by Blackheart
Juliana sighed. Though he did not thank Alaiz, it was more than she expected. As he straightened, her gaze was drawn to the flower. How pitiful it looked between his big fingers. How feeble against his strong, tanned hand. A hand that would this night touch her. A man who would know her as no man had ever known her. There were mere hours until she went to him and he covered her. Would he kiss her?
Abruptly she threw out the thought. Kissing was an intimacy reserved for those whose hearts were bound one to the other. Not merely for the making of a child, especially an illegitimate one. Did Gabriel try to kiss her, she would turn away. She swallowed. Hopefully it would be over with quickly, that she might return to her own bed. Of course, on the following night, she would be forced to go to him again.
Distaste shuddered through her as she swept her gaze to eyes too pale to be called blue. Gabriel De Vere was watching her.
He urged his destrier alongside her. "Any words of encouragement, Lady Juliana?"
His strong, masculine scent swayed her senses. It was not entirely unpleasant, but he would benefit from a good, long soak. "Take thee a bath, Lord De Vere." She turned away. "Come, Alaiz."
Laughter she had not heard in a long time rumbled from Gabriel's chest, but was soon trampled by his thundering retreat.
Minutes later, the teams swept toward one another with raised weapons and war cries.
The first knight to fall fell hard, the one who felled him none other than Gabriel De Vere. Looking more the fierce warrior than the coward Bernart named him, he spun his destrier around, traded lance for sword, and leaped to the ground. A short while later, he had the knight's ransom. Then, as if death were a mere consequence of warfare, he hurtled toward his next opponent.
Gabriel a coward? A man who'd abandoned his best friend for fear of losing life or limb? It did not seem possible. But this was not real battle, Juliana reminded herself. Fighting for ransom was not the same as fighting for blood.
Deciding they had seen enough, she turned a reluctant Alaiz from the violent spectacle and started back toward Tremoral.
The dirt and sweat of hard-won victory would not be easily washed away in the chill waters of the wooded pool. Nor the thought of the one whose delicate senses Gabriel had offended.
He scrubbed harder. Though the filth finally succumbed to his efforts, Juliana Kinthorpe did not. She lingered like a long-lost memory come suddenly to light.
She had changed. When he had looked into her eyes last eve, and again this afternoon, the life with which she had once shone had been absent. And Gabriel did not believe it was because it was him she looked upon—the man who she believed had wronged her husband. As he knew well, such sorrow and bitterness took years to root so deep. Had Juliana's fanciful expectations of love, which were too exalted for any man to rise to, been the ruin of her and Bernart? Was she repulsed by her husband's limp? His diminished physique? Did she turn him away? Perhaps this was the reason Bernart sought other women.
A harsh sound tore from Gabriel's throat. He did not care. His friendship with Bernart was deep in the past, and Juliana... she was a woman. With that thought, he dove beneath the water. He surfaced on the opposite side of the pool and saw that his destrier, which had been grazing only moments earlier, had assumed a watchful stance. They were no longer alone.
"Gabriel!"
He looked up.
Sir Erec stood on an outcropping of rock. "Come on, man," he shouted, "we've bellies to fill."
Supper in Bernart's hall was not something Gabriel looked forward to, but a necessity; however, as the sun would light the land for another hour and the meal would not be served until its setting, he did not hasten from the pool. "I will join you shortly," he called back.
Sir Erec turned away.
Gabriel caught his reflection in the water lapping at his waist. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and considered scraping the stubbled beard from it, but in the next instant abandoned the idea. He had come to Tremoral to tourney, not to please a woman who had never more than glanced his way. A woman who would one day bear another's children.
He emerged from the water and, at leisure, donned the fresh clothes he'd brought to the pool. As he tugged on his boots, he promised himself he would have new ones made following the tournament. Although the majority of ransom money gained this day would be put toward the restoration of Mergot—the barony in France that King Richard had awarded him for his aid in reclaiming lands seized by France's King Philip—he could certainly afford to keep his feet better than he had of late. Perhaps he would even have some new tunics sewn.
He mounted his destrier and guided it out of the ravine to where Sir Erec awaited him.
"Never have I seen you so clean," the knight said. He grinned. "Did that wench you had last eve complain?"
Had he had her, he doubted she would have. The only reason Nesta had smelled any better than he did was that she bathed herself in perfume. " 'Twas Lady Juliana who informed me I reeked."
Erec's eyebrows jumped. "Is that so?"
Gabriel guided his destrier through the trees.
"Since when have you cared what any thought of you?" Erec asked, drawing alongside.
Gabriel looked at him. Erec had cleaned his hands and face and donned a clean tunic, but that was all. As concerned as he was with appearance, not until the conclusion of the tournament would he bathe. Wise, for it was a waste of time, considering the morrow would only dirty him once again. If not for Juliana, neither would Gabriel have gone near the water until the end of the tournament. The admission made him scowl. "I do not care what any think."
Erec chuckled. "Except Lady Juliana."
He was too observant—an asset in tournament, but not outside of it.
"Ah, but she is a beautiful woman," Erec murmured.
"Pity to waste her on one such as Bernart Kinthorpe."
Gabriel glanced sharply at him.
Erec's mouth twitched. "What?" He feigned innocence.
"What rumors have you been listening to?"
Erec shrugged. "There are several, but the one most spoken is that Lord Kinthorpe is the same as his brother."
Bernart the same as Osbern? Gabriel fleetingly considered the possibility. Nay, not even Acre could have changed him so.
"Three years of marriage and no children," Erec murmured.
"There are other reasons children are not born of wedlock."
"Which brings us to another rumor. The women servants say Lady Juliana is frigid."
Juliana, who had been trained in the art of courtly love? Gabriel remembered her oft-repeated profession of love for Bernart. Indeed, he could not forget it. Still, that did not mean she was as passionate in bed as she was out of it.
"What think you?" Erec asked.
Gabriel glanced sideways at him. "I do not." Whatever the truth of Bernart and Juliana's relationship, it was of no concern to him.
Ahead, the castle stood against a cloudless sky. It was white, from the donjon rising at its center to the outer wall and towers. Painted against this stark backdrop were the many-colored tents of those knights who did not avail themselves of the donjon's accommodations. Even from a distance, the bustle of activity was visible—servants hurrying about, squires cleaning and polishing their lord's armor, knights reliving the day's battles, merchants calling tourneyers to sample their offerings, women enticing men to sample their wares....
An hour until eating, Gabriel reflected. Enough time to cool the fires of his loins? With a nudge of his spurs, he set his destrier to a gallop.
Chapter Four
"You think I have not prayed?"
Juliana lifted her bowed head, but did not look at the one who trespassed upon her sanctuary. She knew why Bernart came to the chapel. What she must now do.
"When my manhood was stolen," he said as he advanced, "I prayed it all a terrible dream, pleaded with God to deliver me from the infidels, but He was not listening, Juliana. He did not care."
She didn't wish to feel for him or his pain, but h
is words wounded her as they had the night he had told her of the atrocity done him.
"Afterward, as I lay bleeding, I prayed for death, but again I was denied. Do you know the tears I shed? Tears that I could never hold you in my arms and love you as you ought be loved?"
Emotion clawed at her, made it difficult to breathe.
Bernart lowered himself beside her where she knelt before the altar. 'Ours is a cruel God, Juliana." He unclasped her prayerful hands. "He does not hear you, just as He did not hear me."
She stared at the altar with its gold cross and candles on either side. " 'Tis men who are cruel," she said. "Men who make themselves God."
Bernart's hands tightened on hers. "You think that is what I do?"
"Do you not?"
He expelled a harsh sigh. "I know what I ask of you—"
"Ask?" She wrenched her hands free. "Surely you mean what you demand of me?"
"I do not wish to do it, Juliana."
"Then do not!"
"I must. Though I did not die at Acre, 'tis as if I am dead. A son would give me something to live for. To love."
As he could never love her. "Then I should not keep Gabriel waiting." She stood and turned toward the door.
Bernart caught her back against him. "He will not hurt you."
There were many ways to hurt a person. Though Juliana did not think Gabriel would abuse her, she knew she would be wounded. Deeply. She tried to turn to Bernart, but he held her fast, as if he could not endure her gaze.
"The wine dispensed this eve was not watered," he said.
She had not known. Tempted as she'd been to seek strength in drink, she had not taken a sip, certain she would need her full reserve of wits if she was to keep her identity hidden from the man who would this night claim her virtue.
"Gabriel drank his fill and is well sated," Bernart said. "I assure you he will not remember much on the morrow."
That was of small comfort. "You are certain he is alone?"
"Aye, his squire keeps his tent outside the walls."
"Does he expect a woman this eve?" It would not do for her to surprise him and end up with a knife to her throat.
" 'Tis Nesta he believes will come to him, but she is otherwise occupied."
Juliana pulled out of Bernart's hold, drew the hood of her mantle over her head, and walked to the door.
"Three nights and—" His voice cracked. "And 'twill be over."
Providing that a babe took. Juliana opened the door and walked from the chapel. Any hope Bernart might call her back died when he closed the door behind her. He could not bear to watch her go to his enemy.
Feeling as if it were the executioner's block she was about to lay her head upon, she traversed the corridor. It was normally lit by four torches, but this night there was only one. Enough light to guide her, but too little to creep within the chamber and reveal that it was she who came to Gabriel. Bernart had thought of everything.
She swallowed, eyeing the dark line between door and floor that proved no light shone from within Gabriel's chamber. Three nights. An eternity. She halted and pressed a hand to the door. Her heart raced, breath caught, palms turned moist. She must go to him. But how? How was she to give herself to a man not her husband? Especially the one responsible for Bernart's loss of manhood?
The idea of love espoused by her mother returned to her, but try as she did to convince herself it was her lover who awaited her, that in his arms she would finally know the passion and adoration denied her, it was no use. The man within was Gabriel De Vere, and his heart was as black as a dreamless night. No lover he.
But the sooner she went to him, the sooner she could leave. She opened the door and stepped inside. By the light that strained into the chamber, she located Gabriel. He sat in the chair before the brazier, the coals of which had long ago yielded the last of their warming glow.
Chilled more by fear than the lack of heat, Juliana closed the door and barred it. As her eyes adjusted to the dark that was diminished slightly by the moon's penetration of the oilcloth over the window, the silence stretched. Did Gabriel sleep? If so, perhaps—
Nay, Bernart would send her back. She stepped forward. The half dozen steps seemed a long way, but finally she stood before Gabriel.
He was still, likely more from the potent wine pressed upon him than fatigue. How was she to awaken him? Her heart pounded painfully. She could not call to him, for to speak would reveal her as surely as the light of day. There was only one way, which was something to which she must become accustomed. She would have to touch him.
She released her mantle to the floor, uncovering the homespun gown she'd donned in place of her lady's finery. It had chafed her through the fine chemise worn next to her skin—the latter being the only comfort she allowed herself for fear Gabriel might discover her garments were not the stuff of servants.
Juliana sent a prayer heavenward, then began loosening her laces. An instant later, she was seized and dragged forward.
She gasped and strained away, but her strength was no match for Gabriel's. She landed hard against his chest. Although instinct urged her to struggle, she suppressed it with the reminder that she was here to get Bernart an heir.
Ere the night was over, she was going to come even nearer to Gabriel.
"Who might you be?" he asked, his voice thick and slurred.
He was drunk, though not so much that he mistook her for Nesta. Juliana had hoped he would simply do the deed and be done with it, but it seemed he had no intention of making this less difficult for her. How was she to answer him? As she searched for some way that would not reveal her, he settled a hand to her buttocks and pulled her fully onto his lap.
His scent was entirely different from that which had assailed her ere the commencement of the tournament. Never would she have guessed he smelled of pine needles, grass, a warm breeze—
"Have you no tongue?" he asked, his breath fanning her cheek.
—and wine. Hopefully enough that, come the morn, he would remember little of her visit.
"Wench?" He drew a hand from her buttocks to her waist.
At least he believed her to be a serving girl, Juliana consoled herself. However, there was no consolation in his touch. She felt it as surely as if it were his bare skin against hers—strangely disturbing, though not repulsive as expected.
Reminding herself that Gabriel awaited a response, that if she did not give one he might drag her into the light, Juliana did something she would never have believed herself capable of. She pressed a hand to that place to which she would soon submit. Beneath his tunic, Gabriel surged against her palm. As much as she wanted to wrench her hand away, she held it there, praying he would not pursue her identity.
He groaned and cupped her breast.
She tensed, but in the next instant forced herself to relax. This was neither the time nor place for maidenly outrage. True, Gabriel was drunk, but that did not mean he was senseless.
He kneaded her breast, coursed his other hand down her leg, caught up the hem of her skirts, splayed his fingers over her calf.
A peculiar sensation rippled through Juliana. She told herself it was revulsion. His fingers feathered higher and played at the back of her knee. Fear. Only fear. Through the material of her bodice, he pressed her nipple between thumb and forefinger and roused it rigid. Still, she denied the awakening of her senses, told herself she loathed his touch. Beneath her skirts, his hand turned inward and caressed the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. Juliana struggled to suppress her response, but could not. As the shudder escaped her, Gabriel's male member surged beneath her hand.
"Ah, wench," he murmured, "you are a sweet one."
His voice was more resonant than she remembered, as if it rose from the depths of him. Had it always been thus? Was it simply that she'd never been so near him?
He lingered over her thigh, then strayed inward and grazed her secret place.
Juliana whimpered. Strange things were happening to her. Things that were not suppo
sed to happen. Her stomach ought to be roiling with nausea, and yet—
He parted her and touched her secret place. A deep ache uncoiled within her. Frightened by its intensity, she squeezed her thighs together, but it did not deter him. He delved deeper.
"You are ready," he said.
She hated him. Loathed him. But at the moment, she could not remember why.
He pulled his hand from beneath her skirt and set her to her feet.
He did not want her? Had he changed his mind?
He stood, lifting her against his chest.
Nay, he wanted her and would soon take that which she had come to give. In exchange, he would sow the son Bernart needed. That last reminded Juliana of the reason she hated Gabriel De Vere. But her treacherous body seemed immune. Though she had heard whispered what a man's touch could do to a woman's resolve, never would she have believed it could be so strong.
For as much as Gabriel had imbibed, his stride was sure as he carried her to the bed. He laid her upon the mattress.
She could barely make out his shadow alongside the bed, but she knew he was undressing. Once more, fear burrowed beneath her skin. Now he would come to her and take the gift that should have been another's.
He lowered a knee on either side of her and leaned over. The brush of his hair against her cheek and his wine-laced breath mixing with hers were all the warning she had that he intended to kiss her. And he would have had she not turned her head sharply right. He settled, instead, for her ear. His breath, then his tongue, rekindled the desire he'd evoked minutes earlier.
Heat swept Juliana's breasts, tugged through her belly, quivered in her innermost place. She fought it, tried not to feel the sensations, but to no avail. Gabriel knew her woman's body as if he had lain with her many times.
As he trailed his mouth to her throat, his hands began their assault anew. He eased her skirts up. Touched. Caressed. Pleasured her as she had only ever dreamed of being pleasured. And in that moment, she let herself believe he was her lover. A man who adored her and defied all that conspired to keep them apart.