The Quest for Gillian’s Heart

by The Quest for Gillian’s Heart (lit)

  "My luck has not been so good since you were taken from me. With two of you I shall always have a spare. If one of you displeases me, a simple sacrifice to the volcano gods should keep the other in line. Who wishes to be first?" His gaze settled on Gillian. "You, I think. The young one will mold more easily. I can use her to remove any curse you give." He drew his sword and pointed it toward them. "Get dressed. We have a long journey ahead."

  Gillian could feel Bridget trembling as they left the water. It gave her the courage to be brave. She tried to keep the girl hidden from him even though it left herself open to his lecherous admiration. She reached for their clothing, afraid that at any second he would grab her. A movement among the trees caught her eye.

  "Dress quickly," she whispered.

  Leif snatched Gillian’s shift from her hand. "Not so fast. I do not think I am finished looking at what Andor cannot resist."

  "And I say you are." The bushes parted as Andor stepped through.

  Leif tossed the shift aside to face his opponent, and Gillian yanked it over her head. Andor slid his sword from its sheath.

  "Wife, you and the girl return home. I have old business I must attend to. Go...now."

  Gillian grabbed Bridget’s hand and ran for the trees.

  "I should have killed you months ago. I should have hunted you down until you were found. You will not leave here alive," Andor told him.

  "Someone will surely die this day, but it will be you, cousin, not me." Leif lunged forward.

  The sound of swords clanking together echoed through the clearing.

  Gillian jerked to a stop. "Run home for help as fast as you can."

  "But what of you," Bridget cried.

  "Hurry. I will not leave Andor." She shoved the girl forward then ran back to the edge of the clearing.

  Gillian held her breath with each swing of the blades. Leif’s months of living on the run gave Andor the advantage, but Leif was far from ready to give up. He jabbed forward, forcing Andor onto unsure footing of loose rock. Gillian wanted to shout at Andor to be careful, but fear of making him lose concentration kept her silent.

  Andor swung wide, clipping Leif on the shoulder. Driven by hate and jealousy, the other man did not notice. With a growl he lunged forward. Andor’s feet skittered beneath him. Leif’s blade sliced his arm.

  Andor felt a rivulet of blood trickle down to his elbow. Again he struggled to keep upright. He saw Leif rear back for another attack and let his body go with the fall.

  Taken unaware, Leif stumbled forward. Andor jumped up behind him, replacing Leif on solid ground.

  "Very clever, cousin, but not clever enough."

  Leif reared back and charged. Andor leaped to one side, his sword extended before him. It caught its mark, slicing deep into Leif’s stomach.

  Gillian shuddered at the agonizing screech he let loose. His weapon clattered to the ground as he clutched the gaping wound. He writhed at Andor’s feet.

  "Kill me," he pleaded. "Make it quick. Do not let me die with this pain."

  Gillian stared at the hate burning in Andor’s eyes.

  "You killed my daughter. ‘Twas not a quick death for her. She suffered as did her mother and I. As we still do. Why should I have mercy for you?"

  Leif curled in a fetal position and sobbed while Andor stared him into the dirt. In that instance Gillian realized how very much Gwynneth’s loss had hurt Andor. Her grief had truly been equaled by his, and she had been too self-absorbed to see it. No more. From this point on, all aspects of their life would be shared.

  "We should have mercy because we are not animals, as he is," she said.

  When Andor looked her way, she went to him.

  "You wish me to kill this bastard?"

  She placed her palm on his chest. "Sheath your sword. If it is mercy he wants, mercy he shall have." She unhooked her knife from the brooch chain and tossed it next to Leif. "We will not take your life. I will not have it on my husband’s conscience the rest of his days that he killed a helpless man. But you have the means to take your own. ‘Twill be your choice to die slow from a belly wound or quick by your own hand."

  She slipped an arm around Andor’s waist. "Come, husband, and I will tend your wound."

  They met the men halfway home. Andor merely jerked his head toward the clearing and they continued on. As they came within sight of the house, the women converged on them.

  "Thank the gods you are all right," Fjola said.

  "But you are hurt," Freyda added.

  "It will be fine if the two of you move and let Gillian care for me," he said.

  By the time he and Gillian got to the hearth, Freyda and Fjola had water and bandages waiting. Gillian sucked in a breath as Andor slipped off his kirtle.

  "Nasty. Another scar to add to your collection," she said, and started to bath the wound.

  "Nearly as bad as this one." He pointed to his cheek.

  "Where?"

  Andor pointed again.

  Gillian squinted but could not see it. "Well, I must be blind. I see naught."

  "Oh...’tis there. Look closer."

  He edged closer, and she could see the small white scar her switch had left.

  Gillian laughed and scratched his new beard. "A big one to be sure, but this covers it well enough...What made you follow us to the spring?"

  "Love."

  Gillian felt her eyes mist over and blinked them clear to tend to his wound.

  "Bridget was hysterical by the time she got here," Freyda told them. "I had to give her some herb tea and a powder and had her lie down for awhile."

  "She and I have much in common." Gillian used her task to keep from having to look at anyone. "I would hate to see her return to Northland."

  "You want her here?" Fjola asked.

  Gillian caught Andor’s eyes. "If it is all right with you."

  "Aye." He winced as she tied a bandage around his arm.

  "Sorry."

  "‘Tis no matter...Bridget is welcome in our home."

  Fjola smiled. "I shall speak to her of it right now."

  Gillian dropped a kiss to Andor’s forehead. "Thank you."

  "I would do anything for you."

  "Anything?"

  "Aye."

  With a smile she bent close to whisper in his ear. "Then give me a child."

  Andor looked at her with a mixture of delight and surprise. "Are you certain?"

  "Aye, very certain."

  Nine months later as she nursed her newborn son beside Freyda and her own baby boy, and Bridget hovered in the background like a doting aunt, Gillian had no doubts about her decision. She smiled from son to proud father.

  Andor caressed the tiny cheek. "Happy?"

  "More than you can believe. I cannot wait to see what our next child will look like."

  "It sounds as though I shall need to build a bigger house."

  Gillian laughed. "Much bigger."

  * * *

  Author Bio:

  Anything Is Possible! That's Catherine Snodgrass's motto. Blessed (or

  cursed) with a vivid imagination, Catherine has learned to turn that

  "talent" inward. She grew up reading Victoria Holt, Phyllis Whitney, and

  others, and loves to "go places" in her writing. Readers should expect

  different locales and deep emotions in Catherine's books. She also believes

  that life is to be lived not watched, and has done some inner exploring of

  her own -- hiking a new path, learning a new skill, and even conquering a

  life-long fear of singing in public to take a turn or two on the stage of

  the local community theater. Her work as a paralegal in family and tax law

  has helped her tune in to the emotions of others and further deepen that

  aspect of her writing. Having set her children off in the world to explore

  their own paths, Catherine lives in the beautiful desert of Southern

  California with her husband (a genealogist) and th
e animals she loves.

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  * * *

  Publisher info:

  Stories that stimulate your laughter, Provoke your tears, Evoke your secret fears,

  Stories that make you think...The stuff that dreams are made of...LTDBooks

  www.ltdbooks.com

  Publisher info:

  Stories that stimulate your laughter, Provoke your tears, Evoke your secret fears,

  Stories that make you think...The stuff that dreams are made of...LTDBooks

  www.ltdbooks.com

  Return to Table of Contents

  * * *

  EARL FOR A SEASON

  by

  BRENDA DOW

  Published by LTDBooks

  www.ltdbooks.com

  Copyright Ó 2000 Brenda Dow

  * * *

  PROLOGUE

  Miss Stride brought the news to Mallow.

  A wiry figure even in her shawl-draped pelisse, she jumped hurriedly from her father’s old gig, pausing only to throw the travel rug over the steaming horse, and ran up to the rambling, old house. Her impatience was such that after a spirited knock, she thrust open the front door and entered.

  "Charlotte! What ever is the to-do?" A calm, musical voice spoke from the stairs. A tall, elegant young woman paused in her descent, one hand on the banister.

  "Julia! Where is Ivor?"

  "Probably shaving." Julia Valliant looked at the unexpected visitor curiously. The face before her, attractive in a sharp-featured way, was glowing, either with excitement or from her long drive on that crisp February morning.

  "Will he be down soon? I have awful news."

  Julia’s humorous gray eyes were wide with astonishment. "Tell me! Your papa has been made bishop and you must move to York - somewhere further?"

  "Julia! This is no time for your jokes." Charlotte Stride brushed a frosting of snow off her half-boots. "I bear the most terrible news! Oh, when will Ivor be down?"

  "I am baffled. You come in here positively dancing with news, but then you call it terrible."

  "No, no!" exclaimed Charlotte in contrition. "You mustn’t think I am lacking in proper...respect. The news is truly dreadful. It’s just that...well, sometimes good might come out of bad."

  Julia descended the last step. "This confusion is not like you. Oh, my dear, you are all of a tremble. Unwrap and come into the drawing room. There’s a good fire in there. You shall have some hot chocolate to warm you up." Taking a moment to convey the appropriate request to the kitchen, she returned to help the visitor with her pelisse.

  From upstairs, they heard a voice bellowing for Eli March to go out and look after Miss Stride’s horse. Charlotte Stride glanced up the stairs expectantly. "He knows I’m here, at least."

  Julia tucked her arm into that of the smaller woman and led her into the drawing room. "If my brother is to be first recipient of your news, I will contain my curiosity. How is your papa?"

  "Well enough!" There was a sarcastic smile. "But not well enough for a bishop. His dyspepsia still bothers him."

  "I shall be down directly, Lottie," continued the voice from on high. A few moments later, a heavy tread sounded in the hall and Sir Ivor Valliant’s bulk filled the doorway.

  "So the basilisk’s dead, eh?"

  Charlotte’s eyes glinted. "So you know!"

  "Not till now! Heard he came a cropper, though. The news is all over the countryside. Didn’t make it through the night, I trow!" He came forward in bluff concern at seeing her rubbing frozen hands. "Come, sit closer to the fire, pickle! It’s a cold day for a ten mile drive."

  "The Earl of Selchurch is dead?" Now serious, Julia looked from one to the other. "An accident? What happened, Charlotte?"

  "It is true, rest the poor man’s soul. Sir Basil was putting a hunter at a barrier and the horse fell. It rolled on him. He could get to his feet, I’m told, but had to be carried home. A doctor was there within hours, but could do nothing. My father was ministering to him all night till he died in the small hours."

  "A little late for Basil Selchurch to find religion!"

  His sister remonstrated mildly, "Ivor! For heaven’s sake! Consider Charlotte’s position!"

  Sir Ivor shrugged. "If Lottie cares a scruple about Selchurch, ‘tis the first I heard of it. The Countess - that’s a different matter. We all know how devoted Lottie is to her." He put his arm round Charlotte’s shoulders and gave her a quick hug. "Besides, she knows what I think of Basil, and wouldn’t want me to be a hypocrite, would you, chuck?"

  Charlotte pressed his hand. "I can’t spare long. I must get back to the Countess. Oh, to think! I should call her Dowager Countess now." A thought struck her. "Pray heaven her babe will be a boy."

  Julia looked interested. "The Countess of Selchurch is increasing again? Then I add my wishes to yours, for otherwise her home will go to whoever succeeds to the earldom. Then where would she and all those girls of hers go?"

  Charlotte seemed to have no answer for this. She was looking into Ivor’s face with some intensity. Sir Ivor wore a thoughtful expression while scratching his hastily brushed poll. Though he was never at his best early in the morning, the news seemed to have had a stimulating effect on him.

  Hiding a smile, Julia hastily made the excuse that she had business in the kitchen and left. This subterfuge lost credibility as she passed the housekeeper bustling in with hot chocolate.

  An uneasy silence fell between the man and woman remaining in the drawing room. Charlotte studiously sipped her chocolate. Sir Ivor partook of a cup, and made a great thing of cooling his drink by blowing on it.

  Eventually, he glanced across at her rather tentatively. "Why don’t you stay for the day? Your papa was up all night. He won’t be needing the gig. Give the nag a rest! Julia has some new sheets of music sent up from London. You might like to give them a try."

  Charlotte rose and stamped her foot. "Why are you talking about music? Can’t you see what this means for us? The Countess will never stand in our way."

  Sir Ivor went a little red, but stood up to her manfully. "There’s where I’m ahead of you, dumpling." A flash of anguish crossed the sharp little face looking up at him. "I’ve already decided. I’ll be calling on your papa first thing tomorrow."

  His reward was a transforming smile and a face raised to receive his kiss.

  Julia had gone upstairs to her bedroom. She spent some time gazing out the window, not really seeing the bleak wintry scene.

  Her own life must face repercussions from the death of the Earl of Selchurch. Well, life was prone to change, she told herself. She had lived with her brother and run his household since their mother had died, but now there would soon be a new mistress at Mallow. For several years, Sir Ivor had been conducting a semi-despairing, low key courtship of the daughter of the parson who had the living at Selchurch. However, an obstacle had lain between them because of a feud between Sir Ivor Valliant and the Earl of Selchurch. Rival magistrates, they had long differed over certain jurisdictional matters. The dead Earl had been a haughty and vengeful man, and Charlotte had refused to make a commitment for fear that her marriage to the Earl’s enemy would prejudice her father’s livelihood.

  Julia had no doubt that Charlotte’s friendship with the Countess would now remove that obstacle. A wedding would go forward. However, much as she enjoyed the occasional company of her brother’s intended, she had a leaden feeling inside when she contemplated life at Mallow when Charlotte became Lady Valliant. She would naturally assume responsibility for running the house and Julia’s position would become that of an unnecessary dependant. While she would never be made to feel less than welcome, the prospect did not suit her. Charlotte was honest, fair-minded and imbued with a satirical outlook that melded well with Julia’s gentler humor. Julia appreciated Charlotte’s many good qualities, but she knew that inevitably they would rub up against one another. Charlotte’s straitlaced practicality would be at war with Julia’s own preference for the relaxed, unhurri
ed surroundings presently prevailing at Mallow. Charlotte would strip the ivy from the walls for she liked a modern look. The garden would be regimented into formality. Ivor would not mind. He had no great interest in the garden, nor the house, as long as the windows admitted no draughts and the chimneys were swept yearly. However, Julia loved the old place just as it was, and knew that Charlotte’s tastes were far different from her own.

  No, she would not stay long at Mallow. She would have her own home; but before that, she would indulge her ambition to travel. There was so much world to see! Her fortune was moderate, but with care would afford her sufficient means to visit a few foreign places. Later she would set up an establishment independent of her brother. Of course, Ivor would say it was out of the question for an unmarried gentlewoman to travel unless under the aegis of some respectable family. She did not know of any available respectable family, but did not despair of making some suitable arrangement. Ivor must realize that she would not stay at Mallow forever.

  When she descended, she discovered not much to her surprise that Charlotte had already left, driven by a sense of duty to the family that had been her father’s support.

  "Where did you disappear to?" queried Ivor. "I sent Lottie home with a fresh horse. I can make an exchange when I drive over to the Parsonage tomorrow."

  Julia had no need to enquire what business would take him to visit Mr. Stride on the following day. She put on a cheerful tone. "Has Charlotte named a day?"

  Her brother bent a knowing eye upon her. "Well, as to that, we should let his lordship’s bones chill for decency’s sake. I’ll not wait out a year, though. I’ve a fancy for a summer wedding trip to the continent now that we’ve seen the end of Boney."

  "Charlotte will enjoy that. When you get back, she will like to have the running of the house to herself. Then it will be my turn to travel."

  "Not that again, Ju! Dash it! You know my feelings. Papa would never have allowed it."