The Shielded Heart

by Sharon Schulze

  The first things she saw once she shoved her hair out of her face were Swen’s eyes glinting in the faint light from the workroom below. “Are you ready?” he whispered near her ear. “We’re almost there.”

  He held her to him with one arm and pushed open the trapdoor in the roof with the other. She could see his smile in the moonlight, the pleasure lighting his face as he stepped through the opening and carried her out onto the roof of a one-story shed built off the side of her workshop.

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, gazing at the starstudded night spread out before them.

  “Aye,” Swen said, though she’d have sworn he wasn’t looking out at the sky as he spoke.

  Her heartbeat picked up its pace. He’d been looking at her.

  He eased her to her feet on the thatched roof, then reached up beside him to pluck a cloak from atop the overhanging eaves of the workshop. Hands gentle, he gathered together her hair and held it out of the way while he draped the soft wool around her shoulders.

  His hands paused in her hair, fingers combing through the tousled curls, then skittering over cheeks, throat, shoulders before skimming with the lightest of touches down her sides to her hips, and the ends of her hair. The ghost of his touch lingered even after he released her.

  Her breath caught in her throat as the sensation of his hands upon her washed through her body. She stared at Swen; he stared back, his gaze skimming over her in a caress that felt as real as his touch.

  To her untutored eyes, he appeared as surprised as she felt.

  She gazed past Swen to the sky, its velvety darkness shimmering with moonlight and stars. Nestling into the cloak, she felt surrounded by his care. That he’d planned for this “adventure” was clear.

  She leaned toward him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “The night is lovely. Thank you for sharing it with me.” She tightened the embrace. Rising on her toes, Anna kissed his cheek, then before he could move away she pressed her lips to his.

  She just caught sight of his startled expression before she closed her eyes and gave herself over to the most glorious sensation she’d ever felt.

  Swen’s lips remained motionless beneath hers for but a moment, then he wrapped his arms about her and pulled her closer, brushing his mouth against hers in the gentlest of touches. Anna slid her palms up over his arms to his chest, giving in to the urge to savor the strength of him. She felt the rumble of a groan beneath her hands, then groaned herself when he framed her face in his callused hands and deepened the kiss.

  The contrast between the warmth of his lips and the chill air awakened her senses, drew her closer to Swen. He cradled her jaw in one hand and slid the other beneath the cloak, pulling her flush against him. When she gasped at the sensation, he took full advantage of the opportunity to dip his tongue between her lips, caressing her mouth in a delicate give-andtake.

  Swen continued to taunt Anna with his tongue, taking a taste of her mouth, then retreating, teasing her until she mimicked the motion and drew her tongue along his lower lip. Her fingers crept higher along his shoulders, smoothing over the skin above the neckline of his tunic and sending a firestorm of heat throughout his body. “Yes, my heart,” he whispered, savoring the rasp of her fingernails against the sensitive flesh below his ear.

  She fit against him perfectly, the swell of her bosom tantalizing his chest, the way her hips cradled the throbbing ache of his manhood an almost irresistible temptation to deepen the contact between them.

  He shifted them around until Anna stood with her back pressed to the stone wall of the workshop, then drew back a bit so he could see her.

  Moonlight gilded her face and played havoc among her tousled curls, leaching away the color of skin and hair and leaving stark beauty in its wake. Her lips glistened with the dew of their kisses, feeding his hunger for more. He eased open the cloak and looked his fill.

  Anna leaned against the wall and tilted her head back to gaze up at him. Even in the icy moonlight, he could recognize the flush of passion tinting her cheeks, and the look in her eyes…By the saints, ’twas invitation enough to push a monk past the bounds of reason.

  He was no monk—but neither was he a man to go back on his word.

  Had he run mad, to give in to his desire for her, to grant his lust-crazed body free rein over his strength of will?

  He closed his eyes to block out the sight of her, lest he continue with this madness. She’d kissed him first, ’twas true, but he hadn’t resisted her. Indeed, he feared resistance to Anna, in any form, might prove a nigh-impossible task. Instead he’d accepted the offering she’d so generously bestowed—a kiss of gratitude, an innocent embrace—then taken advantage of the gesture to introduce her to passion.

  He knew where such kisses could lead, even if Anna did not.

  Swen tilted his head back and opened his eyes, hoping the chill of the night, and the sweet beauty of the heavens, would cool his blood.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, drawing his gaze to her as surely as iron clung to a lodestone. Her breath left her mouth in a cloud of mist, and she shivered.

  Here he stood berating himself for his foolishness while she froze! “Are you cold?”

  Could he do naught but ask stupid questions? By the rood—

  “A bit,” she said, her voice quivering.

  He moved closer and wrapped his arms about her again. “Here, let me warm you.”

  Swen turned her in his arms and rested his chin atop her head. “I brought you here to see the stars, you know,” he murmured. “Not to take advantage of you.”

  She laid her hands over his at her waist and gave them a squeeze. “I know why you brought me here, Swen. The night is beautiful, and you wanted to share that with me.” She leaned her weight back against him more fully. “I thank you for that.” Her ribs moved beneath his forearms when she sighed. “As for the rest, ‘tis my fault, not yours,” she said, her voice scarce more than a whisper. “I should not have thrown myself at you, nor expressed my gratitude with such…ardor. I hope you weren’t offended.”

  He couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “You didn’t offend me, Anna. You flatter me with your ‘ardor.’” She’d done more than flatter him, he thought ruefully; his body had yet to recover from its own burst of enthusiasm. “But it might be safer for you if you don’t tempt a man—any man—too often. Your gift—”

  “My gift?” She turned in his arms. “What has that to do with this?”

  Didn’t she know?

  Would it fall to him to explain to her? To his surprise, a flush of embarrassment rose to his face. He’d sooner have to explain where what they’d been doing might have led…He shook his head. No, he’d rather not explain that, either, now that he considered the matter.

  But it seemed he should tell her something. “When I offered to stay and help guard you, the abbot made me swear that I would respect your purity, for if you were to lose your innocence, your gift would be tainted.”

  She’d been watching his face as he spoke, but now she lowered her gaze, studying the embroidered trim at the neck of his tunic with an intensity the simple design didn’t deserve. Her lips tightened and she closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and met his gaze again. “You must believe I’m the worst sort of woman,” she said. “To have thrown myself at you as I did.” She moved to be free of his hold, and he let her go. “To stand here in your embrace, knowing you for an honorable man, yet doing what I could to tempt you.” She drew in a quavering breath. “And ‘tis not the first time I’ve done it.”

  He held out his hand to her, offering her comfort, support, anything she needed from him—but she ignored it. “Anna—”

  A single tear slipped down her cheek, trailing silver moonlight in its wake. “I’m sorry—I didn’t know.” She spun away from him, moving blindly toward the trapdoor in the roof beside them. Her boots slid on the thatch and she tripped, tumbled toward him—and the edge of the roof.

  Swen caught her when she fell, wrapping his arms abo
ut her and twisting so his body cushioned them as they slipped down the slight slope. He dug in his heels and brought them to a halt before they reached the edge.

  Dead silence reigned for a moment before they both began to breathe again. Anna’s breath sounded uneven, muffled sobs, Swen thought. He cradled the back of her head in his hand and pressed her cheek to his chest, shifting so she lay beside him, offering what comfort he could.

  Finally her crying ceased. He smoothed his hand down her hair and eased his arms from around her, then helped her to sit up. When she would have scrambled to her feet—to escape him, it seemed—he caught her by the wrist and kept her by him. “I never thought that of you.” She tried to tug free of him, refusing to look his way. He captured her chin in his hand and turned her face toward his. “Never, Anna,” he repeated, his voice serious. “Your kisses are the sweetest I’ve ever received, and if you were free to offer me more—” he glanced away for a moment “—I would be more honored—and pleased—than I can say.”

  Her eyes wet with tears, she nodded and tried to speak, then clasped his hand instead.

  What a coil! “I believed you knew, and still I thought no less of you for your honest show of affection. From what Father Michael told me, it sounded as if ’twas common knowledge. In the time I’ve been here, no one’s hinted otherwise.” He sighed. “I’m sorry you had to hear the words from me. Perhaps you should speak with the abbot about this when you see him next.” He didn’t know what else to say or to do. She looked wounded and lost; he felt lower than a snake. Best to make his apologies, escort Anna inside, then make his escape while he still had his wits about him. If he spent much longer with her right now, seeing her this way, he was bound to do something they’d both regret later. “I’m sorry if I’ve caused you pain, my hea—” Fool! “—my friend. But—”

  Running footsteps thudded toward them on the street below, the sound a welcome reprieve, even as he questioned its source.

  “What’s amiss?” Anna asked, her voice pitched low.

  Swen shook his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “But it can’t be anything good at this hour.”

  The footsteps stopped outside Anna’s workshop. Swen released Anna and, motioning her to silence, swung his legs over the edge of the roof and slid to the ground.

  He landed nearly atop the guard in the street.

  “Lord Siwardson!” the man cried, jumping out of the way.

  “Aye, James. What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a group of riders approaching from the forest, milord. And they’re armed, by the look of them,” James added, bending from the waist as he gasped for breath. “What should we do?”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Fetch William and sound the alarm at once,” Swen told James, watching with satisfaction as the man hastened along the road to William’s house. He turned toward the shed roof. “Anna, get inside and close the trapdoor, then go downstairs and bar the door.” He could barely see her, kneeling near the edge of the roof, but he could tell she nodded. “You’d best make certain the windows are all barred as well.”

  “I will,” she replied. “Swen,” she called as he was about to turn away.

  The alarm bell rang, calling everyone to arms, but he paused. “What is it?”

  “Have a care for yourself,” she said. “And this time, please take your sword!”

  “Aye.” Once again, ’twas beyond his reach, but Anna need not know that. Besides, he had his knives; they were weapon enough. He reached up and clasped her hand. “I don’t want you to open the door to anyone but William or me, do you understand?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, milord.”

  “I mean it. Now go,” he urged. As soon as he saw her silhouetted against the open trapdoor, he set off at a run toward the gatehouse.

  They’d kept a close watch on the village and in the surrounding woods, especially since they found signs that someone had been camped in the forest within the past few weeks, from the look of it. Could have been a band of outlaws, he supposed—or men coming or going from the skirmishes he’d heard had recently plagued some of the smaller Marcher castles. The Welsh had stayed busy taking advantage of the English conflict, and the divided loyalties to King John, to encroach farther into the English border lands.

  And still they didn’t know who had tried to snatch Anna away.

  Evidently their increased vigilance had worked, he noted with satisfaction. Now he simply wanted to know if the approaching party was friend or foe.

  Swen hurried up the ladder to the walkway by the gate. “How many?” he demanded as he entered the gatehouse and crossed to one of the narrow windows.

  “Looks to be a party of ten or so, milord, all on horseback,” the guard said, moving aside so Swen could look out. “The man keeping watch in the woods heard ‘em afore he saw ‘em, and ran here as quick as he could. Got a good jump on ‘em, he did.”

  Swen scanned the open fields and spied a group of mounted men just passing through the trees. The beautiful night had given way to clouds; fitful moonlight glinted off their armor and weapons, and the rising wind carried the clink of harness through the night. The village behind him remained silent, though, despite the fact that the townspeople had just been roused from their beds and to arms.

  The past weeks’ training had taken root, he thought with a burst of pride.

  Now to see if they could follow through once the “visitors” arrived.

  “Are the archers at their posts and ready?” he asked without turning around.

  “Aye,” William answered from the doorway. He joined Swen by the window. “What do you make of this, lad?” he asked, nodding toward the fields. “Strange way of attacking, don’t you think? Of course, mayhap they think to sneak in and murder us in our beds,” he added with a warrior’s disdain for so craven a method of attack. He chuckled. “If that’s the case, won’t they be surprised?”

  “I hope so.” Swen checked that his knives slid easily from their sheaths. “You don’t get many visitors here, from what I’ve seen. I can’t imagine who’d be coming here so late at night.”

  “The abbot’s about the only person we see here often. And you’re right—he doesn’t care to be abroad after dark.” He coughed and hitched his belt. “A wise choice, given the times.” Pulling his sword free and checking the blade, he added, “Nobles fighting their king! And with the help of that French coxcomb.” He snorted. “It’s true that John’s not the man his father was—nor his brother Richard, either—but how they think Louis’d be better on the throne of England than a Plantagenet is beyond my ken.”

  Swen knew little of the ongoing English conflict, having served a Welsh master, but William certainly had strong feelings on the subject. Perhaps he should talk with him about it more, once they had the time. It couldn’t hurt to understand the situation better.

  William glanced out the window again. “No, I doubt that’s the abbot. He’d be mounted atop that scrawny palfrey of his, not a warhorse like that one.” He pointed, then craned his head out the window for another look.

  He moved aside, allowing Swen to lean forward and watch the approaching riders. He squinted into the growing darkness. Something about the lead horse—the warhorse William mentioned—seemed familiar to him, the way he carried himself, perhaps, though in this uneven light ’twas difficult to tell. Still…

  “Tell the archers to be ready to shoot, but to hold their fire unless I command otherwise,” he said, turning to William. “I believe I recognize our visitors, but I can’t be sure until they come closer.”

  William gave the order to a nearby guard, who set off to spread the word.

  The riders drew to a halt a good distance from the gate, though not far enough to avoid the archers, Swen noted, should they prove necessary.

  He angled his body to lean out the window. “Identify yourself,” he shouted.

  The lead rider urged his mount several paces ahead of the others. “Rannulf FitzClifford of l’Eau Clair. Is that you,
Swen Siwardson?”

  “That it is, milord.” Swen gave a sigh of relief. “I know him,” he said over his shoulder to William. “He’s Lord Ian’s brother by marriage.”

  William nodded to the guard who stood waiting by the door. “Go below and tell them to open the gates,” he ordered.

  “I’ll see you inside, milord,” Swen called down to FitzClifford. He watched to see the gates swing open and FitzClifford ride through before stepping away from the window.

  The urge to smile that he’d felt when he heard FitzClifford’s voice had already turned to concern. A dozen scenarios, none of them good, flooded his mind when he considered the possible reasons for Rannulf FitzClifford to be here, of all places.

  Worry must have shown on his face, for William caught him by the arm and stopped him before he could leave the gatehouse. “What is it, lad? Something wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just that I can think of no reason for FitzClifford to be here, so far from home. And it’s too much of a coincidence to believe he’d arrive here unless ‘tis something to do with me.”

  William released him. “Only one way to find out.” He clapped Swen on the back. “Will you bring him to my house? Bess’ll have food and drink ready, I’d be willing to lay odds. He’s welcome to stay with us—aye, and his men; too. They could bed down in my hall for the night.”

  He couldn’t make any plans until he discovered why Lord Rannulf had come to Murat. Still, they’d all have to stay somewhere. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  They started down the stairs, Swen still mulling over possibilities. He paused at the bottom. “You’re right. If FitzClifford approves, it would probably be best if you take his men to stay in your hall. I can’t think of anywhere else large enough to put them up, save Anna’s workshop. And that’s not a possibility. His men are decent enough, but I’ll not take any chances with her safety.”

  “All right,” William said. “I’ll see to FitzClifford’s men. You just find out why he’s come here.”