The Hidden Heart. Sharon Schulze

tone as cold as hers.

      He turned to Rannulf and motioned him forward.

      Rannulf rode up to join him, careful to center his attention on the man beside him, not the siren poised above him. Would she be able to feel his presence, as he was all too aware of hers?

      “Milord?” he asked, pitching his voice low.

      Talbot reached into a leather pouch on his saddle and drew forth a rolled parchment. He held it out toward Rannulf. “Will you permit my vassal to carry the writ within?”

      Gillian stared down at Lord Nicholas Talbot. He appeared far too self-assured and handsome—and arrogantly aware of the fact, ’twas easy to see—for her to trust him any more than she’d trusted Steffan that very morn.

      She eyed the vassal, who had yet to take the scroll from Talbot. Did the fellow await her permission? Somehow she couldn’t imagine that was the case, but who knew what his hesitation might mean? She could not judge him by his expression, with his face hidden by his helm, but that he was a warrior she could readily see by his strong build and well-worn armor.

      She tugged Will aside. “What think you?” she whispered.

      He shook his head.

      “Aye, why allow a fox amongst the chickens?” A few more whispered words sent Will on his way.

      She stepped back toward the crenel. “Your vassal may remain where he belongs, milord—by your side,” she called to Talbot. “Have one of your lackeys bring the writ to my man who awaits him below.” She pointed to the door in the wall beneath her. “He will bring it to me.”

      Talbot frowned, then called to a man in servant’s livery from among the mounted men ranged behind him. “As you command, milady,” he replied with ill grace. He handed off the scroll to the manservant who approached him on foot and settled back in the saddle to stare up at her.

      Gillian fought the urge to glare back as she waited while Talbot’s man gave the parchment to Will and Will hurried to her side, Sir Henry following hard on his heels.

      “I was watchin’ from the other tower, but I figured you’d want me over here,” Sir Henry said.

      “Aye. I’d appreciate your counsel.” She set aside her sword and reached for the message Will held out to her.

      She stood behind the bulk of a merlon to read the scroll, out of sight of Talbot and his men, for she’d no desire to provide a show for their enjoyment, depending upon her reaction to what the parchment revealed.

      Her hands remained steady as she unrolled the writ, examined the seal—King John’s, that much at least was true—and began to scan the words scrawled boldly across the page.

      She finished reading, then closed her eyes for a moment before handing the king’s writ to Sir Henry. “He has the right of it,” she murmured. “We’re to welcome Lord Nicholas Talbot, such vassals as he’s brought along and all their men, to ‘aid in the defense and protection of the keep of I’Eau Clair, and specifically the person of its heir and lady—’” She drew in a deep breath. “Me.”

      Scowling, Sir Henry looked up from perusing the document. “We’ve no choice but to let them in.” He gave back the parchment. “Though I must admit, all those men’ll come in handy, should we be attacked again.”

      Will glanced over the wall. “That they will. Most of them look as though they know how to fight.” He nodded. “And I’d rather fight with ‘em than against ’em.”

      Both of them were right. And wasn’t this what she’d hoped for? Help for her people, protection for I’Eau Clair—it seemed her prayers had been answered after all.

      How could she regret giving up command of the keep, when it would benefit them all?

      “Tell them to lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis,” she ordered. Once Will left to relay her command, she took up her sword once more. The scroll clasped tight in her right hand, her sword in her left, Gillian left the merlon’s protection and composed herself to be hospitable. “My lord Talbot.” She curtsied. “You and your men may enter l’Eau Clair and be welcome.”

      

      Gillian used the brief time it took for Talbot and his party to enter I’Eau Clair to twist her unruly hair back into a rough braid and cover it with a piece of veiling. Emma had just settled a copper circlet upon the finely woven linen when the pounding of booted feet on the stairs heralded Talbot’s arrival.

      She dismissed her maid and, heart racing, settled back into the commodious seat of her father’s great chair and reached out to clasp the carved armrests in her hands. The appearance, at least, of command. The chair held pride of place on the dais at the far end of the great hall from the stairs, providing her with a clear view of the entire chamber. It also placed her on display.

      Talbot led the way, the sunlight streaming through the tall windows gleaming off his blond hair and the silver embroidery adorning his surcoat. Some might count him handsome, but to her he appeared too polished, too finely turned out for a true warrior.

      Gillian lowered her gaze lest he find her staring, and remained seated when he stepped up onto the dais and swept a low bow before her. “Lady Gillian.” He reached for her right hand and raised it to his lips, allowing her a glimpse of his unusual violet eyes before she glanced past him at his men. “Rumors of your beauty did you scant justice, I fear.”

      “Milord,” she murmured. She bit back a snort of disgust at his empty flattery and sought to look more closely at his retinue where they stood grouped before her on the main floor of the hall, for something seemed familiar....

      “Permit me to introduce my men,” Talbot said as he moved aside, allowing her a clear view of them. “Chief among my vassals is—”

      Gillian rose to her feet when the man stepped up onto the dais and swept her a bow so low, it seemed almost a mockery. It took all her control not to lash out with her hand to strike his beloved, lying face.

      Only the faint negative shake of his head kept her from saying the name before Talbot did, that and the fact that her shock at the sight of him was so great, she doubted she could force a sound past her lips.

      Talbot’s words sounded in her muddled brain, echoed loud over the confusion reigning there.

      Rannulf FitzClifford.

      Chapter Four

      

      

      She’d never thought to see him again.

      Now that he was here, what should she do?

      Force of will alone lent Gillian the strength to remain on her feet, to jolt her heartbeat back to its familiar rhythm, to steady her hand and allow her to rest her fingers upon Rannulf’s battle-hardened palm. “I am honored, milady,” he murmured. The low, rough timbre of his voice, combined with the heated glance he sent her way, sent a traitorous ache throughout her body even before he brushed his lips over the back of her hand.

      His gaze returned to her face, his eyes widening for some reason before they fixed upon her. The questions she saw within the deep brown warmth of his eyes startled her from her reverie.

      How dare he stare at her thus? She looked away and focused on a point just past the breadth of his shoulders.

      “Milord,” she said, giving a terse nod.

      The urge to snatch her hand free was nigh impossible to fight, but she eased her fingers from Rannulf’s grasp and tried to ignore his presence as Talbot presented the lesser of his vassals. Calling upon Lady Alys’s training, Gillian remained polite but cool, her welcome no more than courtesy demanded.

      Once Talbot had finished, she motioned Sir Henry and Will forward. She made them known to the others, wondering all the while if they’d reveal, through word or deed, that Rannulf FitzClifford was no stranger