Blackheart

by Tamara Leigh

  "Touch me," he said in a groan.

  She knew what he wanted. Years of denial guiding her, she closed her hand around his hard length. Surprisingly, he was as smooth as down, but very large.

  "Aye," he said under his breath, "now put me to you."

  With sudden disquiet, she wondered how she was to take him inside. Surely he would hurt her, perhaps rend her flesh.

  At her hesitation, he lowered himself between her thighs and pressed his manhood to her.

  Juliana's hand between them prevented him from breaching her. Though she ached to finally cross the threshold that separated girls from women, her arousal was tempered by fear.

  He closed his hand over hers and loosened her fingers. The barrier to his pleasure removed, he pressed into her.

  Radiant pain shattered her desire, but she refused to cry out. Gabriel must not know she was other than what she pretended to be. If she shed virgin blood and he later noticed it upon his sheets, she could do naught about that, but he must not know now. However, it seemed her reaction was not lost on his drunken senses. Though he did not withdraw, neither did he proceed.

  "Have I hurt you?" he asked, his voice strained as if he bore a great weight.

  What had betrayed her? In the next instant, Juliana realized it was her body again. She was as tense as a board. Somehow she must relax. If only the pain were not so great.

  Gabriel began to pull back.

  God, no! She had not come this far to be denied. Would not! She wrapped her arms around him, arched her body against his, surrendered the last of her maidenhood. Though she had not thought it could hurt more, it did. Tears swimming in her eyes, she sank her teeth into her bottom lip and rocked her hips back. A moment later she came to him again, and twice more before Gabriel responded.

  He wrested control of Juliana's clumsy attempts from her, slid a hand beneath her, and guided her to meet his thrusts. Gradually her pain receded until all that remained was a dull ache. Though she found no pleasure in their coupling, she moved with him until his breathing turned harsh. Then he drove so hard and fast between her thighs it was all she could do to receive him.

  Very soon he would give her his seed, she was certain; then she could return to the solar and brave the interminable hours until dawn, wondering whether or not a babe had taken.

  One moment Gabriel was deep inside her, the next, outside. Shouting his release, he gave the stuff of children to the flat of her belly.

  For a long moment, Juliana could not draw breath past her disbelief. Dear God, it could not be!

  Gabriel issued a harsh sigh and rolled onto his back.

  Knowing it was so, that she had naught to show for her sacrifice, she squeezed her eyes closed. She wanted to scream, to rail, to beat her fists against Gabriel for what he had cheated her of, but she forced herself to lie perfectly still.

  A short while later, his hand touched her shoulder. "Forgive me. I have had too much drink."

  Yet he was lucid enough to take from her without getting her with a child he did not want. Juliana had heard of such means of ensuring against impregnating women, but she'd never considered that Gabriel might practice it himself. Under different circumstances, she would have thought it noble that he should be so responsible. Curse him! Curse Bernart!

  Gabriel brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "Next time I shall pleasure you first."

  Next time. For what? An empty womb? Wishing to be as far from him as possible, she pushed onto her elbows.

  He pressed her down. "Stay. There are yet hours before dawn."

  Which would see him increasingly sober. However, as much as Juliana longed to leave, she knew that to oppose him might draw his suspicion. Maybe he would fall asleep and she could steal back to the solar.

  He settled his arm across her chest and caressed her shoulder. "Sweet," he murmured.

  She tried to think of anything other than the man beside her and the not entirely unpleasant sensations aroused by his touch, but it proved futile. His presence was too strong, her skin too sensitive. Fortunately it was not long before his breathing deepened.

  Juliana forced herself to be patient a few minutes longer, then slipped from beneath his arm and off the bed. She hurried to where she had left her mantle, donned it, and fled the chamber.

  She was not surprised to find the solar empty but for Alaiz on her pallet. For certain Bernart would not be clinging to his side of the bed this night. Was he still in the chapel? Or in the hall drinking away his guilt? No matter. It was done, though certainly not with the result he expected.

  Feeling wound tight as the thread on a spindle, Juliana crossed to the washbasin, shed her clothes, reached for the hand towel. The water was chill, but she hardly noticed as she bathed away the evidence of Bernart's quest for a son. Though there was very little blood upon her, it was only passing solace. She prayed she had left even less behind and that it would escape Gabriel's notice. She prayed that when she told Bernart that Gabriel had withheld his seed he would not send her to him again.

  She stilled. Bernart would be angered to learn this night's tryst had proven fruitless, but he would surely seek another to do what Gabriel would not.

  She closed her eyes. It was horrid she'd had to go to Gabriel, but to be passed from one man to another as if she were more of a whore than Bernart had already made her? She could not stand the thought. But what choice had she? She must protect Alaiz.

  Juliana lowered herself to the edge of the mattress. As much as she wished to put from her mind memories of this night, she opened them, relived the scent of Gabriel, his touch, the words he'd spoken. Although the only pleasure she had known had been before he'd entered her, at least he hadn't hurt her as she had heard some men did women. Aye, she would prefer him to an unknown, but only if there was some way to ensure he gave her his seed when next they came together.

  Her head began to ache. How was she to steal a child from a man who did not wish one? Unfortunately, there was no one she could turn to. No one to answer her questions. In the next instant, Nesta came to mind. Although Juliana could not approach the woman, the things of which she'd overheard Nesta speak, which had made her blush, returned to her—specifically, how the wench had seduced and pleasured a visiting bishop.

  Once again Juliana's skin flushed. Could she do those things to Gabriel that only women of ill-repute did? She swallowed. She would have to touch him as he had touched her, arouse him so he did not withdraw until it was too late. Somehow she would make it work.

  Feeling more alone than she'd ever felt, Juliana thrust back the coverlet, slid beneath, and hugged her knees to her chest. She would not cry. She was stronger than that. Two more nights and it would be done.

  God, let it be done.

  The dream came to Bernart as it did nearly every night. Stealthily it crept upon him. He reached to Juliana, but found only emptiness. Brazenly it covered him. "Nay!" he cried, but Juliana did not rise up to awaken him. Viciously it wrenched him into the past.

  More blood than he had ever seen. More fear than he had ever known. Carnage—just as Gabriel had warned. Gabriel, who was always right.

  Bernart ran. The shouts formed by infidel tongues carried upon the night air words he had never heard, but understood. If he were caught, his fate would be the same as that of the men he'd persuaded to follow him over the wall.

  God, what have I done? Knowing his only hope was to lose himself in the city, he veered right, then left. With each turn, the sound of his pursuers grew more distant.

  How he hurt! His sides ached; his lungs strained. He had to stop. He stumbled into an alleyway and flattened himself against a wall. Trembling with the effort to control his labored breathing, he strained to catch the sound of the Muslim soldiers.

  Brisk footsteps and voices warned of their approach.

  He pushed off the wall and staggered deeper into the alley, praying it did not dead-end. It did. Heart pounding so hard it hurt, he swept his sword around and surged forward. As he exited th
e alleyway, above the clink and clatter of his mail hauberk he heard them. Then they were before and behind him, swords flashing torchlight.

  He was in the hands of the heathens, those who had bled the life from the men who'd followed him into the devil's lair. What have I done? I should have listened to Gabriel. Though fear demanded he throw down his sword and surrender, honor said not. He was a knight, not a coward. To the death, then, and with him as many as could be taken. "For God and King Richard!" he cried, and launched himself at the nearest Muslim.

  Flesh! He had the man's flesh. The infidel's howl of pain stirring with his companions' shouts of anger, Bernart swept his sword again. He fought them, however many there were, but proved no match.

  A blade landed to the mail of his shoulder, next to the muscle. He tried to hold the cry, to keep it from his lips, but the next slice of the sword loosed it. But the blade did not pause at his thigh; it went deeper—to that place wherein man differed from woman.

  The pain! He screamed—piercing sounds that sounded as if they'd sprung from a woman's lips. Then, slowly, darkness, his last thought of sweet Juliana, who awaited his to return to England to make her his wife.

  With a hoarse shout, Bernart sat straight up. Where was he? The street in Acre that he had made crimson with the spilled blood of his manhood? The stinking cell where he had prayed every hour of every day for death? At last his eyes adjusted to the darkness, revealing the familiar corners of the chapel.

  He shuddered and collapsed back upon the bench. He should have died at Acre. If not that he was of the landed nobility, valued for ransom or trade, he would have bled to death. Instead, physicians had tended him and, after long, agonizing weeks, had pronounced him healed. During the long days and nights that followed, his only companion had been his tortured thoughts, which had brought him to the realization that Gabriel was to blame. For everything.

  Bernart sat up and wiped the perspiration from his brow. It was a long time since he'd had to endure the dream in its entirety. Always Juliana awakened him. But not this night. This night she was with Gabriel. He stilled. Was the deed done? Had she returned to the solar? He hurried from the chapel and flung open the door of their chamber.

  A flickering torch revealed her auburn head upon the pillow. It was done.

  He closed his eyes. Though he ought to be pleased with the prospect that a son might be planted in her womb, it was anger that rose in him. He closed the door, strode past the chamber where Gabriel had pleasured himself between Juliana's thighs, and descended the stairs to the dimly lit hall. Here, tournament guests, household knights, and servants littered the floors and benches, their slumber marked by snores, grunts, and mutterings.

  Bernart crossed to the sideboard. He shouldn't drink.... He lifted a pitcher of warm ale, filled a tankard, drained it, filled it again, then ascended the dais and dropped into the lord's high seat. Though it was rest his sleep-deprived body needed, anger held his eyes wide and turned his thoughts to tomorrow's battle. And the revenge that would be his.

  Chapter Five

  The chamber was beginning to lighten when Gabriel opened his eyes. Although he usually rose in advance of the dawn, he did not hasten from bed. Something playing about the back passages of his mind, he looked beside him. He was alone. Naught unusual about that, but still there was a vague sense of loss.

  Like an elusive dream, remembrance of the night past teased his consciousness—advancing, receding, advancing again. He grasped at the memories, tried to hold them long enough to make sense of them.

  Silken thighs. Full breasts. Quivering flesh. Something very... sweet. Merely a dream? Conjured by his drunken mind? Nay, a woman had come to him last eve, but not Nesta, as she'd promised. Who, then? Which of the wenches in Bernart's hall had taken the other woman's place? When Gabriel could not put a face to his night visitor, he concluded it must have been dark when she'd come to him. What had she called herself? Again, naught, for she had not spoken a word—leastwise, none he could recall. Not that it mattered. He reminded himself of the distance he put between himself and the women with whom he lay. Still, there had been something about her....

  He lifted his head. Though the movement made his teeth ache, he dismissed the discomfort and looked down the naked length of his body. He stared at his loins, then abruptly sat up and searched the coverlet beneath. Telltale spots of crimson verified that which was upon himself.

  A virgin? Indistinctly, he recalled the wench's response when first he'd entered her. He had thought he'd hurt her, but then she had wantonly thrust against him. Nay, she had been no maiden come to him. It was her woman's blood. Had to be. So what was it that made her memory linger? Certainly not a dousing of perfume to mask an unclean body. She had smelled... feminine. That he recalled.

  With a snarl of disgust, Gabriel rejected such useless pondering. She was a whore, like any other. He dropped his feet to the floor and stood. The throbbing in his head trebled.

  "Damn!" he muttered. He'd been foolish to drink so much, especially as the wine had not been watered. Although he was usually mindful of how much he imbibed the night before a melee, the drink had flowed so freely last eve that no sooner had he taken a swallow than his goblet was filled again. He would not be surprised if it had been arranged by Bernart to gain an advantage over him in tournament. An advantage he would have if Gabriel did not soon shake the effects of the alcohol.

  He thrust a hand through his hair and massaged the back of his neck. Food would make him see straight again.

  Knowing that as soon as the morning mass was said, the breaking of fast would commence in the hall, he strode to the basin. He splashed chill water over his face, retrieved his garments from the rushes, and donned them as quickly as his clumsy fingers would allow.

  He would not even look at her. His gaze fixed on the chaplain, Bernart sat silent beside Juliana as the morning mass was recited to those who'd gathered in hopes God would look kindly upon them in tournament.

  During the past half hour, Juliana had endured the tension and anger Bernart exuded. She knew it arose from her having come to the chapel and forcing her presence on him, but it was not out of spite she'd come. Not really. It was for the solace she found within the walls of this holy place. More than ever, she needed to be here, to repent for the night past, to plead strength for the nights to come. Sacrilegious though it might be.

  As if sensing her turmoil, Alaiz slipped her hand into her sister's lap and intertwined their fingers.

  Juliana had known that to allow her sister to accompany her would further rouse Bernart's displeasure, but she had brought her anyway. After all, it was the only thing she had to show for her sacrifice. Now her sister's place at Tremoral was secure and, though Bernart had not agreed to it, no more would she be hidden.

  At the conclusion of the mass, Bernart was the first to rise. Without a glance in Juliana's direction, he stepped around her and strode down the aisle. He would go be-lowstairs to break his fast, providing he could stomach it, and afterward ride to the battlefield. Juliana would not be surprised if this day he gained the ransom of several knights, perhaps even that of Gabriel De Vere. Of course, did she reveal to him Gabriel had taken her virtue and given nothing in return, it might be Gabriel's death Bernart sought. Another reason to say naught.

  "I am... hungry," Alaiz whispered.

  Juliana dragged her gaze from the altar. "Then we should eat." Her smile felt terribly stiff.

  Alaiz beamed most beautifully. In fact, at that moment Juliana doubted there was any woman lovelier than her sister. Unfortunately, beauty was not enough in this world that regarded those who were different with suspicion, as if another's loss of faculties might somehow affect their own.

  Juliana stood and was instantly reminded of the tenderness between her thighs. She could not bear to think what pain would be put upon her this eve.

  From the back of the throng exiting the chapel, Juliana glimpsed Sir Erec ahead. She was thankful there was no sight of Gabriel, but considering his
drunken state last eve, she had not expected he would attend mass. Had prayed he would not.

  "After meal," Alaiz said, "may we go to the...?" Her brow crumpled.

  Tempted as Juliana was to supply the word, she waited to see if her sister could summon it. She could not. "You wish to go to the tournament?"

  Alaiz sighed. "Aye, the tournament."

  Juliana laid a hand on her sister's shoulder. "We must first tend to your lessons." It was true, but more of an excuse to distance Juliana from Gabriel.

  "Not today," Alaiz beseeched. "I wish to see the b-battle."

  "You do not think it violent?"

  "Ah, nay! 'Tis... exciting. The smell"—Alaiz sniffed the air—"the colors, the noise." She threw her palms up. "I-I wish to go again."

  For all her fear of horses, it seemed her passion for the tournament remained intact. It had been the same before the accident. Still, Juliana needed this day to prepare for the night. "Mayhap tomorrow."

  Disappointment fell across Alaiz's face.

  Juliana felt a pang of remorse. 'Tomorrow. I promise."

  Alaiz nodded.

  If only there were another who could accompany her to the tournament, Juliana wished. Someone whom she could trust. But there was no one, for she feared a woman servant might say spiteful things to Alaiz, that one of Bernart's knights might take advantage of her innocence. To that last, Sir Randal Rievaulx rose to mind. Though the young knight had rarely spoken a word to Alaiz, too often his eyes followed her, making Juliana uneasy. Whatever the cost, she must protect her sister.

  Juliana and Alaiz stepped through the doorway and traversed the corridor behind those eager to reach the meal awaiting them belowstairs.

  A chill pricked Juliana's skin as she neared the chamber she must twice more enter. Was he within? In the hall? Departed for the battlefield? If the latter, she would return abovestairs and strip the bedclothes before a maid discovered the evidence of her lost virtue. God, she prayed, let Gabriel be gone from the castle.