“’Tis safest for us both if we do not admit our relationship.” She was beside him now, her gaze imploring, face flushed and eager. “’Tis why you have kept our relationship a secret. Tell me I am right.”
As he took in her excitement, anguish kindled inside him. How wretched that he must disappoint her. He owed her the truth, though. He must admit they were naught to each other.
But she was temptingly close. His wicked hands yearned to reach out and slide into her hair, to feel its shiny softness. All his concern for her over the past day suddenly welled up inside him, mingling into sinful yearning. What he would give to hold her close and kiss her on those rose-red lips—at last, have that kiss he’d desired years ago.
Take it, a voice inside him urged. Kiss her! Nara will never know.
He’d know. The dishonor of that act would eat at his conscience. Moreover, ’twould not be fair to let Juliana imagine more between them than there was.
While waiting for his answer, Juliana had clasped her hands and settled back on her heels. Her chemise flowed in a gossamer swath around her. Never had he seen a more alluring woman.
“Edouard?”
Silence, as hideous as a gargoyle, pressed into the quietness between them. He struggled against his inner torment. As his sire always insisted, honorable men told the truth, no matter how difficult that might be.
“I will be honest, Juliana.” Edouard said with care. “You and I were—”
Mumbled voices came from outside the door.
Her smile vanished. Her body tensed, while her gaze flew to her bed. She cringed, the movement clearly too fast with her wound, and she cradled her head in one hand.
“Hurry,” he whispered. “Return to your pallet.”
Dismay shadowed her features. When the key scraped in the lock, though, she nodded and hurried to sit back against the wall, then brushed the dust from the hem of her chemise with a few flicks of one hand.
Edouard sucked in a calming breath, pressed his back to the stonework, and refused to heed the unease churning in his gut. What unpleasantness did Veronique plan for him now? Realizing the pebble lay in plain sight, he snatched it and shoved it under the pallet’s edge.
The door began to open, and he stole a sidelong glance at Juliana. Gone was the smiling, desirous maiden. Wariness defined her features. Did she worry that she’d made a fool of herself with him? Or was she as unnerved about what might happen next as he was?
Tye strode in first, followed by Veronique. A blond-haired woman followed a few steps behind them, carrying a wooden tray. It bore bread, a jug of drink, several cloths, and an earthenware pot.
“Tye,” Veronique said. “Shut the door. Keep watch.”
“Aye, Mother.” He shoved the panel closed, then leaned one arm against it, while his hand rested on his sword hilt.
Veronique’s sharp gaze slid to Juliana, then Edouard.
A lusty chuckle broke from her. “Edouard, you must be growing hungry by now.”
Coming from her lips, those innocent words sounded like an invitation to fornicate right there on the dirty, musty pallet. Trying not to recall her hands on him earlier that day, he scowled. “I have no appetite for what you might offer me.”
Her smile turned sly. “You will not be stubborn and refuse the fare I have generously brought. Will you?”
He fought to hold back a snide retort. Knowing her, she’d tainted the food. He wouldn’t eat one bite.
With the rustle of silk, Veronique approached Juliana. “How are you feeling?”
“All right, th-thank you.” Juliana smiled, but Veronique must have sensed hesitancy in her expression, for her brows quirked.
“I trust Azarel’s potion was helpful?”
Behind Veronique, the young woman stiffened. She appeared to brace herself for a wallop, and Edouard fought a stab of pity. Veronique had a firm hold over Azarel. Her chains were invisible, but they were no less real than his iron fetters. Who or what did Veronique use to keep this poor woman under her will?
“The drink helped me a great deal, I am certain,” Juliana was saying. Her words sounded rushed; she clearly tried to spare the healer from punishment. An admirable kindness.
Veronique smiled. “We all want you to recover and once again have your memories. Is that not right, Edouard?”
Eyes narrowing, she glanced at him. He tried not to acknowledge the disquiet clawing at his innards. What was she about? Was she trying to talk him into some kind of verbal trap? To distort this conversation to suit a purpose he didn’t yet know?
“Of course I want Juliana to recover,” he said.
“Then in this matter we are not enemies, aye? We agree she must eat and drink and regain her strength. That, in turn, will help her memories come back.”
Her words made sense. He had to wonder, though, why she was so interested in Juliana regaining her memories.
Veronique signaled Azarel to step forward. The healer crossed to Juliana, dropped down on her knees, and set the tray beside the pallet. Azarel’s attention remained fixed upon her hands, folded in her lap; she made no attempt to look at Juliana, or steal a glance at Edouard. Had Veronique warned her not to make any contact with them? What cruel threat had she made, to make this woman seem so remote?
“Ah, look, Edouard. The food is beyond your reach,” Veronique murmured, sounding smug. “If you want to eat, you will have to ask Juliana for some fare.”
His mouth flattened. He was forced to be dependent on Juliana for a most basic need: sustenance. No doubt Veronique wanted to reinforce his helplessness. Disillusion him, humiliate him, by forcing him, a lord’s son, to ask for what should be granted him without restrictions.
“I will gladly share,” Juliana said.
Refusing to yield to the annoyance Veronique had roused within him, Edouard shrugged. “I am not hungry.”
“Tsk, tsk, Edouard. If you refuse to eat, you discourage Juliana from doing the same. However, if you partake of the fare, she will follow your example.” Veronique smirked. “You must eat. We are, after all, allies in our wish to see her recover.”
Allies. Edouard almost laughed. How cleverly she had planned this twisted game of hers. He stared her down, funneling all of his hatred for her into his gaze.
She didn’t look away.
“Do as I ask”—Veronique’s eyes sparked with malice—“and you might be alive to see your sire ride through the gates of the keep.”
“Enough,” Edouard growled, still holding her stare. He wouldn’t tolerate goading that involved his father.
“Alive to know he tried to rescue you.”
“Veronique—”
She cackled, the sound shrill with gloating. “Alive to watch him die.”
A roar of pure, hot fury boiled up inside Edouard. His hands shook, for he wanted to lunge to his feet and bellow in her pitiless, painted face. With immense effort, he forced the roar into submission. Yelling at Veronique would accomplish naught, especially when Tye seemed eager to use his sword. Far wiser for Edouard to hold his tongue and use his fury to help him escape.
But in one matter, he would not yield. He wouldn’t be the first to look away.
Veronique grinned, as though deciding she’d won that battle. Then, with a lazy dip of her lashes, she looked at Azarel, still kneeling by Juliana’s pallet with her gaze downcast. “Begin, Azarel,” she said. “Do as I told you. Tye and I will be watching.”
***
When Azarel reached for the pot on the tray, Juliana tried to meet her gaze, but the healer averted her eyes. Disquiet gnawed at Juliana. If only she could find some way to communicate with Azarel; find a way, mayhap, for the healer to send a message to Edouard’s father for help.
“Turn your back to me and look down, milady,” Azarel said in a strong yet compassionate voice. “’Twill be easiest for me to care for your wound.” Lifting the lid off the pot, she released the brisk, herbal scent of the ointment inside.
Azarel was doing no more than tending Juliana as Ve
ronique commanded. However, a curious tension—a stifled sense of anticipation—emanated from the young woman. Taking care not to give away the fact that she was aware of Azarel’s tension, Juliana did as bade. Anchoring her left hand into her hair, she drew it aside to more fully expose the wound.
While she stared down at the pallet’s grubby covering, Juliana heard Tye murmur to Veronique. Words not meant for others to hear. She sensed Veronique’s assessing stare sweep over Azarel and herself, but kept her gaze locked on the pallet.
The healer’s sleeve batted Juliana’s hair as she rose up on her knees and gently probed the lump at Juliana’s nape. Pain and nausea tore through Juliana. Pressing her arm across her stomach, she drew a ragged breath.
“Lady de Greyne,” the healer said, so quietly, Juliana almost didn’t think she’d spoken.
Squinting through the agony, Juliana turned her head a fraction.
“Do not look at me,” the healer whispered. “Focus on your pain. Otherwise, they will be suspicious.”
Juliana rubbed at her aching brow and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Do you remember me?” Azarel asked.
Juliana slowly turned her head to one side, then the other.
The piquant scent of herbs wafted before a feeling of dampness. As Azarel applied the ointment, a fresh flood of agony seared through Juliana’s skull, and she stifled a groan.
“We used to know each other well. I cannot say much more,” the healer said, her voice barely audible, “but I wanted you to know, for when your memories come back—”
Veronique’s voice crested on a muffled laugh.
“The babe is safe, in the village.”
Juliana’s partly inhaled breath froze in her chest. Babe? Whose babe?
Had she given birth to a child? An infant she couldn’t recall? Was that why she sensed such an undeniable connection to Edouard, because he was the father of her son or daughter? If, as she suspected, he was trying to protect her from danger, he wouldn’t have wanted to remind her of the babe; ’twas his way of keeping it safe.
If they’d conceived a child together, though, shouldn’t they be married? More questions filled her pain-fogged mind. If only she could think properly. If only she dared to ask Azarel to share more details.
Shifting the hand holding up her hair, she stole a sidelong glance at the healer. But Azarel was pushing the lid back onto the pot and wiping her fingers on a cloth. Naught in her countenance indicated that she’d spoken to Juliana. Neither did she acknowledge Juliana’s glance.
Frustration urged Juliana to softly whisper, “What babe? Please—”
“How is the wound?” Veronique asked, her voice drowning out Juliana’s.
“’Tis healing well, milady,” Azarel answered.
“Good.”
Juliana swallowed. Had Veronique seen or heard her speak to the healer? Not likely. Still, Juliana must beware. She mustn’t jeopardize Azarel’s safety.
“Thank you for your help, Azarel,” Juliana said loudly enough for all to hear.
Not looking up, the healer nodded once, then set the cloth and pot back on the tray, her movements controlled and efficient. Her hands, though, were shaking.
She rose. Her lashes flicked up, and for the briefest instant, her fearful gaze met Juliana’s, before she looked back at the floorboards and faced Veronique and Tye.
The older woman’s attention fixed on Azarel. “How much longer till Juliana’s memories return?”
“I cannot say, milady.”
Edouard rolled his eyes. “She cannot be expected to know that.”
“Silence, Edouard.” Veronique looked down at Juliana. “Azarel, what can you do to quicken the process for Juliana?” She flexed her misshapen fingers. “How about giving her a stronger potion?”
Juliana’s stomach rebelled at the thought of another vile drink. “I do not think—”
“We do not expect you to think, with a head wound,” Veronique cut in. “Azarel, I expect you to have an answer on the morrow.”
The healer’s shoulders stiffened, but she said, “Aye, milady.”
Chains clanked as Edouard leaned forward, his face set in a frown. “Why are you so interested in Juliana regaining her memories? What does it matter to you?”
A very good question. Hands clasped in her lap, Juliana waited for Veronique’s reply.
The older woman smiled—a sly, secretive turn of her lips—and motioned for Tye to open the door.
***
“What does she want from me?”
Juliana’s voice reached Edouard over the grating of the pebble on the wall. The daylight was fading, casting an intense, orange-red glow into the chamber. He had precious little time left to make progress on their escape.
Wiping perspiration from his nose, he looked at Juliana, sitting on her pallet, with her arms looped around her knees. How forlorn she looked. He fought a renewed pang of guilt that he’d brought her into Veronique’s dangerous realm.
“I do not know what she wants,” he said. “I do know, however, she intends to profit from what you remember.”
“I wonder . . .” Juliana sighed, as though greatly troubled. “Edouard, there is something I must ask you.”
He scraped the pebble again. “Mmm?”
“Do we . . . have a baby?”
Shock jolted through him, almost causing him to fall forward against the wall. Of all the things he’d expected her to ask, that wasn’t among them. Why would she imagine they’d made a child together? His mind raced, rousing an unsettling fascination. Did her feelings for him run so deep, she believed they’d shared the pleasure of their bodies?
Did she . . . desire him? Crave him, even half as much as he craved her?
A tremor rippled through him as he forced the tantalizing thoughts aside. It didn’t matter if Juliana desired him. She was forbidden to him, because of his betrothal to Nara.
While he gathered his wits again, the pebble slid from his fingers, bounced onto the planks, and rattled to a halt a hand’s span from the untouched tray of food.
“Why would you believe we have a child?” He didn’t mean to sound so astounded, but he simply couldn’t help it. As he looked at her, his innards clenched at the bewilderment shimmering in her eyes.
Juliana squared her shoulders; she clearly meant to get the answer she sought. “Azarel whispered to me while she tended me. She said, ‘The babe is safe, in the village.’ Our babe? If not ours, whose?”
Her earnest expression touched at the yearning for her he’d tried to lock away within himself. He longed to sweep his mouth over hers, to promise her all would be well, to offer comfort. Turning away from the wall, he faced her and sat down. He wiped dust from his fingers, then took in a careful breath. “Juliana—”
“’Tis not a foolish question.”
“I agree.” He continued to stare at his hands, scraped in a few places from grazing the wall while using the pebble. Refusing to acknowledge a rising sense of awkwardness, he said, “To create a child, a man and woman must . . .”
“Be in love.”
“Aye. And—”
“Desire to make a child together.”
Oh, aye. Desire certainly helped. Edouard choked down a helpless laugh. Hellfire, he’d just have to say the hot, sweaty, indelicate issue outright. “They must fornicate, Juliana.”
He dared to lift his gaze.
Her face had turned scarlet.
“Oh. Well,” she said, after a long, silent moment. “Does that mean you and I never—?”
“We never fornicated.” Although, of all depravities, he couldn’t help wondering what ’twould be like to lie with her, run his fingers over her naked flesh, and lazily explore all the delicious permutations of that hot, sweaty, indelicate issue before finding shuddering release in each other’s embrace.
His loins warmed. With a silent curse, he willed his lust to dissipate.
Juliana appeared relieved by the fact they’d never coupled, yet somehow also dismayed.
Edouard started to shake his head, until he recalled the embroidered baby blanket he’d brought to Waddesford in his saddlebag. “The Ferchantes’ newborn daughter,” he said. “Azarel came here to assist with her birth. You likely helped Mayda care for her.”
“In the solar.” Juliana’s eyes widened. “That would explain why I felt that chamber was familiar.”
“Aye. Did you see the babe whilst you were there?”
Juliana frowned. “I saw no sign of a child, or truth be told, Lady Ferchante. Veronique told me she is dead.”
’Twas likely true, especially if Mayda had opposed Landon’s affair with Veronique and her growing control of Waddesford. Azarel must have somehow got the babe to safety, before Veronique could slaughter the last of the Ferchante family. Mayhap Veronique kept firm control over Azarel with a threat to snatch and murder the infant.
Grief crushed down upon Edouard. He had to get free of this wretched captivity, had to undermine Veronique’s treachery, before—
The pebble again rattled on the planks. As his gaze focused, he saw it rolling toward him, and Juliana straightening from pushing it his way.
He snatched up the stone, met her gaze, and smiled.
She smiled back, before her lashes dropped in shy hesitation. “There is one more thing I must ask you.”
A strange tension threaded together her words. Was she going to ask him if they’d almost fornicated?
“You didn’t finish explaining our relationship earlier. Edouard, why do I feel such strong emotions for you?” Her voice softened to a plea. “I realize you may be trying to protect me, but I must know. Please. Are you and I lovers?”
Her eyes glistened with the hint of tears. His heart squeezed tight. Fighting the awful pressure in his gut, he said, “Nay, Juliana, we are not lovers. We never can be, for I am betrothed to your sister.”
Chapter Fourteen
Juliana lay on her right side, her head pillowed on her bent arm, staring into the darkness. She saw the same inkiness when she shut her eyes. Yet for some reason, the pervasive blackness made her all the more aware of Edouard lying a short distance away.
A Knight's Persuasion (Knight's Series Book 4) Page 16