“Lady Gillian,” Sir Henry said, his tone sharper than she'd ever heard him speak to her. Unwilling to cede control to Talbot for so much as a moment, she kept her gaze fixed on her guardian. “He's the right of it, child. You know that as well as I.”
“And how am I to go about my duties, then? Drag a troop of guards down the hill to the village every time I've a sick child to attend in the middle of the night? Or never go beyond the castle walls?” She dared a glance over her shoulder at her men, both of whom refused to look at her, and spun on her heel to confront them. “You agree with him, don't you?” It was obvious they did. Swallowing her disgustâand her hurtâshe moved away from the table and turned her back on them all. “I'm surprised you've tolerated my command these past few months, for I'm clearly not fit to lead.”
“You've not done so bad,” Will said quietly. “But you cannot do everything, milady. Your father never expected that of you. Lord Nicholas speaks truly. You cannot continue to take such risks.”
Gillian closed her eyes for a moment, glad they could not see the pain on her face. Aye, her father had had other plans for her, plans that included a busband to share the welcome burden of I'Eau Clair. Why he'd never sought beyond the man sitting silently behind her for her mate, she could not say.
Or perhaps he had, but had left no proof of his quest.
Whatever her father had in mind for her, she could guess he'd not intended to leave her so unprotected.
Wondering about her father's plans solved nothing now, however. She'd be better served to face her guardian and discover what he had in mind.
Drawing in a deep breath, Gillian spun and returned to her place at the table, although she remained on her feet. “Have you a plan to solve this problem, Lord Nicholas?”
Talbot sat down and leaned back in the chair, his expression pensive. “Aye, Lady Gillian, I believe I do.” He toyed with the map, turning it about and staring at it for a moment before raising his gaze to Rannulf. “FitzClifford shall be your guard when you wish to leave the keep, if I'm not available.” Stifling a gasp, Gillian dropped onto her seat lest her shaking legs betray her completely. “You need not fear for your safety when he's about, milady, for he's a prodigious fighter.” For the first time since they'd entered the room, Talbot smiled. “What say you, Lady Gillian? Will that meet with your approval?”
Under Lord Nicholas's questioning gaze, what complaint could she possibly raise? It seemed she had no choice but to accept.
But she didn't have to like it, nor did she have to remain in Rannulf presence for another moment.
Gathering her skirts, Gillian rose and curtsied to her guardian. “Aye, milord, your plan should solve the problem. Pray excuse me,” she added, then headed to the door without waiting for permission to leave.
Once she'd shut the portal behind her, she slumped back and pressed her cheek against the smooth wood.
She'd never leave the keep again till they were gone, she vowed, for how else could she avoid being alone with Rannulf FitzClifford?
Chapter Eight
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T
he next few days presented Gillian with plenty to occupy her within the keep as Talbot's company and the people of IâEau Clair settled into a new routineâand into the command of a new regime. The adjustment proved tumultuous at times, for Gillian had reigned over the castle as chatelaine for several years, and since her father's death had been the sole and final authority at I'Eau Clair.
'Twas a blessing she'd remained so busy, for it left her with little opportunity to ponder the consequences of Lord Nicholas's commandâand thus far, no reason to leave the confines of the castle walls.
But such good fortune could not last forever, she knew. Sooner or later she would have to face Rannulf FitzClifford alone again.
They met every dayâevery meal, at leastâfor 'twas impossible to completely avoid each other. It seemed to Gillian, however, that Rannulf was no more eager to be in her company than she to be in his.
If Talbot but knew it, he could not have devised a more effective way to keep her within the confines of I'Eau Clair.
Under Sir Henry's direction, her guardian and his men rode the boundaries of her property, familiarizing themselves with the area and examining the defenses. This, too, kept her tied to the keep, for Talbot could scarce leave behind one of his best warriors simply to provide her with an escort.
Of the raiders they found no sign. She hoped the addition of Talbot's forces to her own would prove sufficient deterrent to whoever had been attacking them, and permit them the freedom to get on with their work.
After a week's time, Gillian felt as restless and frustrated as if she'd been living under siege. If she couldn't escape the castle walls soon, she'd go mad. But when she asked for Lord Nicholas to accompany her, she was told he was too busy to do so. As much as she wished to avoid Rannulfâto avoid asking him for anythingâshe needed to go to the village to visit the sick. Though she cursed her ill luck, some tiny part of her couldn't help but yearn to be with him again.
Coward that she was, she sent Ella to request Rannulf's company. Determined to prove to herself that he mattered not a whit to her, she wore her oldest tunic, drab but comfortable, and bundled her hair beneath a linen headrail. He'd find no haughty noble lady hereânot in appearance, at any rate.
She awaited him by the gate, her basket of simples slung over her arm. Though she'd been sorely tempted to don her sword, she couldn't decide if he'd interpret that act as an attempt to mock his ability to protect her, or simply as something she'd do as a matter of course. There'd been a time not so long past when she had worn her sword regularlyâand used it, tooâand he knew it.
But she'd rather not have to explain why she wore a man's sword to her so-proper guardian. She doubted Lord Nicholas would understand that deviation from maidenly behavior, and he
did
seem to be a stickler for propriety.
The sound of hooves against the flagstones roused her from her thoughts as Rannulf rode toward her on his chestnut stallion. He reined in beside her, forcing her to crane her neck to look up at him. “Where is your mount?” he asked. He peered back toward the stables and frowned. “I thought Ella said you were ready to leave.”
She bit back a sigh. “The village is so near, I've no reason to ride there. It's not worth the bother to saddle a horse. Besides, when I go by myself, there's usually no one to hold my mare while I'm busy.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Leaning from the saddle, he reached down and hooked his arm about her waist. “My mount is strong enough to carry us both,” he added, then swept her up in front of him in the commodious saddle with surprising ease before she could do more than gasp in protest.
'Twould serve no purpose to oppose him, she thought, the memory of how his muscled arm felt clasped round her middle disturbing in ways she'd rather not explore. Even now, the heat of his body pressed to her side, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest against her back, caused an odd flutter beneath her heart.
Blessed Mary save her, she could not bear to feel these feelings once again....
Especially not with Rannulf FitzClifford as their cause.
But he'd not let her dismount, of that much she was certain. Best to present a calm front, go along with him and bring this torture to an end all the sooner.
Resolved to endure, she shifted to sit more comfortably across the saddle bow. She had an excellent view of his handsome visage, of the frecklesâfaded now that he was a man grownâscattered over his lightly tanned face. She turned her attention to arranging her basket in her lap, lest she be tempted to gaze once more into the dark eyes she knew had focused on
her
face.
He nudged the stallion into motion. They passed through the portcullis and over the drawbridge in a silence broken only by Rannulf's greeting to the guard stationed at the top of the road leading down to the village. Once they'd passed the man, Rannulf spoke to her. “I suggest that the next time you ask me to accompany you, you bring your own mount.” He shifted in the saddle, managing to enfold her closer in his arms in the process. “Unless, of course, you'd prefer to ride with me again,” he added, something in the low timbre of his voice sending a ripple of awareness vibrating through her.
It compelled her to turn her head to meet his gaze, a mistake, she realized at once, for his deep brown eyes held a warmth nigh impossible to resist. Her senses seemed suddenly magnifiedâthe feel of the sun's heat beating down on her clothing, the smell of the greening earth in the fields around them, the faint, exotic scent of sandalwood and leather enveloping the man who held her pressed against him.
Her heart beat faster in response and her mouth grew dry; she wet her lips with her tongue, even that innocent motion suddenly invested with a new, sensual awareness.
Rannulf drew in a deep breath and willed his hands to remain light and easy on the reins instead of grabbing Gillian and lifting her to meet his yearning body, his aching mouth. The feel of her weight against him, the sight of her so near him, was almost more than he could bear. Dear God in heaven, he thought, closing his eyes on the sight of temptation personified, how could he have been so misguided as to believe he could sit here with Gillian practically riding in his lap and remain unaffected?
He nudged March to a faster pace, eager to reach the village before he came to the end of his endurance. At the edge of the wide main street he brought the stallion to a halt, nearly leaping from the saddle. He reached up and grasped Gillian about the waist and lowered her to the ground with more speed than grace.
Her basket tumbled from her hold and fell into the muddy road, scattering dried herbs and small parchment packets across the puddled surface. “No!” she cried, dropping to her knees in the muck and gathering up what she could.
Feeling lower than a snake, he stooped to help her. Despite his ignorance about healing, he could tell that what had spilled from the basket had been ruined through his impatience. Once he'd retrieved the last small bundle, he straightened, holding out the befouled items he'd collected. “I'm sorry, Gillian,” he murmured. “I should have been more careful.”
“Wait.” She pulled a piece of linen from the basket and held it spread open so he could place everything in it. After wiping the worst of the mud from her hands on the edge of the material, she tied the corners together and looped the parcel over her wrist.
Her gaze lowered, her face pale and solemn, she took up the basket in one hand, clutched the linen packet firmly in the other and started to walk away. Rannulf caught hold of her arm, his touch gentle but insistent. “Gillian, wait.”
Since he gave her no choice but to stop, she halted, but continued to look ahead, not at him. “Will you still have enough medicines to care for the sick?” he asked, unable to mask his concern.
“I don't know,” she said, her voice flat. “I'll need to look everything over, see what's been spoiled.” She met his gaze now, her green eyes glowing with some strong emotionâanger, most like, righteous anger. How could he guess what harm he might have done? “Some of the simples I carry are not easily come by, or must be compounded and left to blend before they can be used. I may not be able to replace them any time soon.”
Rannulf felt his face heat. Someone might be harmed by his carelessness... nothing new about that, unfortunately. “Then I pray you'll have no need for any of those medicines.” He released her arm and stepped back to let her go on. “I'll do whatever I can to help you restore what you've lost. Give you coin to buy what you need, help you gather plants and such or assist you in the stillroom....” He met her gaze and held it with his own, sb she'd not doubt him in this. “Simply tell me what you want of me, and you shall have it.”
Gillian watched his face, his eyes, to judge if he meant what he said. His regret, and his offer, seemed sincere, and she'd hold him to his word.
Beginning now.
“Indeed, milord? Then I accept your apology, and thank you in advance for your help.” She started toward Rowena's hut, glancing over her shoulder when she heard no sounds of movement behind her.
He stood in the road, his stallion's reins held loosely in his hands, his expression pensive. “What are you waiting for, milord? Come along. We've much to do, and scant time to waste by standing in the street talking about it.” Not lingering to see if he obeyed, she resumed walking. The creak of saddle leather and the quiet rattle of Rannulf's scabbard soon followed her. “If we finish here quickly enough, we might have time to stop by the pool before returning to the keep. Many healing herbs grow near the water.”
She could only pray the blessed Virgin would protect her, and keep her from wishing to indulge any of her foolish desires while they were there.
As soon as they reached Rowena's, Gillian took a moment to spread out her simples and assess her losses. She'd been fortunate, for most of what had ended up in the muddy street had been powders compounded from local plants, and herbs she grew in the castle gardens. Replenishing them would take some time and effort on her partâand Rannulf's, she thought with a smileâbut they could be replaced.
Before they were through, he might be sorry he'd offered to help.
She frowned. So, perhaps, might she.
She left him standing guard outside Rowena's hut while she examined the village woman, then had him do the same at the next three places she visited to treat the sick. At her last stop, she enlisted his aid in setting the dislocated shoulder of a young lad of five who'd taken a tumble from a tree.
He soon held the boy enthralled with tales about the wild exploits of a strange Irish creature called a leprechaun. While she couldn't prevent the boy feeling some pain when she reset the joint, Rannulf's stories distracted the lad from the worst of it; she was glad he was there to help.
The sun had not yet reached its zenith when they left the boy's home, his mother's grateful thanks sending them on their way in a far better state than they'd arrived in the village earlier that mom. Casting a glance at the sky, Gillian smiled. “Goodâwe've time enough to go looking for plants before dinner.”
Rannulf, adjusting the girth on his saddle, paused. “You know that Talbot doesn't wish you to be gone from the keep for long.”
“The plants grow nearby. 'Twill take no time at all to gather them.”
He finished tightening the strap and stepped toward her, hand outstretched to take her basket. “Despite the fact that it's been quiet here of late, you still shouldn't be wandering through the woods,” he cautioned.
“Lord Nicholas simply said that I should take my guard with me whenever I leave the keep. Sir Henry is keeping him busy plotting ways to improve our defensesâthey'll have no need of my help.” She set aside the basket and adjusted her skirts so Rannulf could boost her into the saddle. “You're here.” Pointing to the sword and wickedly long dagger on the belt strapped around his waist, she added, “And well armed, I see.” She waited until he met her gaze. “Do you doubt you can protect me?”
“You know I can,” he muttered. Shaking his head, he clasped his hands about her waist and lifted her into the saddle, then passed her simples to her before swinging up behind her. “Come along, March,” he said, nudging the stallion with his boot heels.
“What did you call him?”
“March.”
Gillian ignored the shiver his voice in her ear sent skittering down her spine and, seeking a distraction, sought to satisfy her curiosity. “'Tis a strange name for a horse.”
He leaned over her right shoulder to peer at her face. Unfortunately, the action also brought his lips even nearer to her ear. “Not so strange, if you realize I gave him a Welsh name.”
Eyes fixed on the track in front of them, she laughed. “You're not serious?” His nod of agreement tapped his chin on her shoulder. “You named him Stallion.”