The Hidden Heart (14 page)

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Authors: Sharon Schulze

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: The Hidden Heart
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What did he mean by that look?
When neither of them made a move to do as he'd suggested, it seemed to Rannulf that his curious gaze intensified. “Come. FitzClifford, surely you've manners enough to help a lady.”
Rannulf looked at Talbot again—really looked at him, past the fine clothes and polished air—and realized that the expression in his overlord's eyes, the man peering out at him, didn't match that elegant shell at all.
Talbot's arm dropped to his side just as Gillian reached for it, and he shook his head. “Nay, Lady Gillian, I'll only get you as dirty as I am. Go with FitzClifford.”
Gillian's face matched Catrin's for stubbornness. “I need no help getting across my own bailey, milord, though I thank you for the offer. I'm used to fending for myself.” She dropped a swift curtsy, turned on her heel and left before either man could do aught but stare after her.
In two long strides Rannulf caught up to her, grasped her about the middle and tossed her over his shoulder. “Is this necessary?” she asked, sounding short of breath. He shifted her into his arms in a tangle of loosened hair and trailing fabric. She tore off her veil and shoved her hair from her face, revealing her eyes glowing hot with anger. “Or is this simply some crude male ritual to show me who really holds power over me?”
He ran lightly up the stairs to the keep and swept through the doorway—out of Talbot's view—before setting her on her feet in the hall with a flourishing bow. Her guardian wasn't the only man here with manners. “It's been a pleasure, milady.”
“I fear I cannot say the same,” she muttered. Before his curious gaze she seemed to grow weary, her shoulders hunched, the glow in her eyes replaced with a tired resignation.
Conscious of the occasional servant passing through the hall, he moved a step closer to Gillian. “What is it?” he asked, teasing bravado replaced with sincere concern for her. “What's wrong?”
She shook her head and looked past him, but her eyes appeared unfocused, unseeing. “Go on, you've done as your master ordered.” She waved him away. “'Tis nothing,” she said when he wouldn't leave. “I'm just tired, nothing more.”
The circles beneath her eyes attested to the truth of her words, but the shadows lurking within her eyes revealed a weariness of the spirit as well as the body. Never had he seen Gillian appear so disheartened.
“Come to the pool with me,” he offered impulsively. “'Tis quiet there, and no one can bother you. I'll leave you alone, if you wish. I could guard you while you rest.”
A glimmer of eagerness shone on her face, but she shook her head. “I've too much to do.”
“You've always too much to do—'tis part of the problem.” He reached for her hand, then released it when boots thumped against the stairs outside.
“Besides, what would Lord Nicholas think if he discovered we rode out there again? I know he learned nothing of the raiders the other day, and it's been quiet of late. But still, if we leave he's bound to be suspicious, and you don't want—” She broke off as raised voices sounded on the other side of the door. Before they could move away, the footsteps faded as the speakers went back down the stairs.
Despite her protests, he could see she was tempted to agree. Coming to a decision, he took a deep breath, clasped her hand firmly in his and drew her across the hall and into the shadow-filled area at the far end beyond the dais. He paused only to snatch an unlit candle from a stand near the table and tuck it into his belt.
“Rannulf!” she whispered frantically. “What are you doing? That must have been Talbot on the stairs. He'll be back at any moment—what if he sees us?”
“Don't worry.” Glancing around to make certain they were alone, he led her into a seldom-used narrow corridor, lifted the edge of a long, faded wall hanging and stepped behind it, pulling her in after him. The musty fabric settled back into place behind them, enclosing them in a dark cocoon.
“If this is some trick to get me alone, I'll—”
He covered her mouth with his hand. “Hush,” he whispered. “Give me a moment, and you'll understand the reason I brought you here.” Leaning closer to her ear, he added, “Not that I don't enjoy being alone with you.”
She growled against his fingers. Chuckling quietly, he reluctantly let his hand slip away.
Rannulf held his free hand out in front of them until his questing fingers encountered the smooth wooden edge of a window seat.
“What is this?” Gillian asked as she reached past him and ran her hand along the outline of the embrasure.
“There used to be a window here, but 'twas walled up before the castle was completed.” He felt beneath the carved end of the seat until his fingers encountered the mechanism hidden there. A firm push against the lever unlatched the bench; Rannulf lifted it up and eased it back to rest against the wall behind it. “I believe your father feared if this embrasure was open and in use, its secrets would be too easily discovered.”
Letting go of her hand, he removed flint and steel from the pouch on his belt and fumbled to kindle the wick. Once it caught fire, he held up the light and gestured toward the dark opening in the embrasure. He climbed over the edge into the chestlike frame of the seat and stood on the top step of the stairs inside. “Shall we go, milady?” he asked as he held out his hand to assist Gillian.
She paused in the act of placing her hand in his, her palm poised just above his, then snatched it away. “Should I trust you?”
He drew in a deep breath. “In this, you may.”
The flickering light cast long shadows in the close space, highlighting her uncertain expression. “This leads outside, I take it?”
“Aye. 'Tis a passageway to the pool.”
“I never knew this was here. How did you learn of it?”
He glanced away for a moment, then met her questioning gaze. “From your father. The last tune I came to I'Eau Clair, he shared its secrets with me.”
Chapter Fourteen
 
 
R
annulf's words sent a wave of betrayal through Gillian, thrusting into her heart like a knife.
How could her father have told Rannulf, but not his own daughter? He could have told her any time in the past few years, or barring that, before he died. His death had not been sudden; he could have let her know....
If he'd wanted to.
The fact that he'd revealed the existence of this passageway to Rannulf—and who knew what else? a sad voice in her mind asked—exposed her father's plans to her as clearly as if he'd blazoned them on the curtain wall for all to see. He'd believed Rannulf FitzClifford would wed her, be the son he'd never had, protect and defend what he'd labored so long to establish—the powerful Marcher keep of I'Eau Clair.
What else had her father concealed from her?
What else did Rannulf know about her home, her family, that she did not?
An insidious little voice in her mind taunted her. What if the words Rannulf had penned on the betrothal contract were true?
Her heartbeat skipped at the implications of that thought, at the complications that might tear her plans for a future, for children of her own, into shreds, though she knew in her heart that what Rannulf had claimed was naught but a foul lie.
“We cannot stay here all day,” Rannulf whispered. He reached out and took her hand, leaving her little choice but to go with him. “Come on.”
Despite the pain weighing her down, she couldn't suppress an overwhelming curiosity about the passageway. As a child she and her playmates—her father's pages, mostly—had explored I'Eau Clair from towers to cellar vaults, yet never had they discovered anything like this.
She gathered up her skirts in one hand, tightened her grasp on Rannulf's warm, callused palm and climbed over the front of the seat onto steep wooden stairs.
“Let me go down first,” he said once she'd balanced herself on the first tread. “It's little more than a ladder, and there's nothing to hold on to.”
Leaning her back against the inside of the “chest,” Gillian watched as he swiftly descended the ladder, the candle flame steady, his steps sure.
How she missed her boyish garb, especially in situations such as this! Her women's clothing, with its long, trailing sleeves and skirts, seemed designed to trip her up or pin her down. Although wearing proper attire made her more aware that she was a woman, at times she longed for the freedom of movement she'd once had.
In Rannulf's presence, she'd be glad of anything that helped her
forget
she was a woman, for he reminded her of that fact far too often—and too easily.
He moved a few paces down the narrow corridor, his light revealing a short, fat candle stub on a pricket in the wall. A swipe of his hand cleared away its shroud of cobwebs before he lit the wick. A shudder slithered down her back as she considered what might dwell there.
She hoped the passage wasn't very long, although she knew it had to be, to come out near the pool. No matter—she'd simply walk as fast as possible. Rannulf could lead or follow, she didn't care which, as long as they made the journey quickly.
He dripped hot wax onto a tiny ledge near the stairs and stuck his candle in it. “Here, let me help you.” He reached up, clasped her about the waist and eased her down to the floor.
His strength still amazed her, though he would have to be strong, to fight while garbed from head to toe in mail, to wield a sword for hours on end. Though she'd a modest skill at swordplay, she hadn't the endurance to fight for long.
More amazing still was the thrill that raced through her when he lifted her so easily or showed his strength in other ways. He had the ability to snap her in two, yet he could also be gentle, tender, kind.
In spite of the walls that stood between them, she knew he would never physically harm her.
She realized she stood staring into his eyes, her hands still grasping his shoulders. Lowering her hands, she broke the spell that held them both.
“Ready?” he asked.
At her nod, he took her hand once again and placed it in the crook of his elbow, picked up his candle and led her through the passageway.
She scarce noticed their surroundings. Rannulf must have realized how uncomfortable she felt in the narrow darkness, for he distracted her with a humorous tale of leprechauns and fairies. He kept his sword at the ready, brandishing it before them to remove any cobwebs in their path.
The candle flickered in a draft, and the muffled sound of running water caught her attention just as he tried to convince her that the passageway was inhabited by the elfin creatures.
“I don't believe a word of it,” she told him, laughing still at the antics he'd described.
“Hush, you'll scare them away.” He leaned close to whisper, “They're really very shy, you know.”
The noise grew louder and muted light glowed up ahead. The pathway rose steeply, to emerge into a shallow cave edged with tumbled boulders. Rannulf extinguished the candle and set it near the end of the passageway.
Gillian moved past him to the mouth of the cave, gasping at the beauty surrounding them. Sunlight streamed through the falling water, bathing them in soft light and a fine mist. Swaths of green showed through—the plants growing down the rock-strewn hillside, no doubt—and the air bore the scent of rich soil and sweet flowers.
It smelled of life.
She spun to face Rannulf. “How lovely! But can we get out of here without getting wet?”
“You mean you don't want to end up in the pool like we did the last time we were here?” He grinned, his dark eyes warm, inviting her to join in his amusement.
“'Twould make our skulking through the tunnel all for naught, for I'm sure we'd have to explain ourselves this time.” Pushing up her sleeve, she stuck her hand into the shimmering stream of water and scooped some toward her mouth.
Cool and sweet, it tasted heavenly. She cupped her hand for more, less careful this time, and it trickled over her chin and dripped onto the bodice of her bliaut. A shiver raced over her but, ignoring the cold wet spots it made on the light brown linen, she filled her palm with more and held it out to Rannulf. “Have some—it's wonderful.”
He cradled her hand in his and raised it to his mouth. His gaze held hers captive as he drank, magnifying the sensation of his warm lips against her cool skin. Dragging his tongue over the well of her palm, he finished the water. “Delicious,” he murmured, then trailed his tongue to her wrist to place a lingering kiss there.
She could not breathe or think, nor could she snatch her hand away as she knew she should. It seemed her heart ceased beating in her chest as they remained frozen in place, in time.
His eyes made such promises as they stood there—of pleasure, certainly, but so much more. How could she mistake the emotion shining from his eyes for anything but love?
Tears spilled down her cheeks, jarring her heart into beating again. “Why?” she asked, the word filled with both hope and pain.
Given his cryptic behavior since he'd returned to I'Eau Clair, she didn't expect an answer. Her heart nearly stopped again when he opened his mouth to speak.
“Because—” He folded her hand between both of his and pressed it against his chest. His pulse thundered beneath her fingers, and she'd have sworn his entire body shook.“—I am not worthy of your love, your respect. You deserve a better man than me in your life.” Raising her hand to his lips, he pressed a gentle kiss into her palm and closed her fingers over it. “If I stay out of your life, perhaps you might find that man.”
What could she say to change his mind? she wondered.
All she knew was that he was wrong—about so many things.
Before she could find the words to tell him so, he stepped back, directly into the stream of water.
He gasped, but let the water pour over his head for a moment. “Little in our lives ever goes as planned, does it?” He moved out of the waterfall and shook his head, sending droplets flying. “Come on.” He took her by the hand and led her to a narrow opening among the boulders strewn in the mouth of the cave. Gillian had no difficulty fitting through the crevice, but Rannulf had to do some wriggling—and to remove his sword from its belt—to make it out of the cavern. “I must have been thinner when your father showed me the way,” he said once they emerged into the sunlight. He hooked the scabbard back onto the belt and buckled it around his waist. “You should have seen him squirm out of there.” Taking her hand in his, he scanned the rock-strewn hillside.
That must have been quite a sight, for her father had been a tall, burly man, much heavier about the middle than Rannulf.
Rannulf stopped outside the cave and scanned the area. “I know there's been no trouble nearby, but I still should look around, make certain no one is lurking about, before you go down there.”
Although she appeared impatient to go down to the pool, Gillian nodded.
“Wait inside the cave until I return,” he told her. “If anything happens, don't come out to help me. Go back to I'Eau Clair through the passage at once. You can send reinforcements from there.”
She did as he bid her and reentered the cavern, though he couldn't be sure she'd obey his dictate should he come under attack. He'd have to trust that she'd remember her early training and do the most logical thing—what he'd ordered her to do.
He scouted the area surrounding the pool quickly. He found nothing unusual or suspicious as he passed through the trees; more at ease, he climbed the slope to rejoin Gillian. He'd brought her here to escape the tensions back at the keep, not to lead her into further difficulty.
“'Tis safe,” he told her. She crawled back out between the boulders, pausing to straighten her clothing and tuck the hem of her gown into her woven belt.
Rannulf paused to look back over his shoulder at Gillian as she followed him. Her face alight with wonder, she gazed down at the pool below, a faint smile brightening her face. She'd smiled so seldom since he'd returned to I'Eau Clair—his fault, at least in part. He hoped he could help her find some happiness, if only by bringing her here.
At least ‘twas more peaceful than I'Eau Clair had been the past few days.
They both remained silent, giving Rannulf the opportunity to take himself to task. The cool water atop his head could not have come at a more opportune moment, just as he'd been about to commit the ultimate folly of unburdening himself to Gillian. His heart constantly made a fool of him; all he had to do was gaze into the crystal purity of Gillian's eyes and all sense of self-preservation flew straight out of his head.
Exposing himself—his true self—to her could serve no purpose, save make her loathe him more, perhaps. Since she already knew the foul untruths he'd penned on the betrothal agreement, she knew him to be without conscience, without any scruples at all.
How else could he have taken the gift of her virginity—in this very place, he reminded himself—and then refused her the protection of his name?
Not that there was much pride or honor left to the FitzClifford name, at least not in the eyes of anyone who knew his family well.
A man who tormented and beat his wife and sons, who was cruel just for sport, and a son who'd killed his father and torn his family apart.
There
was a legacy worth sharing with his bride, he thought, disgusted by the notion.
Yet he'd had the gall to question her bloodlines, to insult her mother, a woman long dead. Even if what he'd said was true, he was in no position to cast aspersions on anyone else's family.
But Lord Simon's offer of Gillian's hand had come hard on the heels of his father's death, catching him in the darkest depth of his guilt and pain. He'd lashed out at Lord Simon's offer of happiness. Once he'd refused, how could he later take back his words, accept an offer that was never tendered again?
The silence stretched like a cord between them as they worked their way to the bottom of the hill, the tension growing until he could not bear it a moment longer. He released Gillian's hand immediately, turned his back on her and walked around to the opposite side of the pool. Perching on a rock near the water's edge, he picked up a shiny stone and held it clenched tight in his fist as he stared down into the greenish depths of the water.
“Rannulf?”
He looked up from his contemplation of nothing and peered over his shoulder. She stood right beside him, though he hadn't heard her approach. She sat next to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. “There's much you need to say, I think. Whether it will help you to tell me, I don't know, but I'm willing to listen if you wish.”
He could not meet her sympathetic gaze. By the rood, he'd rather she hated him than pitied him! He turned away and tossed the rock he held into the bushes far across the pond.

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