The Shielded Heart

by Sharon Schulze

  Swen watched with a distant bemusement as FitzClifford crossed the room to him. “I do understand your situation, Swen. You’ve given your word—” he glanced at Anna “—and you cannot abandon your duty. You serve a new master now, and I understand where your loyalties lie,” he said with a glance at Anna. That Swen had strong feelings for Anna was no secret to FitzClifford, it seemed.

  FitzClifford took Anna’s hands in his. “I beg your pardon, mistress. It was never my intention to insult you with my boorish behavior. I’m pleased for your sake that you’ve so strong and constant a protector.” He cast a measuring glance at Swen. “And I pray that soon the situation will permit that Siwardson—and you, if you wish it—may come to Gwal Draig.” His face solemn, he brushed a kiss over the back of Anna’s hand, then released her. Looking up, he captured Swen’s gaze. “You will always be welcome there, Swen Siwardson. Ian’s words—and he meant them, I assure you. ‘Twill be a relief to Ian and Lily both to know you’re well.”

  Heartened by the sincerity in FitzClifford’s eyes as much as by his words, Swen nodded. “I thank you, milord.” He moved back toward the table. “When will you return?”

  “In the morning. I don’t want to be away from them for long.”

  Swen drew in a calming breath. “Would you carry messages back for me? Mayhap Lily will accept my words to cheer her, if not my presence,” he added with a shaky smile.

  FitzClifford nodded, approval in his expression.

  “I’d best get to writing them, then, if I’m to have them ready for you in the morning.” He took up the lamp Anna had carried upstairs with them. “First let me take you to your lodgings.”

  Once again, FitzClifford bowed over Anna’s hand. She smiled up at him, clearly appreciative, it appeared to Swen, of his attentions. ’Twas a good thing he knew the Norman to be thoroughly devoted to his wife—and obviously well-versed in courtesy, Swen thought with a shake of his head—else he’d feel compelled to take him to task for his manner toward Anna.

  As it stood, he hoped she didn’t misunderstand FitzClifford’s courtly ways.

  He motioned for the other man to precede him down the stairs, then paused in front of Anna, trying to read her expression. She looked exhausted—and angry?

  “What is it, my heart?” he whispered. He reached out to cup her chin in his hand, but she jerked away.

  “Naught that we’ve time to discuss tonight,” she said, her answering whisper harsh. “Take Lord Rannulf to William’s and go write your letters.”

  She picked up the stand of candles from the table and began to snuff them out. She wet her fingers and extinguished the last candle, throwing her face into shadows. She turned away, the action dismissing him as thoroughly as her words. “Mayhap by morning I’ll be ready to talk to you again.”

  Swen looked back at her one last time before following FitzClifford down the stairs. He hated to leave her like this, but he could tell she was in no mood to talk.

  Perhaps she’d feel different in the morning, he thought, pulling the door closed behind him.

  But if she did not, it shouldn’t really matter. ’Twas no more than he deserved.

  By the time Lord Rannulf left Murat at first light, Anna was so ready to talk to Swen about all she’d heard the night before that she wondered she didn’t burst from a surfeit of words and emotions.

  She’d scarcely slept. So much had happened the night before, both between her and Swen—and the shock of hearing what Father Michael had told him—as well as the confusing tidbits of information she’d gleaned when Lord Rannulf had been there.

  What little sleep she managed had been far from restful. She saw her visions, aye—a normal part of her dreams—but what she saw in those dreams was completely foreign to anything her gift had ever shown her. The Holy Mother, gazing down at her beloved child…But the woman became Anna, and the child, the children she’d never have. There would be no virgin birth for the likes of her, she thought with a mirthless laugh.

  Besides, the more time she spent with Swen, touched by his words, his presence, by him, the more she realized how much she desired a true relationship with a man. And not just any man, but Swen Siwardson. She hadn’t ever thought of herself as anything but Anna de Limoges, artisan. Herself as lover, wife, mother seemed foreign, unknown.

  And from what Swen had told her of the Church’s view on the matter, completely unattainable.

  She’d yet to decide what to do about changing the situation, but oh, how she wanted to change it! To be free to share the closeness with Swen that she had thus far barely glimpsed; to reclaim, perhaps, the almost forgotten bonds of family…

  Could she sacrifice all she was on the chance of that uncertain future?

  No one would expect that of her—not even Swen. He’d been told she was forbidden—to him or any other man. If that were to change, she would have to instigate that change, take that chance, herself.

  Though judging by Swen’s behavior toward her, he did desire her, though he also possessed the honor and strength to fight that desire.

  Could she remain that strong?

  It seemed to her that every fragment of news she’d learned of late, each new twinge of emotion she felt—both good and bad—all could be traced back to Swen. At the moment, it all swirled about inside her in a confusing maelstrom. She couldn’t rest, food held no appeal…

  And worst of all, she couldn’t keep her mind on her work, Anna noted with disgust as the graver she’d been using to carve out the copper panel slid across the metal with an ear-piercing screech, leaving a deep gouge in its wake.

  Muttering a rain of curses upon Swen Siwardson’s head beneath her breath—no sense in shocking her helpers any more than she already had this morn—she threw aside the graver, taking pleasure in the satisfying clatter it made when it hit the ruined copper plate.

  “Mistress!” Luc called. He abandoned his work at the forge and hurried toward her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Not a thing,” she replied, infusing her voice with a cheerfulness she was far from feeling. She brushed past him, untied her apron and jerked it over her head, tossing it toward the peg near the door and not bothering to see where it landed.

  “I’ll be back—eventually,” she told him, then yanked the door open and pulled it closed behind her with far more force than necessary before Luc could question her behavior.

  In her haste, she tripped over her hem, so she snatched her skirts up out of her way and lengthened her stride even more. A smile rose to her lips as she headed down the street. She’d never before realized how good it could feel to be angry.

  For the moment, it felt glorious.

  She found Swen right where she’d thought he’d be at this time of day—with a group of men in the open area just inside the gates, putting them through some kind of training exercise.

  As she drew closer, she saw that Swen and another man, both stripped to the waist, stood in the middle of the group—empty-handed, but circling each other in some sort of combat, it appeared—while those around them shouted a chorus of jeers, suggestions and encouragement.

  As she elbowed her way through the crowd, all fell silent except William. The two men inside the circle, however, seemed unaware of her presence.

  “Here, lass—this is no place for you,” William cautioned. He lunged to catch her before she went any farther, but she evaded his grasp and walked straight up to Swen, who had his back to her, and caught hold of his arm.

  Gathering herself, she shouted, “Si—” He spun and grappled her to the ground, forcing the breath from her in a squeaking gasp before she could finish. He recoiled from her so swiftly, it seemed as though he’d merely bounced off her body and landed on his feet.

  She, however, couldn’t move, could not speak—could only lie there and glare at him.

  “Anna!” Swen dropped to his knees beside her and helped her to sit up. “Dear God—are you all right?” Hand pressed to her chest, she drew in a painful breath and struggled, without su
ccess, to speak.

  His gaze understanding, he thumped her gently on the back, then began to rub between her shoulder blades. “Why didn’t one of you stop her?” he demanded as he slowly scanned the goggling men, the accusation in his eyes matching that in his voice.

  Not waiting for an answer, he lowered his gaze and his voice. “Did I hurt you?” he asked her, his touch gentle as he brushed her hair away from her face. “I’m sorry—I didn’t know ’twas you. When I felt someone touch me, I simply reacted.” He thumped her on the back again.

  “I’m all right,” she said, her voice little more than a squeak. She swallowed, tried again for a deeper breath of air. “Want to talk to you,” she managed. With his help, she struggled to her feet. “Now.” Biting back a groan, she forced her body into motion.

  She’d be bruised from head to toe by tomorrow, she had no doubt, but she hadn’t the patience to worry about it now. “Come on,” she said, heading for the gates with single-minded determination.

  She didn’t bother to turn around to see if he followed her. He wouldn’t allow her outside the palisade alone, she knew, and she planned to take full advantage of that fact to achieve her end—the privacy to rip into Swen as she’d been aching to do since before he’d left last night.

  “Anna, get back here,” Swen called.

  As she got her breath back, Anna picked up her pace, her skirts held up to avoid catching them on the ankle-high stubble left in the fields. She squelched along the muddy furrows, grateful she’d worn boots.

  The crunch of stubble behind her told her that Swen had caught up to her. “Wait!” he shouted, right behind her.

  She stopped and turned just as he grabbed her by the arm. “Damnation, woman—are you mad, to come out here alone?”

  She didn’t answer, for she was too busy staring at the broad wall of his chest. Lightly dewed with moisture, the reddish-gold curls clustered in the midst of the muscular expanse glistened in the sharp morning sun. Her gaze fixed there, then followed the hair as it darkened and narrowed to a thin line ending at the waist of his braes. Hands clenched, she fought the urge to smooth her palms over him, to gift her sensitive fingers with the feel of the springy curls and taut skin stretched over sharply defined muscles.

  He tightened his grip on her arm and tugged, jolting her from her abstraction. “Come on, we’d best get back to the village.”

  She glanced up at his face and saw that a faint flush of color tinted his cheekbones. “I beg your pardon.” He released her arm, shook out the tunic he carried bunched in his other hand and drew it over his head, then settled his belt about his waist.

  Anna knew a sense of loss as the linen slipped down and covered his torso. Had she shocked him with her bold perusal? She knew she should feel embarrassed by her effrontery, but she could not—he was a delight to the eyes, a beautifully formed man in his prime.

  Before he could capture her within his grasp again, she hiked up her skirts and darted away from him, running as fast as she could over the rough ground toward the forest.

  He must have hesitated—doubtless surprised by her actions—else she’d never have reached the trees before he caught up to her. Breathless again, she leaned back against a broad oak, bent at the middle, her hair tumbled down about her face and shoulders.

  Swen cast a swift glance at the thick forest about them and said a silent prayer that Anna hadn’t led them straight into the arms of their enemy. God knew, between Anna’s tantalizing examination of him and the chase she’d led him, his blood ran so hot at the moment that he’d welcome the chance to take on anyone in combat. He checked the dagger at his waist, then took the last few strides toward her.

  Unfortunately for Anna—and for his honor, most like—she was the only combatant available.

  He swept her hair aside and grasped her about the waist, using the weight of his body to press her back against the tree. When he bent to take her mouth she met him halfway, her arms capturing his neck even as their lips melded in a scorching kiss.

  Tearing his mouth free, he whispered, “Don’t ever run off like that again.”

  She tugged at the neck of his tunic, then dipped her fingers into the opening to toy with the curls peeping through the lacings. “Is what you’re doing supposed to deter me from doing it again?” she asked, her kiss-bedewed lips curved into a teasing smile.

  In answer, he stroked his hands down over her ribs to her hips, then lifted her more fully into his embrace. Groaning at the glorious sensation of Anna pressed tight to him, he shifted them until he leaned against the rough bark of the tree, her weight held in his arms, her mouth fused to his.

  She proved a quick student of the art of kissing, her lips a taunting glide over his own, her tongue mimicking the rhythm he established with his mouth, hands and body. It seemed to him that she knew all the best places to touch to inflame him even more.

  Her tongue traced with delicacy over his lips, sending a bolt of pure fire down Swen’s chest to settle, smoldering, in his loins. She drew a line of kisses over his chin and down his neck, seeming undeterred by the rough stubble covering his unshaved jaw. He shuddered at the onslaught of sensation.

  All thoughts of anger, curiosity, uncertainty fled Anna’s head. Her mind could only hold—and savor—the myriad of impressions assaulting her. The scent of him, warm man and sandalwood, brought a heat to her blood and heightened all her senses. The rasp of whiskers beneath her questing lips sent shivers down her spine, a feeling not unlike the tingle of awareness she felt whenever Swen was near. The heat of his body, the firm muscles of his chest teasing her breasts, made her crave his touch to the point where she found herself trying to raise his tunic to remove it so she could stroke his skin.

  And if he didn’t do something about it soon, she feared she’d loosen her own tunic as well, so she might feel his hard warrior’s hands upon her own aching flesh.

  He seemed made up of an intriguing blend of contrasts, his strength coupled with a heart-stopping gentleness, the force of his personality sweetened by his concern for her, his serious nature leavened with a healthy dose of humor. All the aspects of Swen invited her to learn more of him, to share more with him…

  To give everything to him.

  She reached for his hand and raised it to the knotted lacing at her waist. “Please,” she murmured when he opened his eyes and met her gaze. His eyes were heated, yearning, much as her own must appear. She brushed aside her mass of hair. “Will you untie me?”

  He stared into her eyes, then something behind her captured his attention. His gaze sharpened and he thrust her from him. “Run!” he whispered. He steadied her when she stumbled, then nudged her toward the clearing.

  “What—”

  “Now, Anna.” Her heart nearly stopped beating when he pulled his dagger free and stepped away from her. “Run, and no matter what you hear, don’t look back.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Swen paused only long enough to see Anna, skirts clutched in her hands, take off across the clearing as though the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels, before turning his attention to the three men who, ranged in a rough arc, stalked toward him from the forest. He reached down and pulled his other knife from his boot as he shifted his thoughts from love to war.

  “Here now, you shouldn’t have sent your doxy away quite yet,” one called in a lazy drawl. “We’d have liked a taste.” His comrades laughed and voiced their agreement.

  Swen’s fingers tightened around the knives’ hilts, until he forced himself to ignore the provocation and relax his grip. He’d be useless if he let them lure him into a temper, for he fought best when at his ease. He had to keep these fools occupied long enough for Anna to reach the village. However, since they seemed in no hurry yet to come near enough to fight, he took advantage of the opportunity to look them over.

  They appeared a motley bunch, none of them very tall or brawny—especially compared to him, he thought with a grin—but well armed with swords and daggers. The one who’d spoken
stood between the other two, several paces closer to Swen, a fine sword held ready in his hand. They all handled their weapons as if they knew their business.

  They might present a bit of a challenge.

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me who sent you here?” he asked in a pleasant voice.

  “Don’t know,” the leader said. “And don’t care, truth to tell, so long’s their gold’s good.”

  “We didn’t come here to stand around jawin’,” another said. He spat on the ground, his exasperation clear. “We came to fight—let’s get to it.”

  Swen braced himself as they rushed toward him. They didn’t know much about fighting as a unit, it seemed, for when the leader charged at Swen with his sword upraised, the other two hung back as though awaiting their turns.

  It was fine with him if they gave him the advantage. His grin widened as he beat back the sword blade with one dagger and jabbed him between the ribs with the other, the thin blade sliding through his leather jerkin, then grating against bone before Swen tugged it free. Using his foot, he shoved the man aside to smash into a broad tree trunk.

  One by one, he’d beat them all.

  Or perhaps he’d fight the next as a pair, for the two who’d hung back chose to rush toward him at the same time, both shrieking like banshees. ’Twas their misfortune that their voices held more strength than their sword arms, for neither fighter’s swing held much force. Swen beat back the longer blades with ease, darting under their guard again and again to slash at them as they stolidly jabbed at him with their swords.

  The thunder of running feet in the fields behind him heralded reinforcements before either man did any real harm to him. As soon as they caught sight of the armed men approaching, they turned tail and raced into the trees before William and his men even reached the forest, leaving their injured leader behind.

  With a nod of his head, William sent several men into the woods after the two who’d run off. Swen sheathed his boot knife and crossed to the first man he’d fought, giving him a nudge with his boot. “On your feet,” he ordered.