The Hidden Heart

Was she doomed to mourn his loss yet again?

Rannulf FitzClifford did not deserve her attention or the time she’d wasted upon the lost cause he represented.

Matters of far greater import weighed heavy on her. How to provide for her people, to protect them, to uncover the miscreants who seemed set upon destroying all her father had established. She raked her hands through the trailing mass of her hair and pressed her fingers against the throbbing ache at her temples.

The sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs to her solar provided a welcome distraction. She rose and opened the door.

Will reached the top of the spiral stair and hurried to her. “Riders approach, milady,” he said, his urgent tone matching his expression.

Gillian drew the door closed behind her and sighed. “Not Steffan again?” she asked, already racking her brain for another way to keep him outside the gates.

“Nay, milady. ‘Tis far worse.” Will motioned for her to precede him down the stairs. “’Tis a war party, Lady Gillian, nigh a hundred strong. They’re armed to the teeth and provisioned for siege, to judge from the size of their baggage train.”

Her heartbeat raced, increasing the sense of urgency flying through her veins. Was this the attack she’d feared since the raids began? She’d known ‘twas but a matter of time before I’Eau Clair itself became the target!

Her boots clattered on the stone risers as she hastened down them, snatching up her hem and running once she reached the great hall. “Muster anyone who can fight in the bailey at once,” she told Will, who followed hot on her heels. “And send the older women and the children to wait in here.” Her maid met them near the door. ”Ella, you’d best prepare to care for the wounded in here as well,” she said.

“Aye, milady,” Ella said, then snatched at Gillian’s arm as she made to pass through the door Will held open. “Here now, where are you going?”

Gillian drew a deep breath. “To the walls.”

“Nay, child, ’tis no place for you.”

Gillian reached down and took Ella’s hand in hers and lifted it, freeing herself. She gave Ella’s fingers a quick squeeze before releasing her. “Where else should I be? I command I‘Eau Clair now. ’Tis my place to lead my people.” She pressed a kiss to Ella’s wrinkled cheek and gathered up her skirts again. “I’ll be fine,” she said before she turned and left the hall.

“Where is my sword?” she asked Will as they hastened through the crowd already gathering in the bailey.

Will stopped in his tracks. “You’ve no need for that,” he said, his voice more stern than she’d ever heard it. “Do you think to lead us in battle? By Christ’s blood, Gil—”

“Bring me a sword, Will. Now.” Not waiting to see if he’d heed her command, she continued on and raced up the gatehouse stairs.

A lad dashed after them, calling for Will, and entered the gatehouse in their wake. “A moment, milady,” Will called as Gillian headed for the wall walk.

He took her sword from the boy and handed it to her, his lips twisted into a rueful smile.

“You know me too well,” she said as she slid free the blade and set aside the scabbard. Fingers clenched tight about the hilt, Gillian drew a deep breath to settle herself and stepped out onto the walk. Still not ready, she moved past the first merlon, catching a glimpse of what awaited them below.

She paused for a moment, scarce able to breathe, then forced herself to turn and look over the wall.

“Holy Mary save us,” she whispered. She leaned into the crenel, her free hand braced on the low stone wall as she gazed, transfixed, at the army spread out across the crest of the hill.

They were doomed.

Rannulf sat atop his stallion before the familiar gray walls of I’Eau Clair Keep and fought back the wave of memories threatening to flood his mind. He could not permit his heart to reign over his head, no matter the provocation.

He would not allow himself close to Gillian again.

A flash of red—Gillian’s hair, no mistaking it—moved swiftly past the crenels of the gatehouse tower, making his heartbeat trip and falter for a moment.

He doubted the battle between heart and mind would ever cease. The moment he’d dreaded since the night he met Talbot had arrived, and he felt no more in command of himself now than he had the last time he’d seen Gillian.

He took a deep breath and reached up to tug his helm lower over his brow—a more comfortable position, true, but also a way to hide his identity from Gillian’s keen eyes for a little while longer.

By the rood, his reaction to her this time was stronger than ever before, and he’d yet to face her.

’Twas all he could do to stay put, and not spur his mount far away from the one woman he’d prayed he would never have to face again.

Nicholas nudged his mount closer to Rannulf’s. “How long do they expect us to sit here before someone comes to answer our summons?” Nicholas asked, low-voiced.

“There’s some movement on the wall,” Rannulf said, just as Gillian came fully into view between two tall crenels.

The sight of her traveled from his eyes to his brain, and then to land like a blow from a mailed fist to his chest.

How could he have forgotten how lovely she was? Her unbound hair framed the pale alabaster glow of her face, the wavy mass hanging past her waist to disappear behind the wall.

“By the Virgin,” Talbot declared, his expression as awestruck as his tone. “Please let that be my ward.” He urged his horse forward and whipped off his helm. “Milady,” he called. He bowed so low, Rannulf noted with disgust, ’twas a wonder he didn’t fall from the saddle.

Gillian straightened and moved nearer the edge of the wall, revealing the sword she held in her left hand—and the full beauty of her form, outlined against the deep blue sky. Rannulf bit back a smile of admiration at the sight of her courage. His heart sank at Talbot’s obvious appreciation, although Talbot had yet to notice the blade of Gillian’s weapon gleaming in the sunlight, he’d wager. He doubted armed women were Talbot’s style.

However, ’twas Rannulf’s misfortune that Gillian, armed or no, was all the woman he could ever desire.

If she’d changed since he’d last seen her, ’twas only to become more beautiful.

And more stubborn? a voice in the back of his mind mocked. Her sweet temper turned bitter by your betrayal?

“Milord.” She responded to Talbot’s greeting with a curt nod—the perfect accompaniment to the sharpness of her voice—and no smile of welcome brightened her face. “Who are you, and why are you here?”

Talbot’s shoulders stiffened. “I am Lord Nicholas Talbot of Ashby, sent by King John to protect Lady Gillian and her lands. Have I the honor of speaking to my ward? Pray open the gates at once, that I might meet you.”

“To any preening fool who rides up to the door? I think not.” She leaned forward. “What proof have you of your claim?”

“The king’s writ, signed and sealed by our liege himself,” Talbot replied, his 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.