by Tamara Leigh
He closed his eyes. He shouldn't care. Even so, what he meant to do four months hence vexed a conscience he ought not to have. He looked to the stairs Juliana had ascended. Though he avoided her as much as possible and did his best to ignore her when they met, his traitorous emotions would not be put down. He felt for her, wanted to hold her again, wished things could be different. He was a fool. Silently, he cursed himself as he did more and more of late. If he was not careful, he would all the sooner find himself in hell.
Chapter Sixteen
England, December 1195
Safer this way, Alaiz told her groaning belly as she crept down the stairs. As hungry as she was from forgoing supper last eve, it was a small price to avoid Bernart and his terrible wrath. She paused on the bottom step and peered into the hall. There were only servants about.
She sighed. When would Bernart leave again? Soon, she hoped, though it was only two days since he'd returned from his latest search for Juliana. For the fourth time, he'd come back with empty hands. And angrier than ever.
Alaiz dragged her teeth across her bottom lip. Was Bernart mad, as it was whispered? Had his mind gone the way of everything else? Blessedly, she'd avoided that which his knights and servants could not escape. So completely, in fact, that it was as if he had forgotten her. Thus she left her chamber only to feed her hunger, and only when Bernart and his men were not present. Such as now.
She smoothed the tendrils that escaped her braid, squaring her shoulders. As she trod rushes grown putrid from her sister's absence, she fell under the servants' regard, but none approached her. It was hardly different from before Juliana had been stolen from Tremoral, with one exception: Nesta. As the wench had never hidden her contempt for Alaiz's infirmity, now that Juliana was gone, she'd become increasingly bold. She sought out Alaiz, spoke words meant to wound. And they did.
As Alaiz entered the corridor that led to the kitchens, she quickened her step.
"Ah, the elusive Lady Alaiz," a voice rasped near.
She swung around to face the one she'd blundered past.
Sir Randal Rievaulx stepped from the shadowed doorway of the storeroom. "I thought you might pass this way. Hungry?"
Of all of Bernart's men, she avoided him most. And her fear of him was now justified. Before he had accompanied Bernart on his most recent search, he'd pressed her into a corner and ran a hand up her breasts. Fortunately, the one scream she'd managed had brought an older knight to her aid.
She tensed for flight. "I am on my way to the... the..."
"Kitchens?" A smile bent his mouth as he slithered his gaze from her face to her breasts. "You look lovely, my lady. Of course, a bit unkempt." He cocked his head. "A pity your sister is not here to tend your grooming."
Half a dozen steps to the kitchens... She lunged—and fell two steps short of salvation.
Sir Randal caught her braid and wrenched her back against him. Before she could scream, he clapped a hand over her mouth. "Not this time," he said in a hiss.
She struggled as he pulled her backward, but he was too solid. He dragged her into the storeroom and kicked the door closed.
Fear coiled around Alaiz as she swept her gaze over the room, searching for something to aid her, but it was too dark. Though light from the lower level of the storeroom filtered up the stairway, it was not enough to make sense of the shadows.
"We are alone," Sir Randal said, mouth to her ear.
His moist breath made her spine quake, but she would not give in to him. She kicked a heel back and landed it to his shin.
"Bitch!" He wrenched her head to the side, gripped her face, and dug his nails into her flesh.
Alaiz cried into his hand, but the sound was too muffled for any to hear.
"Fight me and I will kill you," he rasped. He strained her neck further. "Do you understand?"
She did not want to die, but would she want to live when he was finished with her? God, have mercy.
"Do you understand?" At her nod, he removed his hand from her mouth, grasped her upper arm, and pulled her toward the stairs.
If she screamed, would any hear? Would any come to her aid? She suppressed a sob. Surely it was not hopeless.
As she began her descent, something pricked her memory. Desperate to unlock the door, she squeezed her eyes closed. And stumbled. If not for the knight's hold, she would have plunged to the bottom.
"I have warned you," he snapped, and hastened her down the remaining steps.
A single torch lit the lower storeroom, but it cast enough light to show there was naught here that might aid her. Only casks and sacks of grain.
Sir Randal pulled her to the back of the room and drove her against a wall. "Be kind to me," he said, "and mayhap I shall be kind to you."
She scrabbled through her tangled mind for something to turn him from the heinous act. "Do not... do this." She spoke the only words to which she could lay her tongue.
He leaned into her, cupped a breast, and began kneading. "You will like it, I promise." "I beseech you...."
When his breath came upon hers, Alaiz jerked her head to the side. She could not bear his mouth upon hers.
He lowered his head and sank his teeth into the soft flesh between her neck and shoulder.
She cried out.
"Give in to me," he rumbled, and proceeded to nip and suck his way up her neck.
She shuddered when his tongue thrust into her ear, cringed when he groped her woman's place through her gown. Were not her belly empty, she would retch.
He began to drag her skirts up.
"Nay!" she cried, and thrust her hands to his chest.
He knocked them aside and struck her so hard across the face her head snapped back against the wall. Alaiz struggled between consciousness and that which would close her mind to ravishment, but as appealing as the latter was, she refused it.
"I'll warn you no more," he said, face contorted. "Yield or I shall kill you."
She raised her chin. "Kill me."
His brow lowered. "Then that I shall, my lady—after I finish with you." He yanked her from the wall.
She landed on her hands and knees. Blood thundering in her ears, she tried to rise.
He planted a booted foot to the middle of her back, sending her sprawling upon the dirt floor. "Patience," he murmured.
Alaiz glanced over her shoulder. He tugged at the ties of his braies. And in that moment, she remembered the dagger. Though each morn she donned it, it had become so much a part of her she'd forgotten the reason for carrying it. She reached, found the slit in the side of her gown, and closed her hand around the hilt. As she drew it forth, the thought struck her that it would be of no use in her present position.
Think! she ordered her cluttered mind. She saw again those knights on the tournament field who were beaten to the ground, heard their shouted surrender.
"I yield!" she cried. "Take me and be done with it."
A grunt of triumph issued from Sir Randal. He lifted his foot. "Remove your gown."
Slowly, she turned onto her back and looked up at where he stood with legs planted wide, unfastened braies visible beneath the hem of his tunic. Not yet. She curbed the desire to seize the dagger. She levered up.
"Be quick," he snapped.
She straightened, then took a step back. Making a pretense of reaching for her laces, she plunged her hand through the slit and captured the dagger. She swept it forward.
Astonishment flashed across the knight's face, followed by fury. He took a step toward her.
Alaiz shook her head. "Leave me be, else / shall kill you."
It gave him pause. "I believe you would," he murmured, "providing you had the skill and strength to match a knight, my lady." He lunged, throwing his arm up to strike the dagger from her.
Guided by fleeting lucidity, Alaiz slashed the blade downward and caught his forearm.
He staggered, gaping at the blood seeping through his sleeve.
Alaiz wrenched free of her own disbelief and ran. The devil follo
wed.
She gripped the dagger with one hand, snatched up her skirts with the other, and took the steps two at a time. She'd spanned only half the stairs when he knocked her facedown.
"I shall kill you!" he bellowed where he spread upon her. He closed his hand around hers that held the dagger, pried a finger free and forced it back. It snapped.
Alaiz screamed and released the hilt.
He turned her and pressed the blade to her throat.
With gasping sobs, she tried to focus on him where he straddled her. Aye, he would kill her, but not before gaining what he'd come for.
Cool air swept Alaiz's legs as he lifted her skirts. Though she longed to resist, to do so would cause the blade to penetrate her throat. Dear God, preserve me.
A whisper of sound met her ears. Though she knew it was likely a rat, she rolled her eyes up—and stopped her breath at the blade's edge. Someone stood on the landing. But for what did they stand there? Surely they saw what Sir Randal did.
"Aye," he said softly.
Alaiz slid her gaze to him and saw that he lowered himself toward her. Nay! Uncaring whether the blade carved her neck, she brought her knee up and impacted with his groin.
He howled, clutched at himself, and collapsed atop her.
The dagger clattered to the step alongside Alaiz's head. With her throbbing hand, she closed three fingers and a thumb around it.
Spewing curses and saliva, Sir Randal also reached for it.
She slashed the air, straining left and right.
He jerked back and seized her flailing wrist. And lost his balance. He hit the stairs first, then Alaiz, over and over until they hit the bottom.
Pain bursting through her, she forced her lids to part. It was not the dirt floor beneath her, but Sir Randal, his eyes wide where he stared beyond her.
Why did he not move? As the question sank into her, she felt something at her breast. She put her hands to the dirt floor, and on trembling arms raised herself from the knight. The dagger was embedded in his chest, and all around it ran his life's blood.
Alaiz clapped a hand to her mouth and staggered to her feet. Trembling harder, she looked down her front. Her bodice was stained red. "Nay," she said under her breath.
The creak of the stairs spun her around.
"What have ye done, Lady Alaiz?"
Nesta.
"I... he..." Her mind was slipping away, jumbling, tossing.
Nesta descended the stairs, stepped past her, and bent beside the knight. "Ye have killed Sir Randal." She looked over her shoulder.
Alaiz shook her head. "I did not mean... It was a... You saw..."
Nesta straightened. "Murderer!"
Dear God! Alaiz looked from the wench to Sir Randal, back to the accusation that shone from hating eyes. With a sob, she grasped the railing and fled to her chamber.
She barred the door, then pressed herself against it and slid to the floor.
Cradling her injured hand to her chest, she stared at the room before her. Though Nesta had witnessed Sir Randal's assault and knew his death to have been an accident, she had named Alaiz a murderer. What if she were believed? What would Bernart do?
Alaiz buried her face in her hands. I need you, Juliana.
France
The stone moved.
Juliana gasped and lowered the rock she used in place of a mallet. Moments earlier, the chisel had worked freely in the furrowed mortar, but now it was wedged beneath the stone that had succumbed to her efforts.
She began to tremble. Finally! She slumped back onto her heels. The past three months of stealth, scraping, chipping, broken nails, and callused hands had not been for naught. Providing God did not now abandon her, within a fortnight she would be with her sister.
She pressed her linen-wrapped palms together. "Hear me, God; let no harm befall Alaiz before I return."
Knowing Lissant would soon come abovestairs to rouse her from her nap, she wiped her eyes on her dusty sleeve, then looked at the stone and touched it. Patience. She had come too far to risk being discovered. Tomorrow would be soon enough to work the stone free.
She quickly cleared the mortar dust and stowed it and the rock in her pouch. She eyed the chisel, deciding against attempting to free it. Wedged as it was, it could be used to pry the stone loose.
As she awkwardly gained her feet, she glanced at her protruding belly. In less than two months she would push forth Gabriel's child, but not here. Not at Mergot. Though the journey before her was daunting, she would make it back. Then Alaiz would be safe.
There was something different about Juliana: a glow that was not of the fire's heat, a light in eyes that had been dark these past months, and a nervousness that bespoke impatience.
Gabriel had first noticed it yestereve during supper. However, as with most things that had anything to do with her, he'd ignored it. It was better that way, though perhaps not in this instance.
He filled his tankard at the sideboard, took a swallow, and returned his gaze to where she sat before the hearth. The gown she altered to accommodate her increased girth lay untouched in her lap, while beside her Lissant plied her needle and chattered as if her mistress heard every word. Juliana did not. Her gaze was rooted across the hall, restless hands the only movement about her. She clasped and unclasped them, ground her palms together, plucked at her gown.
What was she thinking?
"Even with child, she is the most beautiful of women," Blase murmured as he halted alongside Gabriel.
Gabriel glanced sharply at his brother, resenting the familiar, contemplative look upon his face: lids narrowed, mouth pursed, head cocked. No doubt he wished to impart that holy wisdom he was expert at dispensing, but for which he, himself, had little regard.
" 'Tis increasingly difficult to believe she is capable of that which you accuse her," Blase continued.
"Because she has a lovely face?" Gabriel scoffed. "For as much time as you spend between a woman's thighs, still you have much to learn about the other sex, little brother."
Blase looked at him, arching an eyebrow. "Not so much as you have to learn about the heart and soul, big brother. From what I have observed these past months, Juliana is not one who easily deceives. In fact, there is something true about her."
True? If not that Blase's words struck jealousy in him, Gabriel would have laughed. Well he remembered the day three months past when he had come upon Juliana and his brother in the hall: Blase's laughter, Juliana's smile. For the hundredth time since, he questioned whether Blase had fallen victim to Juliana's beauty. He tensed. "Do you think yourself in love?"
Blase chuckled. "Do you?"
The question unsettled Gabriel. He, Gabriel De Vere, in love? With Juliana Kinthorpe? Impossible. He desired her, and that need would be quenched once he took a wench to bed. If not that he was occupied with the affairs of Mergot, he would have done so long ago. But he would do it—and soon. He shot his brother a thunderous look that should have withered him. It did not.
"As for me," Blase said, "do you forget, I am a priest. Hence I am forbidden such love. But 'tis not forbidden you, Gabriel."
Why did he tolerate such talk? Were it any other who spoke thus, he would quickly teach them their place. "Hatred is all I feel for her," Gabriel said, though he had long ago accepted it for a lie.
"Ah, but hatred and love entwine. What you hate deeply grows from having loved deeply."
"Is that what your Bible tells you?"
Blase shrugged. "If it does, I have not read it. But then, there is much I have not read in those exalted pages."
"No doubt." Gabriel quaffed the remainder of his ale and set his tankard atop the sideboard. "Be assured, brother, I want only the child Juliana carries."
"Do you? I am not blind, Gabriel. More, I know you as well as anyone can know you. Though you rarely glance her way, she is ever upon your thoughts. She sits at table and you speak not a word to her, but she might as well be on your lap for all the suffering you endure."
Gabriel
clenched his hands into fists. "Were you not my brother, you would suffer for such foolish talk."
Blase smiled. "I am most fortunate."
Infuriating! "Even where you are concerned, there are limits to my patience. Thus I suggest you speak no more of this."
Blase nodded. "As you would have it." Gabriel turned to go. "I received a missive today." Gabriel came back around. "From?" "The bishop of Briarleigh. He has called me to England." "And?"
"I leave on the morrow." Gabriel frowned. "For what reason?" Blase laughed. 'The bishop is my master, Gabriel." "Aye, yet rarely do you allow his summons to move you."
"True, but 'tis time I left Mergot."
"I have need of you here." Gabriel had come to depend upon him, especially as he, himself, was minimally learned in letters and numbers.
"You do not need me," Blase said. "Another can as easily keep your books. Perhaps Juliana."
"Juliana?"
"It would give her something to while away the hours."
Blase hoped to force them together. "Your scheme will not work, Blase."
He appeared unconcerned. "Even so, I leave on the morrow."
Was Juliana privy to his plan? Was this the reason for the change? He glanced across the hall. Her hand was on her belly, stroking it as he had not seen her do before, as if she were going to be a mother to the child. His chest tightened. Blase was a fool to believe she sought anything other than her release.
"You won't take the child from her," he said.
Wouldn't he? Gabriel turned his gaze to his brother, and found himself confronted with one he hardly recognized.