and found the strength to move another step away. “Perhaps you did not realize that this is my private chamber, milord,” she said, her tone cold. Lowering her hands to her sides, she resisted the urge to tighten her fingers in the fabric of her skirts. “You must also be unaware that ’tis most unseemly for us to be here unchaperoned.” She met his eyes, tried to ignore the heat she saw smoldering there. “I suggest you leave at once, before my guardian discovers you here. I am certain he wouldn’t approve.”

      Rannulf closed the space between them and leaned close, his breath warm against her cheek. “You never used to mind us being alone together, Gillian.” He raised his hand, brushed his fingertip along her chin. “Indeed, I think you welcomed it.” Tracing his finger up to her mouth, he outlined her lips, sending a tingle of awareness thrumming through her. “Welcomed me.” She began to breathe again when he lifted his finger from her lips, then nearly gasped as he moved his assault upon her senses to the flesh of her throat.

      Jerking back from him she said, her voice little more than a croak of sound, “You, sir, are no gen-. tleman.”

      He reached toward her again, capturing the end of one of her braids and winding it slowly around his hand. “And you, milady, knew that already.” He drew closer as his hand crept nearer her chest. “I believe ’twas one of the things you liked best about me.”

      “Enough!” She tried to pull free, but he refused to release her. “Rannulf, please,” she whispered, reaching up to cover his hand with her own.

      To her surprise, a flush of color rose to stain his face. “I beg your pardon, milady.” He unwound his hand from her hair and stepped back from her, then turned and went to kneel at the hearth and tend the fire.

      Gillian took the opportunity to catch her breath while he faced the leaping flames, settling herself upon the bench and smoothing her skirts about her, taking up a small piece of embroidery simply for something