Leigh, Tamara

by Blackheart

  "Think on it," Blase said. He grabbed the pommel, put a foot in the stirrup, and swung atop his horse. " 'Tis past time I began my journey."

  As Gabriel stared up at Blase, he fought an internal battle. And lost. "You will be passing by Tremoral on your way to Briarleigh?"

  "Of course."

  "Providing it does not place you in danger, I would ask that you inquire at the villages for tidings of Lady Alaiz." "For what reason?"

  Though Gabriel hated admitting it, there was only the truth. "Juliana fears for her sister. 'Twas the reason she gave for attempting to escape."

  Blase nodded. "I will send word, but what will you do with it?"

  What would he do with it? Arrange to take Alaiz as he'd taken Juliana? Bring her to Mergot as Juliana asked?

  Cursing himself for allowing Juliana to dictate his actions, he said, "I have not decided."

  "Then do." Blase took up the reins and urged his mount around. "Farewell, brother."

  Gabriel raised his hand. "Godspeed." As he watched Blase pass beneath the portcullis, he was washed with regret. He would miss his brother, even his unsolicited wisdom. He glanced at the prison tower. What would it be like when he sent Juliana away? He snatched the question back. As angry as he was, Blase was right. He did not want her to go. Hence, it was not when he would send her away, but rather when Bernart would come to claim her. And he would come. Though Gabriel was careful to keep Juliana's identity hidden, someone would recognize her—be it six months from now or six years.

  He growled low in his throat. His plans to claim his child were folding, and all because of emotions he should never have allowed himself. Damn it all!

  As he stared at the tower, he caught a movement in the uppermost window that overlooked the wall walk and gatehouse. It was Juliana. Had she seen Blase's departure? Likely. What she could not know was that his destination was other than one of Mergot's villages. Her champion was gone.

  For a moment, Gabriel entertained releasing her, but only for a moment. Juliana was safer in the tower, where she'd be unable to make mischief that might endanger her or the babe. Too, Gabriel needed time to sort through his feelings and plan for the future, and that was too difficult to do with her present.

  He turned on his heel, strode the outer bailey, and crossed the inner bridge that took him from Juliana's sight.

  Chapter Eighteen

  England, January 1196

  Blase had but to listen to gain word of Lady Alaiz. His priest's robes exchanged for nondescript garments that none might recognize him from four months past, his mount tethered in the wood, he stood back as the village buzzed with news. Thus he learned of Sir Randal Rievaulx's death at Lady Alaiz's hands a fortnight gone, and of her escape from Tremoral that had been discovered this morn when she was to have been brought before the sheriff.

  Clever girl. None had believed her capable of such. It made him smile. Though he did not condone murder, neither was he of the villagers' belief that the knight's death had come of a mad frenzy. True, he knew Lady Alaiz only from having helped Gabriel steal Juliana from Tremoral, but her behavior had not been that of one who was mad. Her head injury made her slow, that was all, meaning something had provoked the attack upon Sir Randal. He would not be surprised if she'd acted only to defend herself. Still, she'd be tried for murder and sentenced to death were she caught. If possible, he would see she was not.

  Blase grimaced at the sight of his breath upon the air and pulled his mantle more closely around him. He hated winter. With a grumble, he pushed off the trough against which he'd leaned this past half hour. Ah, the things he did for Gabriel...

  As he started for the wood, a hand fell upon his sleeve. He turned to a young woman whose loveliness was marred by a flush of angry red upon her right cheek and alongside her eye.

  She tried to smile, but it was a false attempt in spite of the sweet bow it made of her mouth.

  Who'd struck her? For what? Wrath coiled Blase's innards. "Aye?"

  Her throat bobbed. "You would like me to... pleasure you?"

  It took much control not to reveal his surprise. Naught subtle about her offer, but neither brazen. Someone had sent her to him with threat of more than a backhand.

  A thousand nettles settling his back, Blase glanced beyond the golden-haired woman to the villagers. None looked to pay him and the woman any heed. Someone in the wood, then? Kinthorpe?

  Beneath his mantle, Blase drew a hand up his scabbard and pressed the heel of his palm to his sword hilt.

  "You would like?" the woman pressed, her gaze wavering in her fear.

  Nay, it made no sense that Kinthorpe would send her to draw him out of the village. Like lightning to the ground, the lord of Tremoral and his men would ride upon the enemy wherever they found him. More likely it was one who thought to relieve him of his purse.

  He slipped a smile for any who watched. "Aye, I would like. Where?"

  Her beautiful eyes said she'd hoped he would decline. "The wood?"

  Where he would be set upon. It would not be the first time he had dealt a swift blow to one who thought to take from him. Of course, there might be more than one. As the fire of combat was too often denied him, it would be a nice diversion. Too, it would warm him for the chill ride ahead.

  "Aye, the wood." He laid a hand to her arm, turned, and drew her forward.

  As her feet dragged, and since some degree of groping would be expected, Blase pulled her against his side and turned a familiar arm around her small waist. She tensed further.

  "Where in the wood?" he asked low. She glanced at him and choked, "Wherever thee would like."

  "Nay, where waits the one who sent you?"

  She stumbled and swept her fluttering gaze to him. "I-I do not know what—"

  "Aye, you do." He tightened his arm around her, urging her on. "Now tell where he is."

  Her eyes reared. "I did not wish to do it. Truly, I would not have had he—"

  "I know." With the wood before them, he could not afford a lengthy explanation. "Where is he?"

  Doing her best to hold his stride, she shook her head. "I do not know. I was but to approach you did you make to leave the village."

  Alarm daggered Blase's spine. Not a thief, but Kinthorpe. Someone had recognized him as the priest come to Tremoral the night Juliana was taken and had gone for his lord. That realization tamped Blase's lust for sword-play. It would not be one on one, or one on two or three. More, did Bernart recognize him as the beardless youth he'd last laid eyes to eight years past, he would know it was Gabriel who held Juliana. It was time to leave Kinthorpe lands.

  "He was astride?" Blase asked, hoping for a measure of how long he had until Kinthorpe descended. "Aye."

  "How long since he rode?"

  "Mayhap a half hour. Mayhap more."

  "I thank you." He halted inside the tree line, then loosed her. "You have done as you were bidden; now go." He would not have harm done her.

  Her eyebrows gathered, and her mouth curved downward. "I am sorry. Pray, forgive me."

  He nodded. "Go."

  She ran. As did Blase.

  Damnation! He ought not to have left his horse so deep in the wood. Of course, had he not it mightn't be waiting for him when he reached the ravine. As he chased a path through the wood, he kicked up mildewed leaves, vaulted fallen trees, ducked barren branches. Soon he would be mounted and away from here.

  But another had other plans. At the sound of approaching horses, Blase glanced over his shoulder and expelled a curse. He was sighted. Naught to do but stand and fight those who outnumbered him a dozen to one.

  He thrust his mantle back, reached for his sword, and spun around.

  Then came a huff of air, followed by ripping, tearing, burning. Fingers spasming around his sword, he was slammed hard against a tree trunk, grunting as the back of his head struck bark. Past constricted lids, he picked out those who approached at a more leisurely pace than moments earlier. And at their head was the bloated figure of a man who had to be
Bernart Kinthorpe, though he no more resembled his former self than ugly did beautiful.

  Blase tried again to pull his sword, but his hand refused to obey. He dropped his chin, and followed the hilt to his twitching fingers.

  What had been done to him? His every breath loud in his ears, he looked to the bloody mess of his upper arm, then to his shoulder, from which an arrow protruded.

  Heavenly Father! He was staked, his body pinned to the tree by that shot from a bow.

  "Where is she?" demanded one whose voice bordered on a pitch nearer a woman's.

  Strangely aware of the thud of his heart, Blase looked up to find Kinthorpe before him, his horse turned sideways. "Who speak you of?" Blase taunted the one responsible for crippling his sword arm. But it would not end at his arm—he saw it in the bastard's eyes a moment before he shifted his flab out of the saddle and clumsily made the ground.

  " 'Tis my wife I speak of!" Kinthorpe spat as he took three labored strides to cover what Blase could in less than two.

  Blase dropped his aching head back, giving Kinthorpe his full gaze. "A wife ought to be in her husband's bed. Have you looked there?"

  Red burst upon the man's face. He growled, bared his teeth, and drew an arm back, but then came recognition. Veined eyes emerged from flaccid lids, and his lower jaw parted from the upper. "Blase De Vere," he said softly.

  "Your brother's face I would know even had you and I never met."

  Not even when Blase's father had set him aside, as he'd done Gabriel, had Blase regretted the resemblance. But then, never before had it boded such ill. Given another moment, Kinthorpe would realize who'd taken Juliana.

  As if struck, the man stumbled back, eyes jerking, head bobbing. Then he went still, and remained so until he threw his head back and howled.

  Blase looked beyond the pitiful figure to Kinthorpe's men. They stared at their lord with tangible unease. Though they could not possibly serve him with pride, they were his men and would not utter word against their lord did he gut his prey. He must save himself.

  He reached up, snapped the feathered shaft where it entered his flesh, and wrenched forward. He came free, but not without such excruciating pain that his legs fell away. He landed hard on his knees and forced his uninjured arm to retrieve his sword. Awkwardly, he pulled it forth and swept it before him, but his vision wavered... receded. God in heaven! He would not lose consciousness. Would not!

  The voices of Kinthorpe and his men indistinct, Blase drew a deep breath and began to see light. Unfortunately, not until the booted foot came at his face did he see it. It smashed his nose, knocked him backward, then slammed into his ribs and once more turned him to pained darkness. Still, he held to his sword, but the boot came down on his wrist, preventing him from raising it again.

  "Pity"—Kinthorpe's voice fouled the air—"there appears to be naught for you but death, young De Vere."

  Mouth pooled with blood running from his broken nose, Blase spat it out and clutched at the narrow ledge of consciousness onto which he must pull himself.

  "Aye, death," Kinthorpe murmured, so near it was evident he'd dropped to his haunches. Still, his considerable weight paralyzed Blase's left arm, tested the strength of the bones and his resolve to not cry his pain. " 'Twould not do for you to send warning to your coward of a brother that I come to take back that which belongs to me."

  Blase brought the man's fleshy face into focus. " 'Tis you who are the coward, Kinthorpe. As for Lady Juliana, she does not belong to you."

  A tic started between Kinthorpe's mouth and nose. "Think you she belongs to Gabriel? She does not—nor the child she carries."

  His mention of the babe could only mean he doubted it was of his loins. However, as much as Blase longed to put forth Gabriel's claim to the child, it was not for him to do. And it would only add to the threat Blase's capture put upon Gabriel.

  Kinthorpe pounded a fist to his chest. "They belong to me!"

  What had happened to Gabriel's friend to turn him into a man of childlike desperation? A man who would kill without cause? Blase tried to feel the fingers of his injured arm that he might command them to the dagger at his belt, but it was as if they were his no more. Dear God, have mercy.

  Kinthorpe seized the sword from Blase's grip and heaved himself to his feet. "By thy own sword, then!" Face contorted, he put both hands to the hilt, raised the sword high over Blase's heart, and plunged.

  Blase lunged opposite, but rather than his chest, the blade burned a hole through his side. He bellowed. The sounds around him dimming with the light, Kinthorpe's triumphant grunt like the buzz of an insect at his ear, he sank his gaze to the wood. It was imagined, he knew, but a moment ere he went into darkness he caught a glimpse of one with golden hair, wide, frightened eyes, and a bowed mouth. Blood thundering in his ears, his last thought was that his heart had been spared. Then his mind emptied.

  Perspiration dripping into his eyes, Bernart stared at the still figure of Gabriel's brother. Death was his due. As it would be Gabriel's.

  He stepped back and stared at his unsightly, bloated hands. They quaked. Rarely had he felt so cold an anger; more rarely had he directed it at himself. In fact, the last time had been at Acre, when he had watched those who'd followed him fall to the infidel's sword. But he had absolved himself of that, put it upon Gabriel, where it belonged. This, however, was different. Though for nearly four months he'd denied his own knowledge into believing it to be other than Gabriel who had stolen Juliana, in the depths of himself he had known. It was fear that had held him from examining his accursed enemy too closely. In everything, Gabriel prevailed. He was what Bernart could never be, had what Bernart could never have—Juliana.

  Jealousy tightened his chest. Aye, he'd wanted a son, but Juliana had not done it for him. It was for her imbecile sister she'd broken her marital vows. That knowledge had pained him deeply, and he knew deeper pain when he again put a question to himself that begat others: Had Juliana lied? Told Gabriel of the plan to steal a son from him, plotted with him to take her from Tremoral? If so, what of Alaiz? Had Gabriel refused to take her and Juliana allowed it as she would never have allowed Bernart, placing Gabriel not only above her husband but her sister?

  Bernart squeezed his hands closed, then splayed them. Nay, he would not believe it! Juliana had been stolen. As long as she believed he held Alaiz his secret was safe. And none would tell her different. He looked to Blase De Vere. Dead? If not, then soon.

  He turned away. It was time to prepare for the journey to France.

  "Pray, help me. I cannot do it alone." The woman's voice dragged Blase from the comfort of senselessness as it had done when he lay on the floor of the wood—how long ago? He slit an eye and looked to where she struggled beneath his arm over her shoulder. When he had lain at Bernart's feet, he had thought it mere imagining that he'd seen the village woman who'd offered herself to him. For some reason, she had risked her life to come to his aid.

  Determinedly, he commanded his legs to take some of the weight from her. It was not much, but mayhap enough to see them to his mount.

  "We are nearly there," she huffed.

  The ravine. With effort, he opened his other eye and moved his gaze from side to side. "There," he croaked, catching sight of the horse.

  "I see him."

  Though he longed to close his eyes, he looked to his right shoulder, then his left side, from which the woman had drawn the sword. Too much blood. Only God's miracle would see him to the nearest abbey and heal him. And surely the Almighty was too busy for one so unworthy. But if He would only abide this undeserving life a bit longer, mayhap warning could be sent to Gabriel. God help him....

  Chapter Nineteen

  France

  As it would likely be all the time she had with her child, no more did Juliana squander. She touched her belly as she'd rarely allowed herself, curved an arm around it when she lay down, sang to it, loved the child within. Though the past three weeks had been spent in solitude, excepting brief visits by
the guard who brought her food, drink, and coal for the brazier, it was only solitude in that she could not set eyes to the one who shared her quiet. He turned, flopped, stretched such that she could put a hand to his little foot until he pulled it back. Instinct told her the babe was a boy, that Gabriel's seed would bring forth a child who would one day stand as tall and wide as his father, whose eyes would be the same startling gray.

  She caught her breath at the vision and shook her head to dispel Gabriel. It hurt too much to love a man who hated her so deeply. From his voice that carried to the tower, she knew he came often to the outer bailey to oversee work on the inner wall. At such times, she closed the shutters, sang more loudly to her little one, more vigorously applied needle to the disassembled bliaut from which she'd fashioned four garments to keep the winter and spring chill from the babe. So tiny were they, but the delight a mother ought to feel in handling them was not hers. Thus, she put them to the bottom of the chest.

  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.