Blackheart

by Tamara Leigh

  Perhaps the one who'd come again last eve was not a wench, not disfigured. Perhaps she was Lady Alaiz wishing to be the woman her accident denied her. It fit, but did not. Was Alaiz, yet was not. Chest constricting, Gabriel jerked his head around.

  Auburn hair confined to a plait that ran the length of her back, full breasts swelling the bodice of her gown, snug waist accentuated by an embroidered belt, Juliana directed the women servants with an efficiency that bespoke the lady of the castle. Not a wench. Never a wench. But could it be?

  Sir Erec's words of minutes earlier echoed through him: / did not ask whom you wish it to be. Was that all this was? Wishing for one who belonged to another? Gabriel summoned memories of yesterday, when Juliana had sought his kiss, memories of the night past, the night before. The scent of her, feminine. The feel, silken. Her touch, tentative one moment, urgent the next. Her whispered voice, sweetly husky. Her name, Isolde.

  Realizing that if he inquired, there would be no kitchen maid in Bernart's household by that name, he tightened his hold on his meat dagger. Isolde existed only in the person of one who, as a child, had been surrounded by tales of love, her favorite being that of Tristan and Isolde. He had been blind—as if his eyes were put out!

  "Gabriel?" Erec said.

  Why had she given herself to her husband's enemy? In retaliation for Bernart's infidelities with Nesta and whomever else he took beneath him? Anger tightened every muscle in his body. Juliana had used him. She was a whore the same as his mother. "What is it, Gabriel?"

  He leashed his emotions. "Naught." He finished his mead.

  Juliana felt him. His eyes followed her, bore through her. Did he know? Had he discovered the chemise she'd left behind and realized it was hers? Perhaps not. Perhaps it was something else that caused him to look so heavily upon her.

  She had to know. Praying she did not appear anxious, she summoned a servant and instructed the woman to strew fresh herbs over the rushes, then lifted her skirts and crossed to the stairs. Shortly, she entered Gabriel's chamber.

  Excepting the dust motes that stirred in the shaft of light bridging the space between window and rumpled bed, all was still.

  She hurried across the room, put her knees to the mattress, and began searching the bedclothes. Naught. "Please, God," she implored, and tossed a pillow aside.

  "You will not find it there." A deep voice shattered her prayer.

  Juliana's heart hurtled into her throat. Dear Lord, let this be but a terrible dream. She closed her eyes, but when she opened them, the mattress she'd twice shared with Gabriel was beneath her knees. She swallowed hard. "Have you not a tournament to attend, Lord De Vere?"

  The crush of rushes announced his advance. "Why?" he demanded.

  She would deny it to her dying breath. Keeping her back to him, she lowered her feet to the floor, swept the covers from the bed, gathered them to her chest. When she turned, he stood three feet distant. "The bed must needs be stripped," she said, refusing him her gaze. "But first rifled?"

  She looked beyond him and saw he'd closed the door. Fear pounded at her temples. She must get away. Clutching the bedclothes more tightly, she started past him.

  He caught her arm and pulled her against him. "Why?"

  She was grateful for the covers between them, but it was not enough. Summoning indignation, she snapped, "You forget your place, Lord De Vere. Unhand me!"

  He grasped her chin, forced it up. "And where is my place?"

  Her breath was much too labored. "Release me."

  A caustic smile touched his lips. Combined with the unsightly bruise upon his cheekbone, it made him appear sinister. "You look tired, Juliana. Have you not slept well?"

  She strained backward. "Let me go!"

  "When you have answered me. For what reason did you seek my bed?"

  "You think... How dare—"

  "No more than you. Now tell me."

  A dangerous man, "I know not what you speak of."

  "Mayhap this will help you remember." He lowered his mouth toward hers.

  With a cry, she jerked her head to the side.

  Gabriel's lips landed on her jaw. Laughter rumbled from his chest as he moved to her ear. "Should we make love by the light of day, Isolde?" He swept his tongue over her ear.

  She shuddered. "I shall scream. I swear it!"

  "You will not." He thrust the bedclothes to the floor and dragged her against him. "Do you remember now?" His hard length surged against her belly.

  A mixture of fear and excitement shot through her as she looked into his intense eyes, their paleness engulfed by the dark of his pupils. Knowing she'd be lost if she didn't stop him, she put her hands to his chest and pushed with all her strength. He was like a rock.

  Gabriel cupped her breast, captured her nipple through her gown. "Do you remember?"

  She tried to twist free, but he held tight. "You are wrong. Pray, do not do this."

  He hitched up her skirts and glided a hand over her thigh. "You liked the things I did to you." His voice lowered to a sensuous throb. "Didn't you, Juliana?"

  So much she wanted him to do them again. "Please..."

  His fingers brushed her inner flesh and found her heat. "Tell me."

  She whimpered.

  'Tell me you liked it."

  Her body harkened to the hunger he roused, moved her against her will. She was drowning. "Say it."

  That she desired him? That more than anything else she wished him to lay her back and cover her again? No greater lie could be told if she denied it. She nodded. "Aye, Gabriel. Aye."

  He pulled his hand from beneath her skirt, thrust rough fingers through her hair, and forced her head back. "You used me!"

  He knew of the child she hoped to steal from him? As she stared into his wrathful face, panic stole her passion. Chilled her. To my dying breath. Though from her response to Gabriel it would be futile to continue to deny she was Isolde, never would she admit to Bernart's plan. " 'Tis not true."

  Gabriel pulled her head back, further exposing her throat. "You did not come to my bed for revenge? To lie with your husband's enemy that you might injure Bernart as he injures you each time he takes Nesta or another beneath him?"

  Revenge? Bernart and Nesta? Juliana felt adrift. What was Gabriel talking about?

  "When did you mean to tell him? Before I leave Tremoral or after I am gone?"

  Finally she made sense of him. He thought vengeance had reduced her to a whore, not a quest for a son. Though Juliana knew she ought to be grateful the truth evaded him, it stung that he thought her so ignoble—that mere revenge could cause her to set aside her beliefs, her honor, her pride. If only she could tell him the truth, that she was as much a pawn as he, but if she did, Bernart would retaliate against Alaiz. So how was she to salvage the mess she had made of her nights with Gabriel? How was she to calm the beast?

  With a snort of disgust, he released her hair. "Let us have done with it now." He grasped her wrist and dragged her toward the door.

  He meant to tell Bernart? There would be bloodshed. "Nay!" She wrenched backward. Her slender wrist slipped through Gabriel's fingers. Though she threw out her arms to break her fall, the bed did it for her. She pushed up from it and met Gabriel's gaze. "Listen to me. Do you tell Bernart, he will kill you."

  The smile that touched his lips did naught to ease his harsh features. "As he tried to do yesterday—and failed?"

  So it was true. "He will try again."

  "And fail again."

  "Perhaps."

  He cocked his head. "Would you care, Juliana Kinthorpe?"

  In that moment, she knew what she must do to prevent

  a deadly confrontation. Even so, the words that passed her lips were no lie. "I would."

  His lids narrowed. He did not believe her.

  Juliana drew all of her courage about her and stepped forward. "I am alone, Gabriel. My marriage is... hardly a marriage. I do not love Bernart. He does not—"

  " 'Tis obvious you do not love him. Is it bec
ause he no longer fits your silly image of a lover? That he is lame? Uncomely?"

  If only he knew the reason behind Bernart's wasting. As if Gabriel had not spoken, she continued. "Neither does Bernart love me." Now the lie. "He takes his pleasure in other women and I try not to see it. But I do."

  "So you avenge yourself with me."

  " 'Tis true that revenge brought me to your chamber the first night, but yesterday in the garden, I felt..." She halted before him. "I felt something I have not in a long time."

  Her declaration appeared to have no effect on him. "What did you feel?"

  "Like a woman."

  "Not a whore?"

  How vicious his words. She swept her gaze to her feet and commanded them to remain still. No matter how cruel he was, she would not flee. " 'Twas more than the flesh that brought me to you last eve."

  "Then you profess to have feelings for me?"

  Was it true? "I do," she said, uncertain whether or not it was another lie she told. Though she felt the beckoning of his hard gaze, she did not look up for fear her eyes would reveal her.

  "Have you forgotten I am your enemy? The man whom you believe betrayed your husband at Acre?"

  Had he betrayed Bernart? Doubt settled over her as she recalled the words he'd spoken in the garden. "You told me you did not easily give up your friendship with Bernart."

  "I did not."

  She looked up. "I believe you." It was true, though she did not realize it until she said it. All these years she'd allowed Bernart's anger to blind her to the man Gabriel had been before the two had set off for the Holy Land. True, she had never cared for him and his coarse manners that boded no respect for women, but he had been no coward. "I now know you could not have betrayed Bernart."

  He laughed, a harsh sound. "Because I pleasured you, Juliana? Is that all it took? A salving of the flesh?"

  "I tell you 'twas more than that!"

  "How many before me?"

  She shook her head. "What speak you of?"

  "How many times have you cuckolded Bernart? Or is it too many to put upon one hand?"

  She could not fault him for believing he wasn't the first, but it wounded her. "There have been no others."

  "I am to believe you? A woman who dons night and whispers lies?"

  She was not reaching him. Any moment now he would drag her before Bernart. She stepped nearer. "I do not lie, Gabriel. You are the first. I beseech you, do not go to Bernart."

  He turned and strode toward the door. "Gabriel!"

  He looked over his shoulder. "Will you tell him?"

  An excruciatingly long moment passed before he answered. "I will not." Relief poured into her. "I thank you."

  He pulled the door open. "Come no more to me." He stepped into the corridor.

  Juliana stared at the empty doorway. Why this ache? Merely guilt? Why this terrible sense of having lost something dear? Only desire? It had to be.

  She crossed to the window and pulled back the oilcloth. A short while later, Gabriel appeared amongst the castle folk in the bailey below. With long strides, he crossed the inner drawbridge and passed from sight. Now he would go to the battlefield and face the man whose wife he had lain with, neither knowing that the other was aware of her sin.

  She dropped the oilcloth and leaned back against the wall. What was she to do when Bernart ordered her to Gabriel's chamber one last time? As his guilt would not allow him to watch her go to his enemy, she could make a pretense of doing so, but he might await her return to the solar, as he'd done last eve. Could she tell him two nights were enough, that she was certain she was breeding?

  Juliana touched her belly. Nine months from now, would she push forth Gabriel's son for Bernart to claim? The thought caused her stomach to heave. If not that she'd eaten little this morn, she would have retched.

  Nay, Bernart would not risk the past two nights of pain and jealousy for the gain of one. And what of her? If Gabriel's seed did not take, she would have to lie down for another, and perhaps another. She was going to retch.

  Juliana hastened to the washbasin and bent over it. When her stomach finally settled, she wiped her face with a hand towel that smelled faintly of Gabriel. What was she to do?

  Juliana's heart pounded fiercely as Gabriel ascended the dais. She should have known he would be the one to gain the most ransoms, that she would have to face him beneath Bernart's watchful gaze. She glanced at her husband. He stood silent beside her, his face drawn hard as he stared across the hall. He had little pretense left, could not even look at Gabriel.

  With a hand that quivered betrayingly, Juliana pushed back a wisp of hair that the draft in the hall had loosed from her veil.

  Gabriel halted before her.

  Neither could she look at him. Still, she knew he had bathed following this last day of tournament, for the scent that wafted to her was fresh, yet masculine—the same as that first night when she had gone to him. She lifted the purse of silver from the table beside her. "To the knight who has proven himself above all others," she spoke to the multitude gathered before the dais, "I give thee this reward, Lord De Vere." She extended it.

  He did not take it.

  The silence was too uncomfortable to ignore. Juliana looked up.

  He stared at her, her secret in his eyes.

  Did Bernart see it? Was he looking? She swallowed hard. "Lord De Vere?"

  He accepted the purse.

  The onlookers cheered. It took some minutes for the din to subside, and for each one of them Juliana felt the sharpening of Bernart's enmity. When the roar finally fell to a murmur, she turned to the table again. There lay a jeweled dagger. Its gems caught the last light of day that filtered through the lofty windows. "And that all may know of your valor, I present this dagger"—she placed it in his familiar, callused palm—"and proclaim thee Knight Victorious."

  His fingers turned around the hilt, brushing hers as she withdrew, stealing her breath. "I thank you, my lady," he said, "for everything."

  Everything. Did any other hear his mockery?

  He turned to Bernart. "Lord Kinthorpe."

  Stiffly, Bernart inclined his head.

  Gabriel turned. Amid renewed applause, he stepped from the platform.

  Juliana stared after him, her mouth dry. Only hours until Bernart sent her to him and still she did not know what to do. Surely Gabriel would reject her, deepen her humiliation.

  Knights gathered around him, clapped him on the back, hoisted slopping tankards of ale to acknowledge his prowess. Nesta handed him a tankard brimming with ale. Gabriel turned it bottom up, and a moment later thrust it forward to be refilled.

  Would drink be enough? Juliana wondered. Would it make him forget what he believed of her?

  Bernart shouldered past Juliana. "Let us feast!"

  A fanfare of trumpets sounded from the minstrels' gallery. In anticipation, all turned their attention to the corridor that led to the kitchens. They would not be disappointed, for all day Juliana had labored to ensure the banquet was lavish as befitted the Baron Kinthorpe.

  As the trumpets reverberated their last note, a procession of squires and upper servants filed into the hall, each carrying shoulder-high a platter of some viand: herbed boar's head, stuffed breast of veal, roast goose, leg of goat, lampreys, beef pastries. And this was only the first of four courses.

  Eagerly, the guests hastened to the tables. Before they took their seats, each was tended by a pair of varlets who poured water over their hands and promptly dried them. Then the food was set before them.

  Realizing she stood alone, Juliana looked behind her. Bernart was seated beneath the orange-and-gold-striped canopy. Though he should have led her to table and seen her into her chair before taking his own, he'd overlooked her—as if she had done him a grave wrong. But had she not? Among the reasons he'd chosen his enemy was the hate Juliana bore Gabriel. He had been certain she would despise his touch, that he need not fear she would return to him with her head full of notions of love. Was it love? No mor
e had the thought slipped in than she rejected it. She felt for the wrong she did Gabriel, and it was true she desired him, but that was all. Still, perhaps Bernart sensed the change in her....

  She walked around the table and lowered herself into the chair between Bernart and Alaiz.

  Her sister put a hand to her arm. "Are you well, Juliana?"

  She nodded and lifted her goblet. Though she tried to ignore the sensation of being watched—knew better than to search out the source—she glanced to the table below the lord's. Before Gabriel could harden his eyes, she glimpsed something other than loathing there. Then it was gone. Though she could not name what it was, it revealed that he was less indifferent to her than he wished her to believe. Perhaps that was the reason he was so angry. That black heart of his was not supposed to include shades of gray.

  "Juliana," Bernart snapped.

  She was surprised to find his meat dagger hovering near, a morsel of roast goose perched on its tip. Though they usually shared a trencher between them, it was a long time since he had fed her—it being an intimacy he shunned nearly as much as physical contact.

  "Take it," he said in a growl.

  She picked off the meat with her teeth.

  "Does he know?" he rasped low.

  Her mouth was too full to offer the vehement denial fear demanded. Regardless, the lie was more easily told with a shake of her head.

  "Do not fail me, Juliana." He darted his gaze to where Alaiz sat oblivious to their exchange.

  His meaning was clear. Juliana swallowed the flavorless meat. "You know I will not."

  He reached for his goblet of wine.

  She laid a staying hand to his arm. "You have been drinking too much."

  Bernart clenched a hand over hers, shoved his face near. "You are surprised?" There was fury in his veined eyes.

  Though his grip was cruel, she didn't flinch. "You know what it does to you. 'Twill keep you awake all night."

  "Not if I drink enough."

  Surely he did not mean to drink himself into unconsciousness. The last time he'd done so was shortly after Alaiz's arrival at Tremoral. The following morning, the agonizing pain of making water had driven him to such anger that Juliana had barred herself and her sister in the solar. Never would she forget Bernart's raging, his pounding on the door, his sword slashing at the thick planks. Though his outburst had not lasted long and afterward he'd been repentant, it had been a frightening experience, especially for Alaiz. "Have you forgotten the last time—"