His lips parted, indicating he was about to reply. Spinning on her heel, she hurried toward the keep, the torn section of her gown dragging in the dirt.
Before she had taken five steps, footfalls sounded behind her. “Here. This will help to warm you.” Edouard matched her strides, and cloth settled about her shoulders. His mantle. As she looked up at him, he reached around and drew the heavy wool about her shoulders. It smelled of horse and sunlight and . . . him. “I wanted to give this to you a moment ago,” he said, “but you rushed off.”
She wanted to still be annoyed with him, but sympathy filled his gaze. Did he guess how much effort it took for her to maintain her dignity when she was soaked and tired? Did he know how hard she’d fought not to yell at Nara?
“Thank you,” Juliana murmured.
Edouard smiled. “’Tis fine English wool.” He winked like a mischievous boy. “It comes from the estates of some rich lord. De Lanceau, I believe his name is.”
She smiled back. “I feel warmer already.”
“Good.” His expression sobered. “For all that has happened today, I am truly sorry.”
How heartfelt his apology sounded. A secret part of her sighed with pleasure. As she looked up into his handsome face, its angles brushed with sunlight, her surroundings seemed to blur away into nothingness, till there was only him.
His gaze, bright with an emotion she couldn’t quite pinpoint, held her like a tender touch. Awareness of him ran like a warm drink in her veins. Was this how a lady felt before her gallant hero swept her into his arms? Juliana’s pulse fluttered in a wild rhythm, for his stare reminded her of that instant not so long ago, when he’d said he wanted her kiss.
Never before had a man said that to her. Juliana’s gaze shifted to Edouard’s mouth, and suddenly, she wanted to know exactly what a kiss—his kiss—was all about.
Do not be foolish. Have you forgotten he pushed you into the well?
Juliana focused on tugging the mantle closer about her. “Thank you,” she managed to say, “for loaning me your garment.”
“Keep it as long as you like.”
A kind offer. However, others might see him as presenting her with a gift, a token of his affection. A garment as personal as a mantle likely held a certain significance between lovers. She must see the mantle returned to him as soon as she’d donned fresh clothes.
“I will get it back to you”—she resumed walking toward the keep—“later today, milord.”
“All right.”
“Juliana,” Nara called. “Does this mean you give up your dance with Edouard?”
Juliana stumbled to a halt, her back to her sister. Dance with Edouard? Was that all Nara cared about? Juliana’s grip tightened on the sketchbook until pain shot through her fingers.
A harsh sigh welled inside her as she turned to look at her sister. Right now, the last thing Juliana wanted to do was dance. However, she couldn’t very well forfeit her dance with Edouard, one of the most important guests at the festivities, because onlookers could see this as an insult. He’d rescued her. Some would say he’d saved her life. What grateful young woman wouldn’t want to dance with her hero?
The day’s emotions squeezed down upon Juliana, threatening to crush the last of her courage. She wouldn’t yield to tears. Not before all these people. Especially not in front of Edouard.
“At this moment,” she said, “I have more pressing concerns than a dance. But thank you, Sister, for reminding me of it.”
A sensible, non-committal answer. Now, to reach the quiet of her chamber; she had no wish to face another dilemma while dripping wet and bedraggled.
“Edouard,” Kaine said, somewhere close behind. A loud slap echoed—the sound of a hand coming down upon a shoulder. “If you ask me, I vow you have lost our bet.”
Juliana frowned as she walked. Bet?
“Kaine! For God’s sake . . .”
She might have kept on at her steady pace, but for the frustration in Edouard’s voice. She turned, her wet gown twisting about her legs, and caught the warning glare Edouard threw at his friend an instant before his guilty stare met hers.
“Bet?” Coldness settled in her stomach. “What bet?”
***
As misgiving clouded Juliana’s expression, Edouard fought a groan. He should have known his dealings with Kaine would end in disaster. Now he might have to answer to the folly. And to the woman who, in a very short time, had become more to him than a fleeting challenge.
“What bet?” Juliana repeated, while her poignant gaze bored into Edouard. He felt that stare as though it reached inside him and wrenched his soul. Shame licked through him, becoming more intense when her attention refused to waver.
“Ah . . .” Kaine chortled and threw his hands wide. “’Twas but a private jest between lads. Not a lady’s concern.”
That’s right, a voice inside Edouard said. Take Kaine’s example and lie. You don’t have to admit your foolishness. Why hurt Juliana? She’s endured enough already.
That wouldn’t be honorable, an equally strong voice broke in. If you respect her, care for her, you’ll be honest. Even if it means you must accept blame.
Still holding Juliana’s stare, Edouard dragged his hand over his jaw. He wanted to make the right decision. If his sire learned of the bet, though, he wouldn’t be at all pleased. Just thinking about his father’s disapproval made sweat break out on Edouard’s forehead.
“Not a lady’s concern?” Juliana’s eyes narrowed. “Why then, Kaine, do you look so guilty?”
“Do I?” He laughed, even as his face turned red. “Well, I—”
“And you, Edouard. You have not answered me.” Her fingers tightened on her sketchbook, a gesture that drew his gaze to her bluish nails. “Do I guess correctly? This bet does concern me?”
“Oh, nay,” Kaine cut in. “Of course not. Right, milord?”
Another, silent groan broke inside Edouard. “Be quiet, Kaine.”
“I am only trying to help.”
Edouard barely resisted a snort. Kaine was only trying to save his wretched arse. But like a loyal friend, he’d tried to cover for Edouard, too.
Aware their conversation had drawn the attention of curious observers, Edouard smiled at Juliana. Instead of lying, or admitting the truth, he’d press his charm on her and convince her to drop the matter for now. If she insisted on the truth, he’d divulge it later, when fewer were in earshot, and when no one who overheard would take the news to his father.
Gesturing to her soaked clothes, he said, “Please, Juliana, go and put on dry garments. Then I will be pleased to—”
“I want to know now.”
She looked so miserable, he longed to cross to her, draw her into his arms, and hug her, as he’d comfort his younger sister. However, that would certainly set tongues a-wagging.
As the silence persisted, Juliana’s chin tilted higher. She wasn’t going to give in. Would she stand there, cold and dripping, until she caught a severe chill?
Her chin was quivering.
“Juliana . . .”
“Why will you not tell me? That is most puzzling of all.”
Another groan bubbled up within him, for he felt his resolve weakening. He couldn’t lie to her; he didn’t want to. In this instance, lying seemed akin to cowardice.
He closed the distance between them, ignoring Kaine shuffling a short distance behind. “Juliana,” Edouard said, near enough to her that he could lower his voice and keep their words private. “You are right. We did make a bet.”
Kaine cursed and kicked at the dirt.
“We—”
“—bet that my sketchbook would end up in the well?” she said in an anguished tone. Her gaze shifted beyond him to Nara and he remembered the younger woman’s eagerness to shove the book into the depths. Did Juliana believe he and Kaine had conspired against her with Nara? Ugh. What a distressing thought.
“Nay, Juliana. We meant no harm to you or your drawings. We—”
“Aye?”
He cleared his throat. “Made a bet as to whether or not I . . .”—God’s blood—“would win your kiss.”
Shock, then hurt, darkened Juliana’s eyes. “Kiss?”
Her hissed reply was just loud enough to draw stares, though he suspected the onlookers were too far away to make out what she said. He raised his hands, palm up, trying to tamp down his rising apprehension and regret. “I admit, at first, I went along with the bet. Stupid, I know, but ’twas a challenge between me and Kaine, and I . . . wanted to win.”
“Challenge.” She shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes, and her lips parted on a sob.
“Juliana . . .”
“’Tis all I was . . . am . . . to you? A challenge? Another lady for you to count among your conquests?”
“Damnation.” Edouard hauled his fingers through his hair. He hated to see tears streaming down her face. Yet he dared not reach for her. Not when so many gazes were upon them.
Juliana stepped backward, putting distance between them. The pain in her expression faded to stony remoteness.
A dull ache squeezed his innards, for he sensed she was lost to him. Naught he said or did now would likely change her opinion of him. Yet he truly did want her to hold him in high regard. “I did not mean to hurt you, Juliana. Neither, I am certain, did Kaine.”
“Hurt me? Hurt me, milord? Did you once consider my feelings before you tried to trick me into a kiss?”
“Wait a—”
“Did you feel any guilt at all while you attempted to seduce me? What about when you knocked over the food for my mother? Was that mishap part of your ploy?”
Anger began to weave through Edouard. He’d told her the truth about the bet; she’d thanked him by attacking his honor. Did she really believe he’d deliberately knock over a meal intended for an ill woman? Or, in her frayed emotional state, had Juliana just blurted the first words that came to her mind?
He sensed the accusing gazes of the encroaching spectators, condemning him without even knowing all the circumstances. He wasn’t a beast. Neither was he a witless peasant, to be shrieked at by Juliana as though he and everyone within earshot were deaf. “Tipping the tray was an accident,” he said, struggling for calm. “You must know that. I never intended—”
“And when you pushed me down into the well?”
Shocked murmurs rippled through the crowd.
“Lord de Lanceau rescued her,” someone in the throng said. “Did he not?”
“Was that a trick?” another person asked.
Edouard balled his hands into fists. He hadn’t pushed Juliana into the well. Nara had done that, by dislodging his foot and causing him to fall against Juliana.
But here, in the bailey of the de Greyne castle, he couldn’t point an accusing finger at the wicked little sister. Where was the gallantry in such an act? He’d only come off looking more of a monster, especially when Nara denied his claim, burst into tears, and went running to her father. Not a good idea, to be guilty of offending both of his host’s daughters in one afternoon.
Juliana’s lips were blue with cold, but she was clearly waiting for some kind of reply from him. An admission of guilt? Never. “I did not mean for aught to happen to you,” he said, doubting his words would make any difference. “I realize you are angry, but you must believe me.”
She shook her head. Damp tendrils of hair slipped against her cheek and ran into her tears. “I cannot.”
Those two words bored into him. He shuddered, as though fighting the pain of a knife.
“All that happened between us today,” she said tonelessly, “was part of your deceit. So you could win the bet.”
“Not all that happened.” He locked gazes with her, about to insist how wrong her words were, but his focus was shattered by the tramp of approaching footfalls. Daring a glance, he saw his father walking alongside Lord de Greyne, their long cloaks swaying with each stride. Neither man looked pleased. In fact, his sire’s mouth flattened into a disapproving line.
“Juliana?” Her father’s frown deepened. “How in God’s name . . .?”
She glared at Edouard. The fury in her eyes . . . It snatched the air from his lungs. Reaching to her shoulders, she hauled off his mantle and threw it at him. He caught it a moment before it would have landed in the dirt.
“Juliana!” Lord de Greyne shouted. “What are you doing?”
“Milords,” Edouard said, stepping forward and bowing. “If I may explain?”
“Explain. Good,” she said, each word brittle. Clutching her sketchbook against her bosom, she said, “Tell them all, Edouard. ’Tis indeed a fascinating tale. One that shows just how unsuitable you and I are for a betrothal, now or ever.”
Close behind Edouard, Kaine whistled.
Edouard heaved in a furious breath. Better that she’d have slapped his face in front of all these witnesses. But nay. She chose to outright reject him, in a very humiliating spectacle that would be gossiped about for months to come.
Well, he would not stand for it! “Betrothal?” he growled back. “I have no wish to be betrothed. Especially not to you!”
A collective gasp rose from the onlookers.
“Edouard,” his father snapped.
Juliana’s tear-streaked face whitened. She stumbled backward. For all of two breaths, he regretted his words, until she dropped into curtsey so stiff, he vowed her spine would snap. “Good day to you, Father, Lord de Lanceau,” she said as she rose. “To you, Edouard, I bid goodbye.”
***
Juliana shuddered and snuggled into the solar’s wide bed, next to her mother. Telling all that had happened—the important details, at least—had left Juliana exhausted. “I am sorry, Mama, for not coming to you sooner. Truly, I am.”
Her last words dissolved on a sniffle. The bed ropes creaked as her mother shifted against a mound of pillows; her frail arm slid around Juliana to draw her in close. Mama smelled as Juliana remembered from childhood—of sun-dried linens, sweet almond oil, and comfort.
“There, now.” Lady de Greyne kissed Juliana’s brow; soft, gray hair brushed against Juliana’s face. “No more crying.”
Juliana noisily blew her nose on a linen handkerchief, while strains of a favorite chanson, borne on the afternoon breeze, floated in through the solar’s open window. She rubbed her cheek against Mama’s shoulder and listened, becoming aware of the wheezy quality of her mother’s breathing. There was another sound, too. A steady pulse on the bedding—Mama, lightly tapping her fingers in time to the melody. She began to hum.
A sense of discordance, of un-rightness, pushed its way into Juliana’s contentment. Beyond the cocoon of this chamber, the revelry went on, regardless of her mother’s infirmity and the incident at the well.
What more, though, could Juliana expect? Her father couldn’t neglect his invited guests. Not when many of them, including the de Lanceau’s, had traveled a fair distance.
Why, then, did that ugly knot inside Juliana twist another notch?
Because of him.
She scowled and her fingers clenched around the handkerchief. Before that bet-making knave had come to Sherstowe, her life had been pleasant. Uncomplicated. Now? She could scarcely think past the turmoil churning inside her.
Down in the music-filled hall, Edouard de Lanceau was probably dancing with a pretty, young noblewoman. He’d woo that lady to near swooning with his clever words and handsome smile.
That girl in his arms might be Nara.
Juliana groaned.
Her mother’s cool, blue-veined hand touched Juliana’s cheek. “Hush, my sweet child. All will be well.”
“I think not, Mother.” Juliana dabbed at her eyes.
“Why do you not go back to the celebration? You look lovely in that honey-colored silk and you worked many days to bring about this day. Go enjoy yourself. Chat with Mayda. Dance . . . with some handsome lads.” Her mother sighed, clearly remembering happier times.
Juliana fought more tears. In time, Mama would be well enough
to join festivities at the keep; she’d dance again with Father, smiling and laughing as before. But for Juliana to return to the hall? To feel she must dance with Edouard? She shook her head. “I cannot leave you now, Mama. Not when you have refused to eat today. The maidservant I sent away a short while ago will be bringing you a tray soon.”
“Oh, Juliana.” Resignation darkened Mama’s voice.
Juliana fought a tug of dread and clung to the promise she’d made to help Mama get better. “You must try to eat, even a small amount.” Juliana managed a shrug. “Besides, I do not feel like reveling.”
“Because of . . . your sketchbook?” Her mother expelled a short breath, one that seemed tinged with pain.
Sitting up, Juliana looked at her mother. Mama’s face relaxed from a grimace, but her chalky skin was more ashen than usual. “Mama, are you all right?” Juliana pressed her palm to her mother’s brow to check for fever. “How selfish of me, to be thinking of myself, when—”
With a feeble touch, Mama batted Juliana’s hand away. “Do not worry about me. Your sketchbook might be fine, once dried. If not”—she drew another sharp breath—“you should ask your father for another.”
“I shall.” Juliana sniffled. “He does not appreciate my drawings as you do, though. He does not say such, but I sense he wishes I would work harder to be a lady.”
Her mother chuckled, a sound like brittle leaves. “You are a lady. And one, I am certain, who could win the heart of any young lord in our hall.”
Juliana blushed. “Mama!”
A tender, sad smile tilted her mother’s lips. “Do you know why your father was so pleased to have Edouard de Lanceau here? I know your sire can be difficult at times, but he wants a good marriage for you.”
Juliana frowned. “Edouard pushed me into the well.”
“That must have been an accident. He did rescue you, aye?”
Juliana barely stifled a gasp. Was Mama taking Edouard’s side over her own daughter’s? “But . . .”
“He was probably trying to impress you, and—”
“He made a bet with his friend, Mama, that he would win my kiss.”
“I see.” Her mother winced and slid farther back into the pillows. “Did Edouard win? Did he . . . kiss you?”
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