Authors: Blackheart
"I shall not ask it," she said softly. "Come unto me, Gabriel."
He stared at her, then levered up.
Ah, nay!
It was his revenge upon her. She closed her eyes and sank her teeth into her bottom lip to prevent pain from issuing from her mouth.
Large hands turned her onto her side, but ere she could question what Gabriel did, his warm body came against her back, his hands to her hips, his straining warmth between her thighs.
Then he did not mean to leave her? Was it possible to make love in such a manner?
He entered, sank deep, and remained so until she thought she might scream with want; then he began to stroke.
Juliana felt awkward, unsure how to move—until she let instinct guide her to another shade of heaven. Moving with Gabriel—faster, deeper—seeking that which he sought, she reveled in the sensations spinning through her. Her arousal more intense than the last time their bodies had met, she suddenly found herself lifted to that place unlike any on earth.
Her cry split the room, but was muted by Gabriel's shout. Their joint convulsing quaked the bed, easing them deeper into the mattress. When all was still, their hearts kept time one with the other.
It was as if they were lovers, as if they might now kiss, might whisper sweet words, might fall asleep entwined. If only it could be.
Juliana opened her eyes and looked to the windows. How she wished the world outside would disappear, that she and Gabriel could remain untouched forever. Trying not to hurt any deeper for what five weeks would make of her, she sighed in concert with the babe's turning.
Gabriel must have felt it, for he tensed. A moment later, Juliana took the tension from him when his hand followed the movement to the other side of her belly.
"He is strong," he murmured, leaving his arm curved around her, though all grew still.
She nodded. What she longed to say was that the babe was as his father. But she didn't dare—not so long as Bernart held Alaiz. If only Gabriel would bring her sister out of Tremoral...
She sighed. How long until Gabriel realized the error of what he—they—had done? How long until his accusations claimed more of her heart?
Please, God,
she silently entreated,
let this last a while longer.
Though it was not likely the Almighty would agree to so sinful a request, Gabriel's breathing turned deep. Fatigue urged her to find rest as well, but she denied it, sensing that when Gabriel awakened all would be as before they had lain together.
Over the next several hours, shadows crept the walls, gathered night about the unlit room, turned it to pitch. Unwaveringly conscious of the man at her back, Juliana held herself awake until she could no longer keep her eyes open. Before she surrendered to sleep, she sent up one last prayer that the new day would not find Gabriel gone from her.
Dawn brought with it the unkind reality of what he had done. His body unto Juliana's had changed naught, only proven that, in spite of the reason she'd first come to his bed, she longed for their mating as much as he. Still, she had stolen from him. Or had she? He stared at the auburn hair he'd breathed through the night. Why this uncertainty that grew with each day? Damning himself, he sat up.
Juliana murmured, shifted onto her back, and squeezed his fingers that curved her belly.
Until that moment, Gabriel had been too full of self-reproach to realize her hand was upon his—holding him to her as if to ensure he did not steal away. Why? He looked to her soft, fair-skinned fingers that contrasted with his callused and deeply tanned ones. Was it loneliness from these past weeks of confinement? Or did she truly wish him with her? She had not sent him away yesterday when he'd sought her consent. Indeed, she'd held naught from him—except that which she would tell only if he delivered Alaiz.
That last reminded him of the reason he'd come to her, though, in truth, it had been as much an excuse to see her again. He had sought her out to tell that which he'd been too angry to speak following her betrayal of weeks past— that Blase had returned to England and would inquire as to Alaiz's well-being. But though word had yet to arrive of her sister, he had not come to Juliana with the intention of laying her down. Not that it absolved him, for he'd known the temptation of being near her, especially with their child growing large in her—binding them as if man and wife. But they were not. Could never be.
He searched the swell beneath his hand, longed to see movement like that which he'd felt after they'd made love. He waited, but the babe was still. He frowned. Though he'd heard that lovemaking would do an unborn child no harm providing the mother was of good health, mayhap he'd heard wrong. He pulled his hand from beneath Juliana's and felt it across her silken flesh. No response.
Disquieted, he rose to his knees, laid hands to her belly, and put his ear to it. He heard the strong beat of a heart, but was it the child's? He searched to the side—naught. The other side—silence. Lower—he stopped his breathing, listening with eyes closed. There it was, rapid and steady. He let out his breath.
"Can you hear him?" Juliana asked softly.
Had he not years of masking his emotions, he would have revealed his surprise. How long had she watched? Looked upon his seeking? No matter. Had he made a fool of himself one minute or five, he remained a fool. He lifted his head and met her regard. "I heard him."
A smile touched her mouth. "Sometimes, when all the day is at rest, I can feel his beat beneath my hand."
He stared at her morning countenance—weighted lids, softly colored cheeks, bowed mouth, hair spread around her. It stirred him to new awakening. He ought not to have lingered. He dropped his feet to the floor and retrieved his braies and hose.
"You are leaving?"
Though he thought it regret in her voice, he did not pause in attaching his hose to his braies. "The morning's work has begun on the wall," he said as he reached for his boots.
"So it has," she murmured.
Sorrow, but he would not let it touch him. What had happened between them was done. It would not happen again.
He straightened and started across the chamber.
"For what did you come, Gabriel?"
That which was made more of a lie by his not having spoken it. Still, he did not break stride until he reached the door. He looked around and saw that she sat up, her belly gone beneath her skirts. "I came that you might know Blase has returned to England."
He was gone? Juliana blinked. "When?"
"Three weeks past."
That was the day she'd been sent to the tower and seen Blase depart the castle. She had thought he'd gone to a village from which he would soon return. Why had he left Mergot? Had it anything to do with her?
"Though he is to return to Briarleigh at his bishop's summons," Gabriel said, "I have given him instructions to first pass through Tremoral and make inquiry of your sister."
Though it was not what Juliana had asked in exchange for the truth she held from him, it was more than she'd hoped. "And what word has been brought you?"
Pray, let Alaiz be well.
His brow lowered. "None yet, but methinks within the fortnight we shall hear."
Then to tell her of Blase's departure was not all for which he had come? Could it be he longed to see her as much as she to see him? Or had he come but for an ease of his loins? As much as she yearned to reject the latter, she feared that to do so would be pure fancy. She loved Gabriel, but he could not love her—unless, perhaps, she told him the truth of the child.
He opened the door.
She blinked, groping for words to hold him. "Gabriel?"
He looked over his shoulder.
"I thank you." It was all she could form.
He nodded, stepped without, and closed the door. The key turned in the lock. Naught had changed.
She pressed a hand to her belly. Five weeks—that was all she had. What would happen to her son once she was gone? Would he be loved? Would he know more laughter than tears? To whose arms would he run for comfort? Could Gabriel give him all he needed? Would Gabriel? Something told her he would endeavor to do so, but a child needed its mother. A nursemaid could never give him the love he deserved.
In that moment, Juliana knew what she must do—that which her love for Alaiz and fear of Bernart's retaliation had too long held her from. She must trust Gabriel. But would he believe her, and if so, would he bring Alaiz out of Tremoral? She had to believe he would. And then? She was still Bernart's wife and could not remain hidden forever. She must speak to Gabriel.
She rose, crossed to the basin and washed herself in chill water, then waited for the guard to bring her morning meal.
Shortly, he appeared. Her request for him to send word to Gabriel was met with a frown, but he agreed. However, Gabriel did not come, nor the day after, nor the day after that.
Chapter Twenty
February 1196
The parchment crackled angrily as Gabriel put his fist around the words written by a monk of Briarleigh. Damn Kinthorpe to hell! A curse upon him and all come of his blood! Though Blase did not detail what had been done him, his injuries were serious enough that he'd been unable to inscribe the missive himself. Forget his assurance he would heal and soon return. It did naught for the fury that burned in Gabriel. Only one thing would cool it— Kinthorpe blood. But, according to the missive, he would not have to seek it out. It was coming to him. It could not come soon enough.
And what of Alaiz, accused of a murder she could not have committed? Was she in hiding? Or now, since her escape, had the dead man's family captured her? Likely. And the fault was Gabriel's. In truth, all of it was. If not for his revenge upon Juliana, Blase would not lie infirm, Alaiz would be safe under her sister's protection, and Bernart would not be bringing an army against Mergot to kill and maim any who came between him and that which he deemed his.
Gabriel thrust himself out of the lord's chair, staring at the empty hall. Though he bore the blame, still he hungered for Kinthorpe, and would not be content with anything less than victory. Thus, there was a vast amount to be done before the bastard came—weapons struck, completion of repairs to the inner wall, stores of food and water brought in, intensified training for his men.
He strode from the hall into a day heavy with such cold his breath billowed upon the air. For a moment, he entertained the idea that Kinthorpe might wait until the spring to cross the channel, but rejected it. Juliana's husband came soon to claim a child not his, a wife who ought not to be.
As Gabriel stepped into the outer bailey, he paused to look up at the tower. How did Juliana fare? He wondered often, listened intently to the guard's meager reports, but had not gone to her since the morning he'd awakened in the tower. Five times she had sent word, and each time he'd disregarded her requests. As he could not be so near her without wanting her, it was best he stayed away— now even more so. Did he go to her, she would surely inquire if word had come of her sister, and he would have to lie. Regardless of whether or not Kinthorpe arrived before the babe was born, Gabriel would not tell her of the missive. Its ill tidings presented too great a risk to her and their child.
But there was something he could do. Though it might prove in vain, he would send Sir Erec to England to root out Alaiz and, if she yet eluded her pursuers, bring her to France. This day he would send for his vassal.
For two days it had been thus—the gaps in the inner wall filling twice as quickly as on the days past, workers darting bailey to bailey with an urgency not heretofore present, the clatter of wagons loaded with food stores, the ring of the forging of steel synchronous with the sound of men hard in training. And it frightened her. It could mean but one thing: siege was coming to Mergot.
Juliana closed her eyes against the scene in the bailey, pressing fingers to her brow. Though she prayed Gabriel's neighbor and enemy, Baron Faison, was responsible, she knew it was Bernart come in the yawn of winter.
She dragged a hand down her face, then closed it over the other that grasped the scissors and trailing material at her swollen waist. If only Gabriel would answer her summons. If only he had brought Alaiz out of Tremoral with her. But he gave her naught with which to fight Bernart's claim upon her and the child they had made. Thus there would be bloodshed.
A gush of warmth wet her thighs, calves, and feet, eliciting a gasp. She took a step back, looking to the pool of water that seeped from beneath her skirts. And knew.
The scissors clattered to the floor. The green material drifted down and settled atop the sharp blades.
Dear God, no.
It was too early. Three weeks too soon. She pressed palms to her belly. Beneath her touch, it turned hard as it had done many times this past week. At first she had feared the tightening, but had calmed herself with the reminder that it was a normal part of those weeks preceding childbirth. Unfortunately, her knowledge of such things was limited to that overheard from serving women. But this she also knew: her waters had broken, meaning the babe would not be long in wailing from her body, its early arrival portending ill.
She nearly choked on a sob. Would her child be sickly, diseased, misshapen? Stillborn? Any or all of these as her punishment for the manner in which the babe was gotten? She would be deserving of such, but not this innocent who had naught to do with his getting.
She lifted her face heavenward. "Please, God, punish not this child. 'Twas I who sinned."
No answer but the easing of the hard ball of her belly.
She dropped her chin, gathered a quavering breath, then hugged her arms to her belly. No matter her child's infirmity, regardless of whether he was as befitted the heir Bernart came to steal from Gabriel, she would love him. Her next thought was bittersweet. Did Bernart deem the babe unworthy, he would have naught to do with him as he'd had naught to do with Alaiz—would gladly leave Gabriel his son. But would Gabriel accept such a child? Something told Juliana he would not turn away. She fought to hold her tears, but one after another brimmed over.