by Tamara Leigh
The commotion in the hall resumed. Servants returned to their tasks, squires to their excited chatter, lords and knights to their boasting, and ladies to their idle talk.
As much as Bernart longed to ignore the burn of Juliana’s gaze, he looked down. The hatred that shone from her wounded as no words could. Never would she forgive him.
Longing for music to deafen the voices in his head urging him to turn back, jongleurs to make him laugh, and tales of the troubadour to wash away his pain, he signaled an end to the meal.
“Minstrels!” he shouted and stepped from behind the lord’s table, leaving his wife to accept what she must.
Slowly, Juliana gained her feet. Feeling as if she would ever be cold, she held her arms at her sides to keep from hugging them about her and watched as Bernart and his guests moved toward the hearth.
As Lady of Tremoral, her place was there, but she could not bring herself to join them. Not on a night made more heinous by the arrival of the one with whom Bernart intended her to lie.
She swallowed hard. Why had De Vere come? Greed? Vainglory? Or did he hope Bernart had forgiven him his betrayal? Was it renewed friendship he sought? If the latter, he was a fool. But then, he did not know the depth of Bernart’s hatred.
That ignorance could mean his death. Not that she cared. De Vere’s jealousy and cowardice had rendered Bernart impotent. He was as much her enemy as her husband’s.
Pained by years of marriage to a bitter, increasingly cruel man, she looked across the hall to where De Vere and his fair-haired companion stood apart from the others.
Though Bernart’s enemy had matured and was broader of shoulders, he was not much changed from the young man who had accompanied her betrothed to Castle Gloswell years past.
He exuded the same rancor he had then and, doubtless, was no more chivalrous. A hard man. Incapable of loving and being loved. And if not this night, then the next, she must submit to him.
Fear gripped her. How could Bernart ask this of her? What possessed him to choose his enemy? If she refused, would he turn out Alaiz whom he had ordered to remain abovestairs during the tournament?
Of a sudden, De Vere looked around, and his blue gaze pierced her. But she did not look away.
Let him see my loathing, she told herself. Let it grind to dust any suspicion I am the one who comes to him in the night.
As if he thought it a game—one he would win—neither did he look away.
Exhausted by all that blackened her insides and moved toward her heart, she broke the stare. Not caring if she was missed, she lifted her skirts clear of the debris littering the rushes, crossed the hall, and ascended to the solar.
CHAPTER FOUR
He was not accustomed to losing. But then, neither was he in the habit of ignoring every instinct that warned him against accepting Bernart Kinthorpe’s challenge. He should not be here.
Wondering what had possessed him, Gabriel folded his arms over his chest and waited to see if Erec fared any better in the treacherous game of dice. Hardly had the next round begun when he was struck by the sense of being watched. He knew who it was. Over the past several hours he had time and again fallen beneath that one’s scrutiny.
Bernart laid his plans, whatever they were.
Shortly, the servant who had twice filled Gabriel’s tankard and several times turned other serving women from his path approached. Hips swaying, shoulders back to display a fine bosom, her eyes spoke of another thirst she could quench.
Though she was the type to tempt him—experienced, no innocence about her to spoil and over which to feel great guilt—he had not imbibed enough to make her appealing enough to succumb. Nor would he. Were he to yield to the carnal, it would not be beneath his enemy’s roof.
“More ale, Lord De Vere?” Reaching her pitcher toward his vessel, Nesta bent forward, revealing more of what dwelt beneath the neck of her bodice.
Though the view and her husky purr meant to move him to imaginings of what she could do to a man, and his body began to pull in that direction, he shifted his regard to the miserly contents of his tankard. Further temptation—more drink to dull the ache of ribs fractured five weeks past in preventing Erec from falling to ransom.
He moved his tankard aside. “I thank you, but nay.”
Her smile was all seduction. “Surely there is something you require, Sire.”
“There is not.”
After a long, narrow-eyed moment, she leaned so close her breasts pressed against his forearm. “Lord Kinthorpe told you like your women innocent.”
It took effort to contain his startle as he was thrust back in time to the jape worked on him by his old friend, but Gabriel smiled tightly. “Did he?”
“Aye.” She trailed fingers up his arm. “Worry not, milord, I can be that for you—all demur and shrinking.”
As Gabriel silently cursed Bernart, movement to his left drew his regard to his old friend. Limp more pronounced than earlier, the Lord of Tremoral approached those who diced—his eyes upon his enemy.
Gabriel set a hand over Nesta’s.
Her smile enlarged but fell when he removed her fingers from him.
“I must decline.” He jutted his chin at Bernart. “There is something I need to discuss with your lord.”
She looked around, made a sound of disgust. “Mayhap later,” she tossed and sauntered toward Erec whom she would find as resistant to temptation—perhaps more.
“Try a few casts, Lord Kinthorpe?” a tourneyer invited his host.
Bernart laughed, causing a slop of ale to cast itself over the rim of his tankard and wet the rushes. “I prefer to watch you lose your coin, Sir Arnold,” he said in a voice as strained as when he had welcomed Gabriel and Erec to the tournament. He halted alongside Gabriel, and when the game resumed, said, “Is fortune not with you this eve?”
Gabriel looked across his shoulder. “I cannot say it has shone kindly upon me.” For proof, his purse hung lighter.
“What of the morrow? Think you fortune will shine kindly upon you then?”
“I assure you, Lord Kinthorpe, you will not find me wanting.”
Bernart put his head to the side, lowered his gaze over the bigger man. “I do not think I will.”
When he returned his attention to the game, Gabriel considered the one whose appearance had shocked when Erec and he entered the donjon. Though Bernart had been a most capable warrior and boasted looks that far exceeded Gabriel’s, he had fallen victim to excess and lack of discipline. Spare flesh around eyes and jowls, thin hair visible beneath an embroidered cap, hands bloated, belted waist by no means trim, he was hardly recognizable.
A worthy opponent? Though once they had been fairly matched in arms, those days were surely gone. But Gabriel did not think the injury to his leg was all to blame. Many a warrior rose above such an injury—could yet boast a formidable presence on and off the battlefield.
Of a sudden, Bernart turned to Gabriel. And laughed again. “You think me much changed. I am, a result of—” Darkness flashed in his eyes, causing the hairs on the back of Gabriel’s neck to prickle. “Ah, you remember how I came by this limp, do you not?”
Jaw tensing further, Gabriel said, “Not something one easily forgets.”
Bernart raised his eyebrows. “That sounds like guilt, Gabriel.”
It was, and he resented it. Bernart might call what his friend had done cowardice, but those who had turned back had lived to fight another day—a victorious day denied the ones Bernart led to slaughter.
An exultant shout from the dicers was answered by groans and the clatter of coins that proclaimed a winner.
Flashing big teeth, Erec turned to Nesta where she had squeezed a place at his side and kissed her loudly on the cheek.
She swept her gaze to Gabriel, dipped her lashes, smiled.
She thought to make him jealous, but even were Erec of a mind to seek intimacy, Gabriel would not begrudge him the conquest.
“Methinks you have lost the wench to your friend,” Bernart murmured across
the rim of his tankard. “Mayhap you are as changed as I.”
Gabriel knew to what he referred—his ability to find favor with women when he stood in the midst of men more handsome and moneyed. “She said you revealed my preference for virtuous women and assured me she could act the part. Still playing your games, Bernart?”
The Lord of Tremoral lowered his tankard, revealing a smile that seemed genuine, as if he lived again what he had done eight years past. “I could not resist. Admit it, Gabriel, it was amusing. Certes, our friends thought it among my best japes.”
His worst, and not at all amusing. But Bernart had not known that only months before Arnault de Vere had set aside his eldest son because his wife was so free with her body he could not be certain he had fathered Gabriel.
“As I have had enough drink and would gain my rest to assure my sword and lance land true on the morrow,” Gabriel said, “I shall leave you to enjoy better company.” He started to turn away but a hand landed on his arm.
“A chamber has been prepared for you. I would be pleased if you stayed in the donjon as my guest.”
Now the hairs on the backs of Gabriel’s hands stood erect. Though Tremoral’s castle was more grand than most, its private accommodations were limited, and those few chambers were surely reserved for the great lords and their ladies. All other participants pitched their tents outside the walls, as Gabriel had left his squire to do.
“Forgive me for being surprised by your invitation, Lord Kinthorpe.”
Bernart dropped his hand from him. “We were once great friends.”
“Once.”
“And now again I would be that to you,” Bernart summoned words that were surely more bitter than the meanest ale, “if you will allow it.”
What gain did he seek in having beneath his roof the one he blamed for his capture at Acre? Did he hope to put a knife in Gabriel’s back while he slept? Nay, too obvious. More likely he wished to establish goodwill so whatever he planned for the battlefield would appear an accident.
Gabriel quaffed the last of his tankard’s contents, lowered it. “I come to tourney. That is all.”
The Lord of Tremoral momentarily averted his gaze. To hide anger? “Come, Gabriel, let us put the past behind us. Accept my hospitality in the spirit with which it is offered—consideration to a fellow Wulfen-trained knight and, if naught else, remembrance of the friendship we shared.”
Before Gabriel could refuse again, Nesta sidled between them. “More ale, milords?”
“I have no need,” Bernart said, his tankard full but for the slop lost to laughter and the one drink he had taken. “But I am sure Lord De Vere would like another fill.”
Once more reaching her pitcher to Gabriel’s tankard, she offered up an eyeful of her bodice’s occupants. And tempted him. Again, he moved his tankard aside. “I thank you, but I must make ready for the morrow.”
Her pout was somewhat obscene, but when he withheld his vessel, she said, “Then I shall have to quench another’s thirst.” With greater movement of her hips, she swayed away.
“I do not blame you,” Bernart said. “She knows how to pleasure, but she scratches and bites.” He rubbed his shoulder, grimaced.
Then though his old friend had remained true to Juliana throughout the crusade, now they were wed he strayed from his marriage vows. Did she as well? Had she become like Gabriel’s mother? Would the children she had yet to bear Bernart be deemed illegitimate, joining the ranks of those Bernart would sire and likely had?
“Well?” Bernart said. “Will you do me the honor of accepting the chamber or lessen your chances of victory by attempting snatches of sleep amid the din of camp revelry which could last well into the morning hours?”
There was that, and for which Gabriel might have to stuff wool plugs in his ears. More though, the injury to his ribs caused by the lance tip that had not penetrated his armor was aggravated by nights spent on the ground. Even if he had to sleep light beneath his enemy’s roof, a feather-stuffed mattress would make for better rest and see him more prepared to gain ransoms.
“Very well, I accept.”
Bernart smiled broadly. “I am pleased. As told, the room has been prepared. ’Tis on the second floor at the end of the corridor on the left. It is small, but you will find it more comfortable than a tent and the cold ground.”
“I thank you, Lord Kinthorpe. Now I bid you good eve.”
With a mix of satisfaction and dread, Bernart stared after his enemy. He had cleared the first obstacles to taking a son from Gabriel, but there were more, not the least of which was what was required of Juliana. For his continued tolerance of her sister she had acquiesced, but when the time came, could she go to Gabriel? And though he had warned she must not behave the virgin—to which she had laughed in his face—Gabriel would notice she was far from experienced. Providing he had not yet had an untouched woman, too much drink in him would aid in Juliana’s deception, but if the betrayer had finally succumbed to innocence…
As much to gauge his old friend’s reaction as to amuse himself, Bernart had told Nesta his old friend liked his women pure. Gabriel was not easy to read, but when the wench began to work her wiles in earnest, he had tensed and there had been distaste in his smile over Nesta’s words that surely told she could play the innocent.
Never had Gabriel confided the reason he eschewed a woman’s virtue, but even before whatever caused his father to set him aside, he had been averse—sometimes violently so. When they were but squires, he had become angered over Bernart’s boast that a tavern owner’s daughter would not go to her marriage bed chaste.
Bernart had thought his friend would strike him and, having imbibed much, stood little chance of defending himself. Instead, Gabriel said he ought to be ashamed of plucking a flower from a garden that did not belong to him—more, casting it aside to be further bruised beneath other mens’ heels.
Bernart had thrown back his head and laughed. In the midst of fellow squires, Gabriel put him up against a wall, drew back a fist, and demanded to know if he understood he had fouled something pure. It was the second time Bernart had truly hated him, the first being when Gabriel gained the title of first squire to Lord Wulfrith, leaving the title of second squire to his friend. Though Bernart had refused Gabriel an answer, the blow had not landed, and once Bernart sobered, his ire cooled. Or nearly. Thereafter, he had picked at his friend’s vulnerability, most notably with his best jape—coin slipped to a harlot to seduce Gabriel and, once they were abed, play the innocent.
That offense had seen his nose and lip bloodied, but it had been worth it. Even now it made him smile. And he did, though only for a moment. The deception he meant to work on Gabriel was no jape. It was revenge, and a higher price Bernart could not pay—that of his wife who would be a true innocent in his enemy’s bed.
Stomach cramping, he pressed a hand to it and closed his eyes.
Not too late to turn back, spoke the voice that did not understand the pain over all he had lost and what was said of him. Go to Juliana. Beg her forgiveness. Vow to be more attentive to her and kinder to her sister.
He wanted to, but what gain for him? None.
“I will have a son,” he growled and put the tankard to his lips and took a long draught he knew he should not. Just the one, he promised himself.
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed this excerpt of LADY BETRAYED, a Clean Read rewrite of the USA Today Bestseller, BLACKHEART. Look for its August 4, 2017 release. To pre-order: Amazon
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