Lady Betrayed

by Tamara Leigh

  “I would have gone to Tremoral and told tale of having fled my unknown captor. Once Bernart lowered his guard—hopefully, ere you came again—I would take from his coffers enough funds to ensure the Church made a place for Alaiz, the babe, and me. That is what I planned.”

  The muscles on either side of his jaw convulsed. “Then it is true Bernart abused you.”

  “Not as you think.”

  “How?”

  She opened her mouth, closed it. She longed to reveal his emasculation, but its secret was all the protection afforded Alaiz. And though the love once felt for her husband was shaved so fine it nearly did not exist, its sliver penetrated her heart. But surely there was some way to reach Gabriel…

  “Keep your secrets,” he said, “I am done with your scheming.”

  Desperation shoved her to her feet, made her take hold of his arm. “Bernart loathes Alaiz,” the words rushed from her, “so much never would he have allowed her to live at Tremoral had I not threatened to—” She gasped, released him, dropped to the mattress and set her face in her hands.

  After a long silence, movement. But not away from her.

  “What did you threaten, Juliana?” Gabriel’s breath moved the hair atop her head where he knelt before her. “Tell me. Give me reason to believe you, reason not to take this child from you.”

  Had she heard right? Did she risk all that protected Alaiz from Bernart's wrath...did she drag from her heart the last sliver of love for her husband, Gabriel would turn from his course? Allow her to remain near Mergot to participate in raising their child? Attempt to bring Alaiz out of Tremoral?

  He would, but it was not that simple. This time Bernart would be ready for any who tried to breach his walls, and Gabriel could lose his life—or worse. Even if he succeeded in retrieving her sister, Bernart would see his hand in it. And come for them here.

  “Juliana?”

  She lowered her hands, curled them over her knees, looked long into a face softened by concern and—was it pleading?—memorized it ahead of what was to come.

  “Trust me,” he said.

  Aye, pleading, but if she answered it, her child might lose its father. Far better it lose its mother. “I dare not, Gabriel.”

  Pleading and concern fled him. Nothing soft about his face, he straightened. “You say you fear for your sister, yet you intended to expose our child to whatever abuses Bernart made you suffer.” He gave a grunt of disgust. “I waste my time trying to understand you. There can be no good cause for endangering our babe.”

  He strode to the door. “Two months, Juliana. That is all you must endure, then you may return to your husband and sister and do as you will. I care not.” The door closed. The key turned.

  She listened to his footsteps recede, then fell back on the mattress.

  He was right. Her quest to save Alaiz would have endangered their babe, not only her attempt to return to England—more, exposure to Bernart who she had begun to fear would prove a danger to the child even before Gabriel stole her away. No matter Alaiz’s near blindness, the babe was more vulnerable.

  Thus, here was the answer to Juliana’s prayers that the Lord help her do what was best for the child…that no harm befall him…that, God willing, she escape Gabriel.

  God had not been willing, had known the babe was safer here with his father and absent the arms of one who did not deserve to be its mother—she who was too desperate and reckless. Faison’s reasonable cousin would make a better mother.

  “Resolve yourself to it,” she said and turned onto her side and curved an arm around her belly. “Once this babe is in Gabriel’s arms—under his protection—you will go quietly. You will not look back. Ever.”

  A sob burst from her, and she clawed up a handful of the coverlet, pressed her face into its musty layers, and let pain lay siege to all of her.

  Though Blase knew what had transpired on the night past, he said little whilst sitting beside Gabriel at the morning meal. Even when they stood outside the stables an hour later, he maintained a silence so outspoken it was all Gabriel could do not to snatch it from his throat.

  “Will you return, Blase?”

  His brother finished cinching his saddle. “I will, though I cannot say when.”

  Gabriel knew he ought to bid him farewell and get on with the day, but he said, “You think I am wrong to put her in the tower.”

  “I do.”

  “After what she did—what she has aspired to do all these months—still you believe she does not easily deceive?”

  “Still I believe. Just as still I believe you will not take the babe from her.”

  “I have told you—”

  Blase held up a hand. “What she did was an attempt to protect her motherhood and blind sister from a man you believe capable of abuse. Foolish, I grant, and possibly of detriment to the babe. But as well you know, there is more to it.”

  Gabriel did know—the untold threat made to Bernart had he not allowed Alaiz to live at Tremoral. “If she speaks true,” he said.

  “For whatever reason she sought to take a child from you, Gabriel, it was not to secure her place at Tremoral. Her sins are not our mother’s.” Blase grabbed the pommel, put a foot in the stirrup, and swung atop his horse. “And now I leave you.”

  As Gabriel stared up at him, he fought a battle. And lost. “You will pass near Tremoral on your way to Briarleigh?”

  “Of course.”

  “Providing it does not place you in danger, I would have you inquire at the villages for tidings of Lady Alaiz.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To ease her sister’s fears,” Gabriel said, and before the curve to Blase’s mouth could become more, added, “for the good of the babe.”

  Smile averted, his brother said, “What will you do if the tidings are ill?”

  He had no answer. What chance had he of taking Alaiz from Tremoral? And were he successful, what then? He dare not bring her to Mergot, just as he could not allow Juliana to remain once the babe was born. Despite his efforts to keep her identity hidden, eventually someone would recognize her—be it six months from now or six years—and Bernart would come to take back the child he believed was his.

  Might he place both sisters in a convent in France rather than England? Certes, it would cost him much that could be used for the betterment of Mergot.

  He shook his head. “I do not know what I will do.”

  “Then decide so you are prepared when I send word.” Blase took up the reins and urged his mount around. “Farewell, Brother.”

  “Blase!”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “For naught are you to expose yourself to Bernart Kinthorpe’s men. Were you recognized as the priest who—”

  “This I know. Be assured, I shall keep to the villages and be discreet with my inquiries.”

  Gabriel inclined his head. “Godspeed.”

  As he watched Blase pass beneath the portcullis, regret sank through him. He would miss his brother, even his unsolicited wisdom.

  He glanced at the prison tower, caught movement in the uppermost window overlooking the wall walk and gatehouse. Doubtless, Juliana had seen Blase’s departure. What she did not know was that his destination was other than one of Mergot’s villages. Her champion was gone, and but for the babe, she was alone.

  For a moment, he considered returning her to the donjon, but she was safer where she was, unable to make further mischief that would endanger her and the child. Too, he needed to gain control of emotions he had believed dead rather than merely at slumber—and time to plan for the future.

  He grunted. As angry as he was with Juliana, it would be hard to take their child from her. Hard to let her go. Still, he would.

  Blase knew him well, but not as well as thought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Barony of Tremoral

  England, Early January 1196

  He had but to listen to gain word of the lady.

  Priest’s robes exchanged for nondescript ga
rments so none would recognize him from four months past, mount tethered in the wood, Blase stood back as the village buzzed with news. Thus, he learned of Alaiz’s attempt to murder Sir Randal Rievaulx a fortnight gone and of her escape from Tremoral this morn ere she was to be brought before the sheriff.

  Doubtless, owing to her state of near blindness, she had not been guarded well and likely bided her time until an opportunity to escape presented. Unlike her sister at Mergot, she had succeeded.

  It made Blase smile. He did not condone a murder attempt, but neither did he hold the villagers’ belief her attack on the knight was a result of a mad frenzy when he rebuffed her attempt to seduce him. True, he knew Lady Alaiz only from having aided Gabriel in taking Juliana from Tremoral, but from what he observed, she was a gentle and virtuous soul.

  Had Blase to guess, he would say the knight tried to take advantage of the lady no longer under her sister’s protection. It was curious how he had ended up with a knife in the back, and of good fortune he recovered from a wound said to have gone deep. Still, she would be tried for attempted murder were she captured.

  Grimacing at the sight of his breath on the air, Blase pulled his mantle close around him. He loathed winter. Grumbling beneath his breath, he pushed off the trough against which he had leaned a half hour.

  As he started for the wood, a hand fell upon his arm. He turned to a young woman whose simple loveliness was marred by a bright flush across one cheek.

  She smiled, but it was a false attempt despite the sweet bow it made of her mouth.

  Who had struck her? And for what? “Aye?” he prompted.

  Her throat bobbed. “You would like me to…pleasure you?”

  Naught subtle about the offer, but neither was it brazen. Someone had sent her to him with the threat of more than a backhand.

  A thousand nettles pricking him, he glanced beyond the golden-haired woman to the villagers. None paid them heed. Someone in the wood, then? Kinthorpe?

  Under cover of his mantle, he drew a hand up his scabbard and pressed the heel of his palm to his sword hilt.

  “You would like?” the woman persisted.

  It made no sense Kinthorpe would send her to draw him out of the village. The Lord of Tremoral and his men would ride on the enemy wherever they found him. More likely, whoever forced her to this hoped to relieve him of his purse.

  He smiled for any who watched. “I would like. Where do you suggest?”

  Her eyes told she had hoped he would decline. “The wood?”

  Where he would be set upon. It would not be the first time he dealt a swift blow to a miscreant who thought to take from him. As the thrill of combat was too rare, it would be a nice diversion.

  “Aye, the wood.” He gripped her arm and drew her toward the trees.

  As her feet dragged, and since some degree of groping would be expected, he pulled her against his side and set his arm around her waist.

  “Where in the wood?” he asked.

  She glanced at him, choked, “Wherever thee wishes.”

  “Nay, where waits the one who sent you?”

  She stumbled. “I know not what you speak of.”

  “Aye, you do. Now tell where he is.”

  Her eyes teared. “I did not wish to do it. I would not have had he—”

  “I know.” With the wood before them, he could not afford a lengthy explanation. “Where is he?”

  Doing her best to match his stride, she said, “I do not know. I was but to approach you if you made to leave the village.”

  Alarm daggered Blase’s gut. Possibly Kinthorpe, after all. If so, someone had recognized him as the priest who begged lodging at Tremoral the night Juliana was taken and had gone for his lord.

  That realization tamped down Blase’s longing for swordplay. It would not be one on one, or even two on one. More, if Bernart identified him as the beardless youth he last laid eyes upon eight years past, he would know it was Gabriel who held Juliana. It was time he departed Kinthorpe lands.

  “He was astride?” he asked, seeking a measure of how much time he had before Kinthorpe descended.

  “Aye.”

  “How long since he rode?”

  “A half hour. Mayhap more.”

  “I thank you.” He halted inside the tree line and loosed her. “You have done as bid, now go.”

  Her eyebrows gathered. “Pray, forgive me.”

  “’Tis done. Go.”

  She ran. As did Blase who wished he had not left his horse so deep in the wood. But had he not, it might not be waiting for him when he reached the ravine. Chasing a path through the light-speckled wood, he kicked up mildewed leaves, vaulted fallen trees, ducked barren branches.

  At the sound of approaching horses, he glanced over his shoulder. And nearly cursed. He was sighted. And outnumbered by a dozen.

  He thrust his mantle off his shoulders, reached for his sword, and spun around.

  Then came a huff of air, followed by ripping, tearing, burning.

  Fingers cramping on his sword hilt, he slammed back against a tree, grunted as his head struck bark. Through pain-narrowed lids, he picked out those who now approached at a leisurely pace. At their head was the bloated figure of a man who had to be Bernart Kinthorpe though he no more resembled his former self than ugly did beautiful.

  Blase tried to draw his blade from its scabbard, but his hand would not obey. He dropped his chin and with his eyes followed the hilt to his twitching fingers.

  What had been done him? Breath loud in his ears, he looked to the bloody mess of his upper arm, then his shoulder, from which an arrow protruded.

  “Heavenly Father,” he rasped. He was staked to the tree.

  “Where is she?” someone demanded.

  Blase looked up and found Kinthorpe before him, his horse turned sideways. “Who speak you of?” Blase asked the one responsible for crippling his sword arm. And from Kinthorpe’s sneer knew his torment would not end at his arm. With much effort, the man dismounted.

  “I speak of my wife,” Kinthorpe spat as he took three labored strides to cover what Blase could in two.

  Blase dropped his aching head back. “A wife ought to be in her husband’s bed. Have you looked there?”

  Crimson flooding Kinthorpe’s face, he bared his teeth and drew an arm back. And stilled. Then heavily veined eyes emerged from flaccid lids and his lower jaw parted from the upper. “Blase de Vere,” he hissed. “Your brother’s face I would know even had you and I never met.”

  Not even when Blase’s father set Gabriel aside had Blase regretted his resemblance to his older brother. In this moment he did, and would all the more when Kinthorpe pieced together who had taken Juliana. And that was now.

  The man stumbled back, lids fluttered, head bobbed. Then he thrust his face toward the sky and howled.

  With tangible unease, Kinthorpe’s men stared at their lord. Though they could not possibly serve him with pride, they would utter no word against him if he gutted his prey.

  Blase reached up, snapped the feathered shaft where it entered his flesh, and wrenched himself forward. He came free, but with such excruciating pain his legs fell out from under him. Landing on his knees, he forced his uninjured arm to do what the other could not. He drew his blade and swept it before him, but his vision wavered and receded.

  God in heaven, he silently beseeched, do not let me lose consciousness!

  The voices of Kinthorpe and his men indistinct, he drew a deep breath and began to see light. But not soon enough. A booted foot smashed his nose, knocking him back, then slammed into his ribs, once more moving him toward pained darkness. Still, he kept hold of his sword—until the boot came down on his wrist.

  “Pity,” Kinthorpe said, “there appears to be naught for you but death, young De Vere.”

  Mouth pooled with blood running from a broken nose, Blase spat it out and clutched at the narrow ledge of consciousness onto which he pulled himself.

  “Aye, death,” Kinthorpe said, so near it was evident he had
dropped to his haunches. Still, his considerable weight paralyzed Blase’s left arm, testing the strength of the bones and his resolve not to cry out. “It would not do for you to send warning to your coward of a brother I come to take back what belongs to me.”

  Blase brought the man’s face into focus. “You are the coward, Kinthorpe. As for Lady Juliana, she does not belong to you.”

  A muscle at the corner of Kinthorpe’s mouth spasmed. “You think she belongs to Gabriel? She does not—nor the child she carries.”

  His mention of the babe could only mean he doubted it was of his loins. But as much as Blase longed to exert Gabriel’s claim to the child, it was not for him to do.

  “They are mine,” Kinthorpe snarled.

  What had happened to Gabriel’s friend to turn him into a man who on one hand exuded childlike desperation, on the other an appetite for murder? Whatever the answer, it had no bearing on this moment.

  Blase commanded the fingers of his injured arm to pull the dagger at his belt, but it was as if they were no longer part of his body.

  Kinthorpe seized Blase’s sword and heaved himself to his feet. “By thy own blade, then.” Face contorted, he set both hands on the hilt, raised the sword high, and plunged.

  Blase lunged opposite. Rather than his heart, the keen edges burned a hole through his side. He shouted, groaned, closed a hand around the blade to pull it free. Futile, he realized, feeling more the warmth of his life flowing from the gash than the pain of a sliced palm. The sounds around him dimming with the light, Kinthorpe’s triumphant laughter distant, he moved his gaze around the wood.

  It had to be imagined, but a moment before he went into darkness, he glimpsed the woman with golden hair.

  Blood thundering in his ears, his last thought was that his heart had been spared. Then his mind emptied.

  Perspiration running into his eyes, Bernart stared at the still figure of Gabriel’s brother. Death was his due. As it was Gabriel’s.

  He stepped back and considered his bloated hands. They quaked. Rarely had he directed so great an anger at himself. The last time was at Acre when he saw those who followed him fall to the infidel’s sword. But he had absolved himself of that guilt, putting it upon Gabriel where it belonged.