Leigh, Tamara (8 page)

Feeling more alone than she'd ever felt, Juliana thrust back the coverlet, slid beneath, and hugged her knees to her chest. She would not cry. She was stronger than that. Two more nights and it would be done.

God, let it be done.

The dream came to Bernart as it did nearly every night. Stealthily it crept upon him. He reached to Juliana, but found only emptiness. Brazenly it covered him. "Nay!" he cried, but Juliana did not rise up to awaken him. Viciously it wrenched him into the past.

More blood than he had ever seen. More fear than he had ever known. Carnage—just as Gabriel had warned. Gabriel, who was always right.

Bernart ran. The shouts formed by infidel tongues carried upon the night air words he had never heard, but understood. If he were caught, his fate would be the same as that of the men he'd persuaded to follow him over the wall.

God, what have I done?
Knowing his only hope was to lose himself in the city, he veered right, then left. With each turn, the sound of his pursuers grew more distant.

How he hurt! His sides ached; his lungs strained. He had to stop. He stumbled into an alleyway and flattened himself against a wall. Trembling with the effort to control his labored breathing, he strained to catch the sound of the Muslim soldiers.

Brisk footsteps and voices warned of their approach.

He pushed off the wall and staggered deeper into the alley, praying it did not dead-end. It did. Heart pounding so hard it hurt, he swept his sword around and surged forward. As he exited the alleyway, above the clink and clatter of his mail hauberk he heard them. Then they were before and behind him, swords flashing torchlight.

He was in the hands of the heathens, those who had bled the life from the men who'd followed him into the devil's lair.
What have I done? I should have listened to Gabriel.
Though fear demanded he throw down his sword and surrender, honor said not. He was a knight, not a coward. To the death, then, and with him as many as could be taken. "For God and King Richard!" he cried, and launched himself at the nearest Muslim.

Flesh! He had the man's flesh. The infidel's howl of pain stirring with his companions' shouts of anger, Bernart swept his sword again. He fought them, however many there were, but proved no match.

A blade landed to the mail of his shoulder, next to the muscle. He tried to hold the cry, to keep it from his lips, but the next slice of the sword loosed it. But the blade did not pause at his thigh; it went deeper—to that place wherein man differed from woman.

The pain! He screamed—piercing sounds that sounded as if they'd sprung from a woman's lips. Then, slowly, darkness, his last thought of sweet Juliana, who awaited his to return to England to make her his wife.

With a hoarse shout, Bernart sat straight up. Where was he? The street in Acre that he had made crimson with the spilled blood of his manhood? The stinking cell where he had prayed every hour of every day for death? At last his eyes adjusted to the darkness, revealing the familiar corners of the chapel.

He shuddered and collapsed back upon the bench. He should have died at Acre. If not that he was of the landed nobility, valued for ransom or trade, he would have bled to death. Instead, physicians had tended him and, after long, agonizing weeks, had pronounced him healed. During the long days and nights that followed, his only companion had been his tortured thoughts, which had brought him to the realization that Gabriel was to blame. For everything.

Bernart sat up and wiped the perspiration from his brow. It was a long time since he'd had to endure the dream in its entirety. Always Juliana awakened him. But not this night. This night she was with Gabriel. He stilled. Was the deed done? Had she returned to the solar? He hurried from the chapel and flung open the door of their chamber.

A flickering torch revealed her auburn head upon the pillow. It was done.

He closed his eyes. Though he ought to be pleased with the prospect that a son might be planted in her womb, it was anger that rose in him. He closed the door, strode past the chamber where Gabriel had pleasured himself between Juliana's thighs, and descended the stairs to the dimly lit hall. Here, tournament guests, household knights, and servants littered the floors and benches, their slumber marked by snores, grunts, and mutterings.

Bernart crossed to the sideboard. He shouldn't drink.... He lifted a pitcher of warm ale, filled a tankard, drained it, filled it again, then ascended the dais and dropped into the lord's high seat. Though it was rest his sleep-deprived body needed, anger held his eyes wide and turned his thoughts to tomorrow's battle. And the revenge that would be his.

Chapter Five

The chamber was beginning to lighten when Gabriel opened his eyes. Although he usually rose in advance of the dawn, he did not hasten from bed. Something playing about the back passages of his mind, he looked beside him. He was alone. Naught unusual about that, but still there was a vague sense of loss.

Like an elusive dream, remembrance of the night past teased his consciousness—advancing, receding, advancing again. He grasped at the memories, tried to hold them long enough to make sense of them.

Silken thighs. Full breasts. Quivering flesh. Something very... sweet. Merely a dream? Conjured by his drunken mind? Nay, a woman had come to him last eve, but not Nesta, as she'd promised. Who, then? Which of the wenches in Bernart's hall had taken the other woman's place? When Gabriel could not put a face to his night visitor, he concluded it must have been dark when she'd come to him. What had she called herself? Again, naught, for she had not spoken a word—leastwise, none he could recall. Not that it mattered. He reminded himself of the distance he put between himself and the women with whom he lay. Still, there had been something about her....

He lifted his head. Though the movement made his teeth ache, he dismissed the discomfort and looked down the naked length of his body. He stared at his loins, then abruptly sat up and searched the coverlet beneath. Telltale spots of crimson verified that which was upon himself.

A virgin? Indistinctly, he recalled the wench's response when first he'd entered her. He had thought he'd hurt her, but then she had wantonly thrust against him. Nay, she had been no maiden come to him. It was her woman's blood. Had to be. So what was it that made her memory linger? Certainly not a dousing of perfume to mask an unclean body. She had smelled... feminine.
That
he recalled.

With a snarl of disgust, Gabriel rejected such useless pondering. She was a whore, like any other. He dropped his feet to the floor and stood. The throbbing in his head trebled.

"Damn!" he muttered. He'd been foolish to drink so much, especially as the wine had not been watered. Although he was usually mindful of how much he imbibed the night before a melee, the drink had flowed so freely last eve that no sooner had he taken a swallow than his goblet was filled again. He would not be surprised if it had been arranged by Bernart to gain an advantage over him in tournament. An advantage he would have if Gabriel did not soon shake the effects of the alcohol.

He thrust a hand through his hair and massaged the back of his neck. Food would make him see straight again.

Knowing that as soon as the morning mass was said, the breaking of fast would commence in the hall, he strode to the basin. He splashed chill water over his face, retrieved his garments from the rushes, and donned them as quickly as his clumsy fingers would allow.

He would not even look at her. His gaze fixed on the chaplain, Bernart sat silent beside Juliana as the morning mass was recited to those who'd gathered in hopes God would look kindly upon them in tournament.

During the past half hour, Juliana had endured the tension and anger Bernart exuded. She knew it arose from her having come to the chapel and forcing her presence on him, but it was not out of spite she'd come. Not really. It was for the solace she found within the walls of this holy place. More than ever, she needed to be here, to repent for the night past, to plead strength for the nights to come. Sacrilegious though it might be.

As if sensing her turmoil, Alaiz slipped her hand into her sister's lap and intertwined their fingers.

Juliana had known that to allow her sister to accompany her would further rouse Bernart's displeasure, but she had brought her anyway. After all, it was the only thing she had to show for her sacrifice. Now her sister's place at Tremoral was secure and, though Bernart had not agreed to it, no more would she be hidden.

At the conclusion of the mass, Bernart was the first to rise. Without a glance in Juliana's direction, he stepped around her and strode down the aisle. He would go be-lowstairs to break his fast, providing he could stomach it, and afterward ride to the battlefield. Juliana would not be surprised if this day he gained the ransom of several knights, perhaps even that of Gabriel De Vere. Of course, did she reveal to him Gabriel had taken her virtue and given nothing in return, it might be Gabriel's death Bernart sought. Another reason to say naught.

"I am... hungry," Alaiz whispered.

Juliana dragged her gaze from the altar. "Then we should eat." Her smile felt terribly stiff.

Alaiz beamed most beautifully. In fact, at that moment Juliana doubted there was any woman lovelier than her sister. Unfortunately, beauty was not enough in this world that regarded those who were different with suspicion, as if another's loss of faculties might somehow affect their own.

Juliana stood and was instantly reminded of the tenderness between her thighs. She could not bear to think what pain would be put upon her this eve.

From the back of the throng exiting the chapel, Juliana glimpsed Sir Erec ahead. She was thankful there was no sight of Gabriel, but considering his drunken state last eve, she had not expected he would attend mass. Had prayed he would not.

"After meal," Alaiz said, "may we go to the...?" Her brow crumpled.

Tempted as Juliana was to supply the word, she waited to see if her sister could summon it. She could not. "You wish to go to the tournament?"

Alaiz sighed. "Aye, the tournament."

Juliana laid a hand on her sister's shoulder. "We must first tend to your lessons." It was true, but more of an excuse to distance Juliana from Gabriel.

"Not today," Alaiz beseeched. "I wish to see the b-battle."

"You do not think it violent?"

"Ah, nay! 'Tis... exciting. The smell"—Alaiz sniffed the air—"the colors, the noise." She threw her palms up. "I-I wish to go again."

For all her fear of horses, it seemed her passion for the tournament remained intact. It had been the same before the accident. Still, Juliana needed this day to prepare for the night. "Mayhap tomorrow."

Disappointment fell across Alaiz's face.

Juliana felt a pang of remorse. 'Tomorrow. I promise."

Alaiz nodded.

If only there were another who could accompany her to the tournament, Juliana wished. Someone whom she could trust. But there was no one, for she feared a woman servant might say spiteful things to Alaiz, that one of Bernart's knights might take advantage of her innocence. To that last, Sir Randal Rievaulx rose to mind. Though the young knight had rarely spoken a word to Alaiz, too often his eyes followed her, making Juliana uneasy. Whatever the cost, she must protect her sister.

Juliana and Alaiz stepped through the doorway and traversed the corridor behind those eager to reach the meal awaiting them belowstairs.

A chill pricked Juliana's skin as she neared the chamber she must twice more enter. Was he within? In the hall? Departed for the battlefield? If the latter, she would return abovestairs and strip the bedclothes before a maid discovered the evidence of her lost virtue. God, she prayed, let Gabriel be gone from the castle.

But, as Bernart had warned her, God was not listening. The door opened and Gabriel stepped into her path. If not for his quick reflexes, they would have collided. He caught her shoulders and steadied her.

She felt as if touched by fire. Worse, staggered by lightning, as if she might split and fall where she stood. Though she longed to shrink from him, she looked up at the man for whom she had bled last eve. A man who knew her more intimately than any other, yet did not know her—she prayed.

"My apologies, Lady Juliana," Gabriel said. "I fear my head is not right this morn."

The light of morning made him no less menacing than on the night past. In fact, with his shadowed eyes and stubbled jaw, he appeared more so. But at least his eyes were not the eyes of a man who knew her terrible secret. He thought it a whore who had come to him last eve.

His brow lowered. "Are you well, my lady?"

"Quite." She slipped from beneath his hands and stepped to her sister's side.

"Good morn, Lady Alaiz," Gabriel said.

Alaiz smiled. "Lord De Vere."

Damn him!
Why could he not simply ignore Alaiz as others did? Why did he have to show a heart he could not possibly possess?

Juliana took her sister's arm and hastened her toward the stairs.

"Something is w-wrong?" Alaiz asked.

"Naught," Juliana whispered. "Let us break our fast."

A moment later, she heard Sir Morris call to Gabriel, "You no longer attend mass?"

Juliana did not wish to hear Gabriel's response, tried desperately to drown it in the discourse of those before her, but it followed her onto the stairs.

"No more," he said as he and the other knight came behind her and Alaiz.

"Your soul is not in need of saving?" Sir Morris asked.

"Not when 'tis already lost." Gabriel's breath stirred the veil atop Juliana's head.

He was near. Too near. Only a step above her, she guessed. Lord, she could almost feel the brush of his fingertips.

"You have been excommunicated?" Sir Morris asked.

"That is what the church calls it. I can think of other words more suited."

The disturbing sensations that beset Juliana gave way to dismay. What evil had Gabriel done to bring the church's wrath upon him? Though she did not consider herself devout, especially after the church's rejection of Alaiz following her head injury, she held a steadfast belief in God. Thus she was disturbed by the revelation. Lord, that such an ungodly man been chosen to make a child on her!