by Blackheart
She had barely regained her breath when realization struck. There was no slur to his voice as there ought to be, as Bernart had assured her there would be. He was not drunk, then? Or merely not as drunk as last eve? How did he know she was the same woman who had come to him on the night past?
The creak of the bed forced her to abandon her pondering. Fearing Gabriel intended to rise, she hurried forward.
A moment later, his hands closed around her arms. "Eager, eh?" He pulled her between his thighs where he sat on the mattress edge.
She smelled wine on his breath, but it was faint. Curse Bernart! She would have fled the chamber if not for the hands that held her firm. Then those hands began to touch her.
Gabriel caressed his fingers up her side to the under-curve of her breast. Through her chemise, he stroked her fullness, causing spikes of sensation to draw her nipple erect. His other hand explored her buttocks.
Juliana closed her eyes. Why did he have to touch her like this, as if she were a lover and not some whore who had once more stolen to his chamber? Rather than being aroused, she ought to be repulsed. Rather than filled with sweet flutterings, she ought to be rolling with nausea. Desperately, she wanted to resist the feelings Gabriel awakened, but they were too pleasurable.
"We do not need this," he said, and drew her chemise upward.
Only when the fine material began its ascent, gliding sensually over her skin as she could not remember it ever having done, did Juliana realize her mistake. In her haste to prevent Gabriel from rising, she'd forgotten about the garment. Had he noticed its texture? That it was markedly different from that worn by commoners?
He pulled the chemise over her head and tossed it aside.
Praying his man's need was too great for him to question the reason a whore wore a lady's garment, Juliana swept her hair from her eyes and lowered her gaze. Though it was too dark to make out his face, she saw his head bend forward.
"This time I pleasure you first," he said, his voice winding through her. Then his mouth was on her breast.
Juliana gasped. What was he doing to her? Why didn't he just... She leaned forward, silently beseeching him to feed her desire.
His unshaven face rasped the tender flesh of her breast as he tugged at her nipple, causing small, panting sounds to escape her throat. He nipped and swirled his tongue around her, then moved to the other breast.
Forgetting who she was, who this man was who'd thrust her into womanhood, the pain of that initiation, Juliana grasped his head to her breasts and clenched her fingers in his thick hair. This was how it was supposed to be between a man and woman. These were the things a woman ought to feel. The things she had only ever heard spoken of and days ago thought never to experience.
Gabriel trailed his mouth to her belly, melting warmth across her flesh.
Juliana dropped her head back, parted her lips on a moan.
"You like that," he said. Or was it a question? Though she knew he couldn't see her, she nodded. One moment she was standing, the next on her back, flesh to flesh.
"Who are you?" he asked, his breath stirring the hair across her brow.
She quivered. She was Juliana Kinthorpe, lady of Tremoral. But last night, this night, and the night to come, she was another, a faceless woman come to steal a child from him. That she must not forget.
"Surely you have a name," he prompted.
She swallowed. He was likely too sober to allow her to distract him as she had when he'd questioned her last eve. Could she disguise her voice? If so, what to call herself? Remembering from the games she'd played as a child how difficult it was to identify another's voice when it was whispered, she ventured, "I am... Isolde."
Gabriel's silence turned her palms clammy and caused her heart to speed. Did he know?
"Isolde," he said. "A beautiful name."
But a poor choice. The oft-told love story of Tristan and Isolde having once been dear to Juliana, it was the first name that came to her. In Gabriel's silence, had he recalled the tale himself, that which had many times been recounted in her father's hall?
"You work in the donjon?"
"The... the kitchens," she whispered.
"Hmm." He moved his hands over her again.
She was relieved that he seemed to have made no connection between the woman who came to him in the night and the girl who'd sighed over the troubadour's tale and unabashedly named Bernart Kinthorpe her Tristan. Slowly she allowed herself to be coaxed to an awareness of Gabriel, but when his mouth sought hers she once more turned her head. As in the garden, she longed to taste him, but she feared such a joining. Feared its tenderness.
Why Gabriel wanted to kiss her, he couldn't say, for it was not something he usually gave thought to when he was with a woman. If it happened, fine. If not, it was hardly missed. But he wanted to kiss this wench, to press his tongue inside her mouth and taste her sweetness. He cupped her chin and pulled her face to his, but before he could possess her lips, she jerked her head opposite.
Though the details of her first visit were indistinct, he remembered having tried to kiss her, that she'd also refused him. Strange. Never had he known a woman to give of her body and yet guard her mouth. What did she fear?
He breathed the faint scent that had wafted to him when she had entered his chamber. Familiar, yet he could not name it. "Isolde"—somehow the name didn't fit—"let me taste your sweet mouth." He brushed his lips over her ear.
She stiffened, but in the next instant pushed a hand between them and curled her fingers around his rigid shaft. She meant to distract him and was doing a fine job of it. Still, he wanted what she denied him, and would have sought it had she not drawn her hand up and down again. Wanton. He strained beneath her fingers. Lord, he wanted her!
Though she refused to take his mouth upon hers, she surprised him by putting her lips to the flesh between his neck and shoulder. He groaned. He wanted to drive into her depths as her hand upon him imitated.
She drew her other hand down his spine, splayed her fingers over his buttocks, pressed him between her thighs.
Feeling her heat, Gabriel was aroused as he had not been in a long time. Yet for all this wench's familiarity with his body, there was something about her touch that was innocent. Seeking, rather than knowing. Uncertain, rather than wanton. It stirred him beyond all thought. He pushed toward her woman's place.
She held him a long moment, denying him entrance. Then, with a shudder, she loosed her fingers and eased her thighs apart.
Gabriel pressed inside. She was tight. He sank deep, settled against her womb, and withdrew. Through the passion that urged him to take her quickly, he felt her tense. He knew women well, and her reaction was not of desire. Was it that she was too small, or simply less versed in lovemaking than her brazen hands would have him believe? Vague memories of last eve returned. She had reacted similarly when he'd entered her that first time, then eagerly come to him. Small, he decided. Her discomfort would pass.
Slowly he began to thrust. As he did so, he caressed one breast, then the other, then ventured lower and lingered over her thigh, which was more silken than any he had ever touched. She was soft, beautiful beneath his hands. He felt her tension drain, but still he held back. First her, then him.
Shortly, small sounds escaped her throat; then her nails sank into his buttocks and a whimper parted her silent lips. "Aye. Aye." A moment later, she flung her arms around him, buried her face in his neck, and convulsed.
Now him. Gabriel drove hard, and was nearing release when the wench rasped into his ear, "Let me."
He stilled. As much as he ached for the pinnacle he had been near attaining, he allowed her to press him onto his back. When she lowered herself onto him, he thought he would explode.
Her silken hair skimming his flesh, she pressed her palms to his abdomen and lingeringly slid her hands upward—as if learning every muscle and sinew of him. Then she bent and trailed her lips over his chest. When her tongue flicked his areola, Gabriel jerked inside her. When
she drew his nipple into her mouth, he began to thrust.
It was pleasurable. Though such ministrations were not new to him, he had never cared to be suckled. In fact, he'd always found it more of an annoyance than a stimulant.
The moment before climax, he strained into the mattress in an attempt to withdraw, but she sat back, clamped her knees against his sides, and held him inside. With a shout, he spilled his seed into her. Again and again he spasmed until he could give no more. Finally he opened his eyes.
The woman straddling him was still, the only movement about her the slight rise and fall of her breasts. What did she look like? Was her face as beautiful as that which his hands had learned? "You have pleased me greatly," he said.
She said naught.
Gabriel pulled her to him. As her breasts settled against his chest, she turned her face into his neck. She felt like no woman he had ever been with. Draped in hair he imagined to be auburn color, he fondled her hip, the small of her back, her ribs, her nape. "I thank you, Isolde." She nodded.
He turned onto his side and levered up. "I wish to see you."
Were fear capable of being held, it would be as ponderous as that which leaped from her. She grasped his arm. "Nay, I..." It was a long moment ere she found the words. "I am disfigured."
Disfigured? That was the reason she hid herself in night? He reached to lay fingers to her cheek.
She captured his hand. "Pray, do not shame me."
Her scared, husky voice stilled him. Though it was hard to believe this woman whose body was shaped by divine hands did not possess the face of a temptress, it would account for the darkness in which she came to him and her refusal to allow his mouth upon hers. What had happened to her? Had she been born disfigured? Maimed later in life? He wanted to ask, to know more about her, but sensed it would frighten her away.
"I am sorry," she whispered, and started to rise. "I will leave you now."
Did she think him repulsed? Angered? Gabriel pulled her back. "Do not."
He sensed her surprise. "You wish me to stay?"
He slid a hand up from her ribs and cupped her breast. "I do." He bent his head and caught her nipple between his teeth.
She was slower to respond than before, but finally they joined again. Straining with ache, Gabriel once more allowed Isolde her pleasure, then moved in search of his own. As he neared climax, her hands on his hips urged him onto his side. She wanted to mount him again, he realized, but he was too near to stop now.
Withdraw, his conscience shouted. Too late. The spasms were more satiating than any he had known, Isolde's body holding him warm and tight. It felt good to quake inside her.
Supported on outstretched arms, Gabriel drew a deep breath. It was several minutes before he calmed enough to think clearly, but when he did, he was pricked with regret. Though it was too dark to make out more than the curve of Isolde's jaw, he felt her gaze.
He hoped it wasn't her time of breeding, that nine months from now a nameless child would not be born of their union. "Damn," he muttered, and fell onto his side.
He had never been with a woman who could so easily make him forget the vow that had served him well all these years. Now, twice in one night, he'd chanced impregnating her. In future, he would have to be more careful. He would—
There was no future for them, he reminded himself. He was little more than a knight errant, living tourney to tourney to raise the funds to rebuild Mergot, she a kitchen maid in the household of Bernart Kinthorpe. That aside, he did not want a woman in his life. To ease his man's need, aye, but for the moment only.
Isolde touched his shoulder, the brush of her fingertips stirring his lax manhood. They had what was left of the night. He pulled her against him.
An hour later, he slept.
Juliana stared into the dark, every pore of her aware of the man beside her and the things he had made her feel. She trembled. This night she had made herself into Nesta and taken from Gabriel what he'd previously denied her.
If a child took, she would have to live with the terrible wrong she had done him. Of course, though he was careful where he scattered his seed, that did not mean he would care if a child were born of his unions. Bastards were more than common, few acknowledged or provided for by their fathers. Still, that did not make what she did right.
She turned her thoughts elsewhere. Why hadn't Gabriel sent her away when she'd told him she was disfigured? What kind of blackheart was he? The kind who made her feel the impossible, her heart whispered. The kind who had not easily given up his friendship with Bernart...
Knowing the dawn was soon to come, she eased off the bed and gathered her bliaut, mantle, and slippers. However, her chemise was nowhere to be found. She rose from searching the floor. The bed? A few moments later, she grasped the familiar material and pulled it toward her. It resisted. Inwardly she groaned. What else could go awry? If she attempted to free the garment from beneath Gabriel, it would likely awaken him, and she could ill afford to spend this last hour ere dawn with him. She had to leave the chemise. Would he notice it come morn? She prayed not.
She donned her clothes, drew the hood of her mantle over her head, unbarred the door, and slipped from Gabriel's chamber. As she pushed the door of the solar inward, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Fearing what she might see, she peered into the shadows.
Bernart. He stood in the doorway of the chapel, face drawn, shoulders stooped, looking as if he'd not slept.
Though she knew there was no reason for it, Juliana was flooded with guilt, as if caught trysting with a lover, as if she were responsible for Bernart's pain. She wasn't.
All she had done was what he demanded of her. If he wanted, he could stop it.
He withdrew into the chapel and closed the door.
In the solar, Juliana let her clothes lie where they fell and, after completing her ablutions, sank down upon her cold bed. She lay there a long time seeking sleep, but the memories of this night were not easily put away. They filled her nostrils with the masculine scent of Gabriel, her mouth with the salty taste of him, her breast with emotions she dared not delve into.
She hugged her arms to her, turning her thoughts to those things she must tend to with the new day's rising. But it was useless. Her fingertips and palms tingled with remembrances of Gabriel's powerful chest, shoulders, arms. Worse, sensations coursed through her as if she were still joined with him.
There was no denying it. This night she had experienced something she had only ever dreamed of. In Gabriel's arms she'd finally discovered what it was like to be a woman to a man, to scale passion and return to earth more satisfied than she would have believed possible. Such pleasure. Such rapture. She wanted more.
With the admission came the guilt she had denied was her due. It sliced through her. She ought not feel what she had in Gabriel's arms. Ought to be sickened by what had happened. Ought to loathe the thought of going to him again. She didn't. God forgive her.
Chapter Seven
"I know not whether I ought envy you or pity you," Sir Erec said.
Gabriel lowered himself to the bench, lifted his tankard of morning mead. "What speak you of?"
The knight exaggerated a scowl. "You look as if you've not slept in days."
Except for an hour or two before Isolde came to him and after her departure, he had not.
"Was it the same wench?" Erec asked.
The clamor of the hall nettled Gabriel's nerves—loud voices and laughter, the clink and clatter of utensils, the scrape of benches, the yap and growl of two dogs battling over one bone. " 'Twas," he said, and speared a chunk of cheese on his dagger.
"Still you do not know who she is?"
"I do not." Though Gabriel told himself he shouldn't care, it bothered him that when he left Tremoral on the morrow all he would take with him was the name of the woman who'd once more been gone from his bed upon his awakening.
"You are certain 'tis none of them?" Erec jutted his chin to the expanse of hall where women serv
ants bustled amid calls for food and drink.
Gabriel dismissed them with a glance. For certain, Isolde was in the kitchens where few could look upon her disfigurement. This eve, would she come to him one last time?
Laughter pulled his regard to the lord's table. It was without its lord. Once again, Bernart had departed early for the battlefield.
Cheeks flushed prettily, lips bowed wide, Alaiz leaned near her sister and uttered something that made her laugh anew. For the first time since coming to Tremoral, Gabriel saw Juliana smile. The gesture grooved her right cheek and brought a sparkle to her eyes, enhancing her beauty tenfold.
"Come, Gabriel, I did not ask whom you wish it to be," Sir Erec teased.
Gabriel looked around.
The knight grinned and popped a piece of bread into his mouth.
The man was a menace, always seeing more than he should, more than what was there. Still, something niggled at Gabriel. He returned his gaze to the dais and saw that Juliana had risen. She patted her sister's shoulder and stepped from behind the table.
Alaiz looked suddenly lost. Though Gabriel wasted little of his emotions on others, he felt for her. The life she'd been destined for was gone, and as no landed noble would take her to wife, neither had she the hope of marriage. Never would she know the touch of a man—
A thought struck Gabriel. Was it possible? He remembered the silken strands that had slid through his fingers, the figure his hands had learned, the husky voice the wench had all but kept to herself, the fine chemise he had found among the bedclothes....
Perhaps the one who'd come again last eve was not a wench, not disfigured. Perhaps she was Lady Alaiz wishing to be the woman her accident denied her. It fit, but did not. Was Alaiz, yet was not. Chest constricting, Gabriel jerked his head around.
Auburn hair confined to a plait that ran the length of her back, full breasts swelling the bodice of her gown, snug waist accentuated by an embroidered belt, Juliana directed the women servants with an efficiency that bespoke the lady of the castle. Not a wench. Never a wench. But could it be?