Blackheart

by Tamara Leigh

  "Was it you who set the servants to cleaning the hall?" Gabriel asked.

  " 'Twas I," Juliana answered for Blase.

  Gabriel clenched his jaw. As if she were the lady of Mergot, Juliana ordered the servants. As if a servant, she worked alongside them. He met her defiant gaze. "No more." He looked back at his brother. "We will speak of this later."

  Blase sighed.

  "Attend to your grooming," Gabriel ordered Juliana, and turned away.

  Heavy with resentment, she watched his long strides carry him across the hall.

  "And I thought 'twas only the child he wanted," Blase murmured as his brother disappeared up the stairs.

  Juliana looked around. "What speak you of?"

  He motioned for the servants to resume their duties, then turned a smile on her. "That was jealousy, my lady. Though my brother professes to despise you, it seems he feels otherwise."

  She shook her head. "You are mistaken."

  "I am not. If he sends you away when the babe is born, he will not do so easily."

  Wouldn't he? "Do you believe that, then you do not know the man I know. There is none more full of hate than Gabriel De Vere."

  "Not even Bernart Kinthorpe?"

  His question jolted her. What did he know of Bernart? Surely only what Gabriel told him. Juliana put her chin up. "Methinks I like you better when you affect to be a priest."

  Blase was amused. "But I am a priest, my lady. From my own mouth did I speak the vows that doomed me to life in the church." He heaved a sigh. "Still, 'tis not as if the vows were spoken from my heart. But God knows that."

  "Thus you believe yourself absolved of the sins you have committed in the name of God?"

  The sparkle in his eyes extinguished. "End of truce, eh?"

  Was that what they'd enjoyed these past hours? Juliana felt a pang of regret. Blase had allowed her to direct the servants, accepted her offer to assist in finding the error in the books, and defended her to Gabriel. She sighed and shook her head. "Forgive me. 'Tis Gabriel who deserves my anger."

  Blase stared at her for a moment before speaking. "Then a truce it is."

  She was relieved. "A truce. Now I must needs rest until the evening meal."

  "Do not forget to tend to your grooming," he reminded her of Gabriel's command.

  She almost smiled. She picked up the broom, walked around the table, and stepped from the dais.

  Instantly Lissant was at her side. "My lady—"

  "Here." Juliana passed the broom to her. "Finish clearing the rushes before the dais; then come to me."

  The maid nodded.

  Only when Juliana began her ascent of the stairs did she realize how hard she'd labored. Her muscles ached, especially those of her hips and lower back. Doubtless she would feel it even more come the morrow.

  She stepped from the stairs into the corridor. No sooner did she put a hand to the door of her chamber than a rustling alerted her to another's presence. She looked to the lord's solar and saw the door was ajar.

  Her bitter exchange with Gabriel returned to her. He wished her to behave as a titled lady, though only to the extent that she be idle in the confines of his donjon. Little freedom, no respect. Anger surging anew, she traversed the corridor, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

  Clad in naught but braies and hose that clung damply to his loins and legs, Gabriel stood over the chest at the foot of a very large bed.

  Juliana's pulse quickened. Retreat, her mind warned. Withdraw ere he notices you. Though she wanted to obey, her eyes held her where she stood. There was no spare flesh on Gabriel, his arms, chest, and abdomen defined by the light and dark of converging muscles. Just as she remembered him.

  She should not be here. She took a step back.

  "Rather brazen of you to come to my chamber," Gabriel said, continuing to search the chest. "But then, that ought not to surprise me." He removed a tunic and turned.

  She averted her gaze and, in so doing, noticed that the lord's solar was absent the lavish trappings of her own chamber. "I but wish to speak with you," she said.

  "That is all?"

  What did he think? That she came to him as she had done those nights at Tremoral? Of course, it was hardly proper for a lady to enter the chamber of a man to whom she was not wed, but her mistake could not be undone.

  Juliana braved his gaze. "For no other reason."

  He dropped the tunic atop the chest and advanced on her. "Then speak."

  She drew a deep breath. "I am not accustomed to being idle. If you will not allow me to direct your servants in making your hall more habitable, how would you have me spend my time?"

  He halted before her. "As a lady spends her time—with sewing and the like."

  "You think that is all a lady does?"

  " 'Tis all your mother trained you for. That and the art of love, of course."

  At which she had failed... How she wished Gabriel would cover himself, that he would not stand so near. He made the simple act of breathing difficult. "Doubtless it will surprise you," she said, "but I kept Bernart's household and tended to his accounting."

  Gabriel leaned his weight against the door frame. "Be it so, I will not have you acting the lady of Mergot."

  She shook her head. "Are you so blind you do not see the state of your hall? 'Tis hardly fit for humans."

  "The least of my concerns. Once the castle walls are strong again, the hall will be seen to."

  "But it can be seen to now! You have the servants. All you require is someone to direct them."

  "In time, Juliana."

  "And till then, how many of your people will fall ill? Surely you know spoilage breeds sickness and disease?"

  He considered her. "If 'tis so great a concern, Blase can oversee the servants."

  " 'Tis woman's work, not that of a man who would prefer to be out-of-doors swinging a sword." She took a step toward him. "Allow me this, Gabriel."

  His eyes narrowed. "What gain for you?"

  " 'Twill make my days pass more quickly." What she said was true—had naught to do with the meat dagger in her hose that she hoped would end her days at Mergot.

  "I see," he said. "Then you are eager to birth the child and surrender it."

  The thought of her babe being torn from her arms sent unexpected tears pouring into her eyes. She looked down. "Of course not, but in that I've no say, have I?"

  Gabriel lifted her chin, looking into her eyes. "Will it truly pain you to give up the child? Or are these tears for having failed to secure your place at Tremoral?"

  She jerked her chin out of his hold. "What does this child matter to you? 'Tis no different from the dozen or more bastards you have doubtless scattered between here and England."

  His brow lowered. "You know better than that, Juliana."

  She opened her mouth to argue, but what he said was true. Never could she forget what she'd done to gain his seed.

  "The child is mine," Gabriel said. "When 'tis born, I will be father to it."

  "Then will your revenge be complete? Will you be satisfied?"

  "I shall."

  She stared at his hard-set face. There was no reaching Gabriel De Vere. No getting past that black heart of his. Still, something prompted her to try. "Do you know what pain is?" she asked softly.

  His laughter was humorless. "I assure you, 'tis something with which I have a firm acquaintance."

  Was it his treacherous mother to whom he referred— his loss of Wyverly? "Pain is living in fear of you these past months," Juliana continued. "Knowing you would return to take my child. Knowing you would hurt me. That is pain. Every moment of every day its vicious breath is at my neck."

  A muscle in his jaw spasmed. " 'Tis pain you brought upon yourself."

  "Did I?" She shook her head. "Like all men you prefer to think the worst of women than look beyond their perceived sins. Did you once consider that I might have had no choice in what I did?" No sooner did she speak than she wished she could snatch the words back. She had said m
ore than she should have. But it mattered not. Gabriel heard only what he wanted to hear.

  "What is it you wish to tell me?" he surprised her by saying.

  It was as if some part of him longed to believe her innocent of wrongdoing. As if he had feelings for her, as Blase said. But as much as she yearned to defend herself, she could not. As long as Bernart held Alaiz, his secret was safe. "Naught," she said.

  His hands fell to her shoulders. "If there is something you have to say, speak."

  His touch was achingly familiar. "I cannot."

  "Why?"

  "I... cannot."

  "You can."

  She shook her head.

  He stared at her, then pulled her against him. "Do you remember our last night together, Juliana?"

  Though her body awakened to the feel of him, she put her hands to his chest and tried to push away. "Please, Gabriel. I should not be here."

  "Do you remember?" Upon her upturned face, his breath quickened; against her breasts, his chest rose and fell; in the cradle of her thighs, his manhood stirred. Dear God, he did want her. Though he had denied it in the kitchens a sennight past, he wished to lay her back and have her as he'd had her all those months ago.

  He lowered his head and lightly brushed his mouth across hers. "Do you remember this?"

  She shuddered.

  "I do," he said. "Every time I look at you, I remember the sweetness of your lips." Then his mouth covered hers.

  She was drowning. Though she ought to struggle against these feelings, she was going under.

  Gabriel lifted his head. "Then I remember your treachery."

  She surfaced. Though it was loathing she expected to look upon, something else grooved his face. Pain? Regret? Could it be Blase was right? That he could not so easily take her child from her? "You do not hate me, do you, Gabriel?"

  He released her, pushing a hand through his damp hair. "As God is my witness, I want to."

  He looked so tortured, so different from the avenging man who'd brought her to Mergot. "But you do not hate me."

  He swung away. "Go, Juliana. Go before I do something we shall both regret."

  Nor did she hate him. The opposite, in fact. But those were emotions she dared not dwell on. She laid a beseeching hand to his arm. "Release me. Allow me to return to Tremoral."

  He shook his head, stalked to the chest, and snatched up his tunic. "When you have birthed my child, then may you leave."

  As he dragged the tunic over his head, Juliana stared. Though he might feel something for her, his revenge was more deeply felt. She turned.

  "Juliana!"

  She looked over her shoulder.

  "Forget not what I have said about acting the lady of Mergot. 'Tis not your place."

  Bitterness swept her. Very well, she would busy herself in ways that would further her own cause. She left the solar, closed herself in her chamber, and removed the dagger from her hose.

  He should have allowed her to take her meals in her chamber—better, should have locked her in the tower and forgotten her for the next five months.

  With a harsh sigh, Gabriel strode to the window and threw open the shutters. Rain lashed at his face, warning of the winter to come. A winter that would be made tenfold longer by Juliana's presence. Though he immersed himself in the affairs of the demesne and the repair of the wall, and would do so for as long as the weather permitted, eventually he would be spending more time in the hall with her. Then his desire—and that was all it was— would plague him more.

  It was not supposed to have been this way. Her deceit should have sustained him well beyond five months. Instead his anger was slipping through his fingers and laying him open to what had nearly happened minutes ago.

  He had not wanted to listen to anymore of her lies, yet had pressed for an explanation when she'd alluded to having had no choice in stealing a child from him. He had not wanted to touch her, yet had pulled her into his arms. He had not wanted to kiss her, yet had covered her mouth. He had not wanted to make love to her, yet had nearly done so. Though he had every reason to hate her and wanted to, he could not.

  He slammed the shutters closed. God's rood! If only she would give him reason to send her to the tower.

  Chapter Fifteen

  October 1195

  Were she caught, he would banish her to the tower.

  Juliana eyed the mallet at the opposite end of the tool-strewn bench. Nay, the risk was too great. She would have to be content with the chisel alone.

  Lissant drew alongside. "We ought to return to the donjon," she fretted as she'd done time and again this past half hour.

  The maid had not wished to walk the inner bailey, had pressed for the gardens for fear of her lord's wrath when he returned from the hunt, but Gabriel's absence had been too great an opportunity for Juliana to yield. Though the porter had also protested, Juliana's reasoning that no ill could befall her while the workers broke to satisfy their hunger—and a smile—had worked him to her will. Of course, throughout the walk neither he nor the men-at- arms had let her from their sight. The commotion of the workers returning to their tasks had granted the only opportunity to take what she'd come for.

  She clenched the chisel beneath her mantle. "Yes," she said, "I am suddenly quite tired."

  Shortly, she closed the door of her chamber. With two hours of uninterrupted nap time ahead of her, she turned toward the room and swept the mantle from her shoulders. She crossed to the tapestry and stepped behind it. In the dimness, she fingered the chisel's hard, sharp edge.

  It was nearly a month since she'd come to Mergot, and every day since she'd labored to gain entrance to the passageway. After the first week, which had been marked by numerous failures, she had determined to go around the lock by digging out the mortar and removing the block of stone into which it turned. Beneath cover of the din from work on the inner wall, the mortar gave, but not without effort and detriment to the various implements with which she worked upon it. And her hands. Though she wrapped her palms and fingers in linen each time she ventured behind the tapestry, they were callused, reddened, nicked. Were she not more mindful, Gabriel would catch sight of them. Of course, if he continued to pay her as little regard as he had these past weeks, she was safe. Though she sat beside him during meals, he rarely glanced her way, and few were the words he spoke to her. It was as if she were not even present.

  Juliana sank to her knees alongside the rock she would use in place of a mallet, and the pouch she would fill with mortar dust and dispose of in the garden. She peered at the furrowed mortar. She'd removed as much as an inch deep on three sides of the stone, but it was yet many inches before the block came free. Now, however, she had a chisel....

  She set it to the furrow. God willing, the tool would see her gone from Mergot long before the babe was born.

  "You enjoyed your walk?" Juliana turned.

  Gabriel was at the base of the stairs. Throughout the evening meal he had said naught of her venture outside the donjon, but she did not doubt he knew of it. Grateful for the dimly lit stairway, she clasped her hands beneath her swollen belly. "I did enjoy it. 'Twas a pleasant change from your garden of weeds."

  He stared at her, then began his ascent. He halted a step below her. Even so, Juliana had to raise her gaze to meet his.

  "What are you planning?" he asked.

  She shook her head. " 'Twas only a walk. Why do you make more of it?"

  "Because I know you, Juliana. You have been quiet too long, which can only mean you are scheming."

  "Scheming? To escape you again?"

  "Perhaps."

  Her laughter was forced. "Not only have I given my word I will make no more attempts, but I am five months with child. You think I would—"

  "Five?" Gabriel snapped up her blunder.

  Struggling to hold her composure, she said, "Four is what I meant."

  A smile curved his mouth. "Of course you did."

  "It is late." She turned. "Good eve."

  He pulled her
back around. Though his grip was not cruel, it pained her. Those memories again.

  "My men were foolish to allow you to leave the donjon," he said, "but I assure you they will not be so again."

  What had he done to them? "They have been punished?"

  "Not yet, but it will be seen to."

  Should she plead for them? Would it do any good? "Do not forget, Gabriel, they are not to blame for their confusion over my place at Mergot, for you have made me a guest and a prisoner in the same breath. What are they to think?"

  Anger flared his nostrils. "I care not what they think. I but require they follow my orders. And you will do the same, else forfeit the freedom I have allowed. Do you understand?"

  How could she not? "Perfectly."

  He released her.

  Eager to distance herself, she turned and grasped the railing. On the third step up, a sharp kick landed to her side. She gasped and pressed a hand to her belly, but in the next instant pulled it away. She must not become too familiar with the babe lest she lose it to Gabriel.

  Unfortunately her response did not escape him. "What is it?" he asked, gaining her side.

  She looked up and found his anger supplanted by concern. "Naught," she said. Then, as if to make a liar of her, the babe thrust again, snagging her breath. But this time she withheld the instinct to put a hand to her belly.

  "Tell me," Gabriel said sharply.

  Though she wished him as far removed from her pregnancy as possible, she knew he would be satisfied with naught but the truth. " 'Tis only the babe."

  His brow furrowed deeper. "Something is wrong?"

  "Nay, he is simply making himself more comfortable."

  Gabriel searched her face, then lowered his gaze to her belly.

  In that moment, Juliana sensed he wished to put his hand to her, to feel the evidence of his child, but that she could not bear. "I am tired," she said tightly. "Good eve." As quickly as her increasingly awkward figure allowed, she mounted the stairs and went from his sight.

  Gabriel stared at his broad, tapered fingers, then curled them into a fist. He had nearly touched Juliana, had so badly wanted to put a hand to her that naught but her chill words could have prevented him from doing so. It was as if he truly wanted this child, though not for revenge. Did Juliana feel the same? In spite of her reasons for having conceived the child, did she feel anything for it? She did not rest a hand upon her belly as pregnant women were wont to do, did not curve an arm around it when she sat. In fact, this eve was the first time he had seen her touch herself there—and only for a moment. Could she be so cold? Or did she seek to suppress her feelings so that her impending loss would not be as deeply felt?