The Hidden Heart. Sharon Schulze

had moved within the castle wall since the attacks on the outlying farms of her demesne, still the fields needed to be tilled and the cattle and sheep pastured outside. Unless faced with a direct attack, life beyond the walls of I’Eau Clair must go on, lest they all starve come winter.

      Gillian turned to slip farther into the slit, accepting Will’s help to kneel within the deep embrasure. Bracmg herself with one hand, she raised the other to shade her eyes against the bright spring sun. “Holy Mary save us,” she whispered when the breeze snapped open the pennon atop the lead rider’s lance.

      She could not mistake the raven blazoned stark and bold upon the shimmering silver cloth.

      The device of her Welsh kinsman, Steffan ap Rhys.

      What could he want with her? She feared she knew the answer to that only too well. A shudder swept over her as she recalled the last time they’d met, the feel of his heated gaze, foul and possessive, creeping over her from head to toe. Nay, she’d not permit him to worm his way within these walls by accepting so much as a crust of bread from him.

      “Milady?”

      She slumped back against the cold stones and closed her eyes for a moment. “Keep the gates barred, Will, and man the walls.” Why him—and why now? Hadn’t she enough troubles to deal with?

      “Shall we heat stones and oil, milady?”

      She opened her eyes at the eagerness in Will’s voice. “I doubt that will be necessary.” Straightening, she slid from the slit unassisted, shook out her skirts and adjusted her veil. “Much as I’d enjoy seeing my cousin’s reaction to such a greeting, ‘tis no way to welcome him to I’Eau Clair.” She brushed past Will and headed for the door leading to the battlements. “Of course, he doesn’t deserve much better than that as a welcome, either, the arrogant knave,” she muttered to herself. She stepped through the portal, then turned to the guard at the door. “Send for Sir Henry to join us, if he’s within.”

      “Aye, milady.” He bowed and left.

      “Will, come with me. Steffan’s so thickheaded, it just may take a show of force to convince him to leave.”

      Will chuckled. “I remember Lord Steffan well,” he said. They left the gatehouse, and Gillian led the way to a spot where they’d have the best view of the track to I’Eau Clair. “Do you recall the time, milady, not so many years past, when we crept into his chamber and hid all his fancy clothes while he was in the bath?”

      Heat flooded Gillian’s face. “I do, though it does neither of us credit.” She stared out over the treetops. “Lady Alys was sorely disappointed. She thought she’d made a lady of me.”

      Will snorted.

      Gillian jabbed at his ribs with her elbow—a reaction left over from their childhood—then groaned as she connected with his mail hauberk.

      He somehow contrived to look wounded. “You might have had the look of a lady by then, but inside you were still Gilles, the brave lad who used to join in all our schemes.”

      “Steffan thought I was a lady even then, unfortunately.” She couldn’t keep a trace of bitterness from her voice, but she thought she at least hid her fear.

      Will had the right of it, though she’d never admit it. Her transformation from “lad” to lady had taken far longer than she’d ever imagined it would. And there were times—few and far between, ’twas true—when she wished it had never happened. “The miles of thread I spun and wove as punishment for that jest cured me of the last of my old ways,” she said. “Gilles disappeared many years ago, by my choice.”

      Steffan and his men rode out from the trees between the village and the castle and trotted up the last rise at a decorous pace, casting her thoughts of the past to the back of her mind where they belonged.

      She’d trouble enough to face in the here and now. Gillian squared her shoulders and moved into the opening of an embrasure where she’d be visible from the area across the moat.

      Steffan and his party—eight men-at-arms and a standard-bearer—halted on the bank of the moat. He slipped off his helm and placed it on the high pommel of his saddle.

      Still atop his mount, he bowed with all the finesse of a French courtier, his handsome face alight with pleasure from the look of it. Straightening, he scanned her face with a piercing look. “My dearest cousin.”

      “Milord,” she called down to him, her voice cold as death. ’Twould take more than that display to impress her! “What brings you here, so far from home?”

      “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