Claudia Dain (16 page)

She struck blind, but hit true. She could see the truth in Philip's eyes before he turned back to
his
wine.

"I wagered nothing."

"Do not cast me to him," she said quietly, grabbing Philip's hand. His hands were gnarled and hard as ancient oak, the tendons rising high and wide beneath turgid veins thick with sluggish blood. "What will become of me if you cast me to him?"

"Juliane," he said, laying his hand over her own. "I do not cast you. I never would. It is only that you must marry, and I must, as your father, find the man to fit the deed."

She pulled her hand from his. "There is no place for me in marriage. Have we not discussed this?"

"Then where will you go?" he whispered harshly. Ulrich and his band had crossed the hall and were nearing the high table. "To the church? Is that the life you seek? Father Matthew would have it so. He wants a nun's life for you and thinks you want it for yourself. Do I know you so little that I told him wrong? I cannot see you fit for a life in the abbey, Daughter. You are bred for more freedom than the abbess would allow."

"I do not seek the abbey life," she said, lowering her gaze to her lap. "I do not want the married life."

"There is little in between," he said.

"Aye, there is," she said, looking up at him suddenly. "There is freedom."

"Juliane," he said, shaking his head, "there is no freedom in this life. The only freedom is beyond the grave. Why else does the lure of heaven sound so sweet? Why else does death hold no fear?"

"You talk of death too much of late," she said, shaking her head back at him in gentle admonition.

"I am of an age to think of death," he said, smiling at her, their quarrel done.

"When is not the age to think of death?" she countered. "It surrounds us."

"When Juliane speaks of being surrounded," Ulrich said, standing at back, "I must be named, for I would surround her with praise and sweet companionship until she is enveloped."

"I was speaking of death," she said flatly, refusing to look at him. Let him stand and talk to the top of her head. She would not gift him with a look.

"And when she speaks of death, I would most eagerly be named," he said, and then, leaning down to speak in her ear, said, "for who has not heard of the little death that women enjoy at the hands of men? So would I be to Juliane, the bringer of the little death of ecstasy. Let my name be on her lips when she so expires."

Juliane looked askance at her father. He had not heard, for his missing ear was turned to her, yet he did not rebuke this wandering knight for speaking so intimately into his daughter's ear. And all was told by that inaction. So, Ulrich had been given a free hand and a loose rein in this seduction of words. Well, against words she had ample defense.

"I can promise you," she said, turning her head slightly and speaking into his hair, "when I think of death, I shall think of Ulrich. Most heartily so."

"She bats at my intent, wounding me with words, yet she will not look at me," he said, his breath moving the hair near her ear and throat.

"I need not look. I know what I shall see."

"Then look and by looking, prove," he challenged.

She knew she should not. She could feel him, his heat, his scent rising from the wool he wore. A lock of his dark hair hung down just in her sight, and she could see the line of his jaw, the movement of his mouth. His beard beneath his skin was dark, a shadow of masculinity, a brand of manhood; she yearned to touch it, to touch his jaw, to find if his skin was rough, to see if his mouth was soft and warm surrounded as it was by coarse male beard.

"Look at me, Juliane," he breathed. "A single look will not kill. There is no death in that."

And so she looked, telling herself she would not be mocked by him, nor by any man, which was the truth yet only truth in part. She looked because she could not keep herself from looking. He was a temptation to her will, and she gave in to it, in small measure.

He was not smiling. His eyes, so blue, so impossibly blue, stared sweetly into hers. He did not mock. He did not gloat at his small victory over her; nay, he only looked. And by his look, his victory was increased, for she was now ensnared and could not look away.

What was it in his eyes—some promise, some hope that he was offering her?

Whatever it was, she did not want it. She did not want him.

"And so I have looked," she whispered, aware that all the voices of the hall were sliding into silence. "Now, what have I won for taking up your challenge?"

"Nothing at all, Juliane," he whispered back. "'Twas nothing more than a look. A look shared. Not everything has a wager behind it," he said, straightening up but still looking down at her.

"Oh, I think in that you are wrong," she said, holding his gaze, refusing to be consumed by it. "Between us, all is of wagers, and of winning."

He smiled, his eyes dancing with humor. "If that is so, then I think I have just won."

"You have won nothing," she scoffed. "No wager was won in this."

"But, Juliane," he said, sitting down at her side, bumping his knee against hers, "I only wanted to look into your eyes and so I have done. I have won. You cannot rob me of it now."

Always he spoke so sweetly, with such careful seduction, trying to win her heart by flattery and worthless praise. That was not the way into her. Man after man had tried that path and found themselves lost in the dark, finding her not at all. He was like all men and walked the same road with her. No matter what her father tried to arrange with Ulrich, no matter how great Ulrich's arrogance, he would fail.

It was only the feel of him wet and hot on her throat, taking from her what she would never give—that was the battle she had to fight. Killing that memory. Banishing the scent of him, the force of him, from her thoughts. That was the only weapon he had brought to this battle, and he had brought it by mistake.

Never had she been taken in such a way. Never had she known such will and hot intent empty of false words, consisting of pure heat and raw need. Never would she know it again.

And that was to the good. It did not serve her and it had no place in her life, as he did not.

"Then keep your memory of it, my lord," she said, turning her eyes from his, moving her legs from his, shutting him out. "It is all you will ever have of me."

She could feel him smile, the arrogance of it hitting her like a hammer.

"Shall we wager on it, Juliane?" he said as he ripped into the loaf of bread before him, releasing the tang of yeast.

"Wager on what?" she asked, looking at him from beneath her lids, watching his hands. They were long-fingered, with clean nails, brown with weather and hard with use. The feel of his hands on her jaw, holding her still while he took her throat, the scent of him in her nostrils, the heat of him pulsing through his tunic: all were bound in the memory she would kill.

"This place is rife with wagering," he said, "and the wagering is all to do with us. Should we not gain by it ourselves? Strike a wager with me, Juliane, and let us see who shall win it."

"I shall win it. I win all wagers. I am Juliane le Gel, and any wagering a knight may undertake with me, he is destined to lose. It is foretold."

"Nothing is foretold but that the Lord God will come again. Beyond that, we are free to find our way until He does. Find your way with me, Juliane," he said, running a fingertip across her shoulders.

"You are not afraid of losing?" she asked, holding still under his feathery assault, which was willfully ignored by her father. No bargain indeed. They had struck something between them, that was sure.

Ulrich smiled and leaned closer to her on their shared bench, his mouth hovering near her shoulder, and answered, "I am not afraid of you."

She turned to face him suddenly, his mouth now close to hers, their eyes locking upon each other, and said, "You should be."

The hall was silent now, though all ate and drank, yet watched the sparring at the high table. And watched Lord Philip do nothing. And learned the nature of this game, placing quiet wagers on the outcome. This was battle rare for Stanora; most knights had run by now, gone before the laughter died a lingering death. But Ulrich stayed on and Juliane fought on, and so they wagered on.

"Shall we wager on it?" he asked with raised brows, holding her gaze, dominating her with his eyes and with his heat.

"And how shall it be proved that Ulrich is afraid of Juliane le Gel? Such things are not measured, they are felt, and—your pardon—I would not trust your word on it."

"You ask my pardon while defaming my honor?" he said on a chuckle. "Such is the language of a lady undefeated."

"You have said it, my lord, and it is so."

"Then other means must prove that I fear you not, lady, and these shall be the terms. That I can lay another such kiss upon you as I did yesterday and that, without your falcon to fight for you, you shall not push me off until I release you."

It was then that she felt the first twinge of fear.

Chapter 9

It was not a wager she wanted to make. He could see that in her eyes. Wide and wary they were, so light a blue that they looked like January ice. He had her. Almost, he had her. That kiss had done more to shake her chill than she wanted him to know, mayhap even more than she wanted to know about herself. He had touched her. He had taken her in his grasp and laid his mouth on her when she had not willed it, nor wished it, nor welcomed it.

Yet she had withstood it, and held firm against him even now.

"Come, lady," he said gently, entreating, coaxing, luring. "Will you take the wager?"

"Is this the way Ulrich of Caen wins a kiss he has not won? By wagering for it?" she said.

Ah, she was cool. She would not show him apprehension, though he could feel it ripple out from her like wind-driven waves in a pond.

"Juliane," he said, taking her hand in his. It was cool and dry. He would have preferred her coated in sweat and shaking with nervousness. "I only ask what it is in you to give. A kiss. A single kiss. You are not even required to return it. I shall do all," he said with a grin and a wink.

She smiled at him, shaking her head in wry admonition. "Aye, you shall do all. Grave service. Brave sacrifice," she said. "You have kissed me once, my lord, in just this fashion. Is once not enough for even Ulrich of Caen?"

"Once is barely sufficient for Ulrich of Caen. I would only show you the truth of this." He stared into her eyes, willing that cool blue to warm to him. Willing her to feel the lure of him. Willing her to fall into temptation and desire. "My mouth. Your body. One kiss."

She licked her lips, and her eyes looked out over the hall, escaping him as she could. All eyes returned her look. She and Ulrich were much observed. He could not blame them. With such a woman and such a wager, all eyes should look and keep looking.

"And for all eyes?" she asked.

"Nay, for my eyes only," he said, his voice pitched low. "I would not share you with any other. You will be mine."

"'Tis only a kiss," she said in reminder.

"You will be mine," he repeated with a half smile, softening the lie he was about to speak, "for the space of one kiss. Is it a bargain?"

She squirmed on the bench, her knee brushing his thigh. He fought the urge to touch her leg and hold her against him, thigh to thigh. What was it about Juliane that beat at his control? Like it, he did not. There was no room for a misstep in this game.

"You like to wager," she said.

"Nay," he said, "it is only that I like to win."

"As do I," she countered.

"Then take this wager, Juliane. At least then one of us will win."

"You think to win," she said, grinning slowly. Her smile lit her face like sunlight on snow.

"I
know
to win," he said, grinning back at her. "But so do you. Let us see which of us is right."

"Where?" she asked, taking a deep breath, stretching her bliaut tight across her breasts.

"In the orchard," he answered, understanding her at once.

"Too many eyes," she countered. "The stables."