Leigh, Tamara

by Blackheart

  Juliana's heart gripped as memories rolled across the months and put her back to that morn when she had tried to remove the chemise from beneath Gabriel's sleeping form, then later when she had gone to retrieve it. He had kept it. In spite of what he'd believed of her, he had taken it with him from Tremoral.

  She looked up and found his gaze. " 'Twas more than the babe that returned you to Tremoral."

  He breathed deeply. "It was."

  Her insides fluttered as if they might fly. "And had you not been given rumor that Bernart intended to set me aside did I not bear an heir?"

  His gaze went to the chemise. "I was searching you out that I might ask you to leave with me"—his eyes came back to hers—"when that wench, Nesta, caught me aside and told the lie."

  Nesta, ever a bane. Determinedly, Juliana put the woman from her. Gabriel had felt for her even then— more than lust, perhaps the beginnings of love. Tears slid to her eyes. "I could not have gone with you. Alaiz—"

  "I know."

  She lowered the chemise. Where was Alaiz? Had Sir Randal's kin apprehended her? Had she been dragged before the sheriff? Did she yet live? She sent up a prayer that Sir Erec would find Alaiz soon.

  "Juliana?"

  She looked around and found Gabriel hunkered beside her. "I fear for her," she said.

  "You shall see her again."

  Such certainty with which he spoke! "Will I?"

  He brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek, then turned them around her jaw. "All that I can do I shall."

  She closed her eyes. "I know." But if Alaiz was found and brought to Mergot, still there would be Bernart. Dear God, send King Richard. Not a sennight hence, not a day. This moment.

  Gabriel's breath came against the side of her face, sweeping her ear. "All will soon be decided, and when 'tis, you shall be at my side."

  She raised her lids.

  They beheld one another, searched, let grow an awareness of their need to be near. When Gabriel bent his head, she welcomed the urgent press of his mouth, drew his tongue inside, gasped as he swept the sensitive tissue within. Then it was her turn. She drank from him, explored his hidden recesses, thrilled when his tongue came again to hers. How she needed him—to know that they would attain the age of the old together.

  She turned into him and slid her arms around his neck.

  Suddenly he pulled away. "We cannot."

  Feeling light of head, Juliana put hands to the floor to steady herself, steeling herself against the pain of his rejection. "Why?"

  He gained his feet and turned. It took only a few moments of searching the chest for him to find what he looked for. "Because of this we cannot." He held her wedding ring, which he had taken along with her girdle when she'd tried to escape him en route to Mergot. She stared at it, hating what it represented of the past four years of her life.

  "I want you, Juliana," Gabriel said. "I ache for it, but first I must finish with Bernart. This"—he turned the gold band in his fingers—"can no more be between us." His eyes swept back to her and he reached out a hand.

  She looked to the long, tapered fingers that had touched her as she had never been touched. Would she know their touch again? She dragged her thoughts from that place. She pressed her shoulders back and put her hand in his.

  He drew her to her feet. "When we come together again," he said, "it shall be as husband and wife."

  Husband. Juliana turned herself around the word. Wife. Let it not be a dream.... "Aye, Gabriel De Vere, I will be your wife and you my husband. There is naught I want more."

  His hand tightened on hers.

  She looked to his other hand and lifted the ring from it. She stepped past Gabriel and hurled the band into the fire.

  They stared at the covetous flames. A short while later, dressed all in white, he left her.

  She stood before the empty doorway, listened to his retreating footsteps, and prayed he would return. A thought came to her a moment later. She bent, grasped the hem of her amber gown, and tore it.

  She overtook Gabriel near the base of the stairs.

  "Juliana?" Concern furrowed his face.

  She pushed up his tunic sleeve and tied the material around his bare upper arm so that it would not be seen against the snow. "I am with you always," she said.

  He touched the frayed favor, then laid a hand to his chest in a gesture meant to mirror her words.

  As if spoken, they inscribed themselves upon her heart. She stepped back. "Godspeed, my love."

  Gabriel turned at the postern gate, letting a grim smile bend his mouth as flames burned the night sky. In the light of those flames, Bernart's men rushed to douse the fire, shouting orders. The trebuchet would not be soon in coming to the castle walls. Just as heartening was that its destruction and the loosing of a score of the knights' destriers had been accomplished without a death on either side. It was good for the conscience, if naught else. None ought to die for Bernart's rapacious quest, though many would if the sorties proved unsuccessful. Tomorrow eve Gabriel would lead another, and again the following night. And each would become more dangerous. This night was a gift not likely to be given again.

  He gave silent thanks, then stepped through the gate. It closed behind him and was secured by a man-at-arms.

  Gabriel looked to the half dozen who'd accompanied him outside the walls. Also clothed in white, they were as ghosts in the dark of the bailey, but he caught the paleness of their smiles in their shadowed faces.

  "Fine work," he commended. "Now get you to the hall and take your rest." He watched them go, then stretched his gaze to the donjon beyond the inner wall. From her chamber window Juliana would be watching. Waiting. He closed his eyes, pressed a hand to his opposite arm, and squeezed the knot of material she had tied beneath his sleeve. With him always. He lifted his lids and stared into the night. Always. Whatever the price.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Now came Faison. One hundred strong.

  A darkening in the middle of him, Gabriel put a hand to the embrasure and leaned forward to better see beyond the battlements to the morning mist before the wood. In the death of winter was the birth of spring, Faison brought siege engines—mangonels, trebuchets, ballistas, a battering ram—all of which the dark lord must have had ready for such an occasion. Revenge for his brother's loss and his own.

  Gabriel thrust a hand through his hair and clawed at his aching scalp. For nearly a sennight, he and his men had night and again struck at Bernart's camp. Siege engines were destroyed, horses loosed, food supplies seized, tents brought down upon sleeping occupants. Then there were the injuries done to those of Bernart's men who had put themselves between Gabriel and his targets. Necessary, but not without a price. Fortunately, it did not yet go so high as to take the lives of any of Gabriel's men. But there would be no more sorties. This day Bernart had found his advantage. Ere the sun pushed the clouds overhead, siege would be at Mergot's walls.

  " 'Tis the day?" A voice squeezed among the din.

  Gabriel swept around and saw that Juliana stood on the step down from the wall walk. "What do you here?" he demanded too harshly.

  Though her brow creased, she ascended the final step. "The hall is frantic with word that siege engines have come. They are of Baron Faison?"

  Her scent teased the air between them. "Aye, the baron thinks to finally test his revenge."

  She tried to hide her fear, but he saw it in her eyes, felt it, ached for it. He laid hands to her shoulders. "My vow is good, Juliana."

  She nodded. "I do not doubt it."

  "Then return to the donjon and keep with our son until I come to you."

  She searched his face, glanced between the battlements. "At least he does not make pretense of bearing gifts." Her attempt at levity found no match in her voice.

  Gabriel's grimness lifted enough to let slip a smile. "For that I am most grateful, my sweet Helen." He nudged her toward the stairs. "Now go."

  Her hesitation was palpable. Thus he was not surprised when
she thrust herself into his arms. She said naught, simply pressed herself to him as if it might be the last time.

  Uncaring who might see, he slid his arms around her and put his lips to her hair. "You are mine," he murmured, "have always been mine."

  She eased against him.

  He made a memory of her body against his, set it deep within that it might never pale. "And shall ever be mine." She dropped her head back. "Ever," she whispered. "Ever."

  Her mouth tilted, but before it could reach a full smile, a cry swept across the walls.

  "My lord," a man-at-arms called, "they move!"

  His announcement stirred the villagers in the outer bailey to gasps, whimpers, and frenzied speech.

  Gabriel loosed Juliana and swung back to the embrasure.

  The mist about their heads and shoulders, Bernart's army tramped the ground—numerous on foot, many astride, some upon siege engines pulled by horses and pushed by men. And there, at the fore, was the thick figure of the man Gabriel had once called friend. As for the one who rode alongside Bernart, there was no mistaking Dominic Faison, whose sword arm had been lost during the Crusade. A bitter man. An angry man. But this day he thought to smile again.

  He would not, Gabriel silently vowed, and stepped from the embrasure. For a moment he met Juliana's gaze and was struck by the fear and pain she swept beneath her lashes. What he would not do to spare her this.

  He looked beyond her to his men upon the walls and those in the bailey. They were still, poised for his orders. He inclined his head. "At arms!"

  As if a great hand set them to motion, they dispersed. Shouting one to the other, they rushed to their posts amid the terrified villagers. According to plans laid to table a fortnight past, Gabriel's people were ushered toward the drawbridge that would see them to the relative safety of the inner bailey, men hastened to light fires beneath the cauldrons, archers took up bows, pikes were hefted. Soon blood would spill.

  The approach of Bernart's army adding to the clamor within the walls, Gabriel looked again to Juliana.

  Her shoulders were square, her gaze fixed upon her hands at her waist.

  Quelling the desire to embrace her again, knowing it best that he distance himself so that he not be distracted, he said, "Go, Juliana."

  The stillness of his voice moved Juliana's gaze to his. Forget not the tournament, she told herself. None can best him. But an army... And how many might die? It was the way of things, she knew, that by blood men held that which they laid claim to, but it did not make it right. What of the king? Though he had not answered her summons, might he answer Gabriel's?

  "Gabriel," she ventured, "still you could send word to King—"

  "This is how 'tis done, Juliana," he said sharply.

  She compressed her lips, denying the stab of tears. Did a miracle bring the king to Mergot, Gabriel would surely be angered by her having summoned him. Unfortunately, it seemed she was to be spared his wrath. "Nay," she said, "it is how men do it."

  Vexation touched Gabriel's brow, but then he sighed and said, "it is the only way I know."

  She started to turn away, but stopped. Never could she turn from Gabriel. If this was to be his course, she would stay by his side. She pushed her stiff lips into what felt nothing like a smile. "God be with you, my love." She spoke so softly the words were little more than a breath.

  But he heard. Emotion in his eyes, he nodded, then pivoted and strode opposite.

  Juliana stared after him a long moment, but as she lifted her skirts to descend to the bailey, a sickly familiar voice breached the wall.

  "Gabriel De Vere, you son of a sow, show yourself!"

  Bernart, his words sure to torture Gabriel for his mother's cuckoldry.

  A chill shot Juliana, pitching her innards. Dear God, had she never again heard his voice she would have been grateful to eternity. In the quieting of the bailey, she looked around, meeting Gabriel's gaze where he stood distant atop the gatehouse. Face expressionless, he jutted his chin, silently commanding her from the wall.

  "Come, old friend," Bernart taunted, his voice strained from affecting a pitch to ensure it carried over the wall. "Surely you fear not this man with whom you were once as a brother."

  Gabriel closed his hand over his sword hilt.

  "I want naught that is not mine," Bernart sent to the walls.

  A sickening feeling in her belly, Juliana continued to stare at Gabriel. In spite of the distance between them, she knew there was fire in his eyes, though more because of Bernart's mockery—his lie—than that she had yet to go from the inner bailey.

  Suddenly he turned and strode to the battlements. He peered down upon the besieger, then came around. "Lower the drawbridge!" he shouted as he descended the gatehouse steps.

  Juliana's breath fell from her. He would answer Bernart's summons?

  "Archers at my back." He ordered his men to position themselves at the battlements.

  Amid the screech and groan of the drawbridge, he came off the steps and called for the inner portcullis to be raised. It was three feet off the ground when he ducked beneath.

  Juliana ran to the wall, put hands to an embrasure, and peered at the ominous spectacle. Men everywhere. Fighting men. Killing men. And there, mounted upon his destrier twenty feet back from the descending drawbridge, was the one who led them. Appearing to have gained more weight, as evidenced by the roll of flesh between chin and chain mail that was as ruddy as his sagging cheeks, Bernart shifted his bulk. In response, the horse sidestepped.

  With sudden remembrance of what he had once meant to her, Juliana dragged her nails over the stonework and sank them into her palms.

  "Ah, Gabriel, old friend," Bernart mocked as the one he wrongfully called enemy ducked beneath the portcullis, "I did not think you would come out."

  Juliana swept her gaze to Bernart, then back to Gabriel.

  Sword in hand, Gabriel halted at the center of the drawbridge.

  Her throat opened with a rattle. Pray, send King Richard. Let truth decide this, not blood.

  "I am here, Kinthorpe," Gabriel answered. "For what do you come against me?"

  Bernart chuckled, a gurgling sound that, to his obvious embarrassment, turned to a hacking cough.

  Juliana lifted a hand and fumbled back the strands of hair the breeze coaxed from her braid. What now? What did Bernart plan? She looked to his men. The one who was absent an arm captured her gaze, likely due to the dark scowl he wore as easily as one might a girdle—slung low upon what appeared to be a handsome face, putting frame to his eyes, nose, and mouth. It had to be the Baron Faison of whom Lissant had spoken.

  A moment later those eyes came to hers. She jerked back to Bernart, and could not suppress her flinch of sympathy for his indignity.

  Mouth gone flat, he wiped it across his tunic sleeve. "You know for what I come," he heaved as if exerted. "I want that stolen from me—my wife and son."

  Juliana swallowed. Though he would know the child was born by now, was it only a guess that she'd birthed a son? More likely word of Gabriel's heir had come to Faison, who had then passed it to Bernart. She looked to Gabriel. How she longed to see his face. Not that he would reveal anything he did not wish Bernart to see.

  He braced his legs farther apart, raising his sword higher. "You can have neither. They are mine and ever shall be."

  Though fear wore Juliana's shoulders, her heart surged against her ribs.

  As for Bernart, he reddened like a cloud-laced sunset. "Then you choose death." His angry voice trembled in a pitch far higher than he normally allowed. A moment later, he pulled his sword from his scabbard. He raised it, but not to come alone against Gabriel. Rather, to call his men to attack.

  "Bernart!" Gabriel bellowed. "Look thee to my walls."

  Bernart's sword wavered, his eyes skittering to the archers whose arrows were nocked and sighted upon him and his army.

  " 'Twill be honorable, this," Gabriel said, "else death shall be yours."

  Too late, Juliana realized she
should have stepped back from the embrasure.

  Bernart's gaze found her, and his eyes widened. His lips formed her name, and for a moment pain came out from behind the vengeance he breathed—that great heaving ache that, for too long, had held her to his side. All she had ever wanted was to take it away, to ease it from his brow, his eyes, his heart. But that no mortal could do.

  No peace would he find on earth—with or without her and the child he hoped would prove his masculinity. He was as if dead.

  "Juliana!" Her name burst from him. "I come for you."

  Movement pulled her regard to Gabriel as his head came around. She could look upon his eyes forever, she realized—even now with displeasure as their source of light.

  "Juliana!" Bernart shouted. "You have heard all?"

  Oh, Richard, why do you not come? She opened her hands on the embrasure. "I have," she raised her voice to make the distance.

  "And what say you, wife?"

  She put her chin up. "I say you ought to return to England without me."

  Had her words been arrows, she could not have bled him more. He flushed, baring his teeth. "Whore!"

  And he could not have bled her more.

  "Return to the donjon, Juliana," Gabriel called.

  She met his gaze and saw that his back was stiffer for the foul name Bernart had put to her.

  "I warn you, Juliana," Bernart seethed, "many shall die, for I will not leave without my son."

  One last time, she gave him her regard, searching for a piece of the man for whom she had once felt. Gone. She shook her head, then turned that she would not be made to witness the terrible contorting of his face as he spewed curses.

  Now there would be war, and many would die.

  Feeling more an old woman than her twenty years, Juliana descended to the bailey. Hardly had she stepped to the ground than the drawbridge sounded its creaking and tumbling of chains. A few moments later, Gabriel was at her side.

  'Take you to the donjon," he said, wearing distance as if it were a mantle.

  Realizing he was no longer the Gabriel who had taken her heart to his, that this day he was a warrior, ready to battle for his home and people, Juliana quelled the desire to be near him. Were he to stay alive, it was as it should be.