Blackheart

by Tamara Leigh

  Gabriel retrieved his pack from the ground and slung it over his shoulder. "And when I come," he continued, "I will take whatever you have stolen from me."

  Heaven have mercy on her.

  He strode to the gate. There, he looked over his shoulder and stared at her as if to forever impress the moment upon his mind. "Pray 'tis you who are barren, not Bernart," he said. He threw the gate open and stepped into the bailey.

  Juliana felt her knees begin to buckle, but as much as she yearned to sink to the ground and surrender to her emotions, she refused herself the weakness. In the days, months, years to come, there would be much time to agonize over the ill she'd done Gabriel and its consequences.

  With trembling hands, she pushed back the tendrils of hair that had escaped her plait, then smoothed her skirts.

  "Wife!" Bernart shouted.

  Silently praying he would not see her fear, Juliana hastened into the donjon.

  Gabriel issued Sir Erec and the accompanying squires no warning. With a sharp pull of the reins, he drew his destrier to a halt atop the hill and turned the animal around. In the far distance, the towers of Tremoral pierced the morning mist that overlay the castle walls. Within those walls, Juliana Kinthorpe thought herself safe. She was not.

  Soon he would return, and when he did she would discover he never made a vow he did not keep. And what of Bernart? His fury mounted as he recalled the honed sword his old friend had nearly put through him. He would not be spared the truth. He would know of his wife's treachery, drown in it for all Gabriel cared. It was something to look forward to. Something to fill his angry days and nights.

  Chapter Ten

  England, September 1195

  The priest reminded her of Gabriel, though only his dark looks. Father Hermanus was younger, light of heart, and easy to rouse to laughter. Did his vestments not proclaim him a member of the clergy, he could pass as one of the knightly class. Even Tremoral's chaplain, a man who rarely smiled, could not help but be affected by the traveling priest who'd arrived at the castle late this afternoon to request lodging for the night. In fact, if Father Daniel was not more mindful, he was going to break a smile.

  Juliana turned her attention from the table, where her guest sat amongst Tremoral's men-at-arms, and looked at the scrap of embroidered linen in her lap. She ran a finger over the stitches she'd painstakingly worked these past nights. Though she had not begun it with the thought of fashioning the material into an infant's gown, there was little else it could be used for. It was so very small.

  She resisted the impulse to touch her belly and turned her gaze to the fire before which she sat. It beat warm upon her face, but could not touch the chill fear in her breast that grew with each passing day, nor the pain.

  The desire was too great. Surrendering to it, she touched the gentle swell that evidenced her nights with Gabriel. Though four months pregnant, she had only begun to show a fortnight past. It was then that Bernart had gathered his household knights and left for London and the court of the ever-absent King Richard. How he hated her for giving him what he so badly wanted. Though, in the presence of others, his boasting of imminent fatherhood was without end, when he and Juliana lay in bed at night his true feelings strained the space between them. It was as she'd warned him: he would loathe another man's child born of her body. What would it be like when the babe arrived? Would she fear for its life?

  Laughter, so out of place in the depths of her despair, reverberated through the hall. She looked around.

  The young priest's head was flung back as he and the others heartily enjoyed whatever mischief he'd imparted. Even Father Daniel chuckled.

  To be born a man, Juliana reflected, to do as one pleased and control one's life. Absently she stroked her belly, prayed the babe was a boy. Not only would his life be easier, but Bernart would be more accepting, though that did not mean he would be kind to Gabriel's son. As Juliana fought to protect Alaiz, she would have to do the same for her little one.

  She pulled herself back to the present and, in doing so, realized she'd fallen beneath the regard of the man her gaze was fixed upon.

  Father Hermanns inclined his head and shifted his attention to her hand upon her belly.

  As if it were a sin to touch her unborn child, she snatched it away and hurriedly looked at Alaiz, who lay with her head pillowed upon the hearth and eyes closed.

  Why this sudden disquiet? Juliana wondered. She had nothing to fear from the priest. Though he was unlike any clergy she'd previously encountered, he seemed kind and sincere. Indeed, rather than expect to be waited upon as many visitors did, Father Hermanus had offered his assistance in the preparation of the evening meal. Then, at the urging of Tremoral's chaplain, he'd said grace before supper. His impassioned words had moved Juliana as she had not been moved in a long time.

  There was naught to fear, she assured herself. She was tired, that was all. She suppressed a yawn behind her hand. Darkness was not long upon Tremoral, yet she felt more fatigued than usual. It must be the baby. She laid her embroidery aside and stood. Though it was usually difficult to rouse Alaiz from sleep, it proved even more so this eve. Finally she peeled back her lids.

  "We should go abovestairs," Juliana said.

  Alaiz levered herself up, rubbed her eyes. "M-may I sleep with you again?" Her voice was thick and slurred.

  "Of course." As Bernart had not returned from London and had yet to send word as to how long he intended to remain absent, there could be no harm in it. Juliana put a hand to her sister's elbow to assist her to stand. With Alaiz leaning against her, she turned to the tables, bid all good eve, and started toward the stairs. Minutes later, still fully clothed, she lay down beside Alaiz and slept.

  Voices. Wondering whence they issued and to whom they belonged, Juliana tried to open her eyes, but her lids felt as if weighted by stone. The voices drew nearer: men's voices, the words of which she could make no sense. Had Bernart returned? She tried to form his name, but her tongue filled her mouth. She attempted to turn toward the sound, but her body was as if one with the mattress. What was wrong with her? Was it the babe?

  Anxiety quickened her breath. Seeking the swollen evidence of her child, she uncurled her fingers, but that was all. Her arm would not lift from alongside her head. She whimpered.

  Large hands touched her, turned her. "'Do not fight it," a harsh voice said near her ear.

  Gabriel? Fear shuddered through her. It could not be. This must be another of her tormented dreams in which he returned to make good his threat to reclaim what she'd stolen. But unlike those previous dreams, this time he came whilst the child was yet in her womb.

  Strong arms lifted her from the mattress, settled her against a hard chest.

  She breathed in the masculine scent that pervaded the weave of Gabriel's tunic. How real he seemed, but he was only a dream—one that would soon fly away on dark wings and leave her to face sleepless hours till dawn. Convinced of it, she eased against him.

  From elsewhere in the chamber, another spoke. She recognized the voice, but could not have said to whom it belonged.

  "Nay," Gabriel answered, "leave them." He turned and strode from the warmth of the chamber into the chill corridor.

  Juliana shivered.

  His arms tightened around her. "Bring her mantle," he ordered the other man.

  A few moments later, warmth settled over her.

  Effortlessly, Gabriel carried her down the winding stairs, over the rushes strewn about the hall, and outside. The beat of his heart beneath her ear lulled her, drifted her out of the dream and onto a winged horse that sped her through the long, dark night.

  She felt nauseated. With a groan, she pressed a hand to her abdomen. It seemed the sickness that had plagued her first two months of pregnancy had returned. Knowing that if she did not soon rise she would soil the bedclothes, she levered herself up. Hardly had she done so when she lurched sideways. She threw out an arm to steady herself, but the bed continued to move beneath her.

  Th
inking she must be very ill to be so faint, she slowly opened her eyes. It was several moments before she was able to focus, but finally she looked upon her surroundings. And they were not at all as expected. As she moved her gaze from the pallet she lay upon to the planked floor to the awning that enveloped her in shadow, she struggled to make sense of this place. Where was she?

  Sounds beyond the awning reached her—the creak and groan of timber, the clank of metal on metal, the shout of men. There was more, but she was unable to place the distant sounds. She turned back the blanket. Though she expected to be clothed in only her chemise, she was surprised to discover she still wore her bliaut. She had lain down without first disrobing? She could not remember doing so. For that matter, she could not remember having withdrawn to her chamber for the night.

  Cautiously she gained her feet, and only then realized that the swaying motion she'd mistaken for faintness was not of her but of the floor beneath. Was she on a boat? It did not seem possible, but when she drew back the flap of the awning she saw it was so.

  A crisp salt breeze upon her face, the new-risen sun in her eyes, she squinted as she swept her gaze across the deck to towering masts and billowing sails, running ropes and the pulleys that controlled them, gruff-looking men who labored to keep the sails filled with air, the English coast that lay to the left.

  Like a tightly wound spindle suddenly loosed, fear rolled through her, put before her an image of one who would be lost without her. Dear, sweet Alaiz...

  A sudden movement caught her eye. One of the men, using naught but his hands and feet, scaled the great mast to a platform overhead. Just looking up at him made her reel and her stomach lurch. She pressed a hand to her abdomen and lowered her gaze to a man who stood center and aft. Legs braced wide apart, arms akimbo, he barked orders to the two men who handled the steering oars. Was he the captain?

  Mindful of her footing, Juliana stepped from beneath the awning and began making her way across the deck. Though it was no easy feat to remain upright, the slightest list threatening to upend her, she finally drew alongside the thickset man. "You are the captain?" she asked.

  He turned his regard upon her. "That I am, my lady."

  "What is this ship's destination?"

  "France, of course. We put in at Bayeux come the morrow."

  Foreboding clenched her stomach, swept bile up her throat. She swallowed hard. "How did I come to be aboard?"

  The captain eyed her a moment, then jutted his chin toward the bow. "He can answer your questions better than I, my lady."

  She looked past a group of men who worked the ropes middeck to the lone figure alongside the starboard railing whose back was to her. In the next instant she forgot to breathe. She did not need to see his face to recognize him, for there was only one with stature so great, shoulders so broad, vengeance so deep.

  Death could not be more frightening than the feeling that crept over Juliana. It was then she remembered the dream of the night past. It had not been a dream. This was not a dream. Gabriel had come for her, just as he'd vowed he would.

  Grasping at a faith that had not been so firmly shaken since Bernart demanded the unthinkable of her, she clenched her hands. As much as she wanted to cry, to scream, to rail to the heavens, she controlled herself.

  "My lady?" the captain asked.

  Was that concern in his voice? It did not matter. There was naught he, nor anyone else, could do to help her. Grown strangely numb, she stepped past the captain and slowly negotiated the rolling deck. She halted in back of Gabriel and waited for him to acknowledge her.

  His dark brown hair bound at the nape of his neck, the wind beating his tunic against his torso, one leg raised to the railing, he stared out to sea as if unaware he was no longer alone.

  She took a step nearer, but still he did not respond. She drew a deep breath. "What have you done, Gabriel?"

  It was a long moment before he turned, but when he did his eyes were heavy with contempt. "What have I done? But kept a promise and returned for that which you stole from me."

  It was all she could do to keep from curving an arm around her waist. She shook her head. "I have naught that belongs to you."

  He lowered his gaze to the modest swell beneath her gown. "You would deny you are with child?"

  She could not. So how was she to turn him from his course? There was only one thing she could think of. " 'Tis true. I am three months with child." Ever deeper her lies grew.

  His eyebrows soared. "Three months. That is all?"

  She drew herself to her full height, pushed her shoulders back, and raised her chin. " 'Tis not your child, if that is what you think."

  As if accustomed to the deck of a ship, Gabriel smoothly stepped toward her.

  She would not back away, she vowed. No matter how near he came, she would stand her ground. He came near enough that she had to tip her head back to hold his gaze, near enough that the scent of him pressed upon her.

  "What I am thinking is that you do not speak the truth, Juliana Kinthorpe. Three years of marriage and your womb lies empty; then you come to my bed and suddenly a child ripens?"

  She did not flinch, did not permit her gaze to waver from his. "My child—and Bernart's."

  "Nay, mine." He said it with such conviction that it left her no hope. "And so shall it be proven when the babe wails from your body five months hence."

  As it was not likely God in His heavens would allow the babe to linger a month longer in her womb, Juliana was gripped with despair. "Do not do this, Gabriel. I beg you."

  " 'Tis done."

  She held herself together with all the strength she possessed. "Do you know what you risk in taking me from Tremoral—in stealing another's wife?"

  Scorn curled his lips. "Excommunication?"

  Something his tourneying had already seen to, but there was more. "You could lose everything—your lordship, your lands...."

  " 'Tis a risk I am willing to take."

  Such was revenge. It made fools of men, victims of their lessers—the latter of which Juliana knew only too well. Had she not paid the price of Bernart's revenge against Gabriel? Did she not continue to pay it? "When Bernart returns to Tremoral and discovers you have stolen me, he will gather an army and come against you. Is that what you want?"

  His nostrils flared. "I want what belongs to me, and I will have it."

  Knowing it would be futile to continue to assert that the babe was not his, she demanded, "At what cost? Bloodshed?"

  "None but my brother knows I took you from Tremoral. Thus, unless you confessed your sins to Bernart, 'tis not likely he will look to me for you."

  Was Gabriel right? What would Bernart think when he discovered her gone? Surely he would not believe she'd left Tremoral of her own will.

  "Did you tell him?" Gabriel asked.

  Tell Bernart of a sin he knew better than she?

  "I thought not. So you see, there is no reason for him to seek you in France. He will simply believe you have run off."

  Juliana shook her head. "Never would I leave without my sister. He knows that." Only after she said it was she struck by the full implication of what Gabriel had done. Alaiz was alone. None to protect her, to shield her from Bernart's wrath. Dear God, what was Alaiz feeling at this moment? Did she think herself abandoned? Juliana recalled the vow her sister had extracted months ago—if she were to leave Tremoral she would take Alaiz with her.

  Desperate to make Gabriel see reason, to convince him to return her to Tremoral, Juliana touched his sleeve. "The last night..." It was so hard to speak of that night she had lain down for him in the glow of torchlight. "The last night I came to you, 'twas to ask you to leave Tremoral. I did so because I feared Bernart knew of us. Do you remember, Gabriel?"

  He looked from her face to her hand upon him.

  She lowered her arm to her side. "He will come."

  As if a confrontation with Bernart was of little consequence, Gabriel shrugged. "Perhaps. But with the setting in of winter, it will like
ly be spring before he appears at my gates. By then the child will be born."

  "And if you are wrong and Bernart comes a fortnight hence?"

  "Then that much sooner will he know the truth of you and set you aside as he intended did you not provide him an heir."

  The truth. How little Gabriel knew of it, but were she now to tell him of the circumstances under which she'd given herself to him, he would likely think it another lie. And even if she were believed, to reveal Bernart's secret would endanger Alaiz. She was powerless. Anger surged through her. Damn Gabriel! Damn Bernart! They played with others' lives, manipulated and pulled the strings of their victims. "If it is the truth you seek," she said, "why did you steal upon Tremoral whilst my husband and his knights were gone? Why did you not face Bernart there and make your accusations? Are you really such a coward, Gabriel De Vere?"

  The darkness of his pupils engulfed the paleness of his eyes. "I had my reasons." As if to continue to look upon her might snap the slender thread of his control, he turned to the railing.

  Juliana stared at the bunched muscles of his neck, the tense set of his shoulders. As much as she longed to put distance between them, to return to the awning and close herself in, she tamped down her anger. "When the child is born, what do you intend?"

  Though she did not doubt he heard her, it was several minutes until he responded. He turned and pinned her with cold eyes. "If Bernart does not want you back, and it seems unlikely he would, you may enter a convent."

  Tossed aside, like the whore he believed her to be. "And the child?"

  "The child will remain with me."

  He meant to tear her newborn babe from her arms. Here was the man Juliana had so hated when he'd come to Tremoral four months past, the same whose touch had, for three nights, made her forget his heart was as black as pitch. "I hate you," she said.