Leigh, Tamara (11 page)

Gabriel's wry smile spoke the words he denied his tongue: even drunk he could better Bernart.

Perspiration beaded Bernart's brow as he fought emotions that had been his undoing on the battlefield. "The wine is from Gascony," he said. "You will have some?" He knew how much Gabriel enjoyed French wine. If this could not tempt him, naught could.

'There is something you wish to speak to me about?" Gabriel asked.

Bernart glanced at Sir Erec. "It has been many years since Acre," he said, hoping Gabriel's partner would take that as his cue to leave. However, the man seemed in no hurry to quit the hall.

"Not enough," Gabriel replied.

As if his own wounds went deeper, Bernart thought bitterly. He accepted a goblet from the wench and nodded for Gabriel and Sir Erec to do the same. When they did, he lowered himself back to the chair. To his discomfort, the two remained standing.

Over the next few minutes, Bernart asked about France's tourney circuit, and Gabriel answered with as few words as possible, revealing very little about his life following the Crusade. Not that Bernart needed to be told, for he would have to be deaf not to know of Gabriel's exploits—that when he was not helping King Richard regain lands seized by France's King Philip, he was taking ransoms in tourney.

Although Sir Erec sampled the wine and commented on its superiority, Gabriel did not so much as peer into his goblet.

Drink!
"The chamber is to your liking?"

Gabriel inclined his head.

Bernart took a sip of the fine wine, fully aware that more than a swallow or two would lead to intense discomfort, the same as that which had plagued him throughout the day. "You are sleeping well?"

Gabriel was slow to answer. "Well enough. You sent a wench to my chamber last eve?"

A wench. A woman who'd given her innocence to him without his knowing it. At least, Bernart prayed he did not know. He swallowed. "I do not recall your ever needing help to entice a woman into your bed."

Gabriel thumbed the rim of his goblet. " 'Tis just that I was expecting one and another came."

"Ah, Nesta. Regrets, but she was... otherwise occupied." Let him interpret that however he wished.

"And you do not know who came in her place?" Gabriel lifted the goblet toward his mouth.

Why did Gabriel care? One woman was much the same for him as the next. Jealousy bunched Bernart's shoulders. "I do not concern myself with the comings and goings of servants."

"Indeed." Finally Gabriel tasted the wine.

More.
"One of the wenches must have come upon a liking for you," Bernart said. "But tell, what does it matter who shared your bed last eve?" He shouldn't ask, ought to leave it be, but could not.

Gabriel tipped the goblet once more before answering. "She was different."

Agitated, fearing it showed, Bernart swept his hand toward the half dozen wenches who pushed benches against the walls for the guests who would avail themselves of the comforts of the hall. "Who do you think 'twas?"

"None of these."

"You are certain?" Bernart's voice cracked betrayingly. Had Gabriel heard it?

A frown drew Gabriel's eyebrows. "I am certain." He stared at Bernart a moment, then took a long swallow of wine.

Perspiring more heavily, Bernart motioned to the serving wench.

She refilled Gabriel's goblet, then Sir Erec's. Bernart waved her away when she turned to him. " 'Tis likely one of the chambermaids, Gabriel," he said.

"Possibly."

Bernart abandoned the subject for one less distressing.

"Will you return to France following the tournament?"

" 'Tis where the money is."

"And your lands." Months ago, Bernart had heard that King Richard had awarded Gabriel a demesne. Finally he was a lord, though he would never be as great and powerful a lord as Wyverly would have made him. "Who keeps the barony in your absence?"

"My brother, Blase."

"The priest?"

"Aye." Gabriel stepped from the hearth and set his goblet on the sideboard.

Bernart's insides coiled so tightly he felt he might burst. He stood. "Will you not stay a while longer?"

" 'Tis time I seek my bed. I thank you for the wine."

To argue with him would only rouse his suspicions further. "Good eve, then."

Gabriel strode past him to the stairs.

Bernart turned and found Sir Erec watching him. "And good eve to you, Sir Erec."

The knight dipped his head and strode from the hall.

Bernart raised his goblet. Without thinking, he tossed the wine to the back of his throat. Then, as if death settled in his bones, he rigidly stepped to the sideboard and lifted the pitcher. As he did so, he peered into Gabriel's vessel. Half-full. The man could not have drunk more than a goblet of wine. Bernart squeezed his eyes closed, then opened them a moment later. If not wine, then sleep. He would give Gabriel an hour, then send Juliana to him. Though not as sure as alcohol, sleep ought to find him addled.

An hour and three refills of wine later, Bernart tested his footing on the stairs. Somehow he made it to the landing without mishap.

Bernart said naught. He simply opened the door, nodded, and left Juliana to gather her courage.

Now, once again, she stood in Gabriel's darkened chamber. When she'd slipped within, she had seen he was in bed, and from his stillness known he was asleep.

Aware that this night would require far more than simply taking him into her body, she fumbled with her mantle, freed the knot she had made of the ties, and dropped the garment atop the chest at the foot of the bed. Her coarse bliaut followed, but as she lifted the hem of her chemise, Gabriel's deep voice melted across the stillness.

"I had hoped you would come again."

Considering her reception on the night past, Juliana should not have been surprised he'd awakened, but she was. Hand to her throat, she searched the inky darkness and picked out his shadow. Doubtless he would never fall victim to one who sought to plant a knife in his back.

She had barely regained her breath when realization struck. There was no slur to his voice as there ought to be, as Bernart had assured her there would be. He was not drunk, then? Or merely not as drunk as last eve? How did he know she was the same woman who had come to him on the night past?

The creak of the bed forced her to abandon her pondering. Fearing Gabriel intended to rise, she hurried forward.

A moment later, his hands closed around her arms. "Eager, eh?" He pulled her between his thighs where he sat on the mattress edge.

She smelled wine on his breath, but it was faint.
Curse Bernart!
She would have fled the chamber if not for the hands that held her firm. Then those hands began to touch her.

Gabriel caressed his fingers up her side to the under-curve of her breast. Through her chemise, he stroked her fullness, causing spikes of sensation to draw her nipple erect. His other hand explored her buttocks.

Juliana closed her eyes. Why did he have to touch her like this, as if she were a lover and not some whore who had once more stolen to his chamber? Rather than being aroused, she ought to be repulsed. Rather than filled with sweet flutterings, she ought to be rolling with nausea. Desperately, she wanted to resist the feelings Gabriel awakened, but they were too pleasurable.

"We do not need this," he said, and drew her chemise upward.

Only when the fine material began its ascent, gliding sensually over her skin as she could not remember it ever having done, did Juliana realize her mistake. In her haste to prevent Gabriel from rising, she'd forgotten about the garment. Had he noticed its texture? That it was markedly different from that worn by commoners?

He pulled the chemise over her head and tossed it aside.

Praying his man's need was too great for him to question the reason a whore wore a lady's garment, Juliana swept her hair from her eyes and lowered her gaze. Though it was too dark to make out his face, she saw his head bend forward.

"This time I pleasure you first," he said, his voice winding through her. Then his mouth was on her breast.

Juliana gasped. What was he doing to her? Why didn't he just... She leaned forward, silently beseeching him to feed her desire.

His unshaven face rasped the tender flesh of her breast as he tugged at her nipple, causing small, panting sounds to escape her throat. He nipped and swirled his tongue around her, then moved to the other breast.

Forgetting who she was, who this man was who'd thrust her into womanhood, the pain of that initiation, Juliana grasped his head to her breasts and clenched her fingers in his thick hair. This was how it was supposed to be between a man and woman. These were the things a woman ought to feel. The things she had only ever heard spoken of and days ago thought never to experience.

Gabriel trailed his mouth to her belly, melting warmth across her flesh.

Juliana dropped her head back, parted her lips on a moan.

"You like that," he said. Or was it a question? Though she knew he couldn't see her, she nodded. One moment she was standing, the next on her back, flesh to flesh.

"Who are you?" he asked, his breath stirring the hair across her brow.

She quivered. She was Juliana Kinthorpe, lady of Tremoral. But last night, this night, and the night to come, she was another, a faceless woman come to steal a child from him.
That
she must not forget.

"Surely you have a name," he prompted.

She swallowed. He was likely too sober to allow her to distract him as she had when he'd questioned her last eve. Could she disguise her voice? If so, what to call herself? Remembering from the games she'd played as a child how difficult it was to identify another's voice when it was whispered, she ventured, "I am... Isolde."

Gabriel's silence turned her palms clammy and caused her heart to speed. Did he know?

"Isolde," he said. "A beautiful name."

But a poor choice. The oft-told love story of Tristan and Isolde having once been dear to Juliana, it was the first name that came to her. In Gabriel's silence, had he recalled the tale himself, that which had many times been recounted in her father's hall?

"You work in the donjon?"

"The... the kitchens," she whispered.

"Hmm." He moved his hands over her again.

She was relieved that he seemed to have made no connection between the woman who came to him in the night and the girl who'd sighed over the troubadour's tale and unabashedly named Bernart Kinthorpe her Tristan. Slowly she allowed herself to be coaxed to an awareness of Gabriel, but when his mouth sought hers she once more turned her head. As in the garden, she longed to taste him, but she feared such a joining. Feared its tenderness.

Why Gabriel wanted to kiss her, he couldn't say, for it was not something he usually gave thought to when he was with a woman. If it happened, fine. If not, it was hardly missed. But he wanted to kiss this wench, to press his tongue inside her mouth and taste her sweetness. He cupped her chin and pulled her face to his, but before he could possess her lips, she jerked her head opposite.

Though the details of her first visit were indistinct, he remembered having tried to kiss her, that she'd also refused him. Strange. Never had he known a woman to give of her body and yet guard her mouth. What did she fear?

He breathed the faint scent that had wafted to him when she had entered his chamber. Familiar, yet he could not name it. "Isolde"—somehow the name didn't fit—"let me taste your sweet mouth." He brushed his lips over her ear.

She stiffened, but in the next instant pushed a hand between them and curled her fingers around his rigid shaft. She meant to distract him and was doing a fine job of it. Still, he wanted what she denied him, and would have sought it had she not drawn her hand up and down again.
Wanton.
He strained beneath her fingers. Lord, he wanted her!

Though she refused to take his mouth upon hers, she surprised him by putting her lips to the flesh between his neck and shoulder. He groaned. He wanted to drive into her depths as her hand upon him imitated.

She drew her other hand down his spine, splayed her fingers over his buttocks, pressed him between her thighs.

Feeling her heat, Gabriel was aroused as he had not been in a long time. Yet for all this wench's familiarity with his body, there was something about her touch that was innocent. Seeking, rather than knowing. Uncertain, rather than wanton. It stirred him beyond all thought. He pushed toward her woman's place.

She held him a long moment, denying him entrance. Then, with a shudder, she loosed her fingers and eased her thighs apart.

Gabriel pressed inside. She was tight. He sank deep, settled against her womb, and withdrew. Through the passion that urged him to take her quickly, he felt her tense. He knew women well, and her reaction was not of desire. Was it that she was too small, or simply less versed in lovemaking than her brazen hands would have him believe? Vague memories of last eve returned. She had reacted similarly when he'd entered her that first time, then eagerly come to him. Small, he decided. Her discomfort would pass.

Slowly he began to thrust. As he did so, he caressed one breast, then the other, then ventured lower and lingered over her thigh, which was more silken than any he had ever touched. She was soft, beautiful beneath his hands. He felt her tension drain, but still he held back. First her, then him.

Shortly, small sounds escaped her throat; then her nails sank into his buttocks and a whimper parted her silent lips. "Aye. Aye." A moment later, she flung her arms around him, buried her face in his neck, and convulsed.

Now him. Gabriel drove hard, and was nearing release when the wench rasped into his ear, "Let me."

He stilled. As much as he ached for the pinnacle he had been near attaining, he allowed her to press him onto his back. When she lowered herself onto him, he thought he would explode.

Her silken hair skimming his flesh, she pressed her palms to his abdomen and lingeringly slid her hands upward—as if learning every muscle and sinew of him. Then she bent and trailed her lips over his chest. When her tongue flicked his areola, Gabriel jerked inside her. When she drew his nipple into her mouth, he began to thrust.