The Hidden Heart

“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.”

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.