Sharon Schulze - The Hidden Heart

She stepped back into the doorway just as Steffan whipped a dagger from the sheath on his sword belt and held it toward Sir Henry. “You dare lay hands upon your lady?” Steffan snarled. Gillian drew her own blade and raised it threateningly when he would have lunged past her at her man. The unmistakable sound of Sir Henry’s sword slipping free behind her sent a chill through her.

“Enough, both of you!” She glanced from the naked steel glinting in the sunlight to the fire raging in Steffan’s eyes, then sighed. “We’ve all gone mad, it seems.” She lowered her knife. “Have done, both of you. I’m no piece of meat for you to fight over.”

Steffan rammed his dagger home, scowling his displeasure. Gillian feared ’twould take little to push him past reason.

“Sir Henry?” She peered back at him and saw that he’d sheathed his sword, but hadn’t bothered to hide his temper. Hot color tinted his cheeks, and he looked ready to burst.

This had been a bad idea from the start; she’d best end it now, before the next flash of steel—and she’d no doubt they’d come to that point again, should she attempt to converse with that lunatic Steffan.

Gillian raised her chin and looked Steffan in the eye. “I’m honored by your offer, milord.” How she forced those words past her lips, she’d no notion. “But ’tis not for me to say who I must wed,” she murmured. “My hand and inheritance are King John’s to give.” She lowered her gaze, then glanced up at him through her lashes. “You are welcome to apply to my liege, if you truly wish to marry me.”

Steffan’s expression didn’t appear so pleasant now, she noted with a secret smile. And his bow was so abrupt as to be insulting. “What of your father’s wishes in the matter? When last we met, but a few months ago, he led me to believe he thought us well matched.”

The hint of amusement she’d felt at taunting Steffan fled as swiftly as it had arrived. “Indeed?” she asked, her curt tone matching his. “Since my father’s death I’ve looked through all his papers. I’ve found nothing to indicate he ever thought of you at all.”

She couldn’t be certain whether ’twas her words, or Sir Henry’s muffled snort that overset Steffan’s fine manners. Whatever the reason, she could only offer up silent thanks.

“You’ve not heard the last of this, Gillian,” he sneered, all trace of the handsome courtier gone. He stared long and hard at her, then shifted his gaze to Sir Henry. “I’ll go to your king, if need be.” He reached for her arm, then evidently thought better of such a foolhardy act and let his hand drop just short of her. “You will be mine.” He turned on his heel and headed for his mount, pausing a few paces from the showy beast. “And once you are, I swear you’ll never mock me again.”

Chapter Three

The look Steffan gave her just before he spurred his horse into a gallop haunted Gillian through the rest of the day. She’d never cared for him in the slightest; indeed, she’d felt nothing but scorn for him for as long as she could remember. Her other Welsh kin—her distant cousins Ian and Catrin, especially—were dear to her. She welcomed their rare visits to I’Eau Clair. Her father had respected them, had encouraged her to nurture these ties to her mother’s family.

Now that she was seated at the table in her solar to tally the accounts, she could hold back her thoughts no longer.

She tossed aside the quill she’d been using and settled back in her chair, tugging off her veil and unplaiting her tightly braided hair. The thought of taking Steffan as her husband disgusted her. Had Rannulf FitzClifford spoiled her taste for all other men? When she thought back to his last visit, to the closeness they’d shared...

How could she ever hope to have that with another?

And to abandon her as he had—without warning, without reason. Had he gained all he wanted from her, and desired her no more? Or had he found her lacking?

The answer was beyond her ability to understand. She’d never have an opportunity to learn the answers from him, that much had been clear from the message he’d penned upon the betrothal contract.

She fought the urge to draw the crumpled parchment from the box where she’d locked it away. In the week since she’d found the missive, her mind refused to set her free of it. Her thoughts circled, distracting her as she sought some way to protect her people, her home.

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.