The Hidden Heart

By Christ’s bones, he sought plots where there were none! He closed his eyes for a moment, then blinked them open again to dispel the image of Gillian that rose to fill his mind. The mere thought of her held the power to addle his wits. Time and hard-won maturity had not changed that fact, it seemed.

He glanced at Talbot, still enthralled by the fire. His displeasure at his fate would be short-lived, Rannulf had no doubt, for once Nicholas Talbot arrived at the mighty stronghold of I’Eau Clair and caught sight of his beautiful ward, the man would count himself twice blessed.

And Rannulf would be cursed to a purgatory worse than Satan himself could devise.

’Twas his lot in life—why expect change now? He’d a job to do. He stood, poured himself a generous measure of wine, then topped off Talbot’s goblet and held it out to him.

“Come, milord, drink to your good fortune.”

Talbot looked up, his strange violet eyes still troubled, and accepted the wine. “Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “You’re not the one who might be saddled with a child, or an old woman past her prime.”

Aye, but I’d gladly be burdened with the lady of I‘Eau Clair. ’Twas all Rannulf could manage to hold back the words. “It cannot be any worse than you’ve surmised,” he said instead.

Talbot rose. “I pray you’re right, FitzClifford.” He raised his goblet. “To Lady Gillian,” he said. “May she be a beauty beyond compare, a paragon among women....” He drank.

Rannulf brought his wine to his lips and sipped the heady brew, then nearly choked at Talbot’s next words.

“...a meek, sweet, silent dove with not a thought of her own.” Grinning now, Talbot quaffed the rest of his wine and slammed the goblet down on the table.

Rannulf set his own wine aside. Unless Gillian had changed—drastically—in the past few years, his overlord could not have been more wrong about the woman who would be his ward.

He’d not have a moment’s peace between here and the Marches, he could see that clear enough. And once they arrived at I’Eau Clair... Rannulf shook his head. It appeared his time in purgatory had already begun.

Chapter Two

The distant thunder of hoofbeats beyond the castle walls captured Gillian’s attention as she crossed the bailey to the keep. “Riders approaching!” cried a guard. “Close the gates!”

Several women shrieked and hurried toward the stairs to the hall, while the men in the bailey clustered near the gatehouse. A man-at-arms stepped into the narrow doorway beside the gate to urge several villagers up the path to the castle, then slammed the door closed behind them as the portcullis began its ponderous descent.

Heart racing, Gillian gathered up her skirts and headed back toward the curtain wall.

She cast a swift glance at the heavy wooden gate—already barred against intruders, she noted gratefully—before mounting the steep stairs to the guardhouse atop the wall.

“What do you see, Will?” she asked the guard when she reached the top.

“‘Tis a party of riders, milady,” he replied. “They’ve got no engines of war, but I can see the sun shinin’ off their armor.” He stepped back from the arrow slit so she could join him. “They rode straight by the village.”

“Praise God.” She breathed a sigh of relief at that blessing. Though many of the villagers had moved within the castle wall since the attacks on the outlying farms of her demesne, still the fields needed to be tilled and the cattle and sheep pastured outside. Unless faced with a direct attack, life beyond the walls of I’Eau Clair must go on, lest they all starve come winter.

Gillian turned to slip farther into the slit, accepting Will’s help to kneel within the deep embrasure. Bracmg herself with one hand, she raised the other to shade her eyes against the bright spring sun. “Holy Mary save us,” she whispered when the breeze snapped open the pennon atop the lead rider’s lance.

She could not mistake the raven blazoned stark and bold upon the shimmering silver cloth.

The device of her Welsh kinsman, Steffan ap Rhys.

What could he want with her? She feared she knew the answer to that only too well. A shudder swept over her as she recalled the last time they’d met, the feel of his heated gaze, foul and possessive, creeping over her from head to toe. Nay, she’d not permit him to worm his way within these walls by accepting so much as a crust of bread from him.

“Milady?”

She slumped back against the cold stones and closed her eyes for a moment. “Keep the gates barred, Will, and man the walls.” Why him—and why now? Hadn’t she enough troubles to deal with?

“Shall we heat stones and oil, milady?”

She opened her eyes at the eagerness in Will’s voice. “I doubt that will be necessary.” Straightening, she slid from the slit unassisted, shook out her skirts and adjusted her veil. “Much as I’d enjoy seeing my cousin’s reaction to such a greeting, ‘tis no way to welcome him to I’Eau Clair.” She brushed past Will and headed for the door leading to the battlements. “Of course, he doesn’t deserve much better than that as a welcome, either, the arrogant knave,” she muttered to herself. She stepped through the portal, then turned to the guard at the door. “Send for Sir Henry to join us, if he’s within.”

“Aye, milady.” He bowed and left.

“Will, come with me. Steffan’s so thickheaded, it just may take a show of force to convince him to leave.”

Will chuckled. “I remember Lord Steffan well,” he said. They left the gatehouse, and Gillian led the way to a spot where they’d have the best view of the track to I’Eau Clair. “Do you recall the time, milady, not so many years past, when we crept into his chamber and hid all his fancy clothes while he was in the bath?”

Heat flooded Gillian’s face. “I do, though it does neither of us credit.” She stared out over the treetops. “Lady Alys was sorely disappointed. She thought she’d made a lady of me.”

Will snorted.

Gillian jabbed at his ribs with her elbow—a reaction left over from their childhood—then groaned as she connected with his mail hauberk.

He somehow contrived to look wounded. “You might have had the look of a lady by then, but inside you were still Gilles, the brave lad who used to join in all our schemes.”

“Steffan thought I was a lady even then, unfortunately.” She couldn’t keep a trace of bitterness from her voice, but she thought she at least hid her fear.

Will had the right of it, though she’d never admit it. Her transformation from “lad” to lady had taken far longer than she’d ever imagined it would. And there were times—few and far between, ’twas true—when she wished it had never happened. “The miles of thread I spun and wove as punishment for that jest cured me of the last of my old ways,” she said. “Gilles disappeared many years ago, by my choice.”

Steffan and his men rode out from the trees between the village and the castle and trotted up the last rise at a decorous pace, casting her thoughts of the past to the back of her mind where they belonged.

She’d trouble enough to face in the here and now. Gillian squared her shoulders and moved into the opening of an embrasure where she’d be visible from the area across the moat.

Steffan and his party—eight men-at-arms and a standard-bearer—halted on the bank of the moat. He slipped off his helm and placed it on the high pommel of his saddle.

Still atop his mount, he bowed with all the finesse of a French courtier, his handsome face alight with pleasure from the look of it. Straightening, he scanned her face with a piercing look. “My dearest cousin.”

“Milord,” she called down to him, her voice cold as death. ’Twould take more than that display to impress her! “What brings you here, so far from home?”

“Once I heard your sad news, I had to come at once to offer my condolences—and my support. You and I have much to discuss. May we enter I’Eau Clair and take our ease?” he asked, including his men with a sweep of his hand.

Take his ease? He’d want more than that, of that she had no doubt. “I thank you for your sympathy, milord. ’Tis much appreciated. But I fear we cannot permit you—or anyone,” she added lest he question her choices, “to come within.”

Steffan drew in a deep breath and his face went still and cold—a remarkable transformation, but one that did not surprise Gillian in the least. He concealed his true self behind the veil of elaborate manners and fine clothes, but she’d been in Steffan’s presence often enough over the years to know him for a sly weakling. He was all talk and little action.

She’d no desire to waste her time listening to the likes of Steffan ap Rhys jabber on about nothing.

Especially not now.

Before she could draw breath to speak, Steffan’s expression had regained its usual urbanity. He tossed his helm to the man beside him and slipped from the saddle, bowing once more.

Did he truly believe his airs would change her mind?

“Cousin, I must speak with you.” Another motion of his hand and a sharp nod sent his men riding a short distance down the trail toward the village. He headed toward the door beside the gate with a confident stride.