Leigh, Tamara (3 page)

Juliana lowered herself to the mattress edge. "No more." He had what he wanted. He ought to be pleased.

"He does not..." Alaiz looked to her clasped hands. "He does not Hike me."

Though Juliana hated lying, she put an arm around Alaiz. "Of course he likes you."

Alaiz looked up. "Nay."

Juliana was struck by the lucidity reflected in her sister's eyes. It reminded her of that which, prior to her marriage to Bernart, had shone from Alaiz when she'd disdained her older sister's eagerly embraced notion of long-suffering love. For perhaps the hundredth time, Juliana was haunted by Alaiz's warning that were she not careful she might be granted such a love. How wise she'd been for one so young, and how foolish Juliana.

A moment later, the lucidity retreated to wherever it hid itself behind Alaiz's eyes. It was not the first time Juliana had glimpsed the young woman her sister had been ere the head injury had impaired her faculties, but such clarity was ever fleeting.

Alaiz cocked her head. "You are going to have a..." In her search for the elusive word, she tensed, eyelids fluttering, lips trying once—twice—to form the word. Finally she expelled her breath and smiled. "You are going to have a baby, Juliana?"

What she'd witnessed in the hall had not escaped her. She was childlike, but not an imbecile as Bernart believed. Juliana forced breath past her tight throat. "Aye."

Alaiz sighed and settled her head onto Juliana's shoulder. "You always... take care of me."

Juliana squeezed her eyes closed. "And I always shall."

Bernart felt as if he would retch. He pulled the back of his hand across his mouth, hating himself more than Juliana could ever hate him. But if she gave him a son, all would be worth the pain. It would silence the cruel gossip and ensure that Osbern never held Kinthorpe lands. Os-bern, whose very existence fueled the rumors of Bemart's lack of an heir.

Bitterness in his mouth, Bernart lifted his goblet. It was empty. He rose from the lord's chair and limped to the sideboard that had escaped his earlier raging. Remains of the evening meal were set there, along with pitchers of wine, ale, and honeyed milk. He reached for the latter, pausing midair to consider the ale. It was a long time since he'd succumbed to his yearning for real drink. He could almost taste it. Perhaps just one...

Nay, the consequences were too dire, his intolerance for alcohol so great that small amounts depleted his strength and made urination painful. His hand trembled as he poured honeyed milk into a goblet, and more violently when he lifted the vessel and choked down its impotent contents.

He slammed the goblet to the sideboard, stood unmov-ing a long moment, then splayed a hand over his thigh and crept inward to touch the emptiness between his legs. A whimper broke his lips, rushed revulsion through his gut. The deep voice that had once been his had taken on a feminine quality. He disguised it, at the cost of painfully strained throat muscles, but other effects of his emasculation were not so easily overcome. Much of his body hair was lost or thinned, he carried excess weight he could not shed, suffered from chronic sleeplessness, and had such difficulty holding his urine that the possibility of soiling himself was ever present. His was a hell none would ever understand.

His thigh began to ache, further reminding him of the clash with Muslim soldiers that had not only cost him his manhood, but had smitten him with a limp he could not conceal.

Would a son end his pain? Quiet the voices that taunted him long into the night? It was what he longed for, but the thought of another man touching Juliana, especially the one he intended to father his son, pitched the contents of his belly. Juliana was his, had been his from the moment she'd wailed her way into the world, had made him the envy of every man who gazed upon her beauty. If not for the one whose betrayal had cost him the ability to father children, none of this would be necessary.

Nearly upping the bile that seared his throat, Bernart swallowed hard, coughed, swallowed again. He had to do it. Had to. Now to lure his prey to Tremoral.

France, April 1195

A challenge.

Gabriel stared at the tournament field from which he'd retreated with the breaking of his lance. So Kinthorpe wished to meet him in tournament. Why now? It was— how many years? Four? Aye, four since Bernart had gathered a hundred men to him to take the city of Acre from the Muslims. The memory of it was nearly as clear as the day it had been set in Gabriel's mind. Desperate from months of siege, slaughter, and a stark shortage of food, Bernart and his followers had presented a pitiful image of Christianity knocked to its knees. Destined for death.

At the age of twenty-three, Gabriel had already earned the reputation of being a knight of goodly skill and courage, but he was also endowed with enough wits to know the difference between courage and stupidity. He'd tried to turn his friend from an undertaking foreordained to failure, had confronted Bernart and the others with the reminder that previous attempts by the Christian army to go over the wall had resulted in mass slaughter. Though Bernart had stood against such reasoning, a score of men had not—had walked away. Desperate to reach his friend, Gabriel had assured him the forces of King Richard would soon arrive to give them victory over the infidels—though he was not certain of it himself. In response, another score of men had withdrawn from the ranks of those soon to die. Enraged by what he perceived to be betrayal, Bernart had accused Gabriel of cowardice and, cursing him, had set off for the walled city.

In the darkening of day, the coming of night, Gabriel had stared after Bernart and his diminished band of soldiers, had sworn he would not follow, had told himself again and again that his friend had the right to choose his own path. But what a bloody path it had been, just as Gabriel had known it would be. And Bernart was not the only one to bear its scars. Indeed.

Gabriel ground his teeth. Though he knew he'd saved the lives of those he'd dissuaded from following Bernart, he was burdened by guilt that he had not tried harder to deter a man with whom he'd been friends since boyhood. Then there was the thought that had he not persuaded so many to turn from the foolish quest, Bernart might have succeeded in breaking through the city's defenses. Impossible, though Gabriel could not put it from him. But he yet would.

Abruptly he turned his attention to the melee. On the field, countless knights and foot soldiers engaged in the mock battle of tournament, the purpose of which was to capture and ransom as many opposing knights as possible, preferably without killing them. During the past two hours, Gabriel had taken three. Providing his good fortune held, he would take as many more before the day was done, and by nightfall his purse would be heavy with the coin of their ransom.

A wry smile twitched his mouth. France's tournaments were lucrative. Given a few more years, the siege-ravaged demesne King Richard had awarded him here, on the continent, would rival the great baronies on either side of the channel.

Gabriel searched the battlefield for sight of the knight with whom he'd entered into a partnership upon their return from the crusade. Fighting as a team, dividing their winnings between them, they'd captured more than eighty knights in the past nine months without once being ransomed themselves. But it looked as if their luck was about to turn. Sir Erec was in the midst of a struggle to hold back three knights.

"Damn!" Gabriel thrust his helm onto his head, seized the lance his squire held, and started for his destrier.

"Your reply, Lord De Vere?" an urgent voice called.

He glanced over his shoulder. He had forgotten about the messenger who'd crossed the channel to deliver Bernart's challenge and who had taken the opportunity of Gabriel's need to rearm himself to deliver it.

Fleetingly, Gabriel considered the generous purse Bernart would award the knight who took the most ransoms at Tremoral—enough to complete restoration of the inner wall of his castle. Tempting, but that was all. "No reply," he tossed back.

The messenger hurried forward. "Be it yea or nay, my lord?"

Gabriel put a foot in the stirrup and swung his mail-laden body into the saddle.

The messenger stepped into the destrier's path. "I am not to return without your reply."

Gabriel jerked the reins left and put heels to the destrier. "Then you will be a long time in France," he shouted as he swept past the man. Once more upon the field, he sighted Sir Erec where he held against his opponents. Determining the best approach, he couched his lance under his right arm, taking the rhythm of the horse beneath him.

Was it revenge Bernart sought? The question rent his concentration. It was no secret that he blamed Gabriel for his failure at Acre, the deaths of those who'd followed him, his being lamed, and whatever abuses he'd suffered during his imprisonment. But if revenge, why now?

Nay!
Gabriel jerked his head in his helm. He would think no more on it, not when there were more important matters, namely Sir Erec and the three knights who did not know there would soon be ransom to pay. However, try as Gabriel did to ignore it, the air rushing past him whispered of one he'd not allowed himself to think upon for a long time: Juliana the fair.

He cast back to the year 1189, two years following his father's disavowal. He saw again Juliana's tearful flight into the garden where he'd awaited a tryst with a chambermaid. Oblivious to all but her pain, the lovely woman-child hadn't noticed him where he leaned against a wall. Breasts heaving, sobs quaking her shoulders, she'd dropped to a bench and clapped her hands to her face.

Gabriel had needed none to tell him the cause of her misery, for he knew Bernart well. Too, a half hour earlier he'd lost the toss to be the first to lie with a lusty maid who'd been intent on having them both at once.

In spite of a thousand warning voices sounding between his ears, he'd yielded to the strange desire to comfort Juliana and had gone to her. He had lowered himself beside her, spoken her name, and all of him had stopped when she'd looked up.

As he stared into her dark eyes, something had moved through him, something he'd never thought to feel and that would ever haunt him. It had forced him to acknowledge that she was not the foolish child he'd often scorned, but a girl on the edge of womanhood, a gem ready to be put to polish. And soon to be his friend's wife.

"Gabriel," she had choked, and he'd been struck by his name on her lips when she had only ever called him "squire" and, since receiving knighthood, "Sir Knight"— both spoken with disdain. Then she had leaned toward him as if to come into his arms. And he might have let her had Bernart not called her name. For a moment longer he'd held her gaze, which had never before considered him with such intensity, then risen. A tugging inside him, he'd turned and traversed the path to the donjon. As he neared the entrance, Bernart burst into the garden and thrust past him as if he did not see him. Tunic dragged on backward, hose rent from the haste with which he'd dressed, he dropped to his knees before Juliana. Amid his pleas for forgiveness, Gabriel had slipped away.

After that, everything changed. Bernart cleaved to the vow of chastity extracted from him, Juliana crossed the threshold into womanhood, and the scorn Gabriel had felt for her turned to an ache—though he was careful to keep hidden that which her anguish had drawn from his cold, cold depths. Juliana, of auburn hair that tempted a man's hands and brown eyes warm enough to send the chill from the coldest night, was a woman he could never have. Should never have.

Did her eyes still sparkle with delight? Did her easy laughter put light to the air? Or had the years matured her into one of those treacherous creatures who were good only for bedding?

Naturally, Gabriel's thoughts turned to the one whose faithless body had pushed him into the world and the lies she had woven around her like a spider weaves its mortal web. He gripped his lance tighter. Did Juliana tread the same path as Constance De Vere? Following three years of marriage, had the sweet glow of wedlock waned such that she forsook her vows to pursue the senseless ideas of love she'd espoused as a girl? Likely. She was a woman, and no better than any other. But she was not his problem. She belonged to Bernart.

Gabriel settled his gaze on the knight most likely to unseat Sir Erec, loosed a war cry, and positioned himself. Unwavering, he held until the iron tip of his lance met chain mail.

Chapter Two

England, May 1195

He was not coming.

Beneath the table, Bernart clenched his hands so tightly they trembled. Though Gabriel had refused to answer the challenge, Bernart had convinced himself his enemy would come. Now, with all the knights gathered in the hall following a day of practice and tomorrow the opening day of the tournament, he was proven wrong.

He glanced at Juliana. She sat silent beside him, in one hand a wine goblet, in the other a spoon, but not once had she drunk from the vessel, nor eaten from the trencher between them. The only movement about her the gentle rise and fall of her breasts, she stared across the hall.

Although it was two months since Bernart had forced her to his plan, and nothing more had been spoken of it, she assuredly knew the time had come. And she waited to be led to bed like a lamb to gutting.

What was he to do? All was in place, from Juliana's time of breeding, to the chamber in which the deed would be done, to the rumor he had imparted that if she did not soon ripen with child he would rid himself of her and take another wife. So should he choose another to lie with her? Could he?

As with every time he imagined any man enjoying what should have been his, self-loathing filled him. In spite of the resentment Juliana exuded, regardless of her unsmiling face, there was no woman more beautiful. And every man in the hall agreed. They struggled to keep their eyes from her, quickly looked elsewhere when they found Bernart watching them, but ever their gaze returned to her.

Perhaps he ought abandon the idea, Bernart considered. At least then he might regain what little he'd had of Juliana before he'd demanded a son from her. Perhaps the hatred would disappear from her eyes.