by Tamara Leigh
Blackheart by Tamara Leigh
Desperate to put an end to the humiliating rumors surrounding his lack of an heir, Lord Bernart Kinthorpe orders his virgin wife to the bed of his sworn enemy, Lord Gabriel de Vere. Though Juliana expects to feel revulsion and pain in the arms of the blackheart responsible for her husband's impotence, she discovers a man of passion and honor. When Gabriel de Vere learns that the sensual lover who had come to him in darkness is the wife of his enemy, he vows to take back the child stolen from him. Yet something about the woman he abducts turns him from vengeance. But the flower of their love will have to be carefully nurtured if they are to triumph over Lord Bernart and raise the child of their love as fate has intended.
CURIOUS FLUTTERINGS
Gabriel crooked a finger beneath her chin and lifted her face to his regard. It would have been so easy to escape him, but his surprisingly gentle touch held her motionless.
"A day does not pass," he said, "when I do not wonder if there was something I could have done to turn Bernart from his course, but always it comes to naught."
He felt guilt? Never would she have guessed Gabriel De Vere capable of such emotion.
Regret grooved his mouth. "I am sorry, Juliana."
Was he?
He swept a tear from beneath her eye. So gentle, like the brush of an angel's wing. "If I could change what happened, I would."
Would he?
His breath mingled with hers, warmed her lips. "Though as a young man I scorned your silly notions of love, never did I wish to see you hurt."
Curious flutterings stirred her breast, drew her gaze to his mouth. What would it feel like to press her lips to his? To come to him in the light of day? Imagining it, she closed her eyes. It would be so different from the night past.
A LEISURE BOOK® April 2001 Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc. 276 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10001
Copyright © 2001 by Tamara Leigh
ISBN 0-8439-4855-8
At last, a story for Maxen, my littlest love. May your path be built upon lessons learned and laid with dreams come true.
Prologue
England, 1187
Son of a whore. Over and over the words resounded through Gabriel. Consumed his being. Inflamed his soul. Beginning to tremble, he turned from his father and pressed his fists to the sill of the window embrasure.
In the bailey below, the garrison stood silent at their posts, castle folk went about their tasks with heads bowed, and a large cat stalked its next meal. As befitting the burial that had taken place two days past, the mood was solemn, and as different from that which seethed through Gabriel as the sun was from the moon.
Son of a whore. Whoreson. How he ached to bloody his knuckles on something! Were he alone, he would turn on the first thing that came to hand.
"I am sorry, Gabriel," his father said. "All these years you have been like a son to me."
Gabriel swung around. "I am your son!"
The mighty Arnault De Vere's gaze wavered. "I wish it were so."
"It is!"
"Perhaps, but 'tis Giles who will succeed me."
The third son, whose strong De Vere looks could not be questioned. It was the same for the fourth son, nine-year-old Conard. In contrast, Gabriel and Blase favored their mother's family—tall, big-boned, dark-haired, and possessing faces so plain as to defy description. But Gabriel had one thing Blase did not: their father's gray eyes. Not that it had any bearing on his claim to legitimacy, for the baron seemed willing to overlook it.
"Did Mother..." How bitter that his veins strained with her blood. "Did she say I was of another's seed?"
The sunlight slanting through the window spun silver through his father's thick hair and beard. "She did not. On her deathbed she confessed only to"—a muscle jerked in his jaw—"to having cuckolded me before your conception. And, of course, afterward."
Of course. It was no secret that the lady of Wyverly had engaged in adulterous behavior throughout the latter years of her marriage. Gabriel himself had once come upon her in the arms of a man not his father. That had been the summer of his tenth year.
He glanced at the canopied bed in the center of the lord's solar and vividly recalled bodies meshing one with the other, glistening flesh, moans and grunts of pleasure, the trenchant odor of slaked lust. How he had hated Constance De Vere! And now that it was revealed her indiscretions went further back, giving rise to the question of whether or not he and Blase were De Veres, Gabriel was gripped with something so deep and tearing it bore little resemblance to the enmity he had nurtured all these years.
"Then she did not know if 'twas you or another who sired me?"
"I did not ask."
Gabriel's angry stride scattered the herbed rushes underfoot, stirred the air with the scent of mint. He halted before his father. "Why would you not ask?"
The baron held his gaze. "Her confession was made to the priest. She did not know I heard."
Gabriel's fists quaked with the effort to keep them at his sides. "And for this you set me aside?"
The baron's mouth tightened. "When I die, I shall be secure in the knowledge Wyverly is in the hands of a De Vere, as it has been for one hundred twenty years."
Gabriel wanted to rage, but the self-control his father had demanded of him all these years contained the tempest. Silently, he cursed the woman who had borne him. Because of her, he was set aside like a dog that had outworn its welcome at table. Everything that should have been his was gone—his title, lands, betrothal, the son who would one day succeed him. Gone!
He had to leave. Gabriel stepped past his father.
"You will be provided for," the baron said.
Gabriel halted. "On the chance you are wrong?"
Arnault De Vere was not a man who revealed his emotions, but they slipped in, grooved his mouth and brow with regret. "You are a son any man would be proud of, and though you may not be of my body, it does not change my feelings for you."
Gabriel was unmoved. "You are wrong. It changes all."
"Not if you allow me to provide for you."
Although Gabriel had no intention of taking whatever his father offered—and by all that was unholy, Arnault De Vere was his father—he asked, "What do you propose?"
Hope entered the baron's eyes. "When your training for knighthood is complete a year hence, I will place Shard Castle in your care."
The greater of Wyverly's lesser castles. Only one whose future had once held all of the barony might not be tempted. Pride was a powerful thing. "What would you have me say to those who ask why I am reduced to a vassal? That my father suspects me of being a whoreson?"
Arnault De Vere's eyes flickered. "None need know the truth. Simply tell them you do not wish the responsibilities of ruling so vast a barony."
"That all who know me will then know me for a liar?"
The baron's jaw quivered with suppressed emotions. "I wish it could be otherwise. You know that."
As deeply as Gabriel wanted to renounce his father's sincerity, he could not. The baron had always demanded more from his eldest son than the others, but never was there any question he loved Gabriel as best he could with a heart scarred by his wife's infidelities.
"Why did you not send her away?" Gabriel asked. "Why did you allow her to dishonor you time and again?"
The baron averted his gaze.
Though Gabriel was racked with pain, he was not alone. Beyond all foolishness, Arnault De Vere had loved his wife. A worse mistake a man could not make.
"Take what I offer," the baron said. "Still you will be lord."
And vassal to his younger brother. Gabriel's gut twisted. "Do you not fear I might seek Giles's death?"
His father appeared momentarily taken aback, then shook his head. "You f
orget, Gabriel, I know you. You are angry now, but in time..."
Gabriel almost laughed. "You do not know me, Father. Did you, you would not squander your breath. Keep Shard
Castle. I want naught from you." He swung toward the door.
His father caught his arm. "Think! You are near twenty years old. What else is there for you?"
Gabriel looked down. Though the baron was not a small man, Gabriel was taller and broader. Perhaps another was responsible for sowing the seed that had begotten him. Instantly he rejected the thought. He was a De Vere, and his father was turning his back on him. Denying him.
Gabriel pulled his arm from the older man's grasp. "I shall return to the service of Baron Sumner"—with whom he had spent the past twelve years training for knighthood—"and when I am knighted, I shall live the life you have dealt me." He strode to the door and paused. "What of Blase? Will you also tell him he is a bastard?"
The baron looked suddenly old where he stood in the middle of the solar. "There is no need. He is destined for the church, and so shall it be."
Except, of course, that Blase was no more fond of the teachings of the church than Gabriel was of treacherous women. Regardless of how hard Friar Jerome tried to fashion his pupil into his own image, it was the sword Blase clasped to his heart, not the Bible.
It was on Gabriel's tongue to inquire into his sister's fate, but he caught himself. Five-year-old Avice no more resembled the baron than Gabriel and Blase, but unlike them, she was blessed with a pleasing combination of Constance De Vere's looks and those of the man who had sired her—whoever that might be. No reason to put more speculation upon her than there already was.
Gabriel threw open the door, strode down the corridor, and descended the spiral stairs. As he stepped into the great hall, he was struck by its warmth, but it had little to do with the blazing fire. What caused him to pause were the splendid tapestries hung ceiling to floor, the plastered walls with their bold, colorful patterns, the dais with its carefully worked table and chairs, the fresh rushes strewn with sweet herbs. He had always accepted that one day all this would be his, had never looked at it through the eyes of one who could never hope to attain such wealth. Now, for the sins of his mother, all was lost.
He started across the hall.
"What is it, Gabriel?" Blase called to him.
He turned and saw that his three brothers were gathered before the hearth. Upon the death of Constance De Vere a sennight past, Giles and Conard had also been summoned from the households of the nobles whom they served. Blase was the only son who resided at Wyverly. If not for Arnault De Vere's determination that he commit his life to the church, he would now be a squire.
Giles stood. "What did Father say?"
Gabriel looked from his younger brother's golden hair to his distinctive forehead, from his high cheekbones to his generous mouth. There was no doubt from whose seed he sprang. But as much as Gabriel wanted to hate Giles for displacing him, he could not. The boy was barely twelve—an innocent. Constance De Vere was to blame. He silently cursed her, and all women. They were a dangerous lot.
"Tell us," young Conard said, worry reflected in eyes the color of Gabriel's.
What was he to say? That their mother was more of a whore than previously thought? Make them despise her as much as he did? Nay, let Arnault De Vere do the telling.
Though it was two years since all four brothers had been together, and thus far Gabriel had been unable to spend much time with them, he could not bear to pass another moment at Wyverly. "I must leave," he said.
Blase gained his feet. "This day?"
"Now."
"Now? But you do not have to return to Falkhead for another sennight."
"That has changed."
Blase, followed by Giles and Conard, crossed to Gabriel's side. "Why?" Blase asked.
Gabriel stared at them. No matter how many times Constance De Vere had strayed outside her marriage, these were his brothers. No matter how deep his anger, he had to shield them from it. "I shall leave it to Father to explain," he said, and turned on his heel.
He strode from the donjon, retrieved his horse from the stables, and shortly sped over the land beyond the castle walls. He did not look back. Not once. Only when a league separated him from all he had lost did he dismount and unburden his emotions. Loathsome tears burned the backs of his eyes, fiery blood pounded in his ears, curses tore from his throat, and every muscle in his body strained as he shook his fists at the heavens.
The sun had sunk low and the land was swept with cool shadows when Gabriel finally regained control. Weary, he knelt beside a stream and splashed frigid water over his face, then sat back on his heels.
Never would he be made a fool as his father had been. Never would he fawn over a woman as his friend, Bernart Kinthorpe, fawned over his betrothed, Juliana. Never!
Unbidden, a vision of the fair Juliana rose to mind, she of fanciful notions of love and chivalry that her mother had learned at Queen Eleanor's Court of Love. Based on the pure and noble love of a man for a woman who was unattainable, be she wed, of higher rank, or physically distanced, the concept of unconsummated love was something silly women sighed over. But some went beyond the bounds of bittersweet suffering. Women like Constance De Vere.
Gabriel's hatred burrowed deeper. Doubtless when Juliana grew into her woman's body she would prove no better than the one who had borne him. Selfish. Deceitful. A whore.
God help Bernart Kinthorpe.
Chapter One
England, March 1195
"I want a son."
The terse words fell into Juliana's consciousness. Thinking she could not have heard right, she looked up from the ledger she'd been poring over.
Bernart stood before the dais upon which the lord's table was raised, his eyes alive with such hunger it sent foreboding coursing through her.
"A son?" she asked.
"A son."
Knowing he would not jest about something so sensitive, Juliana glanced past him. Where minutes earlier servants had bustled about clearing the remains of the evening meal, now the hall stood empty—excepting the young woman who sat unaware before the hearth. As usual, Bernart had overlooked Juliana's sister, as if Alaiz did not exist.
Juliana moistened her lips. "Forgive me, husband, but I do not understand what you speak of."
He stepped up to the dais, pressed his bloated hands to the table, then leaned forward. "I want a son."
Of course he did. Didn't every man? But for Bernart it was not possible. Cautious lest she goad him into one of his grim moods, she pushed the ledger back and folded her hands atop the table. "You know better than I it can never be."
Pain flickered across his features. "But it can be."
Though he was careful to avoid alcohol, Juliana wondered if he'd been drinking. She drew in a breath of air. There was no such scent upon it. "Tell me," she said quietly.
The harsh lines of his fleshly face eased, allowing a glimpse of the handsome man he'd once been. "The child would not be of my blood, but I would raise him as if he were."
Juliana shook her head. "You propose to bring another man's child into our home?"
"Aye. Through you."
"Through me?"
Hunger grew in his eyes. "He would be your son. Born of your body. Of your blood."
His words struck Juliana with the force of a blow. "What are you saying?"
Bernart's limp was more pronounced than usual as he walked around the table. He lowered himself beside her and took her hands in his. "I love you, Juliana. We were meant to be together. We are one."
She had once thought so herself. "What are you saying?" she asked again.
"If you..." His voice cracked as it did when he was not careful to modulate it. "If you lie with another man, you could give me a son."
She could not move, could not speak, could only stare at this man who asked the unthinkable. Surely this was but a horrid dream. It had to be. Wake up. Juliana, she bade herself. Wake up clinging to y
our side of the bed as you do every morning.
Bernart pressed his brow to the backs of her hands. "Do this for me and no more will I ask of you. I swear it."
She jumped to her feet. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her sister's start of surprise, but was too roused to pay her heed. "I am your wife! You would have me give myself to another man? Commit adultery?"
Slowly, Bernart stood. "I would not ask it were my need not great."
Grasping for a sliver of sanity in a world gone mad, Juliana drew a deep breath. "Even were a child born of such an unholy union, it would not be yours. Not of you."
"But he would be of you. That is enough for me." He reached to take her hands again.
She sidestepped. "Why do you ask this of me?"
Bernart's struggle to control his temper showed in his tightening fists. "I am without an heir."
"You have an heir. Your brother, Osbern—"
"Is not my brother!"
Juliana shook her head. "Deny him though you do, he is of your blood. This child you ask me to bear would be a bastard. He would never be recognized as your heir."
Bernart took a step toward her. "No one but you and I need know the circumstances of his birth."
She blinked. If not drunk, then he was mad. There was no other explanation.
"I have thought long about it," he said. " 'Tis what I want."
So badly that he was holding onto his terrible temper. She swallowed the bitter lump in her throat. "What you want? What of me? You would have me whore myself!"
A tic started at one corner of Bernart's mouth. "You have always wanted children. A dozen, you once said. Remember?"
Juliana remembered. She swung away and stared at the tapestry that scaled the wall behind the table. "I wish children, but not like this. Never like this."
A long silence followed; then Bernart's hands fell to her shoulders. "There is no other way."
She closed her eyes. "Then I shall be childless." Just as she had long ago accepted.
With a sharp oath, Bernart dragged her around. "You think I do not know what is said of me?"
