Leigh, Tamara (25 page)

He shook his head, stalked to the chest, and snatched up his tunic. "When you have birthed my child, then may you leave."

As he dragged the tunic over his head, Juliana stared. Though he might feel something for her, his revenge was more deeply felt. She turned.

"Juliana!"

She looked over her shoulder.

"Forget not what I have said about acting the lady of Mergot. 'Tis not your place."

Bitterness swept her. Very well, she would busy herself in ways that would further her own cause. She left the solar, closed herself in her chamber, and removed the dagger from her hose.

He should have allowed her to take her meals in her chamber—better, should have locked her in the tower and forgotten her for the next five months.

With a harsh sigh, Gabriel strode to the window and threw open the shutters. Rain lashed at his face, warning of the winter to come. A winter that would be made tenfold longer by Juliana's presence. Though he immersed himself in the affairs of the demesne and the repair of the wall, and would do so for as long as the weather permitted, eventually he would be spending more time in the hall with her. Then his desire—and that was all it was— would plague him more.

It was not supposed to have been this way. Her deceit should have sustained him well beyond five months. Instead his anger was slipping through his fingers and laying him open to what had nearly happened minutes ago.

He had not wanted to listen to anymore of her lies, yet had pressed for an explanation when she'd alluded to having had no choice in stealing a child from him. He had not wanted to touch her, yet had pulled her into his arms. He had not wanted to kiss her, yet had covered her mouth. He had not wanted to make love to her, yet had nearly done so. Though he had every reason to hate her and wanted to, he could not.

He slammed the shutters closed.
God's rood!
If only she would give him reason to send her to the tower.

Chapter Fifteen

October 1195

Were she caught, he would banish her to the tower.

Juliana eyed the mallet at the opposite end of the tool-strewn bench. Nay, the risk was too great. She would have to be content with the chisel alone.

Lissant drew alongside. "We ought to return to the donjon," she fretted as she'd done time and again this past half hour.

The maid had not wished to walk the inner bailey, had pressed for the gardens for fear of her lord's wrath when he returned from the hunt, but Gabriel's absence had been too great an opportunity for Juliana to yield. Though the porter had also protested, Juliana's reasoning that no ill could befall her while the workers broke to satisfy their hunger—and a smile—had worked him to her will. Of course, throughout the walk neither he nor the men-at- arms had let her from their sight. The commotion of the workers returning to their tasks had granted the only opportunity to take what she'd come for.

She clenched the chisel beneath her mantle. "Yes," she said, "I am suddenly quite tired."

Shortly, she closed the door of her chamber. With two hours of uninterrupted nap time ahead of her, she turned toward the room and swept the mantle from her shoulders. She crossed to the tapestry and stepped behind it. In the dimness, she fingered the chisel's hard, sharp edge.

It was nearly a month since she'd come to Mergot, and every day since she'd labored to gain entrance to the passageway. After the first week, which had been marked by numerous failures, she had determined to go around the lock by digging out the mortar and removing the block of stone into which it turned. Beneath cover of the din from work on the inner wall, the mortar gave, but not without effort and detriment to the various implements with which she worked upon it. And her hands. Though she wrapped her palms and fingers in linen each time she ventured behind the tapestry, they were callused, reddened, nicked. Were she not more mindful, Gabriel would catch sight of them. Of course, if he continued to pay her as little regard as he had these past weeks, she was safe. Though she sat beside him during meals, he rarely glanced her way, and few were the words he spoke to her. It was as if she were not even present.

Juliana sank to her knees alongside the rock she would use in place of a mallet, and the pouch she would fill with mortar dust and dispose of in the garden. She peered at the furrowed mortar. She'd removed as much as an inch deep on three sides of the stone, but it was yet many inches before the block came free. Now, however, she had a chisel....

She set it to the furrow. God willing, the tool would see her gone from Mergot long before the babe was born.

"You enjoyed your walk?" Juliana turned.

Gabriel was at the base of the stairs. Throughout the evening meal he had said naught of her venture outside the donjon, but she did not doubt he knew of it. Grateful for the dimly lit stairway, she clasped her hands beneath her swollen belly. "I did enjoy it. 'Twas a pleasant change from your garden of weeds."

He stared at her, then began his ascent. He halted a step below her. Even so, Juliana had to raise her gaze to meet his.

"What are you planning?" he asked.

She shook her head. " 'Twas only a walk. Why do you make more of it?"

"Because I know you, Juliana. You have been quiet too long, which can only mean you are scheming."

"Scheming? To escape you again?"

"Perhaps."

Her laughter was forced. "Not only have I given my word I will make no more attempts, but I am five months with child. You think I would—"

"Five?" Gabriel snapped up her blunder.

Struggling to hold her composure, she said, "Four is what I meant."

A smile curved his mouth. "Of course you did."

"It is late." She turned. "Good eve."

He pulled her back around. Though his grip was not cruel, it pained her. Those memories again.

"My men were foolish to allow you to leave the donjon," he said, "but I assure you they will not be so again."

What had he done to them? "They have been punished?"

"Not yet, but it will be seen to."

Should she plead for them? Would it do any good? "Do not forget, Gabriel, they are not to blame for their confusion over my place at Mergot, for you have made me a guest and a prisoner in the same breath. What are they to think?"

Anger flared his nostrils. "I care not what they think. I but require they follow my orders. And you will do the same, else forfeit the freedom I have allowed. Do you understand?"

How could she not? "Perfectly."

He released her.

Eager to distance herself, she turned and grasped the railing. On the third step up, a sharp kick landed to her side. She gasped and pressed a hand to her belly, but in the next instant pulled it away. She must not become too familiar with the babe lest she lose it to Gabriel.

Unfortunately her response did not escape him. "What is it?" he asked, gaining her side.

She looked up and found his anger supplanted by concern. "Naught," she said. Then, as if to make a liar of her, the babe thrust again, snagging her breath. But this time she withheld the instinct to put a hand to her belly.

"Tell me," Gabriel said sharply.

Though she wished him as far removed from her pregnancy as possible, she knew he would be satisfied with naught but the truth. " 'Tis only the babe."

His brow furrowed deeper. "Something is wrong?"

"Nay, he is simply making himself more comfortable."

Gabriel searched her face, then lowered his gaze to her belly.

In that moment, Juliana sensed he wished to put his hand to her, to feel the evidence of his child, but that she could not bear. "I am tired," she said tightly. "Good eve." As quickly as her increasingly awkward figure allowed, she mounted the stairs and went from his sight.

Gabriel stared at his broad, tapered fingers, then curled them into a fist. He had nearly touched Juliana, had so badly wanted to put a hand to her that naught but her chill words could have prevented him from doing so. It was as if he truly wanted this child, though not for revenge. Did Juliana feel the same? In spite of her reasons for having conceived the child, did she feel anything for it? She did not rest a hand upon her belly as pregnant women were wont to do, did not curve an arm around it when she sat. In fact, this eve was the first time he had seen her touch herself there—and only for a moment. Could she be so cold? Or did she seek to suppress her feelings so that her impending loss would not be as deeply felt?

He closed his eyes. He shouldn't care. Even so, what he meant to do four months hence vexed a conscience he ought not to have. He looked to the stairs Juliana had ascended. Though he avoided her as much as possible and did his best to ignore her when they met, his traitorous emotions would not be put down. He felt for her, wanted to hold her again, wished things could be different. He was a fool. Silently, he cursed himself as he did more and more of late. If he was not careful, he would all the sooner find himself in hell.

Chapter Sixteen

England, December 1195

Safer this way, Alaiz told her groaning belly as she crept down the stairs. As hungry as she was from forgoing supper last eve, it was a small price to avoid Bernart and his terrible wrath. She paused on the bottom step and peered into the hall. There were only servants about.

She sighed. When would Bernart leave again? Soon, she hoped, though it was only two days since he'd returned from his latest search for Juliana. For the fourth time, he'd come back with empty hands. And angrier than ever.

Alaiz dragged her teeth across her bottom lip. Was Bernart mad, as it was whispered? Had his mind gone the way of everything else? Blessedly, she'd avoided that which his knights and servants could not escape. So completely, in fact, that it was as if he had forgotten her. Thus she left her chamber only to feed her hunger, and only when Bernart and his men were not present. Such as now.

She smoothed the tendrils that escaped her braid, squaring her shoulders. As she trod rushes grown putrid from her sister's absence, she fell under the servants' regard, but none approached her. It was hardly different from before Juliana had been stolen from Tremoral, with one exception: Nesta. As the wench had never hidden her contempt for Alaiz's infirmity, now that Juliana was gone, she'd become increasingly bold. She sought out Alaiz, spoke words meant to wound. And they did.

As Alaiz entered the corridor that led to the kitchens, she quickened her step.

"Ah, the elusive Lady Alaiz," a voice rasped near.

She swung around to face the one she'd blundered past.

Sir Randal Rievaulx stepped from the shadowed doorway of the storeroom. "I thought you might pass this way. Hungry?"

Of all of Bernart's men, she avoided him most. And her fear of him was now justified. Before he had accompanied Bernart on his most recent search, he'd pressed her into a corner and ran a hand up her breasts. Fortunately, the one scream she'd managed had brought an older knight to her aid.

She tensed for flight. "I am on my way to the... the..."

"Kitchens?" A smile bent his mouth as he slithered his gaze from her face to her breasts. "You look lovely, my lady. Of course, a bit unkempt." He cocked his head. "A pity your sister is not here to tend your grooming."

Half a dozen steps to the kitchens... She lunged—and fell two steps short of salvation.

Sir Randal caught her braid and wrenched her back against him. Before she could scream, he clapped a hand over her mouth. "Not this time," he said in a hiss.

She struggled as he pulled her backward, but he was too solid. He dragged her into the storeroom and kicked the door closed.

Fear coiled around Alaiz as she swept her gaze over the room, searching for something to aid her, but it was too dark. Though light from the lower level of the storeroom filtered up the stairway, it was not enough to make sense of the shadows.

"We are alone," Sir Randal said, mouth to her ear.

His moist breath made her spine quake, but she would not give in to him. She kicked a heel back and landed it to his shin.

"Bitch!" He wrenched her head to the side, gripped her face, and dug his nails into her flesh.

Alaiz cried into his hand, but the sound was too muffled for any to hear.

"Fight me and I will kill you," he rasped. He strained her neck further. "Do you understand?"

She did not want to die, but would she want to live when he was finished with her?
God, have mercy.

"Do you understand?" At her nod, he removed his hand from her mouth, grasped her upper arm, and pulled her toward the stairs.

If she screamed, would any hear? Would any come to her aid? She suppressed a sob. Surely it was not hopeless.

As she began her descent, something pricked her memory. Desperate to unlock the door, she squeezed her eyes closed. And stumbled. If not for the knight's hold, she would have plunged to the bottom.

"I have warned you," he snapped, and hastened her down the remaining steps.

A single torch lit the lower storeroom, but it cast enough light to show there was naught here that might aid her. Only casks and sacks of grain.

Sir Randal pulled her to the back of the room and drove her against a wall. "Be kind to me," he said, "and mayhap I shall be kind to you."

She scrabbled through her tangled mind for something to turn him from the heinous act. "Do not... do this." She spoke the only words to which she could lay her tongue.

He leaned into her, cupped a breast, and began kneading. "You will like it, I promise." "I beseech you...."

When his breath came upon hers, Alaiz jerked her head to the side. She could not bear his mouth upon hers.

He lowered his head and sank his teeth into the soft flesh between her neck and shoulder.

She cried out.

"Give in to me," he rumbled, and proceeded to nip and suck his way up her neck.

She shuddered when his tongue thrust into her ear, cringed when he groped her woman's place through her gown. Were not her belly empty, she would retch.