Sharon Schulze - The Hidden Heart

“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.

“Hold, milord,” Gillian called.

Steffan stopped and stared up at her, the expression on his handsome face still pleasant, but his dark eyes glowing with some other, fiercer emotion.

At the sound of firm footsteps on the stairs, she glanced over her shoulder. Sir Henry, the captain of the guard, crossed the guardroom and joined her and Will. “I wondered how long ’twould be before yon popinjay dared show his face here again,” Sir Henry muttered, scorn etched deep upon his bearded visage. “Especially now that your father’s not here to send him on his way yet again—”

Gillian cut him off with a hand on his mail-clad arm. “Fear not—he’ll find no welcome here,” she assured the grizzled warrior. She smiled. “I know just what to do to send him on his way,” she added, low-voiced. She clasped her fingers tight about Sir Henry’s arm for a moment, taking comfort from the strength tensed beneath her grip before she released him and turned her attention back to Steffan.

“Milord, we’ve sickness within the keep. Surely you noticed the graves outside the wall.” ’Twas no effort to imbue her voice with sorrow for those words, but to strengthen her tone for the next... aye, that was a chore. “I would not have you risk your health—perhaps even your life—merely to speak with me,” she said, eyes downcast. “Nothing could be that important.”

Sir Henry snorted, turning the sound into a cough when Steffan eyed him suspiciously.

A look of distaste—nay, fear—crossed Steffan’s face, so fleeting she could almost believe she’d imagined it.

Almost. She fought back a smile.

“I must speak with you, cousin,” Steffan demanded. “Is there not some way we can talk privately?”

Will gestured for Gillian to move back from the wall. “A moment, milord,” she said, then stepped behind the cloaking mass of a merlon.

“He’ll not leave until he gets his way, milady. You know it as well as I.” Will glanced down at Steffan. “Look at him. The fool’s nigh hopping with impatience.”

“Aye, the lad’s right,” Sir Henry added with disgust. “Lord Steffan’s got something stuck in his craw. The sooner you meet with him, find out what he wants, the quicker you can send him on his way.”

Gillian nodded. “All right. Best to take care of this now.” Her mood brightened. “Mayhap after this, I’ll never need to see Steffan again.”

She returned to the embrasure. “I’ll speak with you, but you cannot come within. Wait for me by the door,” she said, then turned away.

She passed through the guardroom, Will and Sir Henry on her heels, and came to a halt at the head of the stairs. “My shadows,” she muttered. “You need not accompany me. He cannot harm me if I stay within, and he remains outside.”

“Who’s to say he’ll obey you?” Will growled. “He’s ne’er shown any inclination to listen to anyone but himself, so far’s I’ve seen. You need one of us there to make certain he behaves himself.”

Though she didn’t believe Steffan meant her any harm—and she knew the threat of sickness would keep him from entering I’Eau Clair—Will could be right. Steffan seemed more determined than she’d ever seen him.

But she’d no desire to prolong the agony of holding a conversation with him, either. “Sir Henry, come with me. If it looks as though Steffan plans anything too dangerous, I’m sure a glare from you will put him in his place.” She chuckled. “Your presence alone, especially once he sees the scowl on your face, should be spur enough to speed him on his way.”

As Gillian and Sir Henry made their way through the now-silent bailey, Gillian kept her expression relaxed, nodding to the group of villagers milling about near the stairs to the keep. Steffan was no threat to any of them—to anyone, most like. No sense adding more fuel to the already smoldering tension tearing at her people.

Sir Henry dismissed the man guarding the doorway and unbolted the heavy portal himself. He swung it open just far enough to reveal Steffan standing nigh upon the doorsill, one hand resting against the frame.

He straightened and reached for Gillian’s hand as she stepped into the narrow opening.

“None of that, milord,” Sir Henry growled, making as if to move in front of Gillian.

She stood her ground. “Nay, Sir Henry. I’m sure Lord Steffan knows I’ve been caring for the sick. If he wishes to risk illness himself, ’tis his affair.”

’Twas almost beyond her to stifle a laugh at Steffan’s swift retreat. Once he stood several paces away from the doorway, he bowed once more.

Face composed, she curtsied. “What did you wish to speak with me about?” she asked with more haste than grace.

He took one step closer to her, then glared past her at Sir Henry. “I wished to be private, cousin,” he hissed.

She permitted herself a faint smile. “We are private, milord.”

“As private as you’ll get,” Sir Henry muttered.

Gillian silenced the knight with a glance over her shoulder. “Sir Henry is privy to all my business, milord, for ‘tis his business to protect I’Eau Clair and all who dwell here.” She gathered her skirts in her hands, prepared to leave. “Speak or remain silent, it matters naught to me. But you’ll say your piece before us both, or not at all.”

She could practically hear Steffan’s teeth grinding, though his frustration showed only in his eyes, not upon his face. “I’ve come to offer my hand and heart, Gillian, to claim you as my bride.” He swept a hand through his dark curls, sighed heavily, then held both hands out to her in supplication. “You must see, ‘tis a perfect match. With the two of us ruling I’Eau Clair as one, our blood—the blood of Welsh princes—joined together in our sons, our dynasty will be a force to be reckoned with in the Marches. Welsh and Norman both will cede to us the power we deserve.”

She could scarce draw breath after his outrageous words, could barely restrain herself from grabbing for the glossy hair swinging to his shoulders and wrenching his throat back for her blade.

Instead she used her body to block the doorway and hold back a cursing Sir Henry, though her fingers closed tight around the hilt of the dainty jeweled eating knife at her waist. “Sir Henry!” she snapped when the knight clamped his hand about her arm and tugged her from the doorway. He released her at once. “One madman is all I can deal with for the moment.”