Leigh, Tamara (6 page)

"You will return to Tremoral," Bernart said. "Now."

Juliana shook her head. "Nay, but do you fear we shall cause you grief, I give you my word we will not."

Albeit his face was shadowed by his helm, his florid color shone past it. "I could have you removed."

"Aye, but 'twould appear quite unseemly, would it not?" Perhaps his anger would serve him well in battle, Juliana thought as it transformed his face further. "Your war games await you, husband."

"You have not won, Juliana."

She inclined her head. "For certain."

His lids narrowed. "We will speak more on this tonight."

Again, she dared. "Lest you forget, I shall be otherwise occupied."

Whatever harsh words he intended to loose were arrested by the sound of approaching riders.

Juliana turned. Two knights rode toward them, at the fore one whose proportions easily identified him, not to mention the hair spilling from beneath his helm. Gabriel De Vere had grown impatient.

"God's blood!" Bernart cursed.

Juliana's heart tripped with fear. She should never have left the castle. She should have spent these last hours on her knees praying Bernart would turn from his ungodly course.

Gabriel and Sir Erec reined in.

Outfitted in magnificent mail, and over that a bright yellow surcoat, Gabriel contrasted sharply with the unkempt man who had come into the hall last eve. He pinned Bernart with his pale gaze. "Are we here to do battle or chat, Lord Kinthorpe?"

Bernart sat straighter in the saddle. "Careful lest your impatience spoils your aim, old friend."

"I assure you, my aim is as true as ever."

Bernart's mount snickered and pranced sideways. A cruel pull of the reins brought the animal under control.

Did Gabriel sense Bernart's ire as strongly as did the destrier? Juliana wondered. Did Sir Erec? She glanced at the knight and found his gaze upon Alaiz. To her astonishment, he winked.

Alaiz stiffened, as if surprised.

"Let us tourney!" Bernart shouted. He spurred his mount across the battlefield.

A look passed between Gabriel and Sir Erec as they guided their destriers around.

"W-wait," Alaiz cried. In her haste to extricate herself from Juliana's side, the hood slipped from her head. She pulled a flower from the bunch and took a step toward Sir Erec, but that was all. She would go no nearer his horse. "F-for you."

The knight reached forward and accepted the forlorn flower from her outstretched hand. "I thank you."

She beamed, dragged another flower free, then turned to Gabriel. "And you."

He stared at the young woman who offered it; then something flashed in his eyes. Recognition. He remembered the ten-year-old girl who had once been far older than her years. Alaiz had shunned her mother's attempts to impress the notion of courtly love upon her, had focused on reading, writing, reckoning, and discourse on the affairs of government upon which their father had thrived.

That
young girl would have extended a word of sage advice ere she would have proffered a flower. Now, however, it was Juliana who spent her days among books and the like, Alaiz who whiled away the hours singing songs of love to herself. It was as if they had traded lives.

"You do not w-want it?" Alaiz asked in a small, sad voice.

Not realizing she held her breath, Juliana waited to see if the wretch would reject her sister's offer. If he did, he would suffer.

The links of Gabriel's chain mail made music upon the air as he leaned out of the saddle to accept the flower.

Juliana sighed. Though he did not thank Alaiz, it was more than she expected. As he straightened, her gaze was drawn to the flower. How pitiful it looked between his big fingers. How feeble against his strong, tanned hand. A hand that would this night touch her. A man who would know her as no man had ever known her. There were mere hours until she went to him and he covered her. Would he kiss her?

Abruptly she threw out the thought. Kissing was an intimacy reserved for those whose hearts were bound one to the other. Not merely for the making of a child, especially an illegitimate one. Did Gabriel try to kiss her, she would turn away. She swallowed. Hopefully it would be over with quickly, that she might return to her own bed. Of course, on the following night, she would be forced to go to him again.

Distaste shuddered through her as she swept her gaze to eyes too pale to be called blue. Gabriel De Vere was watching her.

He urged his destrier alongside her. "Any words of encouragement, Lady Juliana?"

His strong, masculine scent swayed her senses. It was not entirely unpleasant, but he would benefit from a good, long soak. "Take thee a bath, Lord De Vere." She turned away. "Come, Alaiz."

Laughter she had not heard in a long time rumbled from Gabriel's chest, but was soon trampled by his thundering retreat.

Minutes later, the teams swept toward one another with raised weapons and war cries.

The first knight to fall fell hard, the one who felled him none other than Gabriel De Vere. Looking more the fierce warrior than the coward Bernart named him, he spun his destrier around, traded lance for sword, and leaped to the ground. A short while later, he had the knight's ransom. Then, as if death were a mere consequence of warfare, he hurtled toward his next opponent.

Gabriel a coward? A man who'd abandoned his best friend for fear of losing life or limb? It did not seem possible. But this was not real battle, Juliana reminded herself. Fighting for ransom was not the same as fighting for blood.

Deciding they had seen enough, she turned a reluctant Alaiz from the violent spectacle and started back toward Tremoral.

The dirt and sweat of hard-won victory would not be easily washed away in the chill waters of the wooded pool. Nor the thought of the one whose delicate senses Gabriel had offended.

He scrubbed harder. Though the filth finally succumbed to his efforts, Juliana Kinthorpe did not. She lingered like a long-lost memory come suddenly to light.

She had changed. When he had looked into her eyes last eve, and again this afternoon, the life with which she had once shone had been absent. And Gabriel did not believe it was because it was him she looked upon—the man who she believed had wronged her husband. As he knew well, such sorrow and bitterness took years to root so deep. Had Juliana's fanciful expectations of love, which were too exalted for any man to rise to, been the ruin of her and Bernart? Was she repulsed by her husband's limp? His diminished physique? Did she turn him away? Perhaps this was the reason Bernart sought other women.

A harsh sound tore from Gabriel's throat. He did not care. His friendship with Bernart was deep in the past, and Juliana... she was a woman. With that thought, he dove beneath the water. He surfaced on the opposite side of the pool and saw that his destrier, which had been grazing only moments earlier, had assumed a watchful stance. They were no longer alone.

"Gabriel!"

He looked up.

Sir Erec stood on an outcropping of rock. "Come on, man," he shouted, "we've bellies to fill."

Supper in Bernart's hall was not something Gabriel looked forward to, but a necessity; however, as the sun would light the land for another hour and the meal would not be served until its setting, he did not hasten from the pool. "I will join you shortly," he called back.

Sir Erec turned away.

Gabriel caught his reflection in the water lapping at his waist. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and considered scraping the stubbled beard from it, but in the next instant abandoned the idea. He had come to Tremoral to tourney, not to please a woman who had never more than glanced his way. A woman who would one day bear another's children.

He emerged from the water and, at leisure, donned the fresh clothes he'd brought to the pool. As he tugged on his boots, he promised himself he would have new ones made following the tournament. Although the majority of ransom money gained this day would be put toward the restoration of Mergot—the barony in France that King Richard had awarded him for his aid in reclaiming lands seized by France's King Philip—he could certainly afford to keep his feet better than he had of late. Perhaps he would even have some new tunics sewn.

He mounted his destrier and guided it out of the ravine to where Sir Erec awaited him.

"Never have I seen you so clean," the knight said. He grinned. "Did that wench you had last eve complain?"

Had
he had her, he doubted she would have. The only reason Nesta had smelled any better than he did was that she bathed herself in perfume. " 'Twas Lady Juliana who informed me I reeked."

Erec's eyebrows jumped. "Is that so?"

Gabriel guided his destrier through the trees.

"Since when have you cared what any thought of you?" Erec asked, drawing alongside.

Gabriel looked at him. Erec had cleaned his hands and face and donned a clean tunic, but that was all. As concerned as he was with appearance, not until the conclusion of the tournament would he bathe. Wise, for it was a waste of time, considering the morrow would only dirty him once again. If not for Juliana, neither would Gabriel have gone near the water until the end of the tournament. The admission made him scowl. "I do not care what any think."

Erec chuckled. "Except Lady Juliana."

He was too observant—an asset in tournament, but not outside of it.

"Ah, but she is a beautiful woman," Erec murmured.

"Pity to waste her on one such as Bernart Kinthorpe."

Gabriel glanced sharply at him.

Erec's mouth twitched. "What?" He feigned innocence.

"What rumors have you been listening to?"

Erec shrugged. "There are several, but the one most spoken is that Lord Kinthorpe is the same as his brother."

Bernart the same as Osbern? Gabriel fleetingly considered the possibility. Nay, not even Acre could have changed him so.

"Three years of marriage and no children," Erec murmured.

"There are other reasons children are not born of wedlock."

"Which brings us to another rumor. The women servants say Lady Juliana is frigid."

Juliana, who had been trained in the art of courtly love? Gabriel remembered her oft-repeated profession of love for Bernart. Indeed, he could not forget it. Still, that did not mean she was as passionate in bed as she was out of it.

"What think you?" Erec asked.

Gabriel glanced sideways at him. "I do not." Whatever the truth of Bernart and Juliana's relationship, it was of no concern to him.

Ahead, the castle stood against a cloudless sky. It was white, from the donjon rising at its center to the outer wall and towers. Painted against this stark backdrop were the many-colored tents of those knights who did not avail themselves of the donjon's accommodations. Even from a distance, the bustle of activity was visible—servants hurrying about, squires cleaning and polishing their lord's armor, knights reliving the day's battles, merchants calling tourneyers to sample their offerings, women enticing men to sample their wares....

An hour until eating, Gabriel reflected. Enough time to cool the fires of his loins? With a nudge of his spurs, he set his destrier to a gallop.

Chapter Four

"You think I have not prayed?"

Juliana lifted her bowed head, but did not look at the one who trespassed upon her sanctuary. She knew why Bernart came to the chapel. What she must now do.

"When my manhood was stolen," he said as he advanced, "I prayed it all a terrible dream, pleaded with God to deliver me from the infidels, but He was not listening, Juliana. He did not care."

She didn't wish to feel for him or his pain, but his words wounded her as they had the night he had told her of the atrocity done him.

"Afterward, as I lay bleeding, I prayed for death, but again I was denied. Do you know the tears I shed? Tears that I could never hold you in my arms and love you as you ought be loved?"

Emotion clawed at her, made it difficult to breathe.

Bernart lowered himself beside her where she knelt before the altar. 'Ours is a cruel God, Juliana." He unclasped her prayerful hands. "He does not hear you, just as He did not hear me."

She stared at the altar with its gold cross and candles on either side. " 'Tis men who are cruel," she said. "Men who make themselves God."

Bernart's hands tightened on hers. "You think that is what I do?"

"Do you not?"

He expelled a harsh sigh. "I know what I ask of you—"

"Ask?" She wrenched her hands free. "Surely you mean what you demand of me?"

"I do not wish to do it, Juliana."

"Then do not!"

"I must. Though I did not die at Acre, 'tis as if I am dead. A son would give me something to live for. To love."

As he could never love her. "Then I should not keep Gabriel waiting." She stood and turned toward the door.

Bernart caught her back against him. "He will not hurt you."

There were many ways to hurt a person. Though Juliana did not think Gabriel would abuse her, she knew she would be wounded. Deeply. She tried to turn to Bernart, but he held her fast, as if he could not endure her gaze.

"The wine dispensed this eve was not watered," he said.

She had not known. Tempted as she'd been to seek strength in drink, she had not taken a sip, certain she would need her full reserve of wits if she was to keep her identity hidden from the man who would this night claim her virtue.

"Gabriel drank his fill and is well sated," Bernart said. "I assure you he will not remember much on the morrow."

That was of small comfort. "You are certain he is alone?"

"Aye, his squire keeps his tent outside the walls."

"Does he expect a woman this eve?" It would not do for her to surprise him and end up with a knife to her throat.

" 'Tis Nesta he believes will come to him, but she is otherwise occupied."

Juliana pulled out of Bernart's hold, drew the hood of her mantle over her head, and walked to the door.

"Three nights and—" His voice cracked. "And 'twill be over."

Providing that a babe took. Juliana opened the door and walked from the chapel. Any hope Bernart might call her back died when he closed the door behind her. He could not bear to watch her go to his enemy.