Authors: Blackheart
"When he is gone"—Bernart jutted his chin toward the lower tables—"and your whoring is done, I shall leave off drink."
Her whoring. Tears spurted to her eyes. She drew a deep breath to prevent them from spilling over. "As you will. Unhand me."
He released her.
She yanked her hand into her lap, then opened and closed it to determine if anything was damaged. Only sore. What would Bernart do if he knew the pleasure Gabriel had given her? That the hate she had once borne his enemy was no more? That he made her feel the woman Bernart could not make her feel? He must never know.
Affecting poise she was far from feeling, she turned her attention to the trencher.
Gabriel pondered what he'd witnessed. The tension between Juliana and Bernart had been palpable as they conversed quietly between themselves, and grown more so when she had laid a hand to his sleeve. Gabriel had glimpsed her tears and Bernart's fury, and against his will had been moved by Juliana's plight—whatever it might be.
Did Bernart know his wife betrayed him the same as he did her? Perhaps. Did he know with whom she betrayed him? Nay. If he did, this moment he would be drawing his sword over a treacherous woman.
But was she treacherous? The unbidden thought crept in before Gabriel could close his mind to it.
Was
he the first lover Juliana had taken? Had she spoken true when she'd professed to have feelings for him? He wanted it to be so. Though he named her a whore, he was pained by the thought he might be one of many she lay down for, wanted to believe that what they'd shared last eve went beyond a quest for revenge, that when he left Tremoral no others would come after him, that none would know her touch, her sweet cries—
God's blood!
Juliana and Bernart might be estranged, but that did not mean they didn't seek pleasure in the other. When Gabriel was long gone from this place, Juliana would once more lie down for her husband.
The acknowledgment filled Gabriel with the strength of an emotion he'd never felt, one that forced him to admit something he had spent all day denying: in spite of his contempt for all Juliana embodied, he wanted her. He was even more of a fool than his father.
He growled low. Any other woman would serve just as well. He searched the multitude of servants for the one who had more than once promised to come to him, but had yet to keep her word. It was no great difficulty to distinguish the lascivious wench from the others. Hips rolling, generous breasts swelling her neckline, Nesta plied her pitcher for those seated at the next table. As Gabriel watched, a knight pinched her buttocks. She squealed merrily and leaned forward, inviting the man to test the ripeness of her breasts. He squeezed each in turn, then slid a coin between them.
Aye, she would do.
Chapter Eight
All had imbibed too much, as witnessed by the fervor with which they took to the floor when the dancing commenced. Knights and ladies set aside pretensions, squires and men-at-arms abandoned their posts, and servants forgot their duties to join in what could best be called a violent sport. Couples, be they of the opposite sex or the same, took hold of one another's hands and whirled themselves around, and more furiously as the tempo of the music increased.
Juliana had also had more to drink than usual. Thus Alaiz was able to coax her onto the dance floor. Hand in hand they swung themselves around. Though they were jostled by others, Juliana hardly noticed as she hearkened back to a time when such things had not been unknown to them. As girls they'd often attended celebrations their father held for visiting nobles—far happier times than these.
She closed her eyes and remembered the last time she had danced thus—days prior to Bernart's departure for the Crusade. She recalled the strong hands that had held hers as they whirled around, Bernart's smile, the sparkle in his eyes, the words of love he mouthed amid the din. How sweet her suffering had been, secure as she was in the knowledge that it would end upon his return from the Holy Land, when they would wed. Unlike other women who were forced to marry men they did not love, who were destined to worship their lover from afar, Juliana would one day attain her true love, know his kiss and touch, bear his son....
She opened her eyes. It was not Bernart's face before her, but Alaiz's. It was not the year 1189, but 1195. It was not Bernart's son she would bear, but Gabriel's. Perhaps.
The blur beyond her sister—faces, bodies, tables, tapestries—was suddenly too much for her. She stumbled, tried to right herself, stumbled again. A moment later, she and Alaiz toppled on the floor.
The whirling sensation, coupled with the drink Juliana had consumed, was heady. How long she teetered on all fours, she didn't know, but when she looked up, Alaiz's wavering face was before her.
"Shall we do it again?" Alaiz said with an expectant smile.
Juliana looked around. Past swirling skirts and hosed legs, she saw that others shared their fate—and were even more at risk of being trampled by the dancers than were she and Alaiz, who'd gone down near the outside of the throng. "Methinks I have had enough," she said.
"Once more," Alaiz pleaded.
Juliana shook her head. "Do I, I fear I shall not rise again." She sat back on her heels, but it was too soon.
She pressed her palms back to the rushes and drew a deep breath.
Alaiz sighed. "Very well."
"You could ask another to partner you," Juliana suggested. As long as she was present to watch over her sister, there could be no harm in it. In fact, it would be good for her.
Alaiz colored. "Me?'
"Aye."
Alaiz worried her teeth over her bottom lip. "Who would I ask?"
Juliana turned her head to peer through the dancers. Sir Randal, the knight who was ever watching Alaiz, was the first her gaze fell upon. She dismissed him, for in that direction lay danger. She looked beyond to where several knights were gathered before the hearth, among them Gabriel. He sat back from the others, and at his side stood Nesta. As Juliana watched, he pulled the wench onto his lap, said something that made him grin and her laugh, and nuzzled her neck.
Emotion stole Juliana's breath—jealousy, and deeper than that which she'd felt the day she had come upon Bernart beneath the skirts of another woman.
"Sir Erec, perhaps?" Alaiz suggested.
Juliana silently repented for the wickedness of her soul, then followed her sister's gaze to the knight who stood at the edge of the dance floor. As Sir Erec watched the frenzied spectacle, a half smile played on his lips, a smile that begged to be whole.
"Aye," Juliana said, "he will do."
Alaiz stood and swiped the rushes from her skirts, then offered Juliana her hand.
How odd, Juliana mused. As simple a gesture as it was, she did not expect it. Always it was she helping Alaiz. She accepted her sister's hand and stood.
Carefully avoiding feet, elbows, flung-back heads, they wove among the dancers. When a knight and his lady went down in their wake, sending the woman's skirts over her head, Juliana and Alaiz paused to exchange grins.
"What if Sir Erec s-says no?" Alaiz asked as they stepped from the dance floor.
Would he? Juliana hoped the knight would not be so cold. "If he declines, simply take his arm and pull him onto the floor."
Alaiz beamed. "I will hold on tight and not let go till he... he turns me 'round a hundred times!"
Finally they were clear of the dancers. "Go on," Juliana said. "I will watch."
Alaiz pushed her shoulders back and crossed to Sir Erec's side. A few moments later, the knight led her onto the dance floor.
Juliana sighed. Never must she forget that out of every ill came some good.
He had yet to have her and already he was weary of her. Gabriel slid his gaze over the half of Nesta's breasts exposed by her low neckline. She smelled, talked and laughed too loudly, and groped him as if they were alone. Naught subtle about her. Naught sweet.
"Let us go abovestairs," she suggested again, and rubbed her outer thigh against his manhood.
"What of he who has kept you from my bed these past nights?"
She wriggled on his lap, seeking his hardening. " 'Tis not of my doing, but Lord Kinthorpe's. He makes most generous with me." There was resentment in her tone. Obviously she did not like servicing Bernart.
Was he cruel? The thought of him doing Juliana harm burned Gabriel. Mayhap it was simply that Bernart did not pleasure women, that he quickly took his ease in them and turned away. Gabriel sometimes did the same himself, though not last eve, when the dark had once more brought Juliana to him in the guise of a kitchen wench. More than himself he had wanted to pleasure her.
"Son of a sow!" Nesta said in a his.
Gabriel looked up. Contempt curled the wench's lips as she stared across the hall. He followed her gaze to Bernart. Seated in the lord's chair, from which he had not moved since the great feast was served, he motioned Nesta to him.
Was this Bernart's revenge—taking what he thought Gabriel wanted? Never knowing that in doing so it freed his wife to work her own revenge?
"He will have me on my back again!" Nesta spat. "What does he think me? A whore?"
Gabriel was grateful his mouth was not full of ale.
Nesta spun her gaze to him. "Ye ought to have taken me when you had the moment."
Why hadn't he? There had been plenty of opportunity. Instead he had sat with her perched on his lap this past hour so that Juliana might see how unaffected he was by what had happened between them. But it was she who had taken to the dance floor as if the night past, and this day, had not been.
" 'Tis yer own fault," Nesta accused.
"So 'tis."
She heaved a fetid sigh. "And this yer last night at Tremoral." He nodded.
Suddenly she smiled. "I shall finish as soon as I can and come to ye then." She traced his jaw with a sharp fingernail. "No. matter the hour."
How unappealing.
Gabriel withdrew his arm and lifted her off his lap.
Nesta turned toward the dais.
Though Gabriel told himself he wanted naught more to do with Juliana Kinthorpe, he searched her out. She stood back from the dance floor. Alone. Beautiful in spite of the sorrow that had returned to her face. Had he not confronted her, would she have risked coming to him a third time? In that moment, Gabriel wished he'd been blind a bit longer.
Damn!
He ought to have left Tremoral the moment he'd gained his reward.
It was well past midnight when the feasting drew to a close, and only then because the revelers could hold no more drink. Stretched out where they had taken their last swig, they snored noisily and grumbled at the dreams racing behind their spasming lids.
By the dim light of exhausted torches, Juliana picked her way amongst the sprawled bodies toward the lord's table. Was Bernart there? She stepped up to the dais and saw he was slumped in his chair. Before she and Alaiz had earlier gone abovestairs, she had watched him consume enough wine and ale to satisfy two men half again his size. How much he had drunk after she left, she did not know, but it had reduced him to the state of unconsciousness he'd sought. Though it meant she no longer need worry about going to Gabriel, it boded no good for the morrow, when any who crossed Bernart's path would know his wrath. Perhaps he would not regain consciousness until after the tourneyers left Tremoral, but if he did...
If he did, it was Gabriel he would turn on. Juliana looked to the stairs. She had kept to the solar until she'd heard Gabriel enter his chamber a quarter hour earlier. Could she convince him to leave Tremoral this night? What reason could she offer him for doing so? She must try.
Dreading the encounter, she crossed the hall and climbed the stairs with weighted feet. At the landing, she paused. As when she had left the solar, a light shone from beneath Gabriel's door. She crossed the corridor, pushed the door inward, and stepped inside.
He stood before the glowing brazier with his back to her and his dark head crowned by the light of a torch. "I told you not to come again," he said gruffly.
She closed the door. "I come only to ask you to leave Tremoral."
He turned. His face was drawn with nearly as much anger as when they had last stood in this chamber. "This night?"
"Aye."
"Why?"
She moistened her lips. "Methinks Bernart knows."
His eyebrows clipped. "If he does, then surely 'twould be him come to me."
"He has drunk himself into unconsciousness. When he awakens on the morrow, I fear he will—"
"Do me harm?"
The derision in his voice wound Juliana's fear tighter. "He will seek retribution."
"Then you do not intend to tell him the truth about our tryst."
She averted her gaze. " 'Tis my sin, and I shall tell him so if need be."
Silence slipped in and grew heavy.
Gabriel strode across the chamber to where she stood. "What would he do to you?"
Was it concern in his voice? She looked up. It was also in his eyes. Why? Did he not hate her? Should he not be pleased with the thought of Bernart's punishment?
Gabriel lowered his hands to her shoulders. "Does he hurt you?"
His unexpected touch unnerved her, sent feeling coursing through her. "He does not strike me." "But you fear him."
Almost as much as she feared Gabriel's nearness. "Only when he has had too much to drink."
Gabriel's brow lowered. "Bernart never had trouble holding his drink."
Disturbed by the stirring of her senses, Juliana took a step back, but Gabriel did not release her. "As I told you, he is changed from the man who accompanied you to Acre. His demons bind him hand and foot."
Once more, regret rose on Gabriel's face. "And you are made to suffer for the wrong he believes I did him."
It was true, but if he did not leave Tremoral this night, come morn he might be the one made to suffer. "Pray, Gabriel, leave now. You know not what Bernart is capable of."
He stared at her, searched her face, lingered upon her mouth. "What is it you feel for me?" he asked softly.
Though his hands warmed her through the material of her gown, chill bumps rose across her skin.
Ah, God.
She stepped back. Gabriel followed. Another step and she came up against the door.