by Tamara Leigh
She sighed, fingering the embroidery around the neck of the fifth garment. It was almost finished, but as with each time she neared completion of one of the tiny garments, she was loath to place the final stitches.
She pushed her awkward bulk off the bench, crossed to the chest, and raised the lid. She set the scissors aside and folded the tiny garment.
The scrape of metal on metal brought her head around. She frowned at the door. Supper already? Had time passed so quickly? Not that she wished it to, for the more it dragged the longer she had with her child.
She drew a deep breath, returned her attention to the chest, and lifted a blanket from atop the four tiny garments. Though all were of the same material, each was of a different cut. Her son would look handsome in green.
Behind, the door opened and the guard stepped within, but she ignored him. She and the man rarely spoke, the last time being a fortnight past when she'd entreated him to seek out Lissant to obtain her sewing implements. Grudgingly, he'd done so. Whether Gabriel had given his consent, she had not asked.
As she bent to place the fifth garment, she realized it was too quiet, no movement about the room as when a tray was brought her. She looked over her shoulder.
Gabriel. Head and shoulders barring the doorway, he stared at her.
Juliana could not prevent her start. Forgetting the reward of subtlety, she dropped the baby's garment atop the others, thrust the blanket over them, slammed the lid, and spun around.
Suspicion narrowed Gabriel's lids.
Lord, what fool was she? She clasped her hands beneath her belly. It was a mistake, for it emphasized the swell and drew his gaze. She crossed her arms over her chest. "For what do you come to my prison, Lord De Vere?"
He lingered upon the evidence of her advancing pregnancy, then stepped inside and closed the door. "What plan you now, Juliana?"
Unable to bear what would be revealed did he look upon the tiny garments, she shook her head. "Naught. What is it you wish?"
He crossed the room, then halted before her. "I wish to see what you hide."
It hurt to look upon him. "I hide naught." She lowered her gaze. "You surprised me, is all. I thought 'twas the guard who came."
Gabriel's hands settled onto her shoulders, his firm touch causing her to ache for those nights so long ago. If only the man who had come to her in the garden at Tremoral and told her he'd not easily surrendered his friendship with Bernart would show himself again. If she could tell him what Bernart demanded of her...
"Then you are resolved to it?" he asked.
She floundered before making sense of what he asked. She tilted her head back and drew a deep breath. "How can one be resolved to losing one's child?"
A muscle jerked at his right eye. "I could almost believe you, and I am more the fool for it, but you will forget this child as easily as you did your marriage vows."
She looked to her belly between them, trying to hold back her emotions. She could not. "I did not forget my marriage vows. That is where you err, Gabriel."
Silence, deep and moving.
"Then put me right, Juliana."
The strain in his voice returned her gaze to his. "If I could, do you not think I would?"
The softening swept from his face. "As you would have it." His hands tightened on her shoulders, then set her back from the chest. "I will see what deception you work."
As much as she longed to fling herself upon the chest, to keep hidden that within, she turned and crossed to the barred window. If not now, Gabriel would know when he sent her away.
She heard the creak of the lid and winced.
"Scissors, Juliana? What do you with such?"
Then he had not consented to their being provided her. She fixed her gaze upon the inner wall and the workers there. Soon the repairs would be complete.
Gabriel rustled the contents of the chest, but he would find naught for her to escape him. Only pieces of her heart.
Silence.
She tensed, waiting—though for what she could not say.
When he moved behind her, she stopped her breath. When he turned her to him, she shuddered. "Why?" he asked.
She averted her gaze. "He—he comes into this world unclothed." Lord, how feeble, but she could not think clear with him so near. "Surely he ought to have—"
"Do you love this child?"
Aye. And his father. She braved Gabriel's gaze. "Knowing you would take him from me, I have tried to not love him"—she pressed a hand to her belly—"but he is all that is mine. Though you... take him, he will always be a part of me."
Emotion slipped past the armor in which Gabriel clothed it. He squeezed his eyes closed.
Try though Juliana did to not feel his pain, she reached up and laid hands to either side of his face. "Pray, forgive me for what I did. Never did I intend you harm."
His lids lifted. Were those tears? As he stared into her, his pupils slowly spread, turned gray to black. Too late, she realized she should not have touched him so.
She stepped back, but he caught her to him. Undeterred by her belly between them, he lowered his head.
Juliana gasped. "Pray, Gabriel, this is not—"
"Aye, 'tis." His eyes traveled downward and fastened on her mouth.
"Nay, you do not want—"
"I do." He leaned forward and opened his mouth onto hers.
She pressed hands to his chest to push him away, but the familiarity beneath her palms poured memory through her, brought longing to the surface, roused a sigh that parted her lips and let him in. Oh, Mother Mary. She ought not to allow this... ought to pull away... ought...
He thrust his tongue against hers, causing response to quiver the place between her thighs.... ought to run... ought...
He curved a hand beneath her tender breast, and with his thumb brushed sweet ache to her nipple.... ought to hide... ought...
He slid his mouth from hers, licked and nipped down her neck, lapped the base of her throat. "Touch me, Juliana." His voice filled her. "Let me know you again."
... ought... ought... ought... She gasped into him, slid her hands up over his shoulders and into his hair. She was utterly lost. Only he could help her find her way out.
When he lifted her, she did not protest. When he laid her upon the bed, she reached to him. When he dragged his braies down, his man's root sprang forth.
Her ache trebled. To feel him again, to be one with him...
He pulled her skirts up around her hips, stopping at the sight of the swell that surely reminded him of the last time they had come together. But it did not turn him from her. Gently he parted her thighs, knelt between them, and put his hand to her. Finding the sensitive bud, he began drawing circles over it.
Melting warmth hurdled through her. She wanted this. Wanted to hold this moment to her always. She closed her eyes and began to move her hips to his touch.
"Aye," he said, and slid a finger into her heat.
With a small cry, she arched, willing him inside.
His hand came away, and his hard length pressed against her woman's place, but then he stilled. "You would have me stop?" His voice was weighted. "Ask it and I shall."
Could he? She looked up at where he bent over her belly, met eyes of black. Though she knew she ought to preserve what was left of her, she shook her head. She needed to feel him inside her, to move with him, to don wings.
"I shall not ask it," she said softly. "Come unto me, Gabriel."
He stared at her, then levered up.
Ah, nay! It was his revenge upon her. She closed her eyes and sank her teeth into her bottom lip to prevent pain from issuing from her mouth.
Large hands turned her onto her side, but ere she could question what Gabriel did, his warm body came against her back, his hands to her hips, his straining warmth between her thighs.
Then he did not mean to leave her? Was it possible to make love in such a manner?
He entered, sank deep, and remained so until she thought she might scream with want;
then he began to stroke.
Juliana felt awkward, unsure how to move—until she let instinct guide her to another shade of heaven. Moving with Gabriel—faster, deeper—seeking that which he sought, she reveled in the sensations spinning through her. Her arousal more intense than the last time their bodies had met, she suddenly found herself lifted to that place unlike any on earth.
Her cry split the room, but was muted by Gabriel's shout. Their joint convulsing quaked the bed, easing them deeper into the mattress. When all was still, their hearts kept time one with the other.
It was as if they were lovers, as if they might now kiss, might whisper sweet words, might fall asleep entwined. If only it could be.
Juliana opened her eyes and looked to the windows. How she wished the world outside would disappear, that she and Gabriel could remain untouched forever. Trying not to hurt any deeper for what five weeks would make of her, she sighed in concert with the babe's turning.
Gabriel must have felt it, for he tensed. A moment later, Juliana took the tension from him when his hand followed the movement to the other side of her belly.
"He is strong," he murmured, leaving his arm curved around her, though all grew still.
She nodded. What she longed to say was that the babe was as his father. But she didn't dare—not so long as Bernart held Alaiz. If only Gabriel would bring her sister out of Tremoral...
She sighed. How long until Gabriel realized the error of what he—they—had done? How long until his accusations claimed more of her heart? Please, God, she silently entreated, let this last a while longer. Though it was not likely the Almighty would agree to so sinful a request, Gabriel's breathing turned deep. Fatigue urged her to find rest as well, but she denied it, sensing that when Gabriel awakened all would be as before they had lain together.
Over the next several hours, shadows crept the walls, gathered night about the unlit room, turned it to pitch. Unwaveringly conscious of the man at her back, Juliana held herself awake until she could no longer keep her eyes open. Before she surrendered to sleep, she sent up one last prayer that the new day would not find Gabriel gone from her.
Dawn brought with it the unkind reality of what he had done. His body unto Juliana's had changed naught, only proven that, in spite of the reason she'd first come to his bed, she longed for their mating as much as he. Still, she had stolen from him. Or had she? He stared at the auburn hair he'd breathed through the night. Why this uncertainty that grew with each day? Damning himself, he sat up.
Juliana murmured, shifted onto her back, and squeezed his fingers that curved her belly.
Until that moment, Gabriel had been too full of self-reproach to realize her hand was upon his—holding him to her as if to ensure he did not steal away. Why? He looked to her soft, fair-skinned fingers that contrasted with his callused and deeply tanned ones. Was it loneliness from these past weeks of confinement? Or did she truly wish him with her? She had not sent him away yesterday when he'd sought her consent. Indeed, she'd held naught from him—except that which she would tell only if he delivered Alaiz.
That last reminded him of the reason he'd come to her, though, in truth, it had been as much an excuse to see her again. He had sought her out to tell that which he'd been too angry to speak following her betrayal of weeks past— that Blase had returned to England and would inquire as to Alaiz's well-being. But though word had yet to arrive of her sister, he had not come to Juliana with the intention of laying her down. Not that it absolved him, for he'd known the temptation of being near her, especially with their child growing large in her—binding them as if man and wife. But they were not. Could never be.
He searched the swell beneath his hand, longed to see movement like that which he'd felt after they'd made love. He waited, but the babe was still. He frowned. Though he'd heard that lovemaking would do an unborn child no harm providing the mother was of good health, mayhap he'd heard wrong. He pulled his hand from beneath Juliana's and felt it across her silken flesh. No response.
Disquieted, he rose to his knees, laid hands to her belly, and put his ear to it. He heard the strong beat of a heart, but was it the child's? He searched to the side—naught. The other side—silence. Lower—he stopped his breathing, listening with eyes closed. There it was, rapid and steady. He let out his breath.
"Can you hear him?" Juliana asked softly.
Had he not years of masking his emotions, he would have revealed his surprise. How long had she watched? Looked upon his seeking? No matter. Had he made a fool of himself one minute or five, he remained a fool. He lifted his head and met her regard. "I heard him."
A smile touched her mouth. "Sometimes, when all the day is at rest, I can feel his beat beneath my hand."
He stared at her morning countenance—weighted lids, softly colored cheeks, bowed mouth, hair spread around her. It stirred him to new awakening. He ought not to have lingered. He dropped his feet to the floor and retrieved his braies and hose.
"You are leaving?"
Though he thought it regret in her voice, he did not pause in attaching his hose to his braies. "The morning's work has begun on the wall," he said as he reached for his boots.
"So it has," she murmured.
Sorrow, but he would not let it touch him. What had happened between them was done. It would not happen again.
He straightened and started across the chamber.
"For what did you come, Gabriel?"
That which was made more of a lie by his not having spoken it. Still, he did not break stride until he reached the door. He looked around and saw that she sat up, her belly gone beneath her skirts. "I came that you might know Blase has returned to England."
He was gone? Juliana blinked. "When?"
"Three weeks past."
That was the day she'd been sent to the tower and seen Blase depart the castle. She had thought he'd gone to a village from which he would soon return. Why had he left Mergot? Had it anything to do with her?
"Though he is to return to Briarleigh at his bishop's summons," Gabriel said, "I have given him instructions to first pass through Tremoral and make inquiry of your sister."
Though it was not what Juliana had asked in exchange for the truth she held from him, it was more than she'd hoped. "And what word has been brought you?" Pray, let Alaiz be well.
His brow lowered. "None yet, but methinks within the fortnight we shall hear."
Then to tell her of Blase's departure was not all for which he had come? Could it be he longed to see her as much as she to see him? Or had he come but for an ease of his loins? As much as she yearned to reject the latter, she feared that to do so would be pure fancy. She loved Gabriel, but he could not love her—unless, perhaps, she told him the truth of the child.
He opened the door.
She blinked, groping for words to hold him. "Gabriel?"
He looked over his shoulder.
"I thank you." It was all she could form.
He nodded, stepped without, and closed the door. The key turned in the lock. Naught had changed.
She pressed a hand to her belly. Five weeks—that was all she had. What would happen to her son once she was gone? Would he be loved? Would he know more laughter than tears? To whose arms would he run for comfort? Could Gabriel give him all he needed? Would Gabriel? Something told her he would endeavor to do so, but a child needed its mother. A nursemaid could never give him the love he deserved.
In that moment, Juliana knew what she must do—that which her love for Alaiz and fear of Bernart's retaliation had too long held her from. She must trust Gabriel. But would he believe her, and if so, would he bring Alaiz out of Tremoral? She had to believe he would. And then? She was still Bernart's wife and could not remain hidden forever. She must speak to Gabriel.
She rose, crossed to the basin and washed herself in chill water, then waited for the guard to bring her morning meal.
Shortly, he appeared. Her request for him to send word to Gabriel was met with a frown, but he agreed. However, G
abriel did not come, nor the day after, nor the day after that.
Chapter Twenty
February 1196
The parchment crackled angrily as Gabriel put his fist around the words written by a monk of Briarleigh. Damn Kinthorpe to hell! A curse upon him and all come of his blood! Though Blase did not detail what had been done him, his injuries were serious enough that he'd been unable to inscribe the missive himself. Forget his assurance he would heal and soon return. It did naught for the fury that burned in Gabriel. Only one thing would cool it— Kinthorpe blood. But, according to the missive, he would not have to seek it out. It was coming to him. It could not come soon enough.
And what of Alaiz, accused of a murder she could not have committed? Was she in hiding? Or now, since her escape, had the dead man's family captured her? Likely. And the fault was Gabriel's. In truth, all of it was. If not for his revenge upon Juliana, Blase would not lie infirm, Alaiz would be safe under her sister's protection, and Bernart would not be bringing an army against Mergot to kill and maim any who came between him and that which he deemed his.
Gabriel thrust himself out of the lord's chair, staring at the empty hall. Though he bore the blame, still he hungered for Kinthorpe, and would not be content with anything less than victory. Thus, there was a vast amount to be done before the bastard came—weapons struck, completion of repairs to the inner wall, stores of food and water brought in, intensified training for his men.
He strode from the hall into a day heavy with such cold his breath billowed upon the air. For a moment, he entertained the idea that Kinthorpe might wait until the spring to cross the channel, but rejected it. Juliana's husband came soon to claim a child not his, a wife who ought not to be.
As Gabriel stepped into the outer bailey, he paused to look up at the tower. How did Juliana fare? He wondered often, listened intently to the guard's meager reports, but had not gone to her since the morning he'd awakened in the tower. Five times she had sent word, and each time he'd disregarded her requests. As he could not be so near her without wanting her, it was best he stayed away— now even more so. Did he go to her, she would surely inquire if word had come of her sister, and he would have to lie. Regardless of whether or not Kinthorpe arrived before the babe was born, Gabriel would not tell her of the missive. Its ill tidings presented too great a risk to her and their child.