Blackheart

by Tamara Leigh

  He cast back to the year 1189, two years following his father's disavowal. He saw again Juliana's tearful flight into the garden where he'd awaited a tryst with a chambermaid. Oblivious to all but her pain, the lovely woman-child hadn't noticed him where he leaned against a wall. Breasts heaving, sobs quaking her shoulders, she'd dropped to a bench and clapped her hands to her face.

  Gabriel had needed none to tell him the cause of her misery, for he knew Bernart well. Too, a half hour earlier he'd lost the toss to be the first to lie with a lusty maid who'd been intent on having them both at once.

  In spite of a thousand warning voices sounding between his ears, he'd yielded to the strange desire to comfort Juliana and had gone to her. He had lowered himself beside her, spoken her name, and all of him had stopped when she'd looked up.

  As he stared into her dark eyes, something had moved through him, something he'd never thought to feel and that would ever haunt him. It had forced him to acknowledge that she was not the foolish child he'd often scorned, but a girl on the edge of womanhood, a gem ready to be put to polish. And soon to be his friend's wife.

  "Gabriel," she had choked, and he'd been struck by his name on her lips when she had only ever called him "squire" and, since receiving knighthood, "Sir Knight"— both spoken with disdain. Then she had leaned toward him as if to come into his arms. And he might have let her had Bernart not called her name. For a moment longer he'd held her gaze, which had never before considered him with such intensity, then risen. A tugging inside him, he'd turned and traversed the path to the donjon. As he neared the entrance, Bernart burst into the garden and thrust past him as if he did not see him. Tunic dragged on backward, hose rent from the haste with which he'd dressed, he dropped to his knees before Juliana. Amid his pleas for forgiveness, Gabriel had slipped away.

  After that, everything changed. Bernart cleaved to the vow of chastity extracted from him, Juliana crossed the threshold into womanhood, and the scorn Gabriel had felt for her turned to an ache—though he was careful to keep hidden that which her anguish had drawn from his cold, cold depths. Juliana, of auburn hair that tempted a man's hands and brown eyes warm enough to send the chill from the coldest night, was a woman he could never have. Should never have.

  Did her eyes still sparkle with delight? Did her easy laughter put light to the air? Or had the years matured her into one of those treacherous creatures who were good only for bedding?

  Naturally, Gabriel's thoughts turned to the one whose faithless body had pushed him into the world and the lies she had woven around her like a spider weaves its mortal web. He gripped his lance tighter. Did Juliana tread the same path as Constance De Vere? Following three years of marriage, had the sweet glow of wedlock waned such that she forsook her vows to pursue the senseless ideas of love she'd espoused as a girl? Likely. She was a woman, and no better than any other. But she was not his problem. She belonged to Bernart.

  Gabriel settled his gaze on the knight most likely to unseat Sir Erec, loosed a war cry, and positioned himself. Unwavering, he held until the iron tip of his lance met chain mail.

  Chapter Two

  England, May 1195

  He was not coming.

  Beneath the table, Bernart clenched his hands so tightly they trembled. Though Gabriel had refused to answer the challenge, Bernart had convinced himself his enemy would come. Now, with all the knights gathered in the hall following a day of practice and tomorrow the opening day of the tournament, he was proven wrong.

  He glanced at Juliana. She sat silent beside him, in one hand a wine goblet, in the other a spoon, but not once had she drunk from the vessel, nor eaten from the trencher between them. The only movement about her the gentle rise and fall of her breasts, she stared across the hall.

  Although it was two months since Bernart had forced her to his plan, and nothing more had been spoken of it, she assuredly knew the time had come. And she waited to be led to bed like a lamb to gutting.

  What was he to do? All was in place, from Juliana's time of breeding, to the chamber in which the deed would be done, to the rumor he had imparted that if she did not soon ripen with child he would rid himself of her and take another wife. So should he choose another to lie with her? Could he?

  As with every time he imagined any man enjoying what should have been his, self-loathing filled him. In spite of the resentment Juliana exuded, regardless of her unsmiling face, there was no woman more beautiful. And every man in the hall agreed. They struggled to keep their eyes from her, quickly looked elsewhere when they found Bernart watching them, but ever their gaze returned to her.

  Perhaps he ought abandon the idea, Bernart considered. At least then he might regain what little he'd had of Juliana before he'd demanded a son from her. Perhaps the hatred would disappear from her eyes.

  Nay, though he was not to have the satisfaction of taking a child from one whose betrayal had cost him the ability to father children, he needed a son to silence the speculation about his manhood. So who was it to be? He studied the knights seated around him. Sir Kenelm, too old. Sir Arnold, a lecher. Sir Morris, too handsome. Sir Simon, a cruel man. He was about to dismiss Sir Henry when the great doors across the hall swung open.

  The eyes of the man who strode within were colder than the night air he brought with him. They pinned Bernart where he sat in the lord's high seat and calmed the din to a murmur. He had come.

  Relief, darkened by disquiet, rippled through Bernart. Gabriel De Vere was nearly as he remembered him. Tall, broad, unkempt from his long brown hair down to his well-worn boots. In all, he presented little for a woman to gaze upon, but as Bernart knew, it would take no more than a flash of pale eyes to draw women to him like birds to flight.

  Bernart glanced at Juliana.

  Her face reflected disbelief, then anger. Though it was no secret that Bernart and Gabriel's friendship had been severed years ago, only she knew the true depth of her husband's feelings—and shared his enmity. So how long until she realized the reason for Gabriel's attendance? How long until the hatred she bore Bernart trebled?

  Bernart rose from his chair. "Lord De Vere," he called.

  Gabriel, followed by another knight whose exemplary grooming differed considerably from his own, traversed the remainder of the hall. He halted before the dais. "Lord Kinthorpe."

  His hair had begun to silver at the temples, and there were fine lines around his eyes, nose, and mouth that had not been there when he'd come before Bernart in the dungeon at Acre.

  With so many watching, Bernart summoned a smile that could not have been falser had it been cut from the devil's mouth. "You come to tourney?"

  Gabriel inclined his head. "By invitation."

  Bernart heard Juliana's sharply indrawn breath. She knew. Avoiding her gaze, he said, "You are late."

  "We are," Gabriel said without apology.

  The knight beside him stepped forward. "Sir Erec Sin-ward, my lord. Regretfully, during the crossing from France our ship was blown off course. We have ridden hard these past days to make your tournament."

  Considering their renown on the battlefield, Bernart knew there would be protests against their late entry.

  "You are welcome at Tremoral, Lord De Vere and Sir Erec." He swept a hand before him. "Join us. There is food and drink aplenty, entertainment, and willing wenches."

  Sir Erec bowed curtly. "You are gracious, my lord." He turned away.

  Gabriel regarded Bernart a moment longer, then lowered his gaze to Juliana.

  Bernart had wondered whether or not his enemy, the only man he had known to be impervious to Juliana's beauty, intended to acknowledge her. From the day Bernart had introduced his friend to the girl who was to be his bride, their mutual dislike had been more tangible than the chill in winter. Gabriel had named Juliana's notions of love and chivalry foolish, and she had declared him ill-mannered and dishonorable. When Bernart had tried to convince her otherwise, she'd pointed out that Gabriel's own father had set him aside. Bernart had been unable to arg
ue that, for Gabriel had never explained the reason that his future as Baron of Wyverly was past.

  "Lady Juliana," Gabriel said.

  "Lord De Vere." Her tone was frigid enough to cause a man to sink more deeply into the folds of his mantle.

  Just as it should be, Bernart told himself. Juliana would do what was required of her and hate every moment of it—no possibility she would feel anything for Gabriel.

  With a curt nod, Gabriel turned and strode after Sir Erec.

  The commotion in the hall resumed. Servants returned to their tasks, squires to their excited chatter, lords and knights to their boasting, and the ladies who'd accompanied their husbands to the tournament resumed their idle talk.

  Try though Bernart did to ignore the gaze that seemed to bore through him, he looked down. The hatred that shone from Juliana's eyes wounded him as no words could. She would never forgive him for what he did.

  He'd had enough. He wanted music to deafen the voices in his head that spoke against him, jongleurs to make him laugh, tales of the troubadour to wash away his pain. He signaled an end to the meal and stepped from behind the lord's table. "Minstrels!" he shouted.

  Slowly Juliana gained her feet. She felt cold, as if she might never know warmth again. Holding her arms at her sides to keep from hugging them to her, she watched as Bernart and his guests surged toward the hearth. As lady of Tremoral, her place was there, but she could not bring herself to join them. Not on a night such as this—a night made tenfold worse by the arrival of the one with whom Bernart intended her to lie.

  She swallowed hard. Why had De Vere come? Greed? Vainglory? Or did he truly believe Bernart had forgiven him his betrayal? Was it renewed friendship he sought? If the latter, he was a fool. But then, he did not know the extent of Bernart's anger. That ignorance could mean the death of him. Not that she cared. It was through De Vere's resentment and cowardice that Bernart had been rendered impotent. He was as much her enemy as her husband's. Pained by her years of marriage to a man who would not even touch her, she looked across the hall to where the dark knight and his fair-haired companion stood apart from the others.

  Although De Vere had matured and seemed broader of shoulders, he was not much changed from the young man who'd accompanied Bernart to Castle Gloswell all those years past. He exuded the same darkness he had then and, doubtless, was no more chivalrous. A hard man. Incapable of loving and being loved. And if not this night, then the next, she would be forced to submit to him.

  Desperation gripped her. How could Bernart ask it of her? What possessed him to choose his enemy? If she refused him, would he truly turn Alaiz out? Alaiz, whom he had ordered to remain abovestairs until after the tournament?

  Suddenly Gabriel's pale gaze pierced her.

  As badly as Juliana wanted to look away, she held her eyes to his. She was not frightened of him. He was a man, like any other. Not that she was intimately familiar with any other.

  In the end, it was she who broke the stare. Uncaring that she might be missed, she lifted her skirts clear of the debris that littered the rushes, crossed the hall, and ascended the stairs.

  He was not accustomed to losing. But then, neither was he in the habit of ignoring every instinct that had warned him against accepting Bernart Kinthorpe's challenge. He should not be here.

  Wondering what had possessed him, Gabriel folded his arms over his chest and waited to see if Erec fared any better in the treacherous game of dice. Hardly had the next round begun when he was struck with the sensation of being watched. He knew who it was without looking around. During the past hours he'd become inured to the man's scrutiny.

  Bernart was laying his plans, whatever they might be.

  Hips swaying, a serving wench approached—the same who had thrice attended to Gabriel's thirst, whose dark eyes spoke of another thirst she'd willingly quench. Nesta, she called herself. Not that it mattered. Names were of little import when two people came together for pleasure.

  "More ale, Lord De Vere?" she invited.

  He nodded.

  The wench leaned forward and settled her pitcher against the rim of his tankard.

  His loins stirred at the sight of twin globes pushing up from the neckline of her gown. Though he was only a sennight without a woman, he was feeling strangely deprived. True, he had an appetite for the cradle of a woman's thighs, her panting breath in his ear, the rake of her nails down his back, but this night his need was stronger than usual.

  The wench drew back. "Is there aught else ye require, Lord De Vere?" Her voice was a husky purr that gave promise of the moans he would wring from her.

  Gabriel trailed his gaze to her somewhat thick waist, then to flared hips thrust forward beneath her gown. Was there a darkened corner within the donjon where he might sample her? Behind a tapestry? The storeroom? Mayhap his tent—providing his squire had finished pitching it.

  She brushed against him. "Sire?"

  Gabriel was about to suggest the gardens when a movement to his left drew his regard. Bernart. His limp more obvious than it had been earlier that evening, he advanced. The man had not lost his talent for picking the most inopportune time to appear. Gabriel looked back at the wench. "Perhaps later."

  Disappointment pouted her thin lips. "Mayhap." With a toss of her head, she sauntered to those gathered around the dice.

  A smile found Gabriel's mouth. She would wait for him. She had not gone to the trouble of turning other wenches from his path only to cast her eyes elsewhere.

  Bernart halted a stride from Gabriel.

  "Try a few casts, Lord Kinthorpe," one of the knights invited.

  Bernart shook his head. "I prefer to watch you lose your money, Sir Tarrant."

  Several rounds later, with the silence between Bernart and Gabriel grown heavy, Bernart asked, "Is fortune not with you this eve?"

  Gabriel met his gaze. "I cannot say it has looked kindly upon me." For proof, his purse hung lighter from his belt.

  Bernart cocked his head. "What of the morrow? Think you fortune will look kindly upon you then?"

  Gabriel considered him. Though Bernart had once been among the strongest, not to mention most handsome of men, it was obvious he'd fallen victim to excess and lack of discipline. There was spare flesh around his eyes and jowls, the dark hair visible beneath his embroidered cap was thin and dull, his hands were slightly bloated, and his belted waist was by no means trim. A worthy opponent? Though they had once been fairly matched in arms, it appeared those days were gone. "I assure you," Gabriel said, "you will not find me lacking."

  Bernart pursed and unpursed his lips. "Nay, I do not think I will."

  An exultant shout, answered by groans and the clatter of coins, proclaimed the winner of the latest throw of dice. Sir Erec.

  Flashing big teeth, the knight turned to where Nesta hovered over his shoulder, pulled her against him. He kissed her loudly, then set her from him.

  Nesta swept her gaze to Gabriel. With a seductive dip of her lashes, she slid her tongue over her flushed lips.

  Though she thought to make him jealous, it was an emotion to which Gabriel was immune. No woman was worth such destructive feelings. Still, he wouldn't mind satisfying himself with her.

  Bernart stepped to Gabriel's side. "I see some things have not changed."

  Gabriel knew what Bernart referred to—his ability to find favor with women when he stood in the midst of men far more handsome and moneyed. "Some things," he agreed.

  Bernart looked away, but not before Gabriel glimpsed the darkness that flashed in his old friend's eyes. The hairs on the back of Gabriel's neck prickled.

  Several minutes passed. "A chamber has been prepared for you," Bernart said. "I would be pleased if you would stay in the donjon as my guest."

  Now the hairs on the backs of Gabriel's hands stood erect. Though Tremoral's castle was more grand than most, its private accommodations were limited, and those few chambers were surely reserved for the great lords and their ladies. All other participants would be expected t
o pitch tents outside the walls or bed down in the hall. "Forgive me if I am surprised by your invitation."

  Bernart shrugged. "We were once great friends."

  "Once."

  The words Bernart summoned must have been more bitter than the meanest ale. "And now, again, I would be your friend. If you will allow it."

  What gain did he seek in having the one he blamed for his capture at Acre beneath his roof? Did he think to sneak up on Gabriel while he slept and slip a knife in his back? Nay, too obvious. Likely he wished to establish goodwill so that whatever he planned for the battlefield would appear innocent—an accident. But Gabriel had no intention of accommodating him. He returned his gaze to Nesta.

  She smiled, then turned away.

  Ah, but she tempted him. A sennight without a woman—

  "Gabriel?" Bernart prompted.

  He snatched his mind out of his braies. Friends? The man must think him a fool. "I come to tourney," he said, staring after the wench, "and that is all."

  Silence rushed in to fill the void. Finally Bernart asked, "You desire her?" He jutted his chin to where Nesta poured ale for the men at the hearth. "I remember how you like your women. For certain, she will please you."

  Obviously Bernart had not forgotten their younger days when they had sought and enjoyed the pleasures of women—before Juliana had demanded his vow of chastity.

  "If you like her, you may have her," Bernart said.

  The words wrenched Gabriel back to the reality of the woman offered him. So different from Juliana. Dark against light. Though he'd told himself it was only for the winnings he came to Tremoral, it was a lie. But now that he had seen Juliana and felt the force of her hatred, perhaps he could finally put her from him.

  "She scratches and bites," Bernart said, "but I do not think you will mind."

  So, though he had remained true to Juliana throughout the Crusade, now that they were wed he freely scattered his seed. Strange he had no children running about, legitimate or otherwise.