Lady Betrayed

by Tamara Leigh

  Wherever Gabriel lay, he did not move, likely as much a result of the potent wine as fatigue from a day spent wielding arms beneath the glaring sun.

  Heart pounding, she accepted there was only way to awaken him, and it was something to which she must become accustomed. She would have to touch him.

  She released her mantle to the floor, uncovering the homespun gown donned hours earlier. Its chafing made her long for a fine chemise to serve as a barrier between her skin and the rough fibers, but she dared not wear one lest Gabriel’s hands recognize the material as distant from what a commoner could afford.

  Silently beseeching the Lord for forgiveness both Bernart and Alaiz believed would be granted her, she loosened her laces with fingers that seemed thumbs.

  Moments later, she suppressed a scream as warm, wine-scented breath swept the back of her left ear. “’Tis good you have the scent of a woman, else my blade would be at your throat.”

  Though she told herself to drop her gown, turn, and press her body to his, she could not.

  “Of course, women can be as treacherous as men,” Gabriel de Vere murmured.

  Juliana was struck by how different it was to have him, rather than Bernart, at her back. His breath in her ear. It was almost sensual. Nay, it was sensual, and all the more so in the absence of hands upon her.

  “Some women more than others,” he added.

  Now she heard how thick his words and almost thanked the Lord. But Bernart was the one responsible for Gabriel’s intoxication, and regardless of how much easier it made what she must do, never would she be grateful to the one who had sent her here.

  Where had Gabriel been upon her entrance? Likely one of the chairs in the far corner, from which he must have been unable to rise following an evening of celebration.

  “I have had much to drink this eve,” he said, “but I am fair certain I issued no invitation.” He settled his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward him—a figure so dark she knew where his face was only when his breath stirred the strands loosened from the two braids made of the single one worn at meal.

  Again, he wafted the scent of wine. And something more appealing, especially for how unexpected it was—cleanliness, unlike before the commencement of the tournament when she suggested he bathe. Had he done it for her? Nay, he could not know they would ever be this near.

  One of his hands slid across her shoulder, up her neck, and cradled her jaw. “What do you in my chamber?”

  She had feared conversation. But though hopeful Gabriel would not require words from her, being as callous as Bernart's knights who trysted with commoners for pleasure only, she was prepared. Her nurse from birth to the age of ten had been an Anglo-Saxon. Thus, Juliana could speak that language, shedding the French and accent of the nobility who had ruled England since William of Normandy conquered this island kingdom in 1066.

  “Have you no tongue?” Gabriel asked and, as if to answer it himself, slid his thumb across her lips, parting them.

  It was only calloused skin upon soft, surprisingly sensitive skin, and yet it stole her breath. Moving her head aside, she stepped back, but there was nowhere to go but the bed she came up against and no choice but to do as Bernart demanded of her.

  “What do you in my chamber?” Gabriel asked again, irritation thinning his thick words.

  “Forgive me, Sire,” she whispered in English, making her voice more throaty. “Though I learn yer language, ’tis difficult.” As he had experienced in Bernart’s hall, most of the servants waiting on guests conversed in Norman French, their lord having little tolerance for those who clung to their native language.

  Feeling Gabriel’s suspicion deepen, Juliana set her body against his and slid her hands up his chest and over his shoulders.

  He caught her wrists and pulled them down. “I issued no invitation,” he said, this time in English, and released her. “Now leave.”

  Hardly able to believe he did not eagerly take what she offered, she gripped handfuls of his tunic. “Milord, ye did invite me to yer chamber. I would not have come otherwise.”

  He stilled as if to search out the memory, then said, “Who are you?”

  She was not prepared to give a name. Which might she use? Mary? Beth? Of the former there were several who worked in the castle but only two of the latter.

  Before she could decide, Gabriel said with what seemed a smile in his voice, “Certes, you are not Nesta. If that one has a womanly scent, it is hidden beneath the perfume with which she bathes away her filth.”

  “Ye are disappointed, milord?”

  “I am not.”

  “Then I should remain?”

  At his hesitation, she eased her hold on his tunic and once more slid her hands upward. And could not help comparing his broad, muscled chest to Bernart’s increasing girth. “Let me stay, Lord De Vere, even if only to lie beside ye. I vow I will be gone ere dawn.”

  Still he hesitated, and so she did what she vowed she would not. She set a hand on his jaw to guide her, rose to her toes, and touched her lips to his.

  “You are sweet,” he said, voice so resonant it was as if it rose from a great depth—perhaps even pain. Then his arms slid around her and he claimed her mouth.

  Though his breath in her and the urgent press of his lips should have made her belly roil, it did not. More deeply than ever she had kissed Bernart, she kissed this man, shuddered when his fingers pushed through her hair and gripped her scalp, sighed when his mouth trailed to her ear then her throat, gasped when he eased her onto the bed. And nearly spoke his name.

  That jolted her back to Lady Juliana Kinthorpe who did not like Gabriel de Vere—and yet could hardly remember the reason. Or did she simply wish to forget?

  Though she had heard of what some men could do to a woman’s resolve, never would she have believed it possible with her husband’s enemy.

  She fought the sensations he roused, but he did not touch her as she imagined a man would a harlot. He was gentle, lingering, far different from what a blackheart ought to be. Indeed, she could almost believe this was her nuptial night, her groom determined to make it wondrously memorable. Certes, even if in his drunken state he did not later recall what he had done to her, she would—and not only for the sin of it.

  He lifted his head, and the brush of his hair against her cheek warned he meant to return his mouth to hers. She let him, lowered her lids, and allowed herself to believe he was a lover who would defy all that conspired to keep them apart.

  Foolish, but it pushed to the back of her mind the reason she was here—until he muttered an oath and dropped onto his back.

  Juliana opened her eyes upon the dark. Why had he stopped? Had enough of his senses returned to alert him something was amiss? Did he know who was in his bed?

  She tensed to fling herself off the mattress, but he rasped, “Forgive me. Months past I injured my ribs and this day did them no favor in sustaining another blow. Though drink dulls the pain, it makes me forget to be cautious in how I move.”

  First relief. Then dismay. He might want her, but he would deny himself.

  “Come to me,” he said.

  “Sire?”

  His hand cupped her shoulder, slipped inside the neck of her gown, and curled around her upper arm. “Here,” he said.

  A woman who sought him out in the night would not hesitate, she told herself and turned onto her side and bent over him. Now it was her hair brushing his face. Her mouth covering his. Her choice whether to finish what was begun.

  For Bernart, she told herself. Nay, Alaiz. Perhaps even me.

  It was done.

  After the discomfort that had made him ask if he had hurt her, it was wondrous.

  Despite the strength of wine coursing Gabriel’s veins, his touch had remained reverent. Or almost. There had been passion too, which made her wonder if he had been long without a woman.

  Now Juliana lay beside him, waiting for his breathing to deepen. It did, though not as much as Bernart’s. Was he a light sleeper, or
only whilst beneath his enemy’s roof?

  She passed another quarter hour, then turned her back to him and moved toward the mattress edge.

  “Stay.” Voice rough with sleep, he followed, slid a hand around her belly, and drew her back into the curve of his body. As if she were no harlot. As if he but wished to hold her. As if he would like to awaken to find the light of morn between them.

  That last she could not allow, but his arm around her, his chest against her shoulder blades, and the tops of his thighs against the backs of hers made protest slide down her throat. Reasoning dawn was hours away—providing Bernart scores of minutes to worry—she set her forearm atop Gabriel’s and curled her hand over his tucked beneath her waist.

  Even had she dared to gain an hour’s sleep, she could not have, so aware was she of what had happened between them. And so eager was her mind to relive it.

  Ashamed, she shook her head to scatter the memories, and Gabriel drew her closer.

  She chastised herself for making it more difficult to gain her release, forced herself to relax, and found herself pondering the blackheart she had named him. This night there was no evidence of the coolly detached young man who had scorned her. His touch had been beautiful just as a lover’s should be, making her feel things she had hoped to experience with—

  Cease! she told herself. You only further your sin in making him something he is not. Just because he knows how to play a woman’s body does not mean he is capable of love. You may have lost nearly all feeling for Bernart, but you will not feel for Gabriel merely because he can do to you what your husband cannot. Two more nights and you will not see him again, and between now and then and every day thereafter, you will not even cross his mind.

  How she hated the tears stinging her eyes. How she wished the eyes of the Lord were not in every place, watching not only the good but the evil.

  When Gabriel’s breathing deepened further and his hold eased, she slipped off the bed. It was more a chore to untangle her gown from the bedclothes than to locate it. Once clothed, she retrieved her mantle from where she had dropped it upon the rushes and exited the chamber.

  She was not surprised to find the solar empty save for Alaiz. Did Bernart remain in the chapel not praying to the Lord who would not be moved? In the hall drinking away his guilt? Outside walking the walls as he sometimes did when he could not sleep?

  No matter. The deed was done.

  Wound tight as a thread on a spindle, she carried out her ablutions by the light of a stunted candle, extinguished the flame, and eased onto her side of the bed. Once more shrouded in night, she pressed a hand to her belly.

  Had she and Gabriel made a child? If not this eve, would they tomorrow eve? If not tomorrow eve—

  She drew a sharp breath. The question was not whether Gabriel and she had made a child. It was if she had stolen one for Bernart—a child he might ill treat, especially were it a boy who resembled the one who beget him.

  She clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle its cry.

  I know what I have done, Lord, she sought to gain His ear, but I saw no other way. Even if I am more sinful than Bernart, do not let a child born of this unholy union suffer. Protect him. Let him never know what I did to get him.

  The dream came to him as it did many a night and more of late. Stealthily it crept upon him. Brazenly it covered him. Viciously it wrenched him into the past. Desperately, he reached to Juliana. And found only emptiness.

  More blood than ever he had seen. More fear than ever he had known. Carnage—just as Gabriel had warned. Gabriel who was always right.

  He ran. The shouts bounding off infidel tongues carried across the night words he had never heard but understood. Were he caught, his fate would be the same as that of the men who had followed him over the wall.

  What have I done, Lord? he sent heavenward. Save me!

  But still he was pursued. His only hope being to lose himself in the city, he veered right and left—over and over until the sound of those behind grew distant.

  Sides aching, lungs straining, he turned into an alley and flattened himself against a wall. Trembling with the effort to control his breathing, he listened.

  Still they came. Brisk footsteps and angry voices warning of their approach, he pushed off the wall and staggered deeper into the alley. A dead end.

  Heart falling over itself, he swept his sword around and lunged forward. As he exited the alley, he heard them above the ring of his armor. Moments later, he was surrounded, torchlight flashing off enemy blades.

  At the mercy of heathens who would bleed the life from him in this devil’s lair, the voice within scorned, You should have listened to Gabriel.

  Though fear urged him to surrender, honor said not. He was no coward. To the death then, and with him as many as he could fell.

  “For God and King Richard!” he bellowed and launched himself at the nearest infidel. He sliced through the man’s gut. Spurred on by that one’s beautiful howl of pain, he turned to his next opponent and took another piece of flesh. One-by-one he could have put them down, but then a half dozen converged on him.

  A blade pierced the chain mail covering his shoulder and kept going through skin and muscle until stopped by bone. Muffling a cry of pain, he swept his sword down to deflect the next stroke that sought to take his head, instead causing the blade to slice open his thigh. And finish its sweep at that place wherein men differed from women.

  He screamed, a sound so piercing it was as if sprung from a woman. And continued to scream until darkness dragged him under and his last thought was of Juliana who awaited his return to England to make her his wife.

  With a hoarse shout, Bernart sat up. Where was he? That street in Acre he had turned crimson? The stinking cell where he prayed for death every hour of every day? Hell?

  Eyes adjusting to the shape of the chapel, he groaned and collapsed back on the bench upon which he had stretched. He should have died at Acre. Were he not of the landed nobility and valued for ransom or trade, he would have bled out. Instead, physicians had tended him and, after agonizing weeks, pronounced him sufficiently healed. During the days and nights that followed, his only companions were tortured thoughts that assured him Gabriel was to blame. For everything.

  Bernart wiped the perspiration from his brow. It was a long time since he had endured the dream in its entirety. Always Juliana awakened him. But this eve she was with the enemy.

  He stilled. Was it done? Had she returned to the solar?

  He exited the chapel. Refusing to set eyes on the door of the chamber where he had sent his wife, he hurried past. There being too little light in the solar to see well within, he crossed to the bed and found her there—sleeping, as if content.

  Though he ought to be pleased with the prospect of a son growing in her, disgust and anger tempted his hands to punish her for not being wide awake…for not curling in on herself…for not weeping over what she had done.

  Shaking from the effort to keep his hands from becoming fists, he strode from the solar and closed the door. He stood there a long time, staring at the far end of the corridor and imagining how it would feel to drive the Wulfrith dagger into Gabriel’s heart. Such temptation. Such satisfaction. But ruinous.

  He forced himself onto the stairs and descended to the hall. By the dim light, he made his way among tournament guests, household knights, and servants who littered the floors and benches, their slumber marked by snores, grunts, and mutterings.

  At the sideboard, he drank from a half-filled pitcher of warm ale, then carried it to the lord’s table and dropped into the high seat. Though his body ached for rest, hatred held his eyes wide and turned his thoughts to the morrow’s battle. And the revenge to be had.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The chamber had begun to lighten when Gabriel opened his eyes. Though he usually rose in advance of the dawn, he did not hasten from bed.

  Something playing about the back passages of his mind, he looked beside him. Naught unusual to find himself alone,
but he was disturbed by a sense of loss, as if something was missing. As if someone ought to be here with him.

  Venturing down those back passages, he recalled what could as easily be a dream as drunken memories—whispered words and sensations that advanced and receded and advanced again. He caught hold of them, drew them forward, and relived soft skin trembling beneath his touch, silken hair running through his fingers, a sweet mouth opening to his.

  Merely a dream conjured by a mind sodden with drink?

  Nay, the woman who came to him last eve was real—and it had not been Nesta. Which of the servants roaming the hall had visited his chamber?

  He drew forth more memories but could put no face to his night visitor. It must have been very late, the candle having extinguished.

  Aye, he had been dozing in the chair into which he dropped to pry off his boots. He had not meant to make a bed of it, but the drink meant to dull the ache of his ribs was stronger than thought. Thus, he had traded that pain for the pounding in his head that stabbed at him when he had tried to stand.

  After what might have been hours, a soft click roused him, but hardly had he glimpsed a shadowed figure in the corridor’s dim light than the door closed and light footfalls evidenced the intruder’s destination was his bed. He was yet several feet distant when a scent revealed here was a woman—and not because she wore perfume to mask an unclean body. Indeed, he could recall nothing cloying about her. Had there been, surely he would not have—

  He groaned. Though he had vowed he would not succumb to the carnal, he had taken what she offered. Had he been mindful enough to ensure he did not impregnate her? If not, had the harlot taken precautions?

  “Harlot,” he murmured. That she was, but the only thing memorably coarse about her was her voice. Even so, its whisper had been honeyed.

  What had she called herself? Or had she given a name? More, what was it about her that made her absence felt?

  She had been sweet. Perhaps too sweet. And inexperienced. Perhaps too inexperienced. Had Bernart sent her?