Authors: Blackheart
It was pleasurable. Though such ministrations were not new to him, he had never cared to be suckled. In fact, he'd always found it more of an annoyance than a stimulant.
The moment before climax, he strained into the mattress in an attempt to withdraw, but she sat back, clamped her knees against his sides, and held him inside. With a shout, he spilled his seed into her. Again and again he spasmed until he could give no more. Finally he opened his eyes.
The woman straddling him was still, the only movement about her the slight rise and fall of her breasts. What did she look like? Was her face as beautiful as that which his hands had learned? "You have pleased me greatly," he said.
She said naught.
Gabriel pulled her to him. As her breasts settled against his chest, she turned her face into his neck. She felt like no woman he had ever been with. Draped in hair he imagined to be auburn color, he fondled her hip, the small of her back, her ribs, her nape. "I thank you, Isolde." She nodded.
He turned onto his side and levered up. "I wish to see you."
Were fear capable of being held, it would be as ponderous as that wh
ich
leaped from her. She grasped his arm. "Nay, I..." It was a long moment ere she found the words. "I am disfigured."
Disfigured? That was the reason she hid herself in
night?
He reached to lay fingers to her cheek.
She captured his hand. "Pray, do not shame me."
Her scared, husky voice stilled him. Though it was hard to believe this woman whose body was shaped by divine hands did not possess the face of a temptress, it would account for the darkness in which she came to him and her refusal to allow his mouth upon hers. What had happened to her? Had she been born disfigured? Maimed later in life? He wanted to ask, to know more about her, but sensed it would frighten her away.
"I am sorry," she whispered, and started to rise. "I will leave you now."
Did she think him repulsed? Angered? Gabriel pulled her back. "Do not."
He sensed her surprise. "You wish me to stay?"
He slid a hand up from her ribs and cupped her breast. "I do." He bent his head and caught her nipple between his teeth.
She was slower to respond than before, but finally they joined again. Straining with ache, Gabriel once more allowed Isolde her pleasure, then moved in search of his own. As he neared climax, her hands on his hips urged him onto his side. She wanted to mount him again, he realized, but he was too near to stop now.
Withdraw,
his conscience shouted. Too late. The spasms were more satiating than any he had known, Isolde's body holding him warm and tight. It felt good to quake inside her.
Supported on outstretched arms, Gabriel drew a deep breath. It was several minutes before he calmed enough to think clearly, but when he did, he was pricked with regret. Though it was too dark to make out more than the curve of Isolde's jaw, he felt her gaze.
He hoped it wasn't her time of breeding, that nine months from now a nameless child would not be born of their union. "Damn," he muttered, and fell onto his side.
He had never been with a woman who could so easily make him forget the vow that had served him well all these years. Now, twice in one night, he'd chanced impregnating her. In future, he would have to be more careful. He would—
There was no future for them, he reminded himself. He was little more than a knight errant, living tourney to tourney to raise the funds to rebuild Mergot, she a kitchen maid in the household of Bernart Kinthorpe. That aside, he did not want a woman in his life. To ease his man's need, aye, but for the moment only.
Isolde touched his shoulder, the brush of her fingertips stirring his lax manhood. They had what was left of the night. He pulled her against him.
An hour later, he slept.
Juliana stared into the dark, every pore of her aware of the man beside her and the things he had made her feel. She trembled. This night she had made herself into Nesta and taken from Gabriel what he'd previously denied her.
If a child took, she would have to live with the terrible wrong she had done him. Of course, though he was careful where he scattered his seed, that did not mean he would care if a child were born of his unions. Bastards were more than common, few acknowledged or provided for by their fathers. Still, that did not make what she did right.
She turned her thoughts elsewhere. Why hadn't Gabriel sent her away when she'd told him she was disfigured? What kind of blackheart was he?
The kind who made her feel the impossible,
her heart whispered.
The kind who had not easily given up his friendship with Bernart...
Knowing the dawn was soon to come, she eased off the bed and gathered her bliaut, mantle, and slippers. However, her chemise was nowhere to be found. She rose from searching the floor. The bed? A few moments later, she grasped the familiar material and pulled it toward her. It resisted. Inwardly she groaned. What else could go awry? If she attempted to free the garment from beneath Gabriel, it would likely awaken him, and she could ill afford to spend this last hour ere dawn with him. She had to leave the chemise. Would he notice it come morn? She prayed not.
She donned her clothes, drew the hood of her mantle over her head, unbarred the door, and slipped from Gabriel's chamber. As she pushed the door of the solar inward, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Fearing what she might see, she peered into the shadows.
Bernart. He stood in the doorway of the chapel, face drawn, shoulders stooped, looking as if he'd not slept.
Though she knew there was no reason for it, Juliana was flooded with guilt, as if caught trysting with a lover, as if she were responsible for Bernart's pain. She wasn't.
All she had done was what he demanded of her. If he wanted, he could stop it.
He withdrew into the chapel and closed the door.
In the solar, Juliana let her clothes lie where they fell and, after completing her ablutions, sank down upon her cold bed. She lay there a long time seeking sleep, but the memories of this night were not easily put away. They filled her nostrils with the masculine scent of Gabriel, her mouth with the salty taste of him, her breast with emotions she dared not delve into.
She hugged her arms to her, turning her thoughts to those things she must tend to with the new day's rising. But it was useless. Her fingertips and palms tingled with remembrances of Gabriel's powerful chest, shoulders, arms. Worse, sensations coursed through her as if she were still joined with him.
There was no denying it. This night she had experienced something she had only ever dreamed of. In Gabriel's arms she'd finally discovered what it was like to be a woman to a man, to scale passion and return to earth more satisfied than she would have believed possible. Such pleasure. Such rapture. She wanted more.
With the admission came the guilt she had denied was her due. It sliced through her. She ought not feel what she had in Gabriel's arms. Ought to be sickened by what had happened. Ought to loathe the thought of going to him again. She didn't. God forgive her.
Chapter Seven
"I know not whether I ought envy you or pity you," Sir Erec said.
Gabriel lowered himself to the bench, lifted his tankard of morning mead. "What speak you of?"
The knight exaggerated a scowl. "You look as if you've not slept in days."
Except for an hour or two before Isolde came to him and after her departure, he had not.
"Was it the same wench?" Erec asked.
The clamor of the hall nettled Gabriel's nerves—loud voices and laughter, the clink and clatter of utensils, the scrape of benches, the yap and growl of two dogs battling over one bone. " 'Twas," he said, and speared a chunk of cheese on his dagger.
"Still you do not know who she is?"
"I do not." Though Gabriel told himself he shouldn't care, it bothered him that when he left Tremoral on the morrow all he would take with him was the name of the woman who'd once more been gone from his bed upon his awakening.
"You are certain 'tis none of them?" Erec jutted his chin to the expanse of hall where women servants bustled amid calls for food and drink.
Gabriel dismissed them with a glance. For certain, Isolde was in the kitchens where few could look upon her disfigurement. This eve, would she come to him one last time?
Laughter pulled his regard to the lord's table. It was without its lord. Once again, Bernart had departed early for the battlefield.
Cheeks flushed prettily, lips bowed wide, Alaiz leaned near her sister and uttered something that made her laugh anew. For the first time since coming to Tremoral, Gabriel saw Juliana smile. The gesture grooved her right cheek and brought a sparkle to her eyes, enhancing her beauty tenfold.
"Come, Gabriel, I did not ask whom you wish it to be," Sir Erec teased.
Gabriel looked around.
The knight grinned and popped a piece of bread into his mouth.
The man was a menace, always seeing more than he should, more than what was there. Still, something niggled at Gabriel. He returned his gaze to the dais and saw that Juliana had risen. She patted her sister's shoulder and stepped from behind the table.
Alaiz looked suddenly lost. Though Gabriel wasted little of his emotions on others, he felt for her. The life she'd been destined for was gone, and as no landed noble would take her to wife, neither had she the hope of marriage. Never would she know the touch of a man—
A thought struck Gabriel. Was it possible? He remembered the silken strands that had slid through his fingers, the figure his hands had learned, the husky voice the wench had all but kept to herself, the fine chemise he had found among the bedclothes....
Perhaps the one who'd come again last eve was not a wench, not disfigured. Perhaps she was Lady Alaiz wishing to be the woman her accident denied her. It fit, but did not. Was Alaiz, yet was not. Chest constricting, Gabriel jerked his head around.
Auburn hair confined to a plait that ran the length of her back, full breasts swelling the bodice of her gown, snug waist accentuated by an embroidered belt, Juliana directed the women servants with an efficiency that bespoke the lady of the castle. Not a wench. Never a wench. But could it be?
Sir Erec's words of minutes earlier echoed through him:
/ did not ask whom you wish it to be.
Was that all this was? Wishing for one who belonged to another? Gabriel summoned memories of yesterday, when Juliana had sought his kiss, memories of the night past, the night before. The scent of her, feminine. The feel, silken. Her touch, tentative one moment, urgent the next. Her whispered voice, sweetly husky. Her name, Isolde.
Realizing that if he inquired, there would be no kitchen maid in Bernart's household by that name, he tightened his hold on his meat dagger. Isolde existed only in the person of one who, as a child, had been surrounded by tales of love, her favorite being that of Tristan and Isolde. He had been blind—as if his eyes were put out!
"Gabriel?" Erec said.
Why had she given herself to her husband's enemy? In retaliation for Bernart's infidelities with Nesta and whomever else he took beneath him? Anger tightened every muscle in his body. Juliana had used him. She was a whore the same as his mother. "What is it, Gabriel?"
He leashed his emotions. "Naught." He finished his mead.
Juliana felt him. His eyes followed her, bore through her. Did he know? Had he discovered the chemise she'd left behind and realized it was hers? Perhaps not. Perhaps it was something else that caused him to look so heavily upon her.
She had to know. Praying she did not appear anxious, she summoned a servant and instructed the woman to strew fresh herbs over the rushes, then lifted her skirts and crossed to the stairs. Shortly, she entered Gabriel's chamber.
Excepting the dust motes that stirred in the shaft of light bridging the space between window and rumpled bed, all was still.
She hurried across the room, put her knees to the mattress, and began searching the bedclothes. Naught. "Please, God," she implored, and tossed a pillow aside.
"You will not find it there." A deep voice shattered her prayer.
Juliana's heart hurtled into her throat.
Dear Lord, let this be but a terrible dream.
She closed her eyes, but when she opened them, the mattress she'd twice shared with Gabriel was beneath her knees. She swallowed hard. "Have you not a tournament to attend, Lord De Vere?"
The crush of rushes announced his advance. "Why?" he demanded.
She would deny it to her dying breath. Keeping her back to him, she lowered her feet to the floor, swept the covers from the bed, gathered them to her chest. When she turned, he stood three feet distant. "The bed must needs be stripped," she said, refusing him her gaze. "But first rifled?"
She looked beyond him and saw he'd closed the door. Fear pounded at her temples. She must get away. Clutching the bedclothes more tightly, she started past him.
He caught her arm and pulled her against him. "Why?"
She was grateful for the covers between them, but it was not enough. Summoning indignation, she snapped, "You forget your place, Lord De Vere. Unhand me!"
He grasped her chin, forced it up. "And where is my place?"
Her breath was much too labored. "Release me."
A caustic smile touched his lips. Combined with the unsightly bruise upon his cheekbone, it made him appear sinister. "You look tired, Juliana. Have you not slept well?"
She strained backward. "Let me go!"
"When you have answered me. For what reason did you seek my bed?"
"You think... How dare—"
"No more than you. Now tell me."
A dangerous man,
"I know not what you speak of."
"Mayhap this will help you remember." He lowered his mouth toward hers.
With a cry, she jerked her head to the side.
Gabriel's lips landed on her jaw. Laughter rumbled from his chest as he moved to her ear. "Should we make love by the light of day,
Isolde?"
He swept his tongue over her ear.