by Tamara Leigh
“There is something you wish to discuss?” Gabriel asked.
Bernart narrowed his eyes at Sir Erec. “It has been many years since Acre,” he said, hoping Gabriel’s tournament partner would take that as his cue to leave. He did not.
“So it has,” Gabriel said, “though methinks not enough.”
As if his own wounds went deeper, Bernart thought bitterly.
Accepting a goblet from the wench, he nodded for Gabriel and Sir Erec to do the same. When they did, he lowered to the chair. To his discomfort, they remained standing.
He asked about France’s tourney circuit, and Gabriel answered with as few words as possible, revealing little about his life following the crusade. Not that Bernart needed to be told, for he would have to be dead not to know of Gabriel’s exploits—that when he was not aiding King Richard in regaining lands seized by France’s King Philip, he was taking ransoms in tourney.
Though Sir Erec sampled the wine and commented on its superiority, Gabriel did not even peer into his goblet.
Drink, you accursed son of a sow! Bernart silently commanded. “Your chamber is to your liking?” he asked.
Gabriel inclined his head.
Bernart sipped, knowing more than a few swallows would lead to more intense discomfort like what had plagued him this day. “You are sleeping well?”
Gabriel glanced at Sir Erec. “Well enough. A woman came to my chamber last eve. I am thinking you sent her, Lord Kinthorpe.”
Bernart chuckled. “I do not recall you needing assistance to attract women.”
“Did you send her?”
Bernart raised his hands in a gesture of surrender that ought to appeal to the superior Gabriel. “Upon my soul, I sent no wench to you.” No lie that. Regardless that Juliana whored herself, she was a lady.
Gabriel stared. “I would know who it was.”
Why did he care? Because he knew what had been given him on the night past and found purity to his taste?
Jealousy tensing him, Bernart said, “I do not concern myself with the comings and goings of women servants—except those whom I wish to share my bed. But tell, what does it matter who came to you?” He should not ask, ought to leave it be, but could not.
Gabriel lifted his goblet, and this time he drank deep. “She was different,” he finally said.
Hands trembling, Bernart swept one toward the servants who moved benches against the walls for those who would pass the night in the hall. “Whom do you think it was?”
“None of them.”
“You are certain?” Bernart’s voice cracked like that of a youth, causing shame to crawl up his neck.
A frown gathered Gabriel’s eyebrows. “I am.”
Perspiring more heavily, Bernart motioned to the wench who stood near with a pitcher of wine.
She refilled Gabriel’s goblet, but when she moved toward Bernart, he waved her away. “’Tis likely a chambermaid, Gabriel.”
“Possibly.”
It was time to move the conversation in another direction. “Will you return to France following the tournament?”
“That is where the money is.”
“And your lands.” Months past, Bernart had heard King Richard had awarded Gabriel a demesne on the continent. A lord at last, though never would he be as great and powerful as Wyverly would have made him. “Who keeps the barony in your stead?”
“My brother, Blase.”
“The priest?”
“Aye.” Gabriel stepped from the hearth and set his goblet on the sideboard.
Insides coiling so tight he felt they might burst from him, Bernart rose. “You will not talk a while longer?”
“I shall seek my bed. But I thank you for the wine, Lord Kinthorpe.”
Since arguing would only further rouse his suspicions, Bernart said, “Good eve.”
Gabriel strode to the stairs.
Finding Sir Erec watching him, Bernart said, “And good eve to you.”
The knight dipped his chin and stepped past.
Bernart tossed the wine to the back of his throat, then beckoned to the serving wench. After relieving her of the pitcher, he limped to the sideboard and peered into Gabriel’s goblet. Half-full.
He growled low. He would give his old friend an hour before sending Juliana to him. Though sleep was not as effective as an excess of alcohol, it ought to muddle him enough to protect the identity of the woman who slipped into his bed.
An hour and three fills of wine later, Bernart tested his footing on the stairs. He stumbled once and went down on a knee but made it the rest of the way without further mishap.
CHAPTER TEN
Bernart spoke no word. He opened the door, gave a nod, and left Juliana to search for more courage.
Now again, she stood in Gabriel’s chamber. When she had slipped inside, it was as dark and still as on the night past. Thus, she could not know if he was in the chair or upon the bed.
Assuring herself Bernart would not have sent her had he been unable to get more drink into Gabriel, she removed her mantle as she crossed to the chest at the foot of the bed. She dropped the garment atop, next the coarse gown, then reached for the hem of the fine chemise she had risked donning to ease the ache of chafed skin.
“I wondered if you would return,” Gabriel’s voice sounded from the bed, his words spoken in the commoner’s tongue.
She searched the darkness and picked out his shadow. Doubtless he would never fall victim to one who sought to plant a knife in his back.
In the next instant, realization struck. There was no slur to his voice. He was not drunk? Or merely not as drunk as before? And how did he know she was the same woman who previously entered his chamber?
The bed's creak forced her to abandon her pondering. Lest he thought to rise, she hastened to the side.
His hands closed around her wrists, and he drew her between his legs where he sat on the mattress edge.
Standing above him, though not by much, she caught the scent of alcohol on his breath. Faint.
Bernart be cursed! she silently blasphemed and would have fled were Gabriel not holding her.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Last night, this night, and the night of the morrow, she was a faceless woman come to steal a child from him. That was who she was. She must not forget it.
“By what name are you called?” he prompted.
Affecting her whispered voice, she said, “But a servant, milord—of no consequence.”
“Still, you have a name.”
So be it, she silently acceded. “Mary.”
After a long moment, he said, “Where in the castle do you work?”
She nearly owned to serving in the kitchen, but he had passed through there to get meat for his bruise, and that room was too accessible should he think to seek her there.
“I am a chambermaid.”
He fell silent, finally said, “Your lord sent you to me?”
She nearly startled. Why did he think Bernart would do such? But then she understood. Unlike the serving women of the hall, those who cleaned and set aright chambers abovestairs once they were empty of occupants would not likely be exposed to guests. Thus, he assumed she had been sent by his host.
“You can tell me the truth without fear, Mary.”
She swallowed. “I came of my own will after seeing ye at tournament. But pray, do not tell milord I have been with you. He is of a jealous bent.”
She felt him pull back a space, then he released her, and with what sounded like accusation, said, “Then you and he—”
“Nay, though he wishes to.” And that was more true than he could know.
Guessing he found repellent the possibility she had lain with Bernart, Juliana set her hands on his shoulders. “I vow, never has he known me. And never shall he.” When he did not reject her, she stepped nearer. “Pray, let me stay.”
Amid his hesitation, she heard the priest’s words of this morn that had caused Bernart to stiffen further—whoso causeth the righteous to go a
stray in an evil way, he shall fall himself into his own pit.
She had thought it directed at Bernart for what he made her do. Now it was directed at herself for what she tempted Gabriel to do. It made her long to flee, but then his hands were on her again. They slid up her arms and one curved around her neck and urged her head down. “Let me taste your sweet mouth.”
She let the priest’s words drift away, pressed her lips to Gabriel’s. And once more began to forget her reason for being here—until his mouth left hers and he said, “You are not very experienced.”
She caught her breath. “Experienced enough, milord.”
“I do not think so. Why did you come to me again?”
“The night past was… You…” What words would so appeal he would wish to further prove his prowess? She could think of none a harlot might use, only those she had once longed to speak and been given no opportunity to let pass her lips…those she thought the most heartfelt of all that might be spoken between parted lovers…those best gifted in the English language.
“You are missing from me,” she whispered.
Did he startle? Had he, it would surprise that Gabriel de Vere was so affected.
“I ought to send you away,” he said gruffly.
He should, but then she would have to lie with another. “Do not,” she entreated. Then commanding herself to act the harlot, she pressed her lightly clad body to his and sought and found his lips.
Though slow to respond, he began to provide the experience he believed she lacked.
She did not realize he had risen from the bed until he said against her mouth, “We do not need this,” and drew her chemise upward.
As it glided over her skin, she realized her mistake. In her haste to reach his side, she had forgotten the necessity of shedding the fine garment. Did he notice the texture was markedly different from what a commoner wore?
He pulled it over her head and tossed it aside. The bottom of the mattress, she guessed, knowing she could not leave the chamber without it.
Then he was touching her again as if she were more precious than a woman who wantonly bestowed favors on men. And as before, he made her forget who they were and feel things she had thought never to feel when he strode into Tremoral’s hall to play a game far different from the one to which he brought a sword.
Draped in her hair, her head tucked beneath his chin and cheek pressed to his neck, Gabriel breathed in the woman he held—a whisper of lavender. And something else. Something he could not name but knew. Familiar only because she had also been with him last eve when he was too sodden to turn her away?
Drunk. Is that your excuse for the night past? his conscience dug into him. Tell, how do you explain away this night? And though you are not her first lover, she is far from experienced. But now she is nearer a harlot—that you can certainly own to, son of Clemencia de Vere.
He stilled the hand with which he caressed the small of her back and splayed it, nearly spanning the entire width from one side of her waist to the other that would have to increase much to allow a babe to grow. Though this time he was careful not to get her with child, he could only hope he had been careful the first night. And in future, he would be more so—
He snatched back the thought, blamed it on a mind drifting toward sleep. Twice he had succumbed and would not again. As for the future, they had none. He was little more than a knight errant living tourney to tourney to raise funds to rebuild Mergot, and she a servant in his enemy’s household. More, he did not want a woman in his life and would admit one only when it was time to make an heir.
A sharp pain darted across his throbbing ribs. Almost wishing he had further indulged in the fine, potent wine Bernart pressed on him, he shifted and felt Mary tense further.
He knew she slept no more than he, but it was not her wakefulness that troubled him. It was how rigid she had gone following their lovemaking. It was hard to believe she was aggrieved after what they had shared, but he sensed she no longer wished to be with him, that had he gone down into sleep, she would have slipped away the same as before.
Seeking to relieve the pressure on his ribs, he turned with her onto his side and levered up. “What is amiss?”
“Naught.”
He slid his hand to her shoulder, then down its slope to her jaw over which her hair fell. As he brushed back tresses plowed free of their braids, he was struck by how silken they were and drew a handful to his nose and more deeply breathed in lavender. Though many a lady washed in water scented with the flowers, he guessed she had plucked a handful and rubbed them over her hair. For him?
He tucked the tress behind her ear, then drew the pads of his fingers over her face. She stiffened further, and when he traced her lower lip, no breath passed them.
“You must be lovely,” he murmured. “I would see you.”
Were fear capable of form, it would be as ponderous as that which replaced her brooding. “Pray, do not shame me,” she whispered. “I am…disfigured.”
He frowned. Though difficult to believe this woman with the divinely shaped body did not possess the face of a temptress, it would account for the darkness in which she came to him. Still, with his hands and lips he had touched her face and felt naught amiss. Was her disfigurement a mark of birth—what some deemed proof of the devil’s own?
“I will leave you now, milord.” She turned away.
Did she think him repulsed? Angered? As she moved toward the opposite side of the bed, he curled an arm around her. “Now you are missing from me,” he said and pulled her back.
“I should go, milord,” she rasped.
He settled his head on the pillow and curved his body around hers. “It is yet hours ere dawn.”
She stilled, and her brooding returned.
Doubtless, she would be gone when he awakened, but for some reason he wanted to fall asleep with her in his arms.
Then nevermore, he talked down his conscience. Just this, then no more ruin will I make of her.
Every second a minute, every minute an hour.
Staring into the dark, every pore aware of the man at her back, Juliana contained her frustration. Gabriel had been even more attentive and gentle than on the first night, making her feel things so wondrous she had struggled not to reveal her identity. But unless a child had taken last eve, she would have naught to show for her sacrifice and only one more night to give Bernart what he demanded.
Why could Gabriel not be the blackheart she once believed him to be? Why did he care enough to ensure he did not leave her with child? Under different circumstances, she would think it almost noble he was responsible. Almost. Still it was fornication.
Silently, she cursed Bernart and the condemnation he would cast upon her when he learned this night’s visit had been for naught.
In the next instant, she determined she would not tell him. If he did not send her to Gabriel again, he would force her into another’s bed. It was terrible enough what she did, but to be passed around as if she were even more of a harlot?
Granted, if she proved barren he would look elsewhere, but she would have months of reprieve, and in that time she might make him see the great sin of what he did. But if a child had taken last eve…
She drew a hand up, brushed against the muscled arm beneath her breasts, pressed her palm to her belly. Ever Gabriel would be with her, reminding her of the terrible wrong done him.
Of course, though careful not to impregnate women from whom he took, that did not mean he would care were a child born of his unions. Misbegotten children were more than common and few acknowledged by their fathers.
Excuse away your guilt, scorned a voice within, still it sticks to you. As it should.
She squeezed her eyes closed, once more wondered if he slept. If so, he had not gone deep, his arm still firmly around her, breathing mostly unchanged.
If only her claim of disfigurement had done more than put him off looking upon her. If only he had sent her away. Why had he not? What kind of man was he?
&
nbsp; The kind who makes you feel the impossible, her heart whispered. The kind who did not easily surrender his friendship with Bernart.
At last, the easing of his arm and slow rise and fall of his chest evidenced he had entered the realm of sleep.
Carefully, she freed herself of his embrace and moved off the bed. Her gown and mantle were easily retrieved, but when she located her chemise and drew it toward her, it resisted.
What else could go awry? If she attempted to pull the garment from beneath Gabriel, it might awaken him, and she could ill afford to spend these last hours of darkness in his bed. She must leave the chemise and pray he did not notice it come morn.
She donned her clothes, drew the mantle’s hood over her head, and moments later traversed the corridor to the solar.
As she pushed the door inward, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Fearing what she would see, she peered into the shadows beyond Gabriel’s chamber.
Bernart stood in the chapel doorway. Though it was too dark to make sense of his expression, his shoulders were stooped.
Guilt flooded her—as if she were caught trysting with a lover, as if she were responsible for his pain.
I am not, she told herself. I but do as he commands. If he does not like it, it is in his power to stop it.
Without a word, he withdrew into the chapel and closed the door.
In the solar, she looked to her sister on her pallet. Fairly certain she slept, Juliana let her clothes lie where they fell, quietly completed her ablutions, and sank down on the bed.
Memories of this night more difficult to put away than those of the first, she hugged her arms to her and turned her thoughts to all she must tend to with the new day’s rising. But time and again she returned to Gabriel. And lost the battle against reliving what had gone between them when she opened one memory, then another and another.
It was beautiful up until the moment she was slapped with a reminder of her purpose for being with him—when he greatly reduced the chance of Bernart stealing a son.