Lady Betrayed

by Tamara Leigh

  It was worth the loss of their good opinion for what Gabriel’s narrowed lids and convulsing jaw evidenced. Still he strove for moral superiority. Unfortunate. It would make stealing a son from him more difficult.

  “You are gracious, my lord.” Sir Erec bowed and turned away.

  Gabriel regarded Bernart a moment longer, then moved his gaze to Juliana.

  Would the one impervious to her beauty acknowledge her? Shortly after Bernart introduced them, while Gabriel and he were yet squires, their mutual dislike became palpable. Gabriel called Juliana’s notions of love and chivalry foolish, and she named him a blackheart and declared him ill-mannered and dishonorable. And when Gabriel’s father later set him aside, she had offered that up as further proof he was not fitting company. Bernart had been unable to argue that, his friend having never explained the reason for his loss of title and lands.

  Gabriel dipped his chin. “Lady Juliana.”

  “Lord De Vere.” Her tone was frigid enough to cause a man to shrink into his mantle.

  And that was good, Bernart assured himself. She would do what was required of her and hate it—no possibility she would feel anything other than revulsion for the man who sired Bernart’s son.

  When Gabriel pivoted and strode after Sir Erec, the commotion in the hall resumed. Servants returned to their tasks, squires to their excited chatter, lords and knights to their boasting, and ladies to their idle talk.

  Bernart looked down. What shone out of Juliana’s face wounded as no words could. Though he longed to believe she would forgive him once a child filled her arms, he feared she would not. And she gave him more reason to fear when her eyes fixed on the Wulfrith dagger he had been unable to don since the vow he made upon it had sealed their bargain. The gaze she swept back to his was so chill he wished the desire to display his worthiness at arms had not made him return the weapon to his belt.

  Longing for music to deafen the voices urging him to turn back, jongleurs to make him laugh, and tales of the troubadour to wash away the pain, he signaled an end to the meal.

  “Minstrels!” he shouted and stepped from behind the lord’s table, leaving his wife to accept what she must.

  Juliana gained her feet. Feeling as if she would ever be cold, she held her arms at her sides to keep from hugging them about her and watched as Bernart and his guests moved toward the hearth.

  As Lady of Tremoral, her place was there, but she could not bring herself to join them. Not on a night made more heinous by the arrival of the one with whom Bernart intended her to lie.

  She swallowed loudly. Why had Gabriel come? Greed? Vainglory? Or did he hope Bernart had forgiven him his betrayal? Was it renewed friendship he sought? If the latter, he was a fool. But then, he did not know how dark her husband’s hatred.

  And she ought not care. If Gabriel’s jealousy and cowardice were responsible for Bernart’s impotence, he was as much her enemy. But therein lay the difficulty—if.

  She looked across the hall to where Gabriel and his fair-haired companion stood apart from the others. The former’s features had matured, and he was broader of shoulders than the young man who had several times accompanied her betrothed to Castle Gloswell. Though no comelier of face than in his younger years, he was more formidable and fiercely masculine—presenting as one well accustomed to arms, battle, and conquest. And yet, Bernart believed him a coward.

  As for his scorn of her opinions on love, for which she had stated his heart must be as black as a dreamless night, he exuded more rancor than he had then and was sure to be less chivalrous—even more incapable of loving and being loved.

  Unbidden, a memory returned to her, and try though she did to cast it off, it played out. Bernart’s infidelity. Heart-wrenching pain. The garden. Awareness of the one who lowered beside her. Even before she looked up, she had felt his concern and sensed he wished to comfort her. And when she set her moist eyes upon his…

  What had she seen in Gabriel’s? Why had it made her move toward him? What had she wanted?

  Naught! she told herself. And naught had he wanted from Bernart’s frivolous betrothed, quick as he had been to withdraw and, doubtless, curse the folly of finding himself alone with her.

  But there was something Bernart wanted. If not this night, the next he would endeavor to steal a son from Gabriel.

  Despair gripped her harder. How could Bernart ask this of her? What possessed him to choose his greatest enemy? If she refused, would he truly cast out Alaiz whom he had ordered to remain abovestairs during the tournament?

  Of a sudden, Gabriel looked around, and though his blue gaze pierced her, she did not avert her eyes.

  Let him see I like him no better now than I did then, she commanded herself. Let it grind to dust any suspicion I am the one who comes to him in the night.

  As if he thought it a game—one he meant to win—he stared.

  And so it went until, exhausted by the emotions blackening her insides as they moved toward her heart, she turned away. Not caring if she was missed, she lifted her skirts clear of the debris littering the rushes, crossed the hall, and ascended to the solar.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  He was not accustomed to losing. But then, neither was he in the habit of ignoring every instinct that warned him against accepting Bernart Kinthorpe’s challenge. He should not be here.

  Wondering what possessed him, Gabriel folded his arms over his chest and waited to see if Erec fared any better in the treacherous game of dice. As the next round began, he was struck by the sense of being watched. He knew who it was. For the past several hours he had often fallen beneath that one’s regard.

  Bernart laid his plans, whatever they were.

  Shortly, the servant who had twice filled Gabriel’s tankard and several times turned other serving women from his path approached. Hips swaying, shoulders back to display a fine bosom, her eyes spoke of another thirst she could quench.

  Though she was the type to tempt him—no innocence about her over which to feel great guilt—and he was all the more vulnerable at tournament when his blood ran high from battle, drink, and too much celebration, he would not succumb. Were he to yield to the carnal, it would not be beneath his enemy’s roof.

  “More ale, Lord De Vere?” Reaching her pitcher toward his vessel, Nesta bent forward to reveal more of what dwelt beneath her bodice.

  Though the view and her husky purr meant to move him to imaginings of what she could do to a man, and his body began to pull in that direction, he shifted his attention to the miserly contents of his tankard. Further temptation—more drink to dull the ache of ribs fractured five weeks past while preventing Erec from falling to ransom.

  He moved his tankard aside. “I thank you, but nay.”

  Her smile was all seduction. “Surely there is something you require.”

  “There is not.”

  After a long, narrow-eyed moment, she leaned so close her breasts pressed against his forearm and the perfume of which she was overly fond stung his nostrils. “Lord Kinthorpe told you like your women innocent.”

  It took effort to contain his startle as he was thrust back in time to the jape Bernart had worked on him. Smiling tightly, he said, “Did he?”

  “Aye.” She trailed fingers up his arm. “Worry not, milord, I can be that to you—all demur and shrinking.”

  As he silently cursed Bernart, movement to the left pulled his regard to that one. Limp pronounced, the Lord of Tremoral approached those who diced, eyes on the man he believed had betrayed him.

  Gabriel set a hand over Nesta’s.

  Her smile enlarged but fell when he unhooked her fingers from his arm.

  “I must decline.” He jutted his chin at Bernart. “There is something I need to discuss with your lord.”

  She made a sound of disgust and sauntered toward Erec whom she would find as resistant to temptation—perhaps more.

  “Try a few casts, Lord Kinthorpe?” a tourneyer invited his host.

  Bernart laughed, causing a slop of ale
to cast itself over his tankard's rim. “I prefer to watch you lose your coin, Sir Arnold,” he said in a voice as strained as when he had welcomed Gabriel and Erec. He halted alongside Gabriel, and when the game resumed, said, “Is fortune not with you this eve?”

  Gabriel looked across his shoulder. “I cannot say it has shone kindly upon me.” For proof, his purse hung lighter.

  “What of the morrow? Think you fortune will shine kindly upon you then?”

  “I assure you, Lord Kinthorpe, you will not find me wanting.”

  Bernart put his head to the side, lowered his gaze over the bigger man. “I do not think I will.”

  When Bernart returned his attention to the game, Gabriel considered the one whose appearance had shocked when Erec and he entered the donjon. Though the Lord of Tremoral had been a capable warrior and boasted looks that far exceeded Gabriel’s, he had fallen victim to excess and lack of discipline. Spare flesh around eyes and jowls, thin hair visible beneath an embroidered cap, belted waist by no means trim, he was hardly recognizable.

  A worthy opponent? Though once they had been fairly matched in arms, those days were surely gone. But Gabriel did not think the injury to his leg was all to blame. Many a warrior rose above such an affliction—could yet boast a formidable presence on and off the battlefield, especially those trained at Wulfen.

  Of a sudden, Bernart turned to Gabriel. “You think me much changed. I am, a result of…” He trailed off, the darkness in his eyes causing the hairs on the back of Gabriel’s neck to prickle. “Ah, you remember how I came by this limp. Do you not, old friend?”

  Old friend. The bite of those words making a lie of them, Gabriel said, “Not something one easily forgets.”

  Bernart raised his eyebrows. “That sounds like guilt.”

  It was, and Gabriel resented it. Bernart might call what his friend had done cowardice, but those who turned back had lived to fight another day—a victorious one denied the men led to slaughter.

  An exultant shout from the dicers was answered by groans and the clatter of coins that proclaimed a winner.

  Flashing a big smile, Erec turned to Nesta where she had squeezed a place at his side and kissed her loudly on the cheek.

  She swept her gaze to Gabriel, smiled, dipped her lashes.

  She thought to make him jealous, but even were Erec of a mind to seek intimacy, Gabriel would not begrudge him the conquest.

  “Methinks you have lost the wench to your friend,” Bernart said across the rim of his tankard. “Mayhap you are as changed as I.”

  Gabriel knew to what he referred—his ability to find favor with women when he stood in the midst of men more handsome and moneyed. “She said you revealed my preference for virtuous women and assured me she could act the part. Still playing your games, Bernart?”

  The Lord of Tremoral lowered his tankard, presenting a smile that seemed genuine, as if he lived again what he had done eight years past. “I could not resist. Admit it, Gabriel, it was amusing. Certes, our friends thought it among my best japes.”

  His worst, and not at all amusing. But Bernart had not known that only months before Arnault de Vere had set aside his eldest son because his wife was so free with her body he could not be certain he had fathered Gabriel.

  “As I have had enough drink and would assure my sword and lance land true on the morrow,” Gabriel said, “I shall leave you to enjoy better company whilst I gain my rest.” He started to turn away, but a hand landed on his arm.

  “A chamber has been prepared for you. I would be pleased if you stayed in the donjon as my guest.”

  Now the hairs on the backs of Gabriel’s hands stood erect. Though Tremoral’s castle was more grand than many, its private accommodations were limited, and those few chambers were surely reserved for great lords and their ladies. All other participants slept in the hall or pitched tents outside the walls—as Gabriel had left his squire to do.

  “Pardon me for being surprised by your invitation, Lord Kinthorpe.”

  Bernart released him. “We were once great friends.”

  “Once.”

  “And now again I would be that,” Bernart summoned words that had to be more bitter than the meanest ale. “Providing you are also of a mind to put the past behind us.”

  What gain did he seek in having beneath his roof the one he blamed for his capture at Acre? Did he hope to put a knife in Gabriel’s back while he slept? Nay, too obvious. More likely he wished to establish goodwill so whatever he planned for the battlefield would appear an accident.

  Gabriel quaffed the last of his tankard’s contents, lowered it. “I come to tourney. That is all.”

  The Lord of Tremoral momentarily averted his gaze. To hide his anger? “Come, Gabriel, accept my hospitality in the spirit with which it is offered, that of consideration to a fellow Wulfen-trained knight.” He glanced at the dagger on Gabriel’s belt that was a match for his. “If naught else, in remembrance of the friendship we shared.”

  Before Gabriel could refuse again, Nesta sidled between them. “More ale, milords?”

  “I have no need,” Bernart said, his tankard full but for the slop lost to laughter and the one drink he had taken. “But I am sure Lord De Vere would like another fill.”

  Once more reaching her pitcher to Gabriel’s tankard, she offered up an eyeful of her bodice’s occupants. Again, he moved his tankard out of reach. “I must make ready for the morrow.”

  Her pout was exaggerated, emphasizing the fullness of her lips, but when he withheld his vessel, she said, “Then I shall have to quench another’s thirst.” With greater movement of the hips, she swayed away.

  “I do not blame you,” Bernart said. “She knows how to pleasure, but she scratches and bites.” He rubbed his shoulder, grimaced.

  Gabriel should not be surprised that though Bernart had remained true to Juliana throughout the crusade, he strayed now they were wed. Did she as well? Had she become like Gabriel’s mother? Would the children she had yet to bear be deemed illegitimate, joining the ranks of those Bernart had likely sired?

  “Well, old friend?” Bernart said. “Will you do me the honor of accepting the chamber or lessen your chances of victory by attempting snatches of sleep amid the din of camp revelry that could last well into dawn?”

  There was that, and for which Gabriel might have to stuff wool plugs in his ears. More, the injury to his ribs caused by the lance tip that had penetrated his armor was aggravated by nights on the hard ground. Even if he had to sleep light beneath his enemy’s roof, a feather-stuffed mattress would make for better rest and see him more prepared to gain ransoms.

  “Very well, with gratitude I accept.”

  Bernart beamed. “I am pleased. As told, the room has been prepared. It is on the second floor, the last chamber on the left ere the chapel. It is small, but you will find it more comfortable than a tent.”

  “I thank you, Lord Kinthorpe. Now I bid you good eve.”

  With a mix of satisfaction and dread, Bernart stared after his enemy. He had cleared the first obstacles to taking a son from Gabriel, but there were more, not the least of which was what was required of Juliana.

  For his continued tolerance of her sister she had acquiesced, but when the time came, could she go to Gabriel? And though he had warned she must not behave the virgin—to which she had laughed in his face—Gabriel would notice she was far from experienced. If he had not yet had an untouched woman, too much drink in him would aid in Juliana’s deception, but if the betrayer had finally succumbed to innocence…

  As much to gauge Gabriel’s reaction as to amuse himself, Bernart had told Nesta his old friend liked his women pure. Though Gabriel was difficult to read, when the wench began to work her wiles in earnest, he had tensed and there had been distaste in his smile over Nesta’s words that surely told she could play the innocent.

  Never had Gabriel confided the reason he eschewed a woman’s virtue, but even before whatever caused his father to set him aside, he had been averse—sometimes
violently so. When they were squires, he had become angered over Bernart’s boast that a tavern owner’s daughter would not go to her marriage bed chaste.

  Bernart had thought his friend would strike him and, having imbibed much, stood little chance of defending himself. Instead, Gabriel said he ought to be ashamed of plucking a flower from a garden that did not belong to him—more, casting it aside to be further bruised beneath the heels of other men.

  Bernart had thrown back his head and laughed. Amid the witness of fellow squires, Gabriel had put him up against a wall, drawn back a fist, and demanded to know if he understood he had fouled something pure.

  It was the second time Bernart had felt hatred for him. Before that, it had moved through him when Gabriel gained the title of first squire to Lord Wulfrith, leaving the less exalted title to his friend.

  Refusing Gabriel an answer, he had stared at the fist that could lay ruin to his nose, but the blow had not landed. Once Bernart sobered, his ire had been slow to cool, and even then it had not entirely. Thereafter, he had picked at his friend’s vulnerability, most notably with his best jape—coin slipped to a harlot to seduce Gabriel and, once they were abed, play the innocent.

  That offense had seen his nose and lip bloodied, but it had been worth it. Even now it made him smile. And he did, though only for a moment. The deception he meant to work on Gabriel was no jape. It was revenge, and a higher price Bernart could not pay—that of his wife who would be a true innocent in his enemy’s bed.

  Belly cramping, he closed his eyes.

  You can still turn back, spoke the voice that did not understand the pain over all he had lost and what was said of him. Go to Juliana. Beg for her forgiveness. Vow to be more attentive to her and kinder to her sister.

  He wanted to, but what gain for him?

  “I will have a son,” he growled and put the tankard to his lips and took a long drink he knew he should not. Just the one, he promised himself.

  He staggered beneath the sting of Juliana’s palm, clapped a hand to his fiery cheek, met her accusing gaze.