Blackheart

by Tamara Leigh

  Gabriel strode down the corridor, retrieved a torch from a wall sconce, and threw open the first of three doors. He motioned Juliana to precede him.

  She stepped within and was met by an unexpected sight. The chamber was of a good size, nearly as large as the lord's solar at Tremoral, but that was not as surprising as the rest of it. The ceiling was painted blue, like the sky, and the four corners of it embellished with intricately detailed flowers—so fanciful it reminded her of her youth, when she'd believed in such things as love.

  Two of the walls were hung with finely worked tapestry. The right depicted a garden, in the midst of which a lady and her lover sat, the left a unicorn surrounded by white rosebushes. Positioned before the latter tapestry was a large, postered bed, its linen curtains drawn back to reveal plump pillows and a fur coverlet that beckoned to Juliana so strongly her lids grew heavy.

  She stepped farther into the chamber. Not only were the rushes more plentiful here than belowstairs, they teased her nostrils with the scent of cowslip, hyssop, sweet fennel. More, they drew a sharp contrast between herself and the room. Having worn the same garments for the past four days, she smelled of dust and horses. What she wouldn't do for a long soak in a bath and a change of clothes.

  She eyed the carved chest set between the shuttered windows against the far wall, fleetingly hoped that within she might find garments to fit her swelling figure.

  "You approve?" Gabriel asked.

  For those few moments, Juliana had forgotten she was not alone. She looked behind and saw that Gabriel leaned against the door frame. " 'Tis not what one would expect of a prison."

  He swept his gaze over the chamber. " 'Tis not a prison at all, but a place for lovers."

  Lovers. Suddenly wary, she clenched her hands in her skirts.

  He returned his gaze to her, and saw the fear she should have kept hidden. "You think I intend to seduce you as you did me, Juliana?"

  Did he? He had said he did not want her. Had he lied?

  He smiled slowly. "As you see, the chamber is how it was when I took possession of Mergot. Were it not the only private room other than the lord's solar, I would put you elsewhere." He straightened from the doorway. "Be assured, I want only that which you carry."

  And in five months he would take it from her.

  He set the torch in a nearby wall sconce. "I shall send a tray of food to you." He started for the door.

  "I would prefer a bath," Juliana called after him.

  He turned, considering her. "You must give some in order to get, Juliana. Eat; then I will order you a bath."

  Doubtless if she did not eat he would know of it. "Very well."

  Gabriel pulled the door closed behind him.

  Juliana listened to his receding footsteps. Only when they'd faded into nothingness did she surrender to the bed. She lay back upon the thick feather mattress. It welcomed her to its soothing depths, tempted her lids closed, delivered her into a dreamworld from which the serving girl who appeared a short while later had difficulty rousing her.

  Somehow Juliana summoned the appetite to consume a small portion of the viands. Fortunately it was enough to satisfy Gabriel, for soon thereafter a tub was brought to her chamber, along with twenty or more pails of steaming water required to fill it.

  "I shall help you disrobe, my lady," said the maid Gabriel had sent to tend her.

  Juliana considered the lovely woman whose accent was truer than her own. Though English nobles' first language was that of the French, the years since Duke William had conquered the island kingdom and the distance of the channel had diluted the accent of the English such that it lacked much of the musical quality of this soft-spoken woman.

  "Lady Isolde?"

  Juliana blinked. "I am sorry, what is your name again?"

  "Lissant, my lady."

  Juliana nodded. "I thank you, Lissant, but I can manage myself." The maid's brow puckered.

  Had Gabriel ordered that she was not to leave Juliana's side?

  "You are certain?" Lissant asked. "I am."

  Her gaze strayed to Juliana's belly. Then, as if she understood the reason for Juliana's reluctance to disrobe, she nodded. "I will leave you, but should you need me I shall be outside your door."

  "You need not wait on me."

  Lissant smiled. " 'Tis the task Lord De Vere has set me, my lady."

  And none dared disobey him. "Very well. I will call you should I need you."

  Lissant inclined her head. Her bearing proud, almost noble, she turned and left the room.

  Juliana removed her soiled garments and stepped into the tub. She sighed as warmth flowed over her. If not that the tub was too short for her to stretch her legs out, she would have dozed. Though weary, she set about bathing herself from her hair to the tips of her toes, and only when she had accomplished that did she rest her head against the rim. She soaked until the water grew tepid, then stepped out of the tub, dried herself, and crawled naked between the sheets.

  This night she would not think about her troubles, nor dwell on what the morrow might bring. In the days to come there would be plenty of time to worry and wonder, to search for a way out of her predicament. Now she needed rest. Even so, her last thoughts before sleep were of Alaiz. Was she well? How great was her fear? Was she strong enough to endure whatever Bernart subjected her to? Somehow she must be strong.

  Chapter Twelve

  England

  Alaiz rose from the hearth as the doors of the hall swung inward. There he stood, the man who wanted only one thing more than her absence—Juliana's child.

  In an instant, Bernart's eyes fell upon her. "Where is she?" he demanded as he strode forward.

  The captain of the guard and three of the knights who'd accompanied him to London entered the hall and paused inside the doorway.

  "Where has your sister gone?" Bernart repeated.

  Frantically, Alaiz tried to order her thoughts, tried not to feel the fear that breathed at her neck. "I-I do not know, my lord. When I awoke, she was gone from her..." What was the word? It was so simple; why could she not summon it? Finally she snatched it from the muddle. "She was gone from her bed."

  Bernart halted before her. "Gone? With nary a trace?"

  She could not remember him ever looking so directly at her, was accustomed to the embarrassment that always swept his gaze from her. "Aye, gone."

  His nostrils flared, his face coloring brighter. "You are telling me you saw naught? Heard naught?"

  His spit sprayed her face, made her blink. As much as she long to wipe it away, she quelled the urge. "I-I was tired."

  "It is as I told you, my lord," the captain of the guard spoke from behind Bernart. " 'Twas as if we were drugged. Every one of us."

  Bernart looked around. "What of the priest who stopped for the night—this Father Hermanus?"

  "We have searched, but he is gone."

  Bernart's jowls quivered. "Keep searching! Sir Hector, Sir Nigel, accompany him."

  The two knights followed the captain of the guard from the hall. The remaining knight, Sir Randal, stared at Alaiz. His smile boded no good.

  Bernart turned back to her. "I know this is difficult for one of your... intellect, but I need you to think hard. For your sister's sake—and yours."

  Anger supplanted the unease Alaiz had felt a moment earlier. Though words did not come easily to her and she struggled to order her thoughts that she might be understood, she was not dull-witted. There were so many things she knew that Bernart would never know. Unfortunately, those things dwelt behind locked doors. Would she ever find the keys?

  Bernart stepped closer, the sweat of his ride rank. "Tell me, who would steal Juliana away?"

  She gathered up handfuls of her skirts, squeezed the material so tightly her short nails bent to the pressure. "I do not know, my lord." It was the first lie she'd told in years, though it really was not a lie. After all, she was not certain it was Gabriel De Vere who had taken her sister. What she did know was that Juliana would not ha
ve willingly left her behind, and that the child in her belly was Gabriel's—not that Juliana had confided in her. Nay, it went back to the night Bernart had approached Juliana and demanded she give him a child he was incapable of fathering. Then there was the night Gabriel De Vere had arrived at Tremoral and Bernart had later sought Juliana in the solar. He had thought Alaiz asleep, and she had been until he'd raised his voice. How she had ached to learn that her sister would have to surrender to a man she hated. Although Alaiz feared the answer, she questioned the reason for Juliana's sacrifice—why she had not refused her husband.

  "Who?" Bernart shouted.

  Alaiz started violently. Who? Who what? What did he ask? Her breath coming in gasps, she searched backward, grasped at their previous discourse.

  Bernart gripped her upper arm and shook her. "Imbecile! I swear, do you give me one moment of grief, I shall turn you out." He thrust her from him and swung away.

  If not for the chair behind her, Alaiz would have tumbled to the hearth. Shaking as if taken with chill, she stared at her brother-in-law's retreating back. A moment later, she remembered his question: Who would have stolen Juliana?

  Ought she to reveal her suspicions? She considered doing so only a moment before deciding against it. As much as she longed for Juliana's return, and dreaded life at Tremoral without her, something told her it was best she said naught. Best Bernart believed her an imbecile.

  "None to watch over you, Lady Alaiz?"

  She looked up. Before her stood Sir Randal, his eyes bright with something Juliana would not have liked. Alaiz glanced past him and saw that Bernart had gone, leaving her alone with this knight whom her sister had not trusted, whose gaze Alaiz too often felt.

  Show not fear, she counseled herself. He would not dare bother you. Would he? "Excuse me, I-I must rest until the n-nooning meal."

  He was slow to stir from her path. Only after he'd slithered his gaze over her did he step aside. "Rest well, my lady."

  She could not go from his sight quickly enough. Once inside her chamber, she barred the door. She was safe, but only for the moment. The question was how she was to remain safe while she dwelled in the home of a man who so disdained her. Bernart was her sister's husband, but he would not protect her as Juliana had done. As he'd warned, if she caused him difficulty he would turn her out. Which would be worse? To remain at Tremoral among men like Sir Randal who looked at her the way he did, or to be a woman wandering the countryside amid outcasts and thieves who would as surely take advantage of her? The latter, she concluded. Thus she must preserve her place here, must protect herself.

  She wiped her moist palms down her skirts, straightened, crossed to the chest at the foot of her bed. She knelt and raised the lid. At the bottom she found what she was looking for: the jeweled dagger her father had given her before his death.

  Who dared come into his home and steal his wife from his bed? It was the same question Bernart had repeatedly asked himself since word of Juliana's disappearance had reached him in London. And still he was no nearer the answer.

  He wiped a forearm across his brow, wetting his sleeve with the excessive perspiration he owed more to his considerable weight gain these past months than the hard ride from London.

  He was tired and badly wanted to seek his rest. As he longingly eyed the bed from which Juliana had been stolen three nights past, the question rushed at him again: Who had taken her? He imagined a dark figure entering the solar, standing over her, lifting her. Had she struggled? Cried out? Had ill befallen the child she carried, the son he had sacrificed all to gain?

  He slammed a fist against the bedpost, grunting as pain exploded through his hand. Where was she? Whose bed was she in?

  Nursing his hand to his chest, he dropped to the mattress edge and stared sightlessly at his surroundings. He had always prided himself on possessing a woman so desirable that any man who saw her instantly wanted her, but never had he believed any would dare steal her. Who would be so bold?

  Without a doubt, the visiting priest had been part of the plan, but he had not done it alone. Who had engaged him? Bernart plodded backward through his wretched memory to the days of the tournament. Not one of the participating knights had been able to keep his eyes from Juliana— except, of course, Gabriel.

  Gabriel. Once more he entertained the possibility that his enemy was responsible for her abduction. Had Gabriel discovered it was she who'd shared his bed, believed the child she carried was his? His brother was a priest.

  Bernart shook his head, denying the impossible. Gabriel did not know who had come to him those nights. Juliana had assured him of it, had told him Gabriel had simply taken that which she'd offered and not asked her name. Nay, if he was to find Juliana, he must look elsewhere.

  Could it be Sir Henry? The handsome Sir Morris? The lecherous Sir Arnold? One by one, Bernart considered the multitude of knights who'd come from near and far to gain the purse Gabriel had taken for himself. Any one of them could have done it, could this moment be spreading her thighs.

  Bernart's stomach constricted, cramped, threatened to expel the ale he had recklessly quaffed a half hour earlier. He swallowed hard, and again. Finally the nausea subsided enough that he was able to gain his feet.

  Now to begin his search. Regardless how long it took— a fortnight, a month, a year—he would have Juliana back. Would have the son owed him. He tightened his sword belt around his sagging waist, crossed the solar, and threw the door wide.

  Chapter Thirteen

  France

  No daylight penetrated the shutters, but Juliana knew it was morn from the sound of activity ascending from the bailey. She pushed aside the covers, shivered as chill air swept her bare skin, and clenched her jaws to prevent them from chattering. Dragging the fur coverlet around her shoulders, she lowered her feet to the floor.

  As she stepped toward the windows, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. She peered closer. Someone lay on a pallet at the foot of the bed. Though it was not light enough to make out who it was, she knew it must be Lissant.

  A true lady's maid. Not only was it a long time since she'd had one, it was even longer since one had been so readily available. Lest the distance Bernart put between himself and Juliana in bed give credence to the rumors, or prying eyes discover the truth of him, he'd allowed neither male nor female servant to bed down in the solar. It was going to be odd, indeed, to be waited on as befitted a lady.

  Juliana frowned. Of course, it was customary for a maid to rise in advance of her mistress. She looked to the shuttered windows. It must be early, likely not even dawn. Clutching the coverlet around her, she stepped to the nearest window and opened the shutters.

  The breath of night, that would soon yield the dawn, nipped at her nose and cheeks. She huddled more deeply into the fur and looked out across the torchlit inner bailey. Her gaze settled to the right of the drawbridge, where workers had already begun their day's labor to restore the integrity of the inner wall.

  Would it be needed? If so, when? As she stood there dreading what would happen if Bernart came, a familiar figure entered her vision. Gabriel. Even from on high he was imposing, shoulders beneath his mantle broader than any other man's, long legs quick to close the distance between himself and the workers. He halted before the scaffold, but though his voice carried to Juliana, she could not discern the orders he gave his men.

  Her stomach rumbled. Having eaten little on the night past, she would have to go belowstairs and see if she could find something to fill this emptiness. However, she soon discovered her garments were missing. Likely Lissant had taken them to be laundered. So what was she to do? She could not venture from the chamber wrapped in naught but fur.

  The chest. She knelt beside it and pushed the lid back. The contents were barely distinguishable in the bit of light cast by the torches outside, but they were women's clothing and, from the feel of them, of the finest material. She drew forth a bliaut and a chemise, then dug deeper and located hose and slippers. The latter w
ere too small and narrow, but they were the least of her concerns.

  She straightened and held the bliaut against her. Unlaced, it might accommodate her increasing girth, but it would reveal her ankles and lower calves. Whoever these clothes belonged to had been of smaller stature than she. Disappointed, Juliana turned to replace the garments. She paused. Gabriel had said Isolde Waltham had the freedom of the donjon, yet had not provided her with a means of leaving her chamber. Would he mind her roaming about in clothes that shamelessly bared her lower legs? He would. Dared she?

  She dropped the coverlet and donned the garments of a lady who would have been fortunate to reach Juliana's nose. In tightly stockinged feet and a gown that strained its unlaced seams, she made her way to the hall. Not surprisingly, the household servants were still scattered upon their pallets and benches.

  She crossed to the sideboard. Only ale and unappetizing scraps were left of last eve's supper. Guessing the kitchens were located down the corridor off the hall, she retrieved a torch and shortly entered the cavernous room. It was well-appointed, and as untouched by the siege as were the rooms abovestairs.

  As expected, the pantry was locked. Juliana retrieved a stool, positioned it to the side of the pantry, and climbed atop. The key was beneath a pot. Within minutes she sat down to a meal of bread and cheese.

  A stout man entered the kitchens. Hair tousled from recent awakening, circles beneath his eyes, clothes rumpled, he halted. "Who are you?" he demanded in an accent as thick as cold stew.

  Juliana reminded herself of the name Gabriel had given her. "I am Lady Isolde Waltham."

  He squinted, looking closer. Fortunately, the table concealed her undersize garments. Of course, eventually she would have to come out.

  "So you are," he said. "What do you in my kitchens?"

  Then he was the cook. "I am eating." She held up a crust of bread.

  He glowered. "You could not wait an hour longer?"