The Hidden Heart. Sharon Schulze

privacy, but ’tis imperative I speak with you alone, without Talbot’s knowledge.”

      Gone was the imploring tone, the heated glance, in its place a cool, impersonal courtesy.

      ’Twas what she wanted, was it not?

      Why, then, did she feel a wave of sadness sweep over her, and moisture begin to pool in her eyes?

      Blinking back the tears, she laid her needlework in her lap and gazed unseeing at the pattern of vines outlined on the linen scrap. “I see now that I should have agreed to your request, milord, rather than summarily refuse to speak with you.” More composed now, she risked a glance at his face.

      He appeared no more willing to look at her than she to watch him. Perhaps they might get through this interview without further mishap, emotions intact.

      Emotions hidden, ’twas what she really meant, she reminded herself. Her emotions, at any rate.

      What Rannulf might feel, she no longer cared to know.

      “Please, tell me what you wished to speak to me about. The hour grows late, and we must go down for supper soon.”

      Rannulf paced the length of the solar, coming to a halt in front of her and clearing his throat. “Talbot doesn’t know I’ve been here before.”

      “Does it matter if he does?”

      “It might.” He resumed pacing, sending her nerves jittering.

      “Sit down,” she told him. She waited until he drew the stool away from the doorway and took a seat. “You’d best explain yourself—and quickly, for we mustn’t linger here much longer.”

      “Your godfather, Lord William—”

      “I know who my godfather is,” she cut in. His voice sounded strange. Could he be nervous?

      “Lord William asks that you and your people forget they ever saw me or knew aught of me. He does not wish Talbot to know I have any ties to I’Eau Clair.”

      Her heart skipped a beat before settling into a faster pace. If only it were that easy to forget him! She drew in a deep breath and willed her pulse to slow to its normal rhythm, bit back the bitterness welling from deep within her before she spoke. “You have no ties to I’Eau Clair, milord. You saw to that yourself already.”

      Rannulf glanced up sharply. “What do you mean?”

      “You know very well, milord.” She tossed aside her sewing and clasped her hands together in her lap, restraining her own desire to leap up and pace the room.

      She’d not give Rannulf the satisfaction of seeing her agitation. ’Twas bad enough to admit she’d seen—

      “What do you mean, Gillian?” he demanded.

      Her movements slow, as steady as she could manage, she stood and went to the large table pushed against the wall on the far side of the room. She fumbled with the ring of keys hanging from her belt, found the one she sought and unlocked the small, iron-bound coffer set near the back of the table. Reaching inside, she pulled out the betrothal contract.

      The parchment clutched in her hand, all pretense of calm gone, she spun and hurried to stand before him.

      “Mayhap I should ask you what you meant, milord,” she snarled, tossing the crumpled roll into his lap. He looked down at it and picked it up, but made no move to unroll the document. Instead he simply looked up at her, his dark eyes as blank, as emotionless, as his face. “But there’s no need to ask. Your words state your feelings clear enough.”

      He glanced away for a moment, but when his gaze returned to her face, ’twas as expressionless as before. “The past matters not. Will you do as I ask?”

      How could he say that? The past did matter. But now was clearly not the time to discuss it. So be it.

      “I grant your request, Lord FitzClifford. I know not the reason, nor do I wish to know why we must keep our knowledge of you secret, but it shall be as Lord William requires. None here shall admit, or show by their actions, that they have ever seen you before. For the love and respect I bear my godfather, I shall do what you ask.” She picked up his tunic and belt from the bench and held them out to him. “Will you send Sir Henry to me immediately? It might be too late to inform my people, for they may have already revealed your secret.”

      “We’ll simply have to hope all will be well.” Rannulf rose slowly to his feet and bowed. “I thank you for your generosity, milady. No doubt ‘tis more than I deserve.” He took his belongings from her and slipped the tunic over his head, then buckled his belt about his waist. “May I have my sword belt?” he asked, raising his left eyebrow. “Or did you plan to keep me weaponless until I leave I’Eau Clair?”

      Temper seething at his baiting tone, Gillian peered behind the bench and found the sword on the floor.

      He reached past her and picked it up by the scabbard. “I am no danger to you and yours, Gillian,” he said quietly. He straightened and took her hand. It took all her will not to snatch it free, especially when he captured her gaze with his. “I swear to you I am not.” He raised her hand to his lips and, turning it over, pressed a kiss to her palm.

      He bowed, released her and turned to leave before she realized he’d not returned the parchment, but held it still in his left hand. “I’ll have that back, milord,” she said, pointing to the roll.

      “’Tis of no value,” he said quietly. “I thought to be rid of it.”

      She held out her hand. “It has meaning for me, milord. Pray return it.”

      Rannulf set the parchment into her outstretched hand, but he would not meet her challenging gaze.

      Clearly he must recall the words he’d written there.

      Sword clutched in one hand, he made a formal bow. “I thank you for your patience with one who does not deserve it,” he murmured. “Adieu.”

      He slipped from the room and closed the door before she could respond. ’Twas just as well, for his last statement had left her uncertain what she would have said.

      

      Rannulf hurried down to the barracks in the ground floor of the keep, securing his sword belt around his waist as he went. He guessed he’d find Sir Henry there, or someone who’d know where the crusty old soldier might be. Gillian’s request dovetailed nicely with his own plans, as it happened.

      He hadn’t lied when he’d told Talbot he needed to settle his men, either, though he’d scant time to take care of business before the call to supper.

      Several of his men had been to I‘Eau Clair with him years ago. While he’d warned them before they set out on this ill-favored trek that they must pretend ’twas their first visit to the place, it would do no harm to remind them, now that they’d arrived, that they must be especially careful not to slip up in front of Talbot’s men when they encountered their old friends among the castle troops.

      Actually, his men didn’t concern him so much as keeping Gillian’s people quiet did. He’d brought along a select cadre of his vassals on several of the tasks he’d performed for Pembroke, men he trusted. He knew he could count on them to guard their backs—and their tongues—no matter what the situation.

      Fortune favored him for once as he discovered Sir Henry preparing to leave the barracks when he entered them. He met the other man’s respectful nod with one of his own. “A moment of your time, Sir Henry?”

      “Aye, milord,” the soldier said, motioning for Rannulf to precede him into the corridor outside. “How can I be of service?”

      “Lady Gillian wishes to speak with you at once in her solar,” Rannulf told him as they walked away from the barracks door.

      “Does she now, milord?” Rannulf felt his face start to color beneath Sir Henry’s speculative gaze. “And how did you come to be her message boy, eh? You being a stranger here and