Leigh, Tamara (29 page)

The voices of Kinthorpe and his men indistinct, Blase drew a deep breath and began to see light. Unfortunately, not until the booted foot came at his face did he see it. It smashed his nose, knocked him backward, then slammed into his ribs and once more turned him to pained darkness. Still, he held to his sword, but the boot came down on his wrist, preventing him from raising it again.

"Pity"—Kinthorpe's voice fouled the air—"there appears to be naught for you but death, young De Vere."

Mouth pooled with blood running from his broken nose, Blase spat it out and clutched at the narrow ledge of consciousness onto which he must pull himself.

"Aye, death," Kinthorpe murmured, so near it was evident he'd dropped to his haunches. Still, his considerable weight paralyzed Blase's left arm, tested the strength of the bones and his resolve to not cry his pain. " 'Twould not do for you to send warning to your coward of a brother that I come to take back that which belongs to me."

Blase brought the man's fleshy face into focus. " 'Tis you who are the coward, Kinthorpe. As for Lady Juliana, she does not belong to you."

A tic started between Kinthorpe's mouth and nose. "Think you she belongs to Gabriel? She does not—nor the child she carries."

His mention of the babe could only mean he doubted it was of his loins. However, as much as Blase longed to put forth Gabriel's claim to the child, it was not for him to do. And it would only add to the threat Blase's capture put upon Gabriel.

Kinthorpe pounded a fist to his chest. "They belong to me!"

What had happened to Gabriel's friend to turn him into a man of childlike desperation? A man who would kill without cause? Blase tried to feel the fingers of his injured arm that he might command them to the dagger at his belt, but it was as if they were his no more.
Dear God, have mercy.

Kinthorpe seized the sword from Blase's grip and heaved himself to his feet. "By thy own sword, then!" Face contorted, he put both hands to the hilt, raised the sword high over Blase's heart, and plunged.

Blase lunged opposite, but rather than his chest, the blade burned a hole through his side. He bellowed. The sounds around him dimming with the light, Kinthorpe's triumphant grunt like the buzz of an insect at his ear, he sank his gaze to the wood. It was imagined, he knew, but a moment ere he went into darkness he caught a glimpse of one with golden hair, wide, frightened eyes, and a bowed mouth. Blood thundering in his ears, his last thought was that his heart had been spared. Then his mind emptied.

Perspiration dripping into his eyes, Bernart stared at the still figure of Gabriel's brother. Death was his due. As it would be Gabriel's.

He stepped back and stared at his unsightly, bloated hands. They quaked. Rarely had he felt so cold an anger; more rarely had he directed it at himself. In fact, the last time had been at Acre, when he had watched those who'd followed him fall to the infidel's sword. But he had absolved himself of that, put it upon Gabriel, where it belonged. This, however, was different. Though for nearly four months he'd denied his own knowledge into believing it to be other than Gabriel who had stolen Juliana, in the depths of himself he had known. It was fear that had held him from examining his accursed enemy too closely. In everything, Gabriel prevailed. He was what Bernart could never be, had what Bernart could never have—Juliana.

Jealousy tightened his chest. Aye, he'd wanted a son, but Juliana had not done it for him. It was for her imbecile sister she'd broken her marital vows. That knowledge had pained him deeply, and he knew deeper pain when he again put a question to himself that begat others: Had Juliana lied? Told Gabriel of the plan to steal a son from him, plotted with him to take her from Tremoral? If so, what of Alaiz? Had Gabriel refused to take her and Juliana allowed it as she would never have allowed Bernart, placing Gabriel not only above her husband but her sister?

Bernart squeezed his hands closed, then splayed them. Nay, he would not believe it! Juliana had been stolen. As long as she believed he held Alaiz his secret was safe. And none would tell her different. He looked to Blase De Vere. Dead? If not, then soon.

He turned away. It was time to prepare for the journey to France.

"Pray, help me. I cannot do it alone." The woman's voice dragged Blase from the comfort of senselessness as it had done when he lay on the floor of the wood—how long ago? He slit an eye and looked to where she struggled beneath his arm over her shoulder. When he had lain at Bernart's feet, he had thought it mere imagining that he'd seen the village woman who'd offered herself to him. For some reason, she had risked her life to come to his aid.

Determinedly, he commanded his legs to take some of the weight from her. It was not much, but mayhap enough to see them to his mount.

"We are nearly there," she huffed.

The ravine. With effort, he opened his other eye and moved his gaze from side to side. "There," he croaked, catching sight of the horse.

"I see him."

Though he longed to close his eyes, he looked to his right shoulder, then his left side, from which the woman had drawn the sword. Too much blood. Only God's miracle would see him to the nearest abbey and heal him. And surely the Almighty was too busy for one so unworthy. But if He would only abide this undeserving life a bit longer, mayhap warning could be sent to Gabriel. God help him....

Chapter Nineteen

France

As it would likely be all the time she had with her child, no more did Juliana squander. She touched her belly as she'd rarely allowed herself, curved an arm around it when she lay down, sang to it, loved the child within. Though the past three weeks had been spent in solitude, excepting brief visits by the guard who brought her food, drink, and coal for the brazier, it was only solitude in that she could not set eyes to the one who shared her quiet. He turned, flopped, stretched such that she could put a hand to his little foot until he pulled it back. Instinct told her the babe was a boy, that Gabriel's seed would bring forth a child who would one day stand as tall and wide as his father, whose eyes would be the same startling gray.

She caught her breath at the vision and shook her head to dispel Gabriel. It hurt too much to love a man who hated her so deeply. From his voice that carried to the tower, she knew he came often to the outer bailey to oversee work on the inner wall. At such times, she closed the shutters, sang more loudly to her little one, more vigorously applied needle to the disassembled bliaut from which she'd fashioned four garments to keep the winter and spring chill from the babe. So tiny were they, but the delight a mother ought to feel in handling them was not hers. Thus, she put them to the bottom of the chest.

She sighed, fingering the embroidery around the neck of the fifth garment. It was almost finished, but as with each time she neared completion of one of the tiny garments, she was loath to place the final stitches.

She pushed her awkward bulk off the bench, crossed to the chest, and raised the lid. She set the scissors aside and folded the tiny garment.

The scrape of metal on metal brought her head around. She frowned at the door. Supper already? Had time passed so quickly? Not that she wished it to, for the more it dragged the longer she had with her child.

She drew a deep breath, returned her attention to the chest, and lifted a blanket from atop the four tiny garments. Though all were of the same material, each was of a different cut. Her son would look handsome in green.

Behind, the door opened and the guard stepped within, but she ignored him. She and the man rarely spoke, the last time being a fortnight past when she'd entreated him to seek out Lissant to obtain her sewing implements. Grudgingly, he'd done so. Whether Gabriel had given his consent, she had not asked.

As she bent to place the fifth garment, she realized it was too quiet, no movement about the room as when a tray was brought her. She looked over her shoulder.

Gabriel. Head and shoulders barring the doorway, he stared at her.

Juliana could not prevent her start. Forgetting the reward of subtlety, she dropped the baby's garment atop the others, thrust the blanket over them, slammed the lid, and spun around.

Suspicion narrowed Gabriel's lids.

Lord, what fool was she? She clasped her hands beneath her belly. It was a mistake, for it emphasized the swell and drew his gaze. She crossed her arms over her chest. "For what do you come to my prison, Lord De Vere?"

He lingered upon the evidence of her advancing pregnancy, then stepped inside and closed the door. "What plan you now, Juliana?"

Unable to bear what would be revealed did he look upon the tiny garments, she shook her head. "Naught. What is it you wish?"

He crossed the room, then halted before her. "I wish to see what you hide."

It hurt to look upon him. "I hide naught." She lowered her gaze. "You surprised me, is all. I thought 'twas the guard who came."

Gabriel's hands settled onto her shoulders, his firm touch causing her to ache for those nights so long ago. If only the man who had come to her in the garden at Tremoral and told her he'd not easily surrendered his friendship with Bernart would show himself again. If she could tell him what Bernart demanded of her...

"Then you are resolved to it?" he asked.

She floundered before making sense of what he asked. She tilted her head back and drew a deep breath. "How can one be resolved to losing one's child?"

A muscle jerked at his right eye. "I could almost believe you, and I am more the fool for it, but you will forget this child as easily as you did your marriage vows."

She looked to her belly between them, trying to hold back her emotions. She could not. "I did not forget my marriage vows. That is where you err, Gabriel."

Silence, deep and moving.

"Then put me right, Juliana."

The strain in his voice returned her gaze to his. "If I could, do you not think I would?"

The softening swept from his face. "As you would have it." His hands tightened on her shoulders, then set her back from the chest. "I will see what deception you work."

As much as she longed to fling herself upon the chest, to keep hidden that within, she turned and crossed to the barred window. If not now, Gabriel would know when he sent her away.

She heard the creak of the lid and winced.

"Scissors, Juliana? What do you with such?"

Then he had not consented to their being provided her. She fixed her gaze upon the inner wall and the workers there. Soon the repairs would be complete.

Gabriel rustled the contents of the chest, but he would find naught for her to escape him. Only pieces of her heart.

Silence.

She tensed, waiting—though for what she could not say.

When he moved behind her, she stopped her breath. When he turned her to him, she shuddered. "Why?" he asked.

She averted her gaze. "He—he comes into this world unclothed." Lord, how feeble, but she could not think clear with him so near. "Surely he ought to have—"

"Do you love this child?"

Aye. And his father.
She braved Gabriel's gaze. "Knowing you would take him from me, I have tried to not love him"—she pressed a hand to her belly—"but he is all that is mine. Though you... take him, he will always be a part of me."

Emotion slipped past the armor in which Gabriel clothed it. He squeezed his eyes closed.

Try though Juliana did to not feel his pain, she reached up and laid hands to either side of his face. "Pray, forgive me for what I did. Never did I intend you harm."

His lids lifted. Were those tears? As he stared into her, his pupils slowly spread, turned gray to black. Too late, she realized she should not have touched him so.

She stepped back, but he caught her to him. Undeterred by her belly between them, he lowered his head.

Juliana gasped. "Pray, Gabriel, this is not—"

"Aye, 'tis." His eyes traveled downward and fastened on her mouth.

"Nay, you do not want—"

"I do." He leaned forward and opened his mouth onto hers.

She pressed hands to his chest to push him away, but the familiarity beneath her palms poured memory through her, brought longing to the surface, roused a sigh that parted her lips and let him in.
Oh, Mother Mary.
She ought not to allow this... ought to pull away... ought...

He thrust his tongue against hers, causing response to quiver the place between her thighs.... ought to run... ought...

He curved a hand beneath her tender breast, and with his thumb brushed sweet ache to her nipple.... ought to hide... ought...

He slid his mouth from hers, licked and nipped down her neck, lapped the base of her throat. "Touch me, Juliana." His voice filled her. "Let me know you again."

... ought... ought... ought... She gasped into him, slid her hands up over his shoulders and into his hair. She was utterly lost. Only he could help her find her way out.

When he lifted her, she did not protest. When he laid her upon the bed, she reached to him. When he dragged his braies down, his man's root sprang forth.

Her ache trebled. To feel him again, to be one with him...

He pulled her skirts up around her hips, stopping at the sight of the swell that surely reminded him of the last time they had come together. But it did not turn him from her. Gently he parted her thighs, knelt between them, and put his hand to her. Finding the sensitive bud, he began drawing circles over it.

Melting warmth hurdled through her. She wanted this. Wanted to hold this moment to her always. She closed her eyes and began to move her hips to his touch.

"Aye," he said, and slid a finger into her heat.

With a small cry, she arched, willing him inside.

His hand came away, and his hard length pressed against her woman's place, but then he stilled. "You would have me stop?" His voice was weighted. "Ask it and I shall."

Could he? She looked up at where he bent over her belly, met eyes of black. Though she knew she ought to preserve what was left of her, she shook her head. She needed to feel him inside her, to move with him, to don wings.