by Tamara Leigh
He released her. “Return to the shelter and rest. A long ride awaits us once we reach France.”
Eager to be as far from him as possible, she started to turn away, but another question begged an answer. “How did you steal me from Tremoral?”
A wry smile curved his mouth. “The ale was laced with a sleeping draught.”
Here the reason Alaiz had been so fatigued she could not be roused from the chapel floor. Here the reason Juliana had awakened on the ship without recollection of the long journey from Tremoral. “You drugged us.”
“Aye, though I did not intend for you to succumb. The ale was meant for the castle folk and garrison. As I knew you were not fond of the brew, I did not expect you to partake.”
She would not have if the wine stores had not gone dry. “How did you do it?”
“Slip the draught into the ale? I did not.” He looked toward the bow.
Juliana followed his gaze to one whom she had not noticed. Though the man stood in profile and was no longer garbed in the vestments of the Holy Church, she recognized him as the one whose dark looks had reminded her of Gabriel on the night past. The same man who requested lodging at Tremoral and been kind to assist in preparing the evening meal.
“My brother, Blase,” Gabriel said.
Not Hermanus, and not a priest with that sword at his side. “You are despicable! To disguise one as a priest to gain entry—”
“Blase is a priest. Or mostly. When greatly moved to right an injustice, such as that done his brother, he will bend his vows.”
A holy man who had given a false name to enter Tremoral and sneak a sleeping draught into the ale? Who disregarded the sanctity of marriage to assist his brother in carrying away another man’s wife?
“It is true,” Gabriel said. “He is fully vested and well regarded by the bishop he serves, he who finds a sword-trained priest of good use—not unlike a knight templar.”
She could hear her own quick, shallow breathing. Could feel the blood thrumming through her veins. “Then he and the bishop are more despicable than you.”
“And you are not?” He looked to her belly. “It was your guile that delivered us to this day. Your deceit.”
She needed no reminding, having lived not only with fear of his return but the knowledge she had wronged him.
As she stared at him, the movement of the clouds behind caused her stomach to pitch, then the ship ran up on a wave and heaved sideways. She cried out, threw her arms wide in search of something to hold to and fell backward.
An arm hooked around her and dragged her against what seemed the most solid thing in the world.
Stomach threatening to spill, she looked up.
She saw concern on Gabriel’s face a moment before he hastened her to the railing. Grasping it, she leaned forward. When she finished with her heaving, she accepted the square of linen he thrust at her.
“Better?” he asked.
Swallowing convulsively, she stared at the ocean rolling and tossing and breaking against the ship’s hull. Though the cool droplets that sprayed her face, neck, and hands were welcome, the view was not.
“Dear Lord,” she rasped and pressed her brow against the railing.
Gabriel’s hand, warm and comforting as it should not be, settled on her back. “Look to the horizon. It does not move.”
Even so, the ship moved.
“Trust me, Juliana.”
Trust a man who detested her? Who was bent on hurting her?
She lifted her head and looked to where the sky rested atop the ocean. As told, it did not move.
When her heart curbed its erratic beat and the nausea subsided, she said, “I am fine now.”
He did not remove his hand, and how she wished so simple a touch was without memories.
“You are certain?”
Why did he not leave her to her misery? Surely he thought it deserved. “I am, though I shall be most grateful when we reach France.”
After a long silence, he said, “Will you?”
His tone brought her head around. “Only to be on land again.”
He dropped his hand from her, turned away. “Find your rest, Juliana.”
Stomach continuing to churn, she looked again to the thin, dark line between ocean and sky.
Who had cried all the tears that made up this vast, restless body of water? Was it possible their pain was greater than hers?
It mattered not. They were useless tears.
Gabriel tossed back the awning flap, spilling moonlight on the still figure within.
Knees drawn to her chest, a fist curled beneath her chin, hair cast over her brow, Juliana slept. Finally. Though she had retreated to the awning shortly after Gabriel sent her there this morn, several times throughout the day she had returned to the railing to relieve her nausea.
It was the babe he was concerned about, he told himself, but watching her grow paler as the day grew older made him worry over her well-being. Thinking food might ease her discomfort, thrice he sent one of the crew with dry biscuits and salted meat, but she had refused.
Fortunately, the new day would see them in France, and by the eve of the following day they would be at Mergot—providing Juliana’s illness did not persist, forcing them to delay their travel.
Gabriel hoped not. He wanted to see color restored to her face, for her to eat and nourish their child. And more than ever, he wanted to return to the lands Erec administered in his absence. Mergot was no Wyverly, and it was unlikely it would ever be as much a home as that which should have been his, but it was all he had.
For now, he reminded himself. He did not need Juliana to tell him that stealing her from Bernart could result in the loss of lands and title. But as told, it was an acceptable risk.
Juliana rolled onto her back, causing the blanket to slip and drawing Gabriel’s gaze to the swell pressing against the material of her gown. During the ride from Tremoral to Southampton he had not allowed himself to explore it, as if in doing so he might violate her—absurd, considering he was the one who put the babe in her.
The shifting wind lifted the hem of his mantle. Reminded of how cool the night air was, he ducked beneath the awning and drew the blanket up over Juliana’s shoulders.
He had no intention of lingering, but he stared at the auburn tresses framing her face then her bowed mouth. How innocent she looked, as if she were the one betrayed rather than the offender.
He reflected on their encounter this morn, specifically her accusation. Once more she thought him a coward. Or perhaps she never stopped thinking him one—told she believed he had not easily forsaken his friendship with Bernart and professed to have difficulty believing he had betrayed her husband only to keep Gabriel from revealing her adultery.
A coward. There were many things he could be called, but that was not among them. Upon learning Juliana was pregnant, he had burned to bring an army of mercenaries against Tremoral and expose her before Bernart. But Blase, with his abundance of wisdom, turned him from the reckless quest. He reasoned that as great as Kinthorpe’s hatred for Gabriel, his reaction to learning his enemy had fathered Juliana’s babe could endanger mother and child. Thus, he had grudgingly aided Gabriel in devising the plan to steal Juliana in the night—as well as Alaiz, not only to make it appear Juliana had herself fled but to protect her sister if Bernart was abusive.
Unfortunately, the young woman had not been in her chamber, and before they could locate her, the hue and cry was raised. Gabriel had not wanted to leave her behind, but it was that or face capture. Regardless, if Bernart discovered who had taken his wife, it would be safer for Juliana beneath Gabriel’s roof when her faithlessness was revealed.
The scrape of boots brought Gabriel’s head around.
Blase stood stark against the billowing mainsail. Watching. No doubt wondering.
As close as Gabriel had grown to his younger brother this past year, he resented being judged by him. True, Blase played no small part in bringing Juliana out of Tremoral—could even b
e said to have relished the adventure of it—but his silence since told his priest’s conscience flayed him.
Gabriel stepped out from beneath the awning and lowered the flap. As he strode toward his brother, he saw him stroke the hilt of his sword as he did when troubled. When he was attired in priest’s vestments, it was his cross to which he applied himself.
Gabriel halted. As they were nearly the same height, they came eye to eye. For a time neither spoke, the only sounds those of the ship’s movement through the water, the flutter of sailcloth, the slither of rope and rattle of blocks.
“You are sure the babe is yours?” Blase asked.
“Ease your conscience. It is mine.”
“She denies it?”
“As expected.”
“But perhaps—”
“The babe is mine. Be it son or daughter, I fathered it.”
Blase slowly nodded. “Then what we did was right—at least justified.”
Gabriel sighed. “Ah, froward priest, did your conscience prick when last you imbibed heavily? When you pocketed winnings from a wicked game of dice?”
A smile of embarrassment showed the white of Blase’s teeth.
“Worry no more on it. I have taken naught from Kinthorpe that does not belong to me.” Including Juliana, he silently added. As long as his child grew in her, she was his.
“Then let us pray the Lord understands.”
Gabriel inclined his head. “Good eve.”
As Blase crossed to the awning the ship’s crew had erected for the brothers, Gabriel looked to the heavens. Though dense clouds had threatened a storm this afternoon, they had moved inland, leaving the inky canopy pricked with starlight and the night waters relatively calm.
But how long would the calm last? How long before his claim upon his child brought war to Mergot?
Perhaps never, he told himself.
Perhaps a fortnight hence, Juliana’s words returned to him.
He set a hand on his sword. Either way, he was prepared.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
She must return to Alaiz.
Juliana looked to where Gabriel and his false priest of a brother rode ahead. Not only must she escape them, but also the men-at-arms who had awaited Gabriel when the ship put in at Bayeux.
She glanced behind. Six soldiers and Gabriel’s squire, each an obstacle in her quest for freedom. And there were more.
If she made good her escape, she had neither coin nor escort to aid her journey to England. To be a pregnant, penniless woman alone in a strange land was dangerous. But not as dangerous as it would be for Alaiz were Bernart to return her to her guardian—or set her out to wander the countryside.
Somehow she must make it back to Tremoral. Then what? Would Gabriel follow?
“Resolve yourself to it, Juliana.”
Seeing he had drawn his mount alongside hers, she said, “To what?”
A sardonic smile broke the hard line of his mouth. “You are going to Mergot. Only after you give birth may you leave.”
She set her chin high. “I need not be told again.”
“A reminder only.”
She thought he would return to his brother’s side, fervently wished it that she might think more clearly on how to escape, but he did not oblige. Though he spoke no further word, his nearness over the next several hours proved a distraction. Still, she used the time to familiarize herself with her surroundings in the event she passed this way again. If she escaped, she would.
It was drawing late when she glimpsed a distant castle rising against the sky. As it was another day’s ride to Mergot, she guessed they would seek lodging there and breathed out relief. Having been in the saddle since late morn, she longed to dismount and rest her sore body.
She eyed the castle. Within those walls might she find a means of escape? An ally?
It seemed not, as told when Gabriel urged his mount ahead and veered east.
With his men at her back, Juliana had no choice but to follow. Could there be another castle within reach of what remained of daylight? Unlikely. She put heels to the tired mare, passed the false priest, and overtook Gabriel.
“Why do you not seek lodging at that castle?”
He swept his gaze over her. “As Baron Faison is not yet content with the restored rule of King Richard, he would not welcome an English baron within his walls.”
Juliana had heard of the uneasy alliance between King Richard and the barons, the king of France having installed them upon seizure of Richard’s French dominions following the Crusade.
“And certainly he would not welcome me,” Gabriel continued. “It was his brother who held Mergot ere it was awarded to me. Had he not refused King Richard his allegiance, still he would hold it.”
Then Faison was Gabriel’s enemy. Or near enough. Though the French baron surely had little liking for the English, might he aid her?
She became so caught up in the possibility that it was some moments before she realized Gabriel watched her. Fearful of what her face revealed, she asked, “Is there another castle nearby?”
“There is not.”
“Then where shall we pass the night?”
“In the wood.”
The thought of another miserable night made her groan. Though the floor of the forest would be still beneath her, her body longed for comfort. “Surely there is an inn at which we could pause for the night.”
“Aye, but we will not.”
“For what reason?”
“The fewer who know you are at Mergot, the less likely Bernart will learn of your whereabouts.” Gabriel’s brow creased. “Which reminds me—henceforth you are Lady Mary Waltham.”
A chill moved through her. Mary—to remind her of her sin. She drew her mantle more closely about her. “And if I refuse to be called by that name?”
“Mary Waltham has the freedom to move about my donjon. Juliana Kinthorpe does not.”
He would lock her away. “I see.”
“I expected you would.”
She drew a steadying breath. “What of the castle folk? Do they know of my arrival?”
“They do.”
“What will they think of me?”
“What I have told them.”
“And that is?”
“Mary Waltham carries my child.” In response to Juliana’s sharply drawn breath, he said, “Unavoidable. One has but to look upon you to know you are pregnant, and as I intend to raise the child, there is no other course.”
All of her quivering, she said, “They know I do not come willingly? That you have taken me from my home?”
“I saw no reason to tell them. Still, they have been warned you are not to be trusted.”
She gripped the reins tighter. “You are cruel, Gabriel de Vere.”
“As you made me, Mary.”
As Bernart made you, she longed to retort, but though she wished to absolve herself of wrongdoing, she could not. Unable to bear his nearness, she slowed her mount. When he once more took the lead, she stared at his broad back and prayed she would not long suffer the name of the woman who had lain down with him. At the first opportunity—tomorrow, the following day, perhaps this night—she would escape.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gabriel’s brother draw near and looked around.
“Lady Juliana,” he said.
Unable to make a pretense of civility, she said, “’Tis Lady Mary now.”
“A necessary falsehood.”
“As it was for you to name yourself Father Hermanus?”
A flush crept up Blase de Vere’s neck.
“Is it your habit to disregard holy vows, false priest?”
Anger darkened the flush. “I no more wished bloodshed than you, Lady Mary. Had I not done what I did, my brother would have brought an army against Tremoral, and the ground would run red with lost lives.”
Would Gabriel have laid siege? She looked to where he rode far enough ahead he could not hear their conversation. Though anger had made her name him a coward for steal
ing her from Tremoral, she knew it was not so—just as she knew he had not forsaken Bernart for fear of losing his own life.
“He did it for the babe you carry,” Blase said. “I did it for men whose lives would be needlessly spent over a deceitful woman, leaving wives husbandless and children fatherless.”
Juliana returned her regard to him.
“It is true I am a sinner,” he said, “but my reasons for breaking priestly vows are more noble than yours for forsaking marriage vows.”
His words injured nearly as much as Gabriel’s. A priest he might be, false or otherwise, but he was not to be underestimated.
With a snap of the reins, he commanded his mount ahead.
Juliana drew a deep breath to counter tears, swallowed the emotion tightening her throat. She would not cry. No matter what words were spoken against her, she would keep her head up.
And her eyes open for when Gabriel closed his.
Amid the darkness of her tent, Juliana peered past the campfire to the tent Gabriel’s squire had erected for his lord. No light shone from it. Was he within? Though minutes earlier she had heard him bid his men good eve, she had not made it to the tent opening soon enough to verify the large tent was his destination.
She looked from Gabriel’s squire who lay alongside the tent’s entrance to the fire where Blase and three soldiers talked quietly among themselves. As for the other three men-at-arms, Gabriel had surely set them to guard the camp.
She pressed her teeth into her lower lip. Was this the opportunity she awaited? Might it be the only one? Perhaps, but if not, she would have to get past far more than three men-at-arms once they arrived at Mergot.
A half hour later, there was still no sign of Gabriel. He was in his tent, then. Asleep. As for Blase and the other soldiers, they had also put down for the night.
She moved to the back of the tent and pried at a corner. It was firmly staked, but persistence loosened it. She lifted the canvas and looked ahead, left, right.
All was still, but it was ten yards to the wood without cover. She could make it, providing she did not rouse the men sleeping around the fire. And those who guarded the camp? Hopefully, they were more heedful of any who might try to attack than one trying to escape.
