by Tamara Leigh
“Lord,” she breathed, “if only that my sin not be furthered, let me be with child.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Erec scowled. “You look as if you slept little.”
Gabriel lowered to the bench beside the knight and lifted his tankard of morning mead. “I have slept.” Though not as much as he should have…
“Was it the same woman?”
Gabriel had not meant to confide his failing but owed his friend an explanation for leaving himself open to Bernart’s keen blade on the day past. Had Erec not shouted a warning…
Nettled by the hall’s clamor—shouts, laughter, clattering utensils, scraping benches, yapping and growling dogs—Gabriel muttered, “The same.”
“Still you do not know who she is?”
He speared a chunk of cheese on his meat dagger. “I have a name now, and she told she is a chambermaid, but I have no face to put to her.” Though he should not care, it bothered that when he departed Tremoral on the morrow all he would take with him of the one once more gone from his bed upon awakening was an ill-fitting name. No matter the disfigurement she bore, he would like to look upon her.
“You are certain it is none of them?” Erec swept his gaze over the women bustling amid calls for food and drink.
“I am certain.”
A bark of laughter drew his regard to the lord’s table. Once again, it was absent its lord, Bernart having departed early for the battlefield. To the left of the empty high seat two barons conversed, the mouth of the one who delighted in the tale told stretched wide, while to the right sat the somber Lady of Tremoral and her sister.
As Gabriel watched, Juliana put a curve in her lips that seemed forced and said something to Alaiz who picked at the viands between them.
Even lacking the exuberance that had once enhanced the beauty of Bernart’s betrothed, Juliana was still among the most lovely women Gabriel had laid eyes upon. Was there naught over which she had cause to genuinely smile?
“Come now,” Erec drawled, “I did not ask whom you wish it to be.”
Gabriel looked around.
The knight grinned and popped a piece of bread in his mouth.
He was a menace, always seeing more than he should—and in this instance, more than what was there. Still, his teasing caused something to niggle at Gabriel, and he returned his regard to the dais and saw Juliana had risen. She touched her sister’s shoulder, then traversed the backside of the table.
Alaiz turned her head as if to follow her progress, and Gabriel wondered how dark her world was and how much longer she had of whatever light was left to her. Such a pity her life was so altered. Though in her youth she had been outspoken, she could have made a good marriage, being nearly as lovely as her older sister. But now she would never know the touch of a man—
Remembrance struck the breath from Gabriel—the scent of lavender, strands so silken they were as water slipping through his fingers, breasts full and waist slight, voice whispered and husky. And this morn among the bedclothes a chemise too fine for a chambermaid.
Perhaps the one who came to him again last eve was not a servant, nor disfigured. Perhaps it was Juliana’s sister wishing to know the intimacy her failing vision denied her.
It fit. Yet did not. Was Alaiz. Yet was not.
He searched out Juliana.
Auburn hair confined to a plait running her back beneath a sheer veil, breasts swelling her gown’s bodice, snug waist accentuated by an embroidered belt, she directed the servants with an efficiency that proclaimed her Tremoral's lady. Not a servant. Never a servant. But could it be?
Erec’s words of minutes earlier returned to him—I did not ask whom you wish it to be.
Was that all this was? Wishing for one who belonged to another?
Gabriel recalled Juliana in the garden when she sought his kiss. Then he relived the woman of the night past and the night before—her name, Mary. Her reason for denying him sight of her—disfigurement. Her plea he not reveal she had been with him—lest Bernart was roused to jealousy. Bernart who, no matter how lovely a body, would not be attracted to a marred woman. All lies?
What pushed Gabriel over the edge into certainty was remembrance of the words that prevented him from sending her away last eve, words first heard when as a young woman telling her tales of courtly love, she had translated Tu me manques for a servant not as well versed in Norman French as Juliana was in English.
You are missing from me, she had said. Then with great delight, she noted the words were more lovely in that language and said she thought they might be the loveliest words of all. Though rare for Bernart to disagree with her—he who denounced the language of the conquered as being so coarse it pained the ears—he had snorted and warned that if ever she spoke them in English to him, he would know her love for a lie.
Juliana had been visibly hurt and found it hard to continue. But she had, and because of those words, Gabriel became caught up in the tale over which he had previously ground his teeth. A tale far different from this one.
Certain if he inquired, there would be no disfigured chambermaid by the name given him, he tightened his hold on his dagger. He was blinder than her sister! Thus, Juliana had reduced him to the foul ranks of those who had made his mother a harlot.
“Gabriel?” Erec said.
Anger tightening every muscle, he wondered why she had given herself to her husband’s enemy. To retaliate for Bernart’s infidelity? Regardless, she had used him—was more a harlot than Clemencia de Vere.
“What is wrong, Gabriel?”
“All,” he growled and finished his mead.
She felt Gabriel’s eyes following her, boring through her. Had he found the chemise and guessed it was hers?
She must know. Praying she did not appear anxious, she summoned a servant and instructed her to strew fresh herbs over the rushes once the guests departed for the day’s battle, then ascended the stairs and entered her sister’s chamber.
Except for dust motes stirring in the shaft of light bridging the space between window and bed, all was still.
She eyed the mattress upon which she had yielded up her virtue. Glimpsing no bit of chemise among the rumpled bedclothes, she crossed the room and put her knees to the mattress.
“Please, Lord,” she implored as she tried to make sense of the twisted sheets and blanket, “let it be here.”
“It is not,” a voice shattered her prayer.
Heart hurtling up her throat, she closed her eyes and hoped that when she opened them she would not be here—that this was a terrible dream. It was not. The mattress beneath her knees was the same she had twice shared with Gabriel.
She swallowed, said over her shoulder, “Have you not a tournament to attend, Lord De Vere?”
The crush of rushes announced his advance. “Why?” he demanded.
Keeping her back to him, she lowered her feet to the floor, swept the covers from the bed, and gathered them to her chest. When she turned, he was within arms’ reach.
Withholding her gaze, she said, “The bed must be stripped.”
“By the lady of the castle? After first it is rifled?”
Past his shoulder, she saw he had closed the door. Clutching the covers nearer, she started around him.
He caught her arm and pulled her close. “Tell me!”
She was grateful for the bedclothes between them, but it was not enough. Summoning indignation, she said, “You forget your place, Lord De Vere.”
He grasped her chin and raised it. “Tell, Lady Juliana, where is my place?”
“Unhand me!”
A caustic smile lifted his lips. “You look tired. What have you been doing at night if not sleeping?”
She strained backward. “Release me!”
“For what did you seek my bed?”
“You think—?” She gasped. “You dare!”
“Far less than you. Now tell me why!”
“I know not what you speak of.”
“Mayhap this will aid in remembranc
e.” He lowered his mouth toward hers. “Tu me manques—you are missing from me.”
Dear Lord! she silently entreated and jerked her head aside.
His lips landed on her jaw, breath swept her neck. “Should we make love by the light of day, Mary?” he said in the commoner’s tongue and raised his head.
She forced her gaze to his, quaked over how much blue was engulfed by the black of his pupils. “I shall scream.”
“You will not. Though of course, now you are known to me, I do not think you will be as quiet as on the past two nights—that you will not hide the voice of the Lady of Tremoral amid whispers and the common tongue.”
Continuing to hold tight to the covers, she said, “It was not me.”
Lids narrowing, he reached to the back of her neck, dragged her braid forward, raised it to his nose. “Lavender.”
She nearly whimpered. Knowing she must play the commoner, she had stopped bathing in scented water days before the tournament, but like the chemise she sought to retrieve, the lingering scent condemned her.
“It was you in my bed, Juliana.”
She stared.
“Else your sister.”
Her hands released the covers. “It was not Alaiz!”
He raised an eyebrow. “If not you, how can you be certain it was not her?”
“It was not!”
“Then you.” Once more he lowered his head. “Shall we test it, my lady?”
Though she longed to cling to her innocence and further her protests against his trespass, there was no hope.
His lips brushed hers, and the mix of fear and longing both pained and pleasured her. “Please Gabriel,” she whispered, “do not do this.”
“You wanted this in the dark of night.” His breath fanned her lips. “Why not now? It will make you no more of a harlot. Mayhap less now there is no deception between us, now I know you for what you are—a lady in name only.”
His words were cruel, but not false. No matter her reason for gaining his bed, she was what he believed. “Forgive me,” she choked.
He drew his head back, peered down his nose. “You used me.”
Then he knew she sought to steal a child? Or did he speak of something else? “I should not have come. I wish I had not. Pray, leave Tremoral. This day.”
His face turned more wrathful. “How does revenge taste, Juliana? Is it sweet? Bitter? Does it burn?”
She shook her head. “I do not understand.”
“Was it not revenge that brought you to lie with your husband’s enemy—to injure Bernart as he injures you each time he yields your place to Nesta or another?”
Juliana blinked. Bernart and Nesta? Other women? Of what did he speak? An instant later, she knew. So preoccupied had she been that only in passing had she noticed the attention her husband paid the serving women. Though he usually ignored them outside their duties to serve him food and drink and keep his home clean, he had been almost friendly during the tournament. And once she had wondered at the way he looked at Nesta—not unlike how he regarded other women ere the young Juliana secured his vow to be true.
“When did you intend to tell him?” Gabriel wrenched her back to the present. “Ere I depart Tremoral? After?”
So he believed vengeance had made her a harlot. Though she ought to be grateful the truth eluded him, it stung that he thought her so ignoble—that for revenge she set aside her beliefs, honor, and pride. But though she wanted to reveal she was as much a pawn as he, Bernart would retaliate against Alaiz. So how was she to salvage the mess made of her nights with Gabriel? How to calm the beast?
He gave a growl of disgust, grasped her wrist, and pulled her toward the door. “I say we have done with it now.”
“Nay!” She jumped back and her hand came free of his. Though she threw out her arms to break her fall, the bed did it for her. She thrust up off it. “Hear me, Gabriel. Do you tell Bernart, he will kill you.”
“As he tried on the day past? And failed?”
“If you believe he sought your death, you must know he will try again.”
“And fail again.”
“Perhaps.”
He put his head to the side. “Would you care, Juliana Kinthorpe?”
In that moment, she knew what she must do to prevent bloodshed. Even so, the words that passed her lips were no lie. “I would.”
His nostrils flared. “I do not believe you.”
Courage drawn about her, she closed the space between them. “I am alone. My marriage is hardly a marriage. I do not love Bernart, and he does not—”
“’Tis obvious you have no care for him. Is it because he no longer fits your image of a lover? Is lame? Overweight? Uncomely?”
If only he knew the reason behind Bernart’s wasting! As if he had not spoken, she said, “Neither does he love me.” Now to further the lie he embraced. “He takes his pleasure in other women, and I try not to see it.”
“So you avenge yourself with me.”
“Revenge brought me to you that first night, but yesterday in the garden, I…felt something I have not in a long time.”
He appeared unmoved. “What did you feel?”
“Like a desirable woman.”
“Not a harlot?”
She swept her gaze to her feet, commanded them to remain where planted. “More than revenge and desire brought me again last eve.”
“You profess to have feelings for me?”
“I do.”
“How convenient you no longer regard me as one you believe betrayed your husband at Acre.”
She looked up. “You told you did not easily surrender your friendship.”
“I did not.”
“I believe you.” She did not realize how much until spoken. When Gabriel had scorned her opinions on love, she had named him a blackheart. And so smug she had been upon learning his father set him aside—yet further proof of how dishonorable he was. However, unlike Bernart and other visiting noblemen, never had he openly misbehaved in her father’s home, nor presented evidence of the coward Bernart raged against upon his return from the Holy Land. Though that she had questioned, her prejudice against Gabriel made it easy for her husband’s loss and anger to place blame where it did not fit.
She returned Gabriel to focus. “Ever it has been difficult to believe you betrayed Bernart.”
His laughter was harsh. “Is that all it took to render me passing innocent? A salving of the flesh?”
She gasped. “’Twas more than that.”
“How many men before me, Juliana? How many times have you cuckolded Bernart?”
She could not fault him for believing he was not the first, but it wounded. “There have been no others.”
“I am to believe a woman who dons night and whispers lies?”
She stepped nearer. “You are the first. In this I do not lie. Pray, do not tell Bernart of my sin.”
He turned and strode toward the door.
“Gabriel!”
He looked over his shoulder.
“Will you tell him?”
After an excruciatingly long moment, he said, “I will not.”
Relief bowed her shoulders. “I thank you.”
He swung the door open. “Come no more to me, Lady of Tremoral,” he bit, then he was gone.
Why this ache? Juliana wondered. Merely guilt? Why this sense of having lost something dear? Only desire?
She crossed to the window. Shortly, Gabriel appeared among the castle folk in the bailey below. Stride brisk, he crossed the inner drawbridge and passed from sight. Now he would go to the battlefield and face the man whose wife he had lain with, neither knowing the other was aware of her sin.
She turned and leaned back against the wall. What was she to do when Bernart ordered her to Gabriel’s chamber one last time? Since his guilt would not allow him to watch her go to his enemy, she could make a pretense of doing so, but what if this night he awaited her return to the solar? If she told him she was certain she was with child, would he agree two nights we
re enough?
Nay, Bernart would not risk the past two nights of pain and jealousy for the gain of one not spent with Gabriel. And what of her? Were she not pregnant, she would have to lie down for another, and perhaps another.
She hastened to the washbasin and bent over it. When her stomach settled, she wiped her face with a hand towel that smelled faintly of Gabriel. Then she dropped to her knees, and in the chamber in which she had sinned, beseeched the Lord to forgive her. Guide her. Deliver her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Her heart made for her throat. She should have known Gabriel would be the one to gain the most ransoms—that she would have to face him beneath Bernart’s watchful gaze.
As he approached, Juliana glanced at her husband. He stood silent beside her, face drawn and hard as he stared across the hall. So little pretense remained that he could not even look at the one he had once called friend.
Hand quivering, Juliana pushed back wisps of hair the draft in the hall loosed from her veil.
When Gabriel ascended the dais and halted before her, neither could she look at him. Still, she knew he had bathed following this last day of tournament, his scent fresh yet masculine—the same as their first night together.
She lifted the purse of silver from the table. “To the knight who has proven himself above all others,” she spoke to the multitude gathered in the hall, “I give thee your reward, Lord De Vere.” She extended it.
And there it hung on the air between them.
She raised her gaze to Gabriel’s and saw their secret in his eyes. Was Bernart looking? Did he see what she saw? She thrust the prize nearer. “Lord De Vere?”
With a grim smile, he raised a hand, and she dropped the purse in it.
The onlookers cheered, during which she felt Bernart’s enmity sharpen. Once the roar subsided, she turned to the table again. Though the dagger she retrieved was not as beautiful nor as precious as the Wulfrith daggers, its single gem caught the last light of day filtering through the windows.
“That all may know of your valor, I present this dagger.” This time, he did not keep her waiting, and she set the weapon in his familiar, calloused palm. “And proclaim thee Knight Victorious.”