by Tamara Leigh
“The last time we were in a garden together, you wept for yourself,” a frighteningly familiar voice brought her head up.
Certain her heart stopped, fearing it might not beat again, Juliana swept her gaze down the path Alaiz had taken. Fifteen feet out, Gabriel advanced. Muscular chest testing the seams of his tunic, dark hair bound at his nape, a bruise discoloring his cheekbone, he looked dangerous.
When had he entered the garden? And why? Had his eyes that assessed the serving women in the hall this morn fallen upon her? Did he realize she was the one in his bed last eve?
Lord, she silently beseeched, let chance have brought him here.
Averting her gaze, she dashed away tears. “The last time, Lord De Vere?”
He halted before her. “The garden of your father’s castle.”
Well she remembered the one she regarded with disdain and fear for his influence on Bernart appearing and speaking her name as he had never spoken it and looking at her as he had never looked at her. Well she remembered the temptation to go into his arms, and that she might have had Bernart not called to her.
“Surely you have not forgotten that day,” Gabriel prompted.
Embarrassment warming her cheeks, she stood. “I know not what you speak of. You have confused me with another.”
He laid a hand on her arm. “It was you.”
Her heart pounded as she stared at the tanned fingers warming her through her sleeve. This eve, they would touch what lay beneath the sleeve.
She pulled free. “I must see to my duties.” She tried to step around him, but there was not enough room between him and the rosebushes lining the path.
“What caused it?” he asked.
She did not like being so near him. It was too hard to breathe. “Of what do you speak?”
“Your sister. Are not your tears for her?”
Indignation straightened her spine. “You listened in on us?”
“Not intentionally. I went to the kitchen to request meat for my bruised face and thought I would sit outside a while.”
Then he did not know she had been in his bed. Though relieved, the revelation she and her sister had been beneath his regard was worrisome. She tried to recall what Alaiz and she had spoken and could think of nothing that would incriminate her. But if there was something, it was unlikely he had heard since Alaiz and she kept their voices low as had become habit in Bernart’s presence and which had bled into his absence.
“A man of honor always makes his presence known,” she said.
A corner of his mouth lifted. “There are those who believe I am without honor.”
Others besides Bernart? Because he was excommunicated, earning his living in a manner forbidden by the Church? “Pray, Sir Gabriel, step aside. As told, I have duties that need tending.”
“You have not answered my question. What caused your sister’s blindness?”
Why did he care when no others did? They stared or pretended Alaiz did not exist. Never did they ask after her. Why this man she preferred to believe did not possess a heart beyond the black thing residing in his chest?
Though she owed him no explanation, she said, “The cause is unknown, and she is not entirely blind. However, the physician believes within a year, mayhap two, mostly she will live in the dark.”
“And so you prepare her for that day.”
He had been in the garden too long and heard too much. “I try.”
“I am sorry.”
It sounded as if he truly regretted Alaiz’s ailment. Eyes once more stinging, she looked away.
“I remember your sister being so independent it seemed she would chafe beneath a husband’s authority.”
“Obviously,” Juliana said, “that is no longer a concern.”
“You care much for her.”
Care? The word did not begin to describe what she felt for the one who was all she had in the world.
Juliana looked back at Gabriel and, with little thought, said, “I love her. Know you anything of that emotion, Lord De Vere?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I thought not. I would do anything for my sister.”
“Would you? And what of Bernart? Well I remember the girl whose eyes could not touch upon him without her heart bounding from them. But no longer. Is that the emotion of which you speak, Lady Juliana? That which you vowed would endure a hundred lifetimes but appears to have died ere the finish of one?”
His words sliced through her, but though she wanted to proclaim her love for Bernart, there was too little left to be believable and she was not proficient at lying.
She lifted her chin. “You expected otherwise? You who laughed and scorned my notions of chivalry and love? How pleased you must be to find yourself proven right.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “What has come between Bernart and you?”
Bitterness parted her lips. “Have you forgotten Acre?”
His nostrils dilated. “He is no longer man enough for you?”
Juliana’s heart jammed in her throat a moment before realization dislodged it. He referred to Bernart’s limp, implying it was the reason for the state of her marriage—that the fault was hers.
“’Tis true he came back a changed man, but it was not the injury done his leg that made him a stranger. It was betrayal. That is something you understand, is it not, Lord De Vere?”
Color rose up his neck, further darkening the bruise on his cheek. How had he come by it? Had he been felled in tournament?
Telling herself she did not care, she said, “Will you step aside or shall I go through the rosebushes?”
He let her pass.
She was halfway to the kitchen when he called to her. She turned.
“I am not the devil you think I am, Juliana,” he omitted her title as if he knew they were intimates. “I did not easily surrender my friendship with Bernart.”
Something in his voice slipped past her defenses. Recalling the sight of him on the battlefield yesterday, as removed from a coward as the earth was from the stars, she wavered between the desire to flee and the longing for an answer.
“Why did you not go with him?” she finally asked. “Why did you turn others from his cause?”
Though Gabriel had rarely shown emotions beyond derision, she thought she glimpsed pain across the distance.
“The undertaking was doomed to failure. It had been attempted before, ever resulting in mass slaughter. A foolish quest, and more so with King Richard soon to arrive.”
“Then why did you not stop him?”
His brow lowered. “You think I did not try? Like those he persuaded to follow him, Bernart was tired, hungry, desperate. It is true I caused some to turn back, but Bernart and the others would not be deterred.”
Juliana raised her palms. “But had you joined him…had there been a hundred rather than—”
“Then one hundred would have died.” Gabriel strode forward, looked down upon her. “Not even five hundred would have made a difference.”
Was it true? Had he and those persuaded to stand down joined Bernart, would they now be dead? It was not as her husband believed.
“The only reason Bernart survived is because of his rank,” Gabriel said. “Were he a common soldier like many of the others, he would not have returned to wed you. He would be dead.”
But he was dead. Emasculated. Embittered. No longer capable of love.
Tears blurring her vision, she cast her gaze down, only to return it to Gabriel when he crooked a finger beneath her chin and lifted her face.
It would have been easy to escape him, but his touch was so gentle it held her motionless.
“Oft I wonder what I could have done to turn him from his quest, but the answer eludes me.”
Then he felt guilt?
“I am sorry. If I could change what happened, I would.” His breath mingled with hers. “Though as a young man I scorned your notions of love, never did I wish to see you hurt.”
Curious flutterings in her breast, sh
e looked to his mouth. Though she knew she should not wonder what it would feel like to press her lips to his in the light of day, she did.
“Juliana?”
Gabriel’s sharp utterance flung wide lids that had begun to close. His face was before hers, eyes questioning, mouth nearly touching hers. But it was not he who came to her. She had risen to her toes and leaned into him.
Horrified, she stumbled back. “You think to seduce me, Lord De Vere?”
A blink erased the questioning in his eyes, turned them hard.
“Tell your tales to one more fool than I!” she cried. She entered the kitchen at a run, swept past servants who called to her for direction, skirted knights who stared after her with trenched brows, and sidestepped ladies who sought to draw her into conversation.
By the time she reached the corridor outside the solar, she trembled so violently she had to lean against the wall to regain her composure lest she alarm her sister.
What possessed her to draw so near Gabriel, to invite him to set his mouth on hers? The tenderness of which he should not be capable? Desire to feel again what he had done on the night past and once more know intimacy long denied her?
She hung her head. It ought to sicken her that two more nights stood between her and his departure, but though she feared and regretted the necessity of going to him again, the thought of his arms around her did not turn her stomach. This was not to have happened. As Bernart wished, she was to hate what his enemy did to her, but…
She closed her eyes, told herself not to think there. She must keep her identity hidden from Gabriel, which was more difficult in having revealed she was not averse to his attentions. But providing Bernart could fill Gabriel with as much drink as on the night past, she would succeed.
Long after she left him, Gabriel remained in the grip of anger and puzzlement. Had a woman who bore him enmity offered her mouth as if to make him her lover?
He considered the amount of ale quaffed prior to seeking relief for his bruised cheek. One and a half tankards.
As unbelievable as it was, Juliana Kinthorpe had drawn near—then accused him of being the seducer.
His anger surged. Certes, he had wanted to kiss her, but he had to believe he would not have trespassed. No matter how tempting, the wronged son of Clemencia de Vere did not steal a woman’s virtue nor seek intimacy with those who were wed—even had they already made cuckolds of their husbands.
The faint scent Juliana left behind teasing his nostrils, he closed his hands into fists. Why had he defended himself to her? He owed her no explanation for what had happened at Acre. And cared even less what she thought of him now he knew her for what she was—the same as his mother.
That determination eased his roiling, providing space in which to ponder the curious thing heard when Juliana invited her sister to rest on the bench. Alaiz spoke too low for him to catch all her words, but she had asked if someone had hurt Juliana, to which her sister responded she did not suffer then or now.
Over what? And after Alaiz rejected Juliana’s escort to the hall and apologized, what of her excuse for such anger? What had happened to her last eve?
“Not my concern,” Gabriel muttered and strode from the garden.
CHAPTER NINE
He was not drinking. At least, not enough to render him as senseless as on the night past.
Unease cramping her belly, Juliana stared at Gabriel. During the hour following the conclusion of the evening meal, he eschewed offers of what was surely unwatered wine and accepted only one refill of ale. Obviously, he had no intention of repeating the excesses of last eve. Did Bernart not see what has happening—rather, what was not happening?
She sought her husband where he stood distant from Gabriel. He looked tense, his smile forced as he conversed with a neighboring lord. The day had gone poorly for him.
During supper, she had heard of what passed between Bernart and Gabriel on the tournament field. Whereas others viewed it as merely another ransom to be gained, it went deeper. It was retribution Bernart had sought and lost. Perhaps even death. For it, he paid the high price of horse and armor. And pride. All he had to show for his efforts was the bruise discoloring his enemy’s face.
Did Gabriel have any notion of what might have happened had he not bettered Bernart?
Juliana shook off her pondering. What mattered was the night ahead. Not only must she keep her identity from Gabriel, but unless he started drinking, she must do so with him sober. It did not bear thinking upon.
She returned her gaze to him and saw another serving woman approach to offer drink. Though he would likely decline as he had done with the others who sought to set their pitchers above his tankard, he assessed her, and Juliana did not doubt he once more sought to determine if here was the one who had come to him. After what happened in the garden, had it occurred to him it might be the Lady of Tremoral?
Before the servant reached her pitcher forward, Gabriel said something that made her veer opposite, then his gaze landed on Juliana.
Breath rushing from her, she swept her regard to the game of chess over which two knights bent and her sister sought to follow where she stood to the side of them.
“Oh, what move did he make, Sir Knight?” Alaiz exclaimed, causing the player who had lost his queen to a bishop to look sharply at her.
Afeared he might say something unkind, Juliana stepped toward her sister. But a hand fell on her arm and fingers pressed hard into her flesh.
She looked around into Bernart’s accusing eyes. Though he had avoided her throughout the day and night, embarrassment now delivered him to her side. “Aye, Husband?”
“I must needs speak with you.”
Though tempted to resist, she allowed him to draw her into the nearest alcove.
“Send your sister abovestairs.”
Juliana raised her chin. “I will not. She is enjoying herself.”
“She draws attention to herself.”
“There is no harm in that.”
“No harm! My guests are disturbed. Do you not see how they stare?”
Juliana shrugged. “She cannot help she is so lovely.”
For a long moment he did not reply, then he snapped, “You spend too much time with her at the expense of those you ought to be entertaining.”
She looked to the ladies who talked amongst themselves before the hearth. They seemed content, but it was true she paid them little regard. “I fear my mind is elsewhere. Surely I need not tell you where.”
Anger coursed a bruising path from his hand to her arm. “You are Lady of Tremoral. I demand you conduct yourself accordingly.”
She glared. “Indulge your guests in the hall as well as their beds? You ask too much.”
She could not have struck harder had she used fists. He released her. “Do not speak of it,” he rasped. “I cannot bear it.”
Still he would send her to Gabriel a second time, then a third. “’Tis the one who shall father my child with whom you ought to concern yourself, not Alaiz. He hardly drinks, or have you not noticed?”
Concern wiped the misery from Bernart’s face. He had not noticed, likely because he could no more stand to be near Gabriel than near his wife.
“I escaped revelation last eve,” Juliana said, “but unless you ensure he is full up in his cups, the same may not be said of this night.”
He looked past her. “I will see to it.”
Though she longed to know how, she stepped out of the alcove and crossed to her sister. “You are enjoying yourself?”
“I am but…” Alaiz’s smile was forced. “I grow tired.”
“Shall we go abovestairs?”
“Pray, let us.”
Juliana longed to take her arm and guide her amongst the guests, but she allowed her sister to determine whether she would be led. Alaiz decided against it and, side by side, they crossed to the stairs.
Hours in which to rest, Juliana told herself. And prepare myself for Gabriel’s arms.
The night grew old, and st
ill Bernart could not get enough drink into Gabriel. Wench after wench he sent to his enemy, offering unwatered wine and ale, but though Gabriel took measure of the women, he allowed few pitchers near his tankard. And those that set down upon the rim dispensed little. It was as if he knew what was planned.
With Bernart’s guests readying to bed down, he had no choice but to take the matter into his own hands. He ordered a wench to fetch a pitcher of his finest wine and strode toward the hearth.
At his approach, Gabriel and Sir Erec looked up.
“Plotting tomorrow’s ransoms?” Bernart asked, nearly choking on his drollery.
“We do,” Sir Erec said.
Bernart inclined his head and took the chair opposite Gabriel. “You ought to be pleased with yourself, old friend.”
Gabriel’s eyebrows rose. “Ought I?”
Bernart managed a smile. “Do not your ransoms exceed all others?” Idle talk, but perhaps it would keep Gabriel seated long enough for the wine to be delivered.
“I have you to thank for that,” Gabriel said.
Though Bernart had opened himself to the remark, he did not need to be reminded of the foolishness that had cost him much.
Curse Gabriel! And curse that lazy wench! Where is she?
He glanced over his shoulder and saw her emerge from the cellar. “Ah, but as I said, next time it will be you paying me.”
Gabriel and Sir Erec started to rise.
Somehow Bernart made it to his feet first. “Join me.” He nodded at where the wench poured wine at a nearby sideboard.
Gabriel eyed him. “Hoping to get me drunk again?”
“Again?”
“The same as last eve.”
Bernart snorted. “That explains why your reflexes were so poor in tournament today.” He regretted that the moment he spoke it. And wondered if he was losing his mind.
Gabriel’s wry smile spoke the words he denied his tongue, that even lamed by the after-effects of drink he could still better his old friend.
Perspiration beaded Bernart’s brow as he fought emotions that had undone him on the battlefield. “The wine is from Gascony. You will have some?” He knew how much Gabriel enjoyed French wine. If this offering did not tempt him, nothing could.