Lady Betrayed

by Tamara Leigh

  Removing her hand, she said, “Stay the course, Lord?” And without awaiting an answer she did not believe was forthcoming, she looked to the tapestry that concealed her means of escape.

  The tread of a man.

  Rising above sleep, Juliana questioned the sound before easing back under.

  The click of a door.

  That she also disregarded.

  Once more, boots traversing the corridor.

  She opened her eyes upon her candle-lit room.

  Another click, this one surely of the chapel whereas the first had been of the solar.

  Sitting up, she fingered the chemise worn to bed following what had become a quiet supper alongside Blase when he still would not answer where Gabriel had gone.

  But it seemed the Baron of Mergot had returned.

  She donned the robe Lissant had sewn out of the same material that would grace the high table and, careful not to awaken the maid on her pallet, crossed the chamber and stepped into the corridor.

  Though the chapel door swung quietly on its hinges, the flames of candles upon the altar danced as if delighted to see her.

  Gabriel was seated on the front pew, shoulders forward and head lowered as if he rested his forearms on his thighs whilst conversing with the Lord.

  Even so, he was not unaware he was no longer alone and likely knew she was the one who trespassed.

  She eased onto the bench beside him, but he did not lift his head or unclasp his hands from between his knees. And so she laced her own fingers and waited.

  Finally, he turned his face to hers. “I did not expect you would still be awake.”

  “I was not. I heard your return.”

  “I apologize. I should have been more mindful.”

  “Gabriel?”

  He raised his eyebrows, and the candlelight better lit his eyes, telling a tale of fatigue.

  “I wish you would have told me,” she said.

  His lids narrowed. “What?”

  “That you tried to bring Alaiz out of Tremoral—would have had she not been asleep in the chapel and the hue and cry not raised.”

  He sighed. “So you and my brother think yourselves friends.”

  “I like him—far more than expected. Why did you allow me to believe you had no care for Alaiz’s wellbeing?”

  “At the time, I did not think it an argument I could win, and it seemed of no consequence. But do not think too well of this blackheart. I had another reason for bringing her out. As you told, Bernart would not likely believe you fled if you left your sister behind. Thus, it was an attempt to more easily hold to you until the birth of our child.”

  It was too late not to think well of her beloved blackheart—

  Juliana stopped breathing. Beloved? When had he become that? She did not love…

  Aye, she did. And yet this love differed from what she had felt for Bernart. More surprising, the hopelessness of it was more painful.

  See now, she silently scorned, you who romanticized long-suffering love, longing to feel terrible want for one you could not have, twice now you are granted it. And in greater abundance this time. Is this ache truly beautiful? Oh fool, Gabriel was right about your notions of love. They are not givers of life. They are death.

  Her chest convulsed.

  “Is it the babe?” Gabriel asked.

  A better excuse than baring a heart that would ever be homeless, even were her feelings returned. “He has been most active,” she eschewed an outright lie.

  “May I feel him?”

  She blinked, looked to the hand he proffered. She ought to refuse, not only because to allow him to touch her there would be akin to admitting the child was his, but because her course was set. However, she ached for him to feel what she felt.

  Cupping her fingers over his hand that made hers seem that of a girl, she pressed it to the side where tiny feet were often found.

  Minutes passed, but all was still—until Gabriel’s fingertips caressed the swell as if to rouse the babe.

  Tears once more threatening, Juliana said, “He has settled,” and released his hand.

  He left it upon her a moment longer, then dropped it alongside the other between his knees.

  “I would have you know, Gabriel, regardless of the words that have passed my lips, never have I truly believed you a coward. And it was no easy thing to convince myself you betrayed Bernart. I wish I had not spoken so ill of you.”

  He frowned. “Why do you tell me this now?”

  She shrugged. “No matter your anger, you had a care for my sister. No matter your excommunication”—she considered the altar with its cross, relics, and candles—“you are a godly man. When I am gone from here, I pray you will find the peace to forgive me.”

  “What of you, Juliana? Will you be able to forgive me for taking our child from you? For giving him into the arms of another woman?”

  The one he would wed, for whom he had restored the chapel in advance of overturning his excommunication. But if the course she set herself was blessed, she would deliver Alaiz from Bernart and it was in her arms their child would lie.

  The silence between them stretched so long his suspicion rose through it. “If you scheme, Juliana..." he said. "If you yet think to allow Bernart to claim my child, you waste your time and mine.”

  She did scheme—and how! And of a sudden she was overcome with the longing to tell him all, to trust he would find a way to deliver her sister from Bernart without detriment to Alaiz or himself.

  But then he said, “Just as I am resolved to wedding the lady who will soon become mother to our child, resolve yourself to returning to your husband and sister with empty arms.”

  She tried to make sense of what he said in a way not as frightening as it sounded. But it would not bend where she wished it to. “You have decided on a bride?”

  He pushed to his feet, looked down on her. “This day, I began negotiations with Baron Faison to wed his cousin, Lady Louisa.”

  Juliana shot upright. “You would make your enemy the mother of…” She had nearly said our babe. “…this babe? That is a better and safer life for him?”

  “She seems a reasonable woman.”

  “Seems!”

  “I have met her only twice now, but both times she conducted herself admirably—indeed, at our first meeting kept Baron Faison and me from drawing swords. Not only do I believe she will make a good mother, but the alliance will yield peace between our families, of which the people of Mergot are much in need.”

  Peace. That word delivered a blow to her plan of escape. Much hinged on appealing to Gabriel’s enemy to see her safely returned to Tremoral. Were a betrothal made, no ally would she find there. “Baron Faison is amenable?”

  “Grudgingly, but he sees the benefit of his cousin becoming Lady of Mergot, that a child born of our union is the nearest that family will come to possessing these lands again.” He drew a deep breath. “I am fairly certain we shall come to an agreement soon so the lady and I may wed shortly after the babe is born. When you leave Mergot, you may do so secure in the knowledge our child will want for naught.”

  “Naught but his mother!” she choked. “She who will care for him as no other can regardless of how reasonable the one you wed.”

  Gabriel felt Juliana’s pain more than he would have her know—did not want to take the child from her, but there was nothing for it. The babe would be illegitimate, that could not be changed, but he would not further the sin of its conception by allowing Juliana to remain at Mergot to raise the child with him. As he too much longed for her, he feared he would eventually succumb to the carnal again—with another man’s wife.

  He took a step toward her. “I am sorry, but the child shall remain with me. And you cannot.”

  She swallowed loudly. “Do you feel anything for me beyond desire?”

  Now he must lie—for both their sakes and the child. “Pity, Juliana. I wish it did not have to be this way.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek, lost momentum at h
er lips, crawled to her jaw. “As do I, Gabriel de Vere.” She turned and left him.

  He lowered his head, thrust a hand back through his hair. So much more he felt for Juliana than desire or pity. And as deceitful as she was, he believed she felt more for him than a married woman had any right to feel. If they yielded to what they wanted, they would be the ruin of each other—more, their child.

  Lord, he silently prayed, her time nears, but not soon enough. Let these last months pass quickly so I may put her from me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Barony of Tremoral

  England, December 1195

  Safer this way, Alaiz assured herself as she crept down the stairs. As hungry as she was from forgoing supper last eve, it was a small price to avoid Bernart and his wrath.

  She paused on the bottom step. By the light of torches nearing the end of their lives, she struggled to make distant, blurred images into a whole that made sense.

  Once fairly certain those who slept in the hall continued to do so, as most would do until the first flush of dawn marked the new day, she sighed. When would Bernart depart again? Hopefully soon, though it was only two days since his return from his latest search for Juliana. For the fourth time he came back empty-handed. And angrier.

  Alaiz frowned. Was he mad as it was whispered? Had his mind gone the way of everything else?

  Blessedly, she avoided what his knights and servants could not escape, and so completely it was as if he had forgotten her. Thus, she left her chamber only to feed herself and when his men and he were absent.

  She set a hand before her. As she carefully negotiated rushes gone putrid during her sister’s absence, she kept her eyes lowered lest she trod on any who made their beds distant from the others.

  Upon entering the corridor that accessed the kitchen, she slowed to give her eyes time to adjust to the greater dim to which they were increasingly resistant. But it had little effect, and she was almost entirely enveloped in darkness when she arrived at the kitchen door. She pushed it open and stepped inside.

  The glowing embers of three fires over which meals were cooked provided enough light to confirm the great room was empty but for her.

  “Ah, the elusive Lady Alaiz.”

  And Sir Randal.

  She spun around. At the end of her tunnel, she saw his figure close the door. “To be up ere dawn, you must be as hungry as I, my lady.”

  Of all Bernart’s men, she took the most care to avoid him. And her fear of him was now more than justified. Before accompanying Bernart on his most recent search, he had pressed her into a corner and dragged his hands over her. Fortunately, the one scream she managed brought an older knight to her aid.

  Now again she tensed for flight, but it was futile. She could not get past him to return to the hall nor reach the garden door before he was upon her. “Of a sudden, I am without appetite,” she said. “Pray, step aside so your lord’s sister-in-law may return abovestairs.”

  Though much of his face was shadowed and blurred, she saw his mouth curve. “You look lovely, my lady—if a bit unkempt. A pity your sister is not here to tend to your grooming.”

  “Let me pass, Sir Randal, else I shall scream.”

  It was a warning she should not have given. He lunged. Before she could call for aid, he clapped a hand over her mouth, spun her around, and dragged her back against him.

  “Not this time,” he hissed, his breath in her ear making her spine quake. Then he began walking her toward a far corner of the room.

  She kicked a heel back and caught his shin.

  He cursed and dug his nails into her face.

  She bit his palm.

  Another curse and he wrenched her head to the side. “Fight me, and I will make it appear the blind fool lost her footing on the stairs and snapped her neck. Do you understand?”

  She did not want to die, but would she wish to live when he was finished with her?

  God have mercy, she silently beseeched.

  He strained her neck further, and she thought she heard something pop. “Do you?” he demanded.

  Spilling a sob against his palm, she jerked her chin.

  Moments later, he had her in the corner with her back to the wall. As he began to hitch up her skirts, it struck her that even if she did not fight him, her fate would be the same as if she did. Though he must know her brother-in-law had no care for her, a great risk it would be to chance her revealing to his lord he had ravished her. Of course, since she had not told of his first assault, fearful as she was of approaching Bernart, perhaps Sir Randal did not think it a risk. And considering how dangerous it was to draw attention to one’s self in Bernart’s current state of mind, he could be right.

  Regardless, whatever he gained from her would be hard-won.

  Giving herself permission to use the dagger fixed on a girdle worn around her undergown, she fumbled for the slit in the side of her overgown, found it, and gripped the hilt. She hesitated, but only long enough to feel more cool air up her legs as her skirts rose higher.

  She drew the dagger from its sheath, then seeking the aid of the hearth fires beyond her assailant to guide her, raised the blade toward his neck.

  She must have nicked him, for he jerked, then stilled. But he did not remove his hand from her mouth nor let her skirts fall.

  “You think I cannot take that from you?” he growled.

  And yet he did not. Guessing she must be very near the great vein in his neck, praying she had enough control she did not cost him his life, she shifted the blade just enough to cause him to catch his breath.

  Her skirts fell and his hand bruising her lips drew back.

  “I do not wish to harm you, Sir Randal.” Her voice quavered. “But I shall if you force me. Now step back—slowly, else ’twill be more than a few drops of blood I take from you.”

  He did as told. And she followed. Once she had space in which to move, she said, “Now leave.”

  “Very well.”

  Wishing she could see more than the shape of his face, she moved the blade aside. And gave a feeble cry when his arm slammed into the arm with which she wielded the dagger and his fingers clamped around her throat and drove her back against the wall.

  She laid no plans—did not realize she retained hold of the dagger until sticky warmth spread across the hand she pounded against his back and he yelped with pain and released her.

  She did not need to see clearly to know what she had done. Horrified, she released the hilt and, supported by the wall, dragged breath down a throat he had nearly crushed.

  “What have ye done, Lady Alaiz?”

  She sent her bit of gaze around the kitchen, saw someone stood in the doorway, from the voice knew it was Nesta.

  “He…” She shook her head. “I did not mean to.”

  The woman turned and ran, doubtless to summon men-at-arms.

  What would they do? She had but defended herself against Sir Randal’s attack. Had she killed him?

  She lowered her chin, saw he lay on the floor. Blessedly, there was movement about him. Not dead. Not yet.

  Run! fear screamed.

  Going by way of the garden, evading nearly all obstacles committed to memory, she made it into the inner bailey. But though she stayed to the shadows as she moved toward the outer bailey, the hue and cry was raised and unseen hands fell upon her. They quelled her struggle, one with a slap to the face.

  Then they were carrying her to the donjon. And the wrath of the Baron of Tremoral.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Castle Mergot

  France, December 1195

  The stone moved.

  Juliana lowered the rock used in place of a mallet. Moments earlier, the chisel had worked freely in the furrowed mortar, now it was wedged beneath the stone that had succumbed to her efforts. Finally.

  She dropped back on her heels. The past three months of stealth, scraping, chipping, broken nails and calloused hands had not been for naught. Providing the Lord did not abandon her, she would be
with her sister within a fortnight.

  She wiped her eyes on her dusty sleeve, then pressed her linen-wrapped palms together. “Hear me, Lord. Let no harm befall Alaiz. Let her be hale when I return.”

  Though Lissant would soon be abovestairs to rouse her, she reached to the stone. And reluctantly drew her hand back.

  Patience, she counseled. You have come too far to risk being discovered. Tomorrow is soon enough to remove it.

  After clearing the mortar dust and stowing it and the rock in her pouch, she eyed the chisel and decided against freeing it. Wedged, it could be used to pry the stone loose.

  As she gained her feet, she glanced at her protruding belly. In less than two months she would bring forth Gabriel’s child. But not at Mergot. Though the journey ahead was daunting, she would make it back to Alaiz.

  There was something different about her. A glow not of the fire’s heat, a light in eyes that had been mostly dark since he had revealed his plan to wed Lady Louisa, and a nervousness seemingly born of impatience.

  Gabriel had first noticed it yestereve during supper. But as with most things that had anything to do with Juliana, he tried to ignore it. It was better that way, though perhaps not in this instance.

  He filled his tankard at the sideboard, took a swallow, and looked again to where she sat before the hearth. The gown she altered to accommodate her increased girth lay in her lap while beside her Lissant plied her needle and chattered as if her mistress listened intently.

  Juliana did not. Her gaze was upon the stairway, hands the only movement about her as she clasped and unclasped them, ground her palms together, plucked at her gown.

  What was she thinking?

  “With child, she is even more beautiful,” Blase said, halting alongside his brother.

  Gabriel looked sharply at him, resented his familiar, contemplative expression—lids narrowed, mouth pursed, head cocked. No doubt he wished to impart some holy wisdom.

  “It is increasingly difficult to believe she is capable of what you believe of her.”