by Blackheart
Though Gabriel had always guarded his emotions too well to allow any to see beyond his hard heart, there was no denying the pain she glimpsed across the distance.
" 'Twas an undertaking doomed to failure. It had been attempted before and always with the result of mass slaughter. A foolish quest, especially as King Richard was soon to arrive."
"If 'twas foolish, why did you not stop him?"
Gabriel's brow lowered. "You think I did not try? Bernart, like those he persuaded to follow him—like myself— was tired, hungry, desperate. 'Tis true I turned some from his cause, made them see reason, but Bernart and the others would not be deterred."
Juliana raised her palms. "But had you joined him... had there been a hundred instead of—"
'Then one hundred would have died rather than fifty." Gabriel strode to where she stood. "Not even five hundred would have made a difference, Juliana."
Was it true? Had Gabriel and those he'd convinced to stand down joined Bernart, would they now be dead? It was not what Bernart believed.
"The only reason Bernart survived was because of his nobility." Gabriel said. "Had he been a common soldier like so many of the others, he would also be dead."
But he was dead. Emasculated. Embittered. Incapable of love. Tears welled in Juliana's eyes, threatened to spill. She cast her gaze down.
Gabriel crooked a finger beneath her chin and lifted her face to his regard.
It would have been so easy to escape him, but his surprisingly gentle touch held her motionless.
"A day does not pass when I do not wonder if there was something I could have done to turn Bernart from his course, but always it comes to naught."
He felt guilt? Never would she have guessed Gabriel De Vere capable of such emotion.
Regret grooved his mouth. "I am sorry, Juliana."
Was he?
He swept a tear from beneath her eye. So gentle, like the brush of an angel's wings. "If I could change what happened, I would."
Would he?
His breath mingled with hers, warmed her lips. "Though as a young man I scorned your silly notions of love, never did I wish to see you hurt."
Curious flutterings stirred her breast, drew her gaze to his mouth. What would it feel like to press her lips to his? To come to him in the light of day? Imagining it, she closed her eyes. So different from the night past.
"Juliana?"
Gabriel's sharp utterance flung her eyes wide. His face was before hers, his eyes questioning, their mouths nearly touching. But it was not he who had come to her. She had raised herself to her toes and leaned toward him.
With a small cry, she stumbled back. Shame heated her face and begot the false accusation that sprang to her lips. "You think to seduce me, Lord De Vere?"
His gaze hardened, frightening her.
'Tell your tales to someone more fool than I!" Juliana fled the garden. She swept past servants who called to her for guidance, skirted knights who stared after her with trenched brows, sidestepped two ladies who sought to draw her into idle conversation. By the time she gained the passageway outside the lord's solar, she was trembling violently. Lest she alarm her sister, she leaned back against the wall and struggled to regain her composure.
What had possessed her? She was not attracted to Gabriel De Vere. Did not desire his touch. She wanted him gone from Tremoral, could not stand that two more nights stood between her and his absence. So what had drawn her to him? Certainly not that he was comely. He possessed a fine build, and that was all. Even Bernart, in his present state of waste, was more handsome. What was it? She closed her eyes. It had naught to do with the outside, and everything to do with the inside. The unexpected tenderness Gabriel had shown, which was too long denied her, had compelled her to do the unthinkable.
She groaned. As great as her humiliation, the real threat was to her identity. When she sought Gabriel's bed this night, would he suspect? Providing Bernart filled him with as much drink as he had on the night past, it was not likely. She straightened from the wall. Hopefully, all she needed to overcome was her own fear. She pushed the door inward. So where was she to find courage? There, in the smile Alaiz turned on her.
Long after Juliana had gone, Gabriel stood unmoving beneath the weight of puzzlement and anger. Had Juliana, a woman who bore him such enmity, offered her mouth to him as if to take him as a lover? Had he imagined it? He reflected on the ale of which he had partaken previous to coming to the garden. Only one tankard. As unbelievable as it was, she had come to him—then accused him of being the seducer!
His anger surged. Had he taken what she'd offered, he might have had her right here, might this moment be beneath her skirts. So what had stayed him? Not honor, not that she was forbidden him by the laws of Church and God and a friendship that no longer was. As with everything to do with women, it came back to Constance De Vere. Gabriel did not lie with women who were wed. No matter how tempting.
The faint scent Juliana left behind teased his nostrils. He clenched his jaw. Why had he defended himself to her? He owed her no explanation for what he'd done at Acre, did not care what she thought of him. However, an old longing wended through him, made of him a liar.
"Damn!" he barked. Had he sought out the wench who had come to him last eve, he could have eased this need. Instead he'd been drawn to the garden by the sound of Juliana's voice. But at least now he knew her for what she was, had confirmation of what he'd believed all along. Like all women, she was treacherous.
Chapter Six
He was not drinking.
Unease cramped Juliana's belly as she stared at Gabriel. In the hour following the conclusion of the evening meal, she had seen him take no more than half a dozen swallows of ale and turn away the serving wenches who sought to press more upon him. Obviously he had no intention of repeating the excesses of the night before.
Did Bernart not see what was happening—rather, what was not happening? She sought him out where he stood distant from Gabriel. He looked tense, his smile forced as he conversed with a neighboring baron. The day had gone poorly for him.
During supper, Juliana had overheard what had passed between Bernart and Gabriel on the tournament field. Though the others viewed it as merely another ransom to be gained, she knew it went deeper. It was retribution Bernart had sought and lost. Perhaps even death. For it, he'd paid the high price of his horse and armor. And his pride. He had naught to show for it but the bruise discoloring Gabriel's face.
Did Gabriel have any notion of what might have happened had he not bettered Bernart? Juliana shook off her pondering. What mattered was the night ahead. Not only must she find some way to coax Gabriel's seed from him without revealing herself, but it seemed she must do so with him sober. It did not bear thinking about.
Suddenly his gaze met hers.
Breath rushing from her, she turned her attention to a game of chess two knights played. Though Gabriel refused the wenches who tried to fill his tankard, she'd seen him watching them closely, as if speculating on who had come to him last eve. After what had happened in the garden, did it occur to him it might be she?
Juliana rubbed her hands over her forearms. Perhaps he remembered naught of the night past. Perhaps he had not noticed her virgin's blood upon the sheets she'd stripped from his bed this morn.
"Ooh!" Alaiz cried.
The knight who lost his queen to a bishop looked sharply over his shoulder to where Juliana's sister stood on tiptoe. He was not pleased.
Fearful he might say something unkind, Juliana took a step toward Alaiz, but in the next instant a hand fell upon her arm. Bernart. Considering he'd avoided her since this morn, she was surprised he would seek her out now. Had he changed his mind? A flutter of hope spread through her. She met his gaze.
Angry. Accusing. Something else had brought him across the hall. The flutter turned to stone and settled in her belly.
"I must needs speak with you," he said in a hiss.
Tempted as she was to resist, she allowed him to draw her i
nto a shadowed alcove. "Send your sister abovestairs."
She glanced at Alaiz. Having escaped unscathed following her outburst, she watched with knitted brow as the knights studied the chessboard. "She is enjoying herself."
"She is making sounds."
Juliana cocked her head. "Sounds?"
"Like a child."
It was true Alaiz's expressions of awe and delight were not something a properly reared lady of six and ten would utter, but she was... different. "And what harm is there in that?"
"What harm? Do you not see how they stare at her?"
Juliana lifted her chin. "Aye, and do you not think it rude of them?"
For a long moment he gave no reply; then he snapped, "You spend too much time with her at the neglect of our guests!"
She looked to the ladies who sat tittering amongst themselves before the hearth. They seemed content enough, but it was true she had paid them little regard. "I fear my mind is elsewhere, but I am certain you understand."
Anger coursed a bruising path from his hand to her arm. "You are the lady of Tremoral. I demand you conduct yourself accordingly!"
She glared at him. "Indulge your guests during the day and lie with them at night? You ask much, husband."
She could not have struck harder had she used her fists. Bernart released her. "Do not speak to me of it. I cannot bear it."
Still he would send her to his enemy a second time, a third. " 'Tis Gabriel you ought to concern yourself with, not Alaiz. He does not drink, or have you not noticed?"
Concern wiped the misery from Bernart's face. He hadn't noticed, likely because he could no more stand to be near Gabriel than could his wife.
"If he did not remember last eve," Juliana said, "he will surely remember this eve."
Bernart looked past her. "I will take care of it."
Though she wanted to ask how he intended to do that, she stepped out of the alcove and crossed to her sister. "You are enjoying yourself?"
Alaiz turned sparkling eyes on her. "Ever so!"
Juliana nodded. Her sacrifice was worth the gain.
The night was growing old, and still Bernart could not get more drink into Gabriel. He had sent wench after wench to his old friend in an attempt to press more ale upon him, then wine, but though Gabriel took measure of the women and said things that made them smile and giggle, he would allow none to tip their pitcher to his tankard. Not even Nesta, whose voluptuous curves should have distracted Gabriel long enough to get one or more cups of drink into him. It was as if he knew what was planned.
Now, with Juliana abovestairs, and his guests readying to bed down for the night, Bernart found he had no choice but to deal with Gabriel himself. He ordered a wench to fetch him a pitcher of his finest wine, then strode toward the hearth.
At his approach, Gabriel and Sir Erec looked up.
"Plotting tomorrow's ransoms?" Bernart asked. He nearly choked on the drollery.
Hands empty of a drinking vessel, Gabriel stared at him.
"Of course," Sir Erec said.
Bernart ignored the knight and took the chair opposite
Gabriel. "You ought to be pleased with yourself."
Gabriel's eyebrows rose. "Ought I?"
Bernart smiled. "Of course. Do your ransoms not exceed all others?" Idle talk, but perhaps it would keep Gabriel seated long enough for the wench to return with the wine.
"I have you to thank for that," Gabriel said.
Although Bernart had unwittingly opened himself to the remark, he did not need to be reminded of the foolishness that had cost him dearly. Damn Gabriel! And damn that lazy wench! Where was she? He glanced over his shoulder as she emerged from the cellar. He looked back at Gabriel. "Ah, but as I said, next time it will be you paying me."
Gabriel started to rise, Sir Erec with him.
But it was Bernart who was first to his feet. "Join me." He motioned to where the wench poured the wine at a nearby sideboard.
Gabriel eyed him. "Hoping to get me drunk again?"
"Again?"
"As on the night past."
Pretending humor he had not felt in years, Bernart chuckled. "Then that would explain why your reflexes were so poor in tournament today." The moment he said it, he knew he had once more made a mistake. Mother of Christ, he must be losing his mind!
Gabriel's wry smile spoke the words he denied his tongue: even drunk he could better Bernart.
Perspiration beaded Bernart's brow as he fought emotions that had been his undoing on the battlefield. "The wine is from Gascony," he said. "You will have some?" He knew how much Gabriel enjoyed French wine. If this could not tempt him, naught could.
'There is something you wish to speak to me about?" Gabriel asked.
Bernart glanced at Sir Erec. "It has been many years since Acre," he said, hoping Gabriel's partner would take that as his cue to leave. However, the man seemed in no hurry to quit the hall.
"Not enough," Gabriel replied.
As if his own wounds went deeper, Bernart thought bitterly. He accepted a goblet from the wench and nodded for Gabriel and Sir Erec to do the same. When they did, he lowered himself back to the chair. To his discomfort, the two remained standing.
Over the next few minutes, Bernart asked about France's tourney circuit, and Gabriel answered with as few words as possible, revealing very little about his life following the Crusade. Not that Bernart needed to be told, for he would have to be deaf not to know of Gabriel's exploits—that when he was not helping King Richard regain lands seized by France's King Philip, he was taking ransoms in tourney.
Although Sir Erec sampled the wine and commented on its superiority, Gabriel did not so much as peer into his goblet.
Drink! "The chamber is to your liking?"
Gabriel inclined his head.
Bernart took a sip of the fine wine, fully aware that more than a swallow or two would lead to intense discomfort, the same as that which had plagued him throughout the day. "You are sleeping well?"
Gabriel was slow to answer. "Well enough. You sent a wench to my chamber last eve?"
A wench. A woman who'd given her innocence to him without his knowing it. At least, Bernart prayed he did not know. He swallowed. "I do not recall your ever needing help to entice a woman into your bed."
Gabriel thumbed the rim of his goblet. " 'Tis just that I was expecting one and another came."
"Ah, Nesta. Regrets, but she was... otherwise occupied." Let him interpret that however he wished.
"And you do not know who came in her place?" Gabriel lifted the goblet toward his mouth.
Why did Gabriel care? One woman was much the same for him as the next. Jealousy bunched Bernart's shoulders. "I do not concern myself with the comings and goings of servants."
"Indeed." Finally Gabriel tasted the wine.
More. "One of the wenches must have come upon a liking for you," Bernart said. "But tell, what does it matter who shared your bed last eve?" He shouldn't ask, ought to leave it be, but could not.
Gabriel tipped the goblet once more before answering. "She was different."
Agitated, fearing it showed, Bernart swept his hand toward the half dozen wenches who pushed benches against the walls for the guests who would avail themselves of the comforts of the hall. "Who do you think 'twas?"
"None of these."
"You are certain?" Bernart's voice cracked betrayingly. Had Gabriel heard it?
A frown drew Gabriel's eyebrows. "I am certain." He stared at Bernart a moment, then took a long swallow of wine.
Perspiring more heavily, Bernart motioned to the serving wench.
She refilled Gabriel's goblet, then Sir Erec's. Bernart waved her away when she turned to him. " 'Tis likely one of the chambermaids, Gabriel," he said.
"Possibly."
Bernart abandoned the subject for one less distressing.
"Will you return to France following the tournament?"
" 'Tis where the money is."
"And your lands." Months ago, Bernart had h
eard that King Richard had awarded Gabriel a demesne. Finally he was a lord, though he would never be as great and powerful a lord as Wyverly would have made him. "Who keeps the barony in your absence?"
"My brother, Blase."
"The priest?"
"Aye." Gabriel stepped from the hearth and set his goblet on the sideboard.
Bernart's insides coiled so tightly he felt he might burst. He stood. "Will you not stay a while longer?"
" 'Tis time I seek my bed. I thank you for the wine."
To argue with him would only rouse his suspicions further. "Good eve, then."
Gabriel strode past him to the stairs.
Bernart turned and found Sir Erec watching him. "And good eve to you, Sir Erec."
The knight dipped his head and strode from the hall.
Bernart raised his goblet. Without thinking, he tossed the wine to the back of his throat. Then, as if death settled in his bones, he rigidly stepped to the sideboard and lifted the pitcher. As he did so, he peered into Gabriel's vessel. Half-full. The man could not have drunk more than a goblet of wine. Bernart squeezed his eyes closed, then opened them a moment later. If not wine, then sleep. He would give Gabriel an hour, then send Juliana to him. Though not as sure as alcohol, sleep ought to find him addled.
An hour and three refills of wine later, Bernart tested his footing on the stairs. Somehow he made it to the landing without mishap.
Bernart said naught. He simply opened the door, nodded, and left Juliana to gather her courage.
Now, once again, she stood in Gabriel's darkened chamber. When she'd slipped within, she had seen he was in bed, and from his stillness known he was asleep.
Aware that this night would require far more than simply taking him into her body, she fumbled with her mantle, freed the knot she had made of the ties, and dropped the garment atop the chest at the foot of the bed. Her coarse bliaut followed, but as she lifted the hem of her chemise, Gabriel's deep voice melted across the stillness.
"I had hoped you would come again."
Considering her reception on the night past, Juliana should not have been surprised he'd awakened, but she was. Hand to her throat, she searched the inky darkness and picked out his shadow. Doubtless he would never fall victim to one who sought to plant a knife in his back.