The Shielded Heart Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  Dearreader

  Title Page

  Books by Sharon Schulze

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Copyright

  “Stop being kind to me,”

  Anna demanded

  “I don’t deserve it. I’m not angry with you. I’m annoyed at myself.”

  Anna kept her hands at her sides, fingers clenched. The powerful temptation to move closer to Swen shocked her. How she wanted to grab him by the front of the tunic and shake him until she wiped away the aggravating look of amusement that had returned to his oh-so-handsome face.

  But even more shocking was the equally strong yearning to grab him by the tunic and employ a completely different method to rid him of his smile.

  It wasn’t possible to smile while mouth to mouth, was it? She pressed her own lips into a firm line to combat the urge to grin at the image that thought brought to mind. Holy Mary save her from yielding to the desire to find out the answer for herself…!

  Dear Reader,

  This holiday season, we’ve selected books that are sure to warm your heart—and all with heroes who redefine the phrase “the gift of giving.” Critics have described Sharon Schulze’s books as “rich,” “sensual” and “intriguing.” Her latest, The Shielded Heart, is all of those things and more. Set in eighteenth-century England, this spin-off of To Tame a Warrior’s Heart is the stirring story of a warrior who learns to accept his special psychic gift as he teaches an enamel artisan—with her own unique vision—about life and love. Don’t miss it!

  Award-winning author Cheryl Reavis returns with another of her sensational and heart-wrenching Civil War stories. Harrigan’s Bride features a soldier who chivalrously marries the bedridden daughter of his late godmother, and finds unexpected love. Be sure to look for A Warrior’s Passion by the multi-published. Margaret Moore. Here, a young woman is forced into an unwanted betrothal before the man she truly loves can claim her as his wife.

  Rounding out the month is Territorial Bride by Linda Castle, the sequel to her first book, Fearless Hearts. A love is put to the test in this darling story of opposites when a cowgirl is seriously injured and tries to rebuff her city-bred fiancé.

  Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical® novel.

  Sincerely,

  Tracy Farrell

  Senior Editor

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Harlequin Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  The Shielded Heart

  Sharon Schulze

  Books by Sharon Schulze

  Harlequin Historicals

  Heart of the Dragon #356

  To Tame a Warrior’s Heart #386

  The Shielded Heart #442

  SHARON SCHULZE

  is a confirmed bookaholic who loves reading as much as writing. Although she has a degree in civil engineering, she’s always been fascinated by history. Writing about the past gives her a chance to experience days gone by—without also encountering disease, vermin and archaic plumbing!

  A New Hampshire native, she now makes her home in Connecticut with her husband, Cliff, teenagers Patrick and Christina, and their miniature daschund, Samantha. She is current president of the Connecticut Chapter of RWA; in her spare time she enjoys movies, music and poking around in antique shops.

  With much love and a raised glass of Asti

  to my fellow Red Flannel Ums—

  Chrissy, Mom, Auntie, Mary, Patti, Becky and Ari—

  for Ladies’ Weekend, and all the rest of the year, too!

  Prologue

  He’d lingered here too long.

  Heart pounding hard in his chest, Swen rolled onto his back and stared at the night-shadowed ceiling.

  He could not halt the images his traitorous mind painted there.

  Past, present…

  Future?

  He closed his eyes, yet the illusions taunted him.

  He lay there, eyes open, as scenes played themselves out before his unwilling gaze. How he hated them, and himself—powerless to bring them to an end, powerless to change the cruel hand of fate.

  Had he made yet another life for himself—found a place where he’d gained respect, found friends dearer to him than his own family—only to lose everything he valued once again?

  The images faded. Despite the weariness and loss weighting him down, Swen climbed out of bed and began to dress.

  The only way to escape this curse was to run farther, faster, never allowing his emotions to catch up.

  Eyes burning, he stared into the darkness.

  Alone. Running all his life.

  Why had he believed he could ever stop?

  Chapter One

  Welsh Marches, Autumn 1215

  Anna accepted her escort’s assistance and climbed atop the chestnut gelding, giving the earnest young man a smile despite her discomfort. It wasn’t his fault she’d come to loathe the fractious beast they’d given her for the journey. ‘Twould have been the same had they mounted her upon the most docile palfrey; over the years she’d agitated many a steed by her mere presence. It made any form of travel, save shank’s mare, a battle of wills.

  If only her workshop were nearer the abbey, she could walk when Father Michael summoned her, instead of traveling nearly a day’s ride surrounded by a troop of guards. So much time lost, away from her work—time she could ill afford. Yet the abbot pressed her for more, always more, in his vain attempts to please the abbey’s most eminent patron, King John.

  She took a last look from atop her lofty perch. The brilliant sunlight made the gray stones of the Abbey of St. Stephen of Murat gleam with a heavenly aura.

  Though she appreciated its beauty, she also knew ’twas just the effect the order sought.

  Heaven on earth…with His Eminence, Pope Innocent, as its king.

  And Anna de Limoges as the Church’s faithful servant.

  Her lips curled into a wry smile as she nudged her horse into motion. She knew better than most just how calculating even Father Michael, the most gentle of men, could be.

  He was no different from any other man of God in that respect.

  Yet how could she complain, when they allowed her to practice her craft?

  Once they’d been on the road for a time, Anna and her mount reached enough of an understanding that she could focus her attention on more important things. Her design of the chasse the abbot had commissioned to hold his latest acquisition—reputedly a splinter of the True Cross—didn’t seem quite right, though she hadn’t yet decided what bothered her about it. She’d created a number of reliquaries in the past few years, but this one…She must make this one different from the others, something
unique, special—the perfect frame for so holy an object.

  The perfect gift for King John.

  If only Father Michael had permitted her to touch it…

  She sighed. ’Twas likely just as well she had not. For whether the splinter truly came from Christ’s cross, or was nothing more than a piece of wood, the abbot would have her embellish this chasse with the finest enamelwork.

  Mayhap he had good reason to keep the relic from her grasp. It was not for her to decide if the object was worthy of the frame she created for it.

  Anna shook off her uneasy thoughts. ’Twas unusual for her to see darkness looming about her, tainting her view of the world. With little more than bits of metal and glass, and the images that filled her mind, she created pictures of color and light. Through her vision stories of God’s love, transformed into art fit to grace any altar.

  Her attention focused inward, she relaxed in the saddle and settled down to ponder her creations.

  To create the enamels was her purpose in life; for as long as she could remember, her thoughts had centered about her work. She’d been blessed with a gift.

  And because of it, she had become a gift to the Church.

  The chill of dusk settled over Anna like a blanket, startling her from the dreamlike state she’d fallen into. The rhythmic tread of the horses, the warm sunshine upon her face, had conspired to fill her mind with the scenes she would use to create her unique designs. ’Twas ever thus when she worked. Her mother had said more than once that a team of oxen could tread right over Anna, and she’d scarce take notice of them.

  Her mind still muzzy, she clambered out of the saddle on her own and gazed about her. She shook her head and stared at the men of her guard as they set up camp.

  The sounds of their banter filled the air, then faded from her notice as a rush of sensation overwhelmed her.

  At the sudden tingle at her nape, she turned so quickly her feet tangled in her skirts. She caught her balance and straightened. The tingle intensified to an icy chill.

  Upon the hill across the clearing sat a warrior atop a mighty destrier, silhouetted dark and menacing against the last fiery glow of the setting sun. Both man and mount appeared huge. Before she could do more than gasp, he nudged the horse into motion and descended into their camp.

  Four of her guards raced toward him as another grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back toward the fire. “Over here, mistress,” he rasped out. He released her, drawing his sword as they joined the others on the far side of the leaping flames.

  Anna craned her neck, peering around the fire and the men who surrounded her to catch another glimpse of the warrior. Why had she felt that strange awareness of him, before she’d known he was there?

  The chill of it lingered still.

  Suddenly the warrior laughed, jolting her, and halting her men in their tracks. “Think you I’m so foolish as to attack you single-handed?” he asked, his deep voice tinged with mirth. He removed his helm and tucked it beneath his arm. “I mean you no harm. I’ve traveled far. I only wish to share your company—and your fire.”

  William, the captain of the guard, stepped forward, shoulders back as if to emphasize the bulk of his barrellike chest. “And who might you be?” he demanded, the sword he grasped in his meaty fist held at the ready.

  “Swen Siwardson, a Norseman late of Lord Ian ap Dafydd’s household.”

  That set up a murmur of comment. “You serve Prince Llywelyn’s Dragon?” William asked.

  Who was this Dragon, Anna wondered, to tinge William’s voice with such awe? She’d never seen him treat anyone—not even the abbot, his own master—with any more than grudging politeness.

  Evidently viewing her guard as little threat, Siwardson dismounted and led his horse closer. “Aye. I left his keep at Gwal Draig not a week since.”

  She’d expected a hulking brute, but the man who approached with purposeful strides was anything but. Though he towered over her men and his shoulders appeared broad beneath his fur-trimmed cloak, he moved with an easy grace. If only the fire weren’t in her way, she thought, struggling to see around it.

  William motioned to the men behind him. “A moment, milord.” They huddled together, their conversation too quiet for Anna to hear, then William left them to join her and the other guards near the fire. “I say we let him stay, mistress,” he said, low-voiced. “Be a good way to hear what’s goin’ on on the other side of the border.”

  “If you think it safe,” she said, as William would know this better than she.

  He grunted in agreement and returned to Siwardson and the others. “You may join us, milord, so long’s you put aside your sword while you’re in our camp. I’m William de Coucy, captain of the guard. You may give your sword to me, I’ll make certain no harm comes to it.” He nodded toward Anna and the men surrounding her. “And we’ve a lady with us, milord. I trust you’ll treat her polite, if you take my meanin’.”

  “Of course. I thank you.” Siwardson bowed in Anna’s direction. Surely he could not see her past the fire? He then hooked his helm onto his saddle and led his mount to the cluster of trees where the other horses were tethered. After he hobbled the massive beast, he returned, unbuckled his sword belt and handed the weapon to William.

  After cautioning her to remain where she was, her guards left to join the others. The men talked briefly, then split up, some to unload the pack animals, the rest to finish setting up camp. Perhaps because of Siwardson’s size and presumed strength, William set the warrior to work putting up Anna’s tent.

  Anna unclasped her cloak and laid it aside, then settled herself next to the fire to observe Siwardson. He appeared created of shadows, his movements smooth and graceful despite his size, his face a mystery. What kind of man would laugh as he faced eight armed men, alone?

  And to venture unarmed into a group of strangers…?

  Intrigued, Anna rose and, after noting that her guards were all busy elsewhere, moved toward him. She wanted to see Siwardson’s face, to judge for herself this stranger who had sent a frisson of awareness dancing down her spine.

  She wandered closer to where he knelt hammering the last tent peg into the ground, and stopped a few feet away. His hair shone white-blond in the firelight, but with his back to her, she still could not see his face.

  “Milord?”

  His movements slow, deliberate, he straightened and turned to stare at her. Stifling a gasp, she stared back. Light blond hair fell to his shoulders, curling slightly about his darkly tanned face, and his eyes also pale a blue, they shimmered like ice.

  Still holding her fixed with his gaze, he muttered something—a curse, from the sound of it—in a language she did not understand.

  Recognition lit his gaze, she’d have sworn, yet she knew they’d never met.

  He bowed, releasing her. “Milady. Thank you for allowing me to share your camp.”

  Her heart beat so fast, she had to draw a deep breath and force herself to calm before answering. “You are welcome, sir. But ‘tis William who deserves your thanks, not I. ‘Tis not for me to say who joins us or not.”

  “Surely the men take their orders from you?”

  “Nay, milord, they don’t answer to me. I’m naught more than the baggage they protect and convey from one place to another.” She smiled. “You wouldn’t expect a coffer of plate to venture an opinion, would you?”

  Finely chiseled lips curled into a grin, causing a dimple to appear in his right cheek. “Nay, milady.” He stepped closer and, casting aside the stone he’d used as a hammer, took her hand in his. Warmth swept through her fingers and up her arm to envelop her heart as he brought her hand to his lips. “You’re unlike any baggage I’ve ever seen—” he tightened his hold “—and far more lovely.”

  Anna snatched her hand free, afraid he’d notice how her pulse pounded so strangely at his touch, his words. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from him so easily. His face, limned in firelight, held her spellbound. His strong, even features fit his size,
and his tanned skin provided an enticing contrast to his pale eyes and hair.

  And his height…Rarely did she need to look up to meet a man’s gaze, yet the top of her head scarcely reached Siwardson’s broad shoulders.

  “If you’re no coffer of plate, milady, what kind of baggage are you?” His grin widening, he stared at her hair, disheveled by her hood. “A bundle of furs, mayhap?” She stood motionless while he brushed the wispy curls away from her face, his fingers lingering against her cheek. He shook his head. “Nay, nothing so coarse. Silk—aye, ‘tis—”

  “Sir!” Anna cried, her voice little more than a croak of sound. His rough palm remained cupped about her cheek, evoking a confusing array of thoughts and sensations. ’Twas too much to bear! She took a deep breath and raised her hand to grasp his wrist. “You must not—”

  As her fingers closed about his arm, Swen finally paid heed to the strange sensation he felt where they touched—and to the unusual awareness of her he felt inside—and released the woman. She let go of him just as swiftly. “I beg your pardon, milady. I did not intend to abuse your trust.” Lips twisted in a mocking grimace, he stepped away from her. “Please, may we start over?”

  She looked uncertain, confused, but she did not run from him, nor did she call for her guards. Perhaps he had not overstepped the bounds of propriety too badly.

  As if to calm a frightened animal, he moved slowly and reached for her hand. He clasped it gently within his sword-hardened palm and swept a bow worthy of a French courtier. “I am Swen Siwardson, milady. I am most pleased to meet you. Will you tell me your name?”