The Hidden Heart. Sharon Schulze

brushed her lips.

      Though she knew she should try to free herself, Gillian could not make her reluctant body obey the dictate of her mind, could scarcely draw breath for fear of pulling him nearer still.

      “There was no bed involved, as I recall, save the one we fashioned from my tunic and your bliaut.” His stubbled cheek grazed her face from temple to chin, sending a shiver down her spine. “I’ll never forget the sight of your hair glowing in the sun—” He released her hair and trailed his freed hand along its length, his knuckles coasting over her shoulder in the barest of caresses. “And the shadow here...”

      She jerked away before his wandering fingers could settle against her bosom, but he trapped her hand in his.

      His fingers intertwined with hers and he tugged her into his arms. “Gillian,” he breathed against her lips. His touch gentle, he wrapped her into his embrace.

      He’d slipped off her veil before she realized what he was about, and buried his fingers in the mass of her hair, loosening her braid and sliding his hands up through the wavy mass to cradle her face.

      Her eyes drifted closed, her breath caught on a sob as he nuzzled her cheek, pressed his body against hers in a caress devastating in its tenderness. Force she might have withstood, but this gentle assault proved beyond her will to resist.

      She opened her eyes to stare into the familiar brown depths of Rannulf’s questioning gaze, lost herself in the web of desire he wove around them so effortlessly, watched as he lowered his lips to hers slowly, so slowly she could feel his touch before their mouths met.

      Warmth flowed from his lips to her heart, set up a sense of loss so deep it spilled over into tears that flowed down her cheeks even as her lips clung to Rannulf’s.

      He gasped against her mouth, his hand sliding up her cheek to capture a teardrop, then slowly stepped away. He fixed his gaze somewhere beyond her shoulder and drew in a deep breath. “Forgive me. I hadn’t intended to touch you.”

      Before her disbelieving gaze he cast off the languor of desire and resumed the mantle of warrior—or tormentor. Somehow all emotion drained away from his features, leaving behind a shell of the man she’d seen.

      The man she’d known so long ago.

      “You’ve grown even more lovely these years past, milady. I don’t suppose you’d care to pick up where we left off back then, would you?” he asked, his mouth curved into an insolent grin. “If we’re careful enough, Talbot need never know.”

      She had the knife free of its sheath before her stunned brain could form the words to curse him straight to hell where he belonged.

      Grin still intact, Rannulf eased away from her, one hand held in front of him as though to ward her off. “No one need know you’re no longer a maiden. I wouldn’t want to harm your chances of making a decent marriage, although with a dowry such as yours, combined with your beauty, I doubt most men would care.”

      Gillian drew in a gasp of air and, knife upraised, snatched her skirts into her free hand and charged after him. “Whoreson knave,” she growled, stalking him as he backed through the trees toward his mount. “Get you gone, else I’ll gut you where you stand.”

      He believed her threat, it seemed, for he spun on his heel and leapt into the saddle. “Let me know if you change your mind, milady,” he called, gathering the reins and nudging the stallion into motion. “At any time.”