Leigh, Tamara (26 page)

He began to drag her skirts up.

"Nay!" she cried, and thrust her hands to his chest.

He knocked them aside and struck her so hard across the face her head snapped back against the wall. Alaiz struggled between consciousness and that which would close her mind to ravishment, but as appealing as the latter was, she refused it.

"I'll warn you no more," he said, face contorted. "Yield or I shall kill you."

She raised her chin. "Kill me."

His brow lowered. "Then that I shall, my lady—after I finish with you." He yanked her from the wall.

She landed on her hands and knees. Blood thundering in her ears, she tried to rise.

He planted a booted foot to the middle of her back, sending her sprawling upon the dirt floor. "Patience," he murmured.

Alaiz glanced over her shoulder. He tugged at the ties of his braies. And in that moment, she remembered the dagger. Though each morn she donned it, it had become so much a part of her she'd forgotten the reason for carrying it. She reached, found the slit in the side of her gown, and closed her hand around the hilt. As she drew it forth, the thought struck her that it would be of no use in her present position.

Think! she ordered her cluttered mind. She saw again those knights on the tournament field who were beaten to the ground, heard their shouted surrender.

"I yield!" she cried. "Take me and be done with it."

A grunt of triumph issued from Sir Randal. He lifted his foot. "Remove your gown."

Slowly, she turned onto her back and looked up at where he stood with legs planted wide, unfastened braies visible beneath the hem of his tunic. Not yet. She curbed the desire to seize the dagger. She levered up.

"Be quick," he snapped.

She straightened, then took a step back. Making a pretense of reaching for her laces, she plunged her hand through the slit and captured the dagger. She swept it forward.

Astonishment flashed across the knight's face, followed by fury. He took a step toward her.

Alaiz shook her head. "Leave me be, else / shall kill you."

It gave him pause. "I believe you would," he murmured, "providing you had the skill and strength to match a knight,
my lady
." He lunged, throwing his arm up to strike the dagger from her.

Guided by fleeting lucidity, Alaiz slashed the blade downward and caught his forearm.

He staggered, gaping at the blood seeping through his sleeve.

Alaiz wrenched free of her own disbelief and ran. The devil followed.

She gripped the dagger with one hand, snatched up her skirts with the other, and took the steps two at a time. She'd spanned only half the stairs when he knocked her facedown.

"I shall kill you!" he bellowed where he spread upon her. He closed his hand around hers that held the dagger, pried a finger free and forced it back. It snapped.

Alaiz screamed and released the hilt.

He turned her and pressed the blade to her throat.

With gasping sobs, she tried to focus on him where he straddled her. Aye, he would kill her, but not before gaining what he'd come for.

Cool air swept Alaiz's legs as he lifted her skirts. Though she longed to resist, to do so would cause the blade to penetrate her throat.
Dear God, preserve me
.

A whisper of sound met her ears. Though she knew it was likely a rat, she rolled her eyes up—and stopped her breath at the blade's edge. Someone stood on the landing. But for what did they stand there? Surely they saw what Sir Randal did.

"Aye," he said softly.

Alaiz slid her gaze to him and saw that he lowered himself toward her.
Nay!
Uncaring whether the blade carved her neck, she brought her knee up and impacted with his groin.

He howled, clutched at himself, and collapsed atop her.

The dagger clattered to the step alongside Alaiz's head. With her throbbing hand, she closed three fingers and a thumb around it.

Spewing curses and saliva, Sir Randal also reached for it.

She slashed the air, straining left and right.

He jerked back and seized her flailing wrist. And lost his balance. He hit the stairs first, then Alaiz, over and over until they hit the bottom.

Pain bursting through her, she forced her lids to part. It was not the dirt floor beneath her, but Sir Randal, his eyes wide where he stared beyond her.

Why did he not move? As the question sank into her, she felt something at her breast. She put her hands to the dirt floor, and on trembling arms raised herself from the knight. The dagger was embedded in his chest, and all around it ran his life's blood.

Alaiz clapped a hand to her mouth and staggered to her feet. Trembling harder, she looked down her front. Her bodice was stained red. "Nay," she said under her breath.

The creak of the stairs spun her around.

"What have ye done, Lady Alaiz?"

Nesta.

"I... he..." Her mind was slipping away, jumbling, tossing.

Nesta descended the stairs, stepped past her, and bent beside the knight. "Ye have killed Sir Randal." She looked over her shoulder.

Alaiz shook her head. "I did not mean... It was a... You saw..."

Nesta straightened. "Murderer!"

Dear God!
Alaiz looked from the wench to Sir Randal, back to the accusation that shone from hating eyes. With a sob, she grasped the railing and fled to her chamber.

She barred the door, then pressed herself against it and slid to the floor.

Cradling her injured hand to her chest, she stared at the room before her. Though Nesta had witnessed Sir Randal's assault and knew his death to have been an accident, she had named Alaiz a murderer. What if she were believed? What would Bernart do?

Alaiz buried her face in her hands.
I
need you, Juliana.

France

The stone moved.

Juliana gasped and lowered the rock she used in place of a mallet. Moments earlier, the chisel had worked freely in the furrowed mortar, but now it was wedged beneath the stone that had succumbed to her efforts.

She began to tremble.
Finally!
She slumped back onto her heels. The past three months of stealth, scraping, chipping, broken nails, and callused hands had not been for naught. Providing God did not now abandon her, within a fortnight she would be with her sister.

She pressed her linen-wrapped palms together. "Hear me, God; let no harm befall Alaiz before I return."

Knowing Lissant would soon come abovestairs to rouse her from her nap, she wiped her eyes on her dusty sleeve, then looked at the stone and touched it.
Patience.
She had come too far to risk being discovered. Tomorrow would be soon enough to work the stone free.

She quickly cleared the mortar dust and stowed it and the rock in her pouch. She eyed the chisel, deciding against attempting to free it. Wedged as it was, it could be used to pry the stone loose.

As she awkwardly gained her feet, she glanced at her protruding belly. In less than two months she would push forth Gabriel's child, but not here. Not at Mergot. Though the journey before her was daunting, she would make it back. Then Alaiz would be safe.

There was something different about Juliana: a glow that was not of the fire's heat, a light in eyes that had been dark these past months, and a nervousness that bespoke impatience.

Gabriel had first noticed it yestereve during supper. However, as with most things that had anything to do with her, he'd ignored it. It was better that way, though perhaps not in this instance.

He filled his tankard at the sideboard, took a swallow, and returned his gaze to where she sat before the hearth. The gown she altered to accommodate her increased girth lay untouched in her lap, while beside her Lissant plied her needle and chattered as if her mistress heard every word. Juliana did not. Her gaze was rooted across the hall, restless hands the only movement about her. She clasped and unclasped them, ground her palms together, plucked at her gown.

What was she thinking?

"Even with child, she is the most beautiful of women," Blase murmured as he halted alongside Gabriel.

Gabriel glanced sharply at his brother, resenting the familiar, contemplative look upon his face: lids narrowed, mouth pursed, head cocked. No doubt he wished to impart that holy wisdom he was expert at dispensing, but for which he, himself, had little regard.

" 'Tis increasingly difficult to believe she is capable of that which you accuse her," Blase continued.

"Because she has a lovely face?" Gabriel scoffed. "For as much time as you spend between a woman's thighs, still you have much to learn about the other sex, little brother."

Blase looked at him, arching an eyebrow. "Not so much as you have to learn about the heart and soul, big brother. From what I have observed these past months, Juliana is not one who easily deceives. In fact, there is something true about her."

True?
If not that Blase's words struck jealousy in him, Gabriel would have laughed. Well he remembered the day three months past when he had come upon Juliana and his brother in the hall: Blase's laughter, Juliana's smile. For the hundredth time since, he questioned whether Blase had fallen victim to Juliana's beauty. He tensed. "Do you think yourself in love?"

Blase chuckled. "Do you?"

The question unsettled Gabriel. He, Gabriel De Vere, in love? With Juliana Kinthorpe? Impossible. He desired her, and that need would be quenched once he took a wench to bed. If not that he was occupied with the affairs of Mergot, he would have done so long ago. But he would do it—and soon. He shot his brother a thunderous look that should have withered him. It did not.

"As for me," Blase said, "do you forget, I am a priest. Hence I am forbidden such love. But 'tis not forbidden you, Gabriel."

Why did he tolerate such talk? Were it any other who spoke thus, he would quickly teach them their place. "Hatred is all I feel for her," Gabriel said, though he had long ago accepted it for a lie.

"Ah, but hatred and love entwine. What you hate deeply grows from having loved deeply."

"Is that what your Bible tells you?"

Blase shrugged. "If it does, I have not read it. But then, there is much I have not read in those exalted pages."

"No doubt." Gabriel quaffed the remainder of his ale and set his tankard atop the sideboard. "Be assured, brother, I want only the child Juliana carries."

"Do you? I am not blind, Gabriel. More, I know you as well as anyone can know you. Though you rarely glance her way, she is ever upon your thoughts. She sits at table and you speak not a word to her, but she might as well be on your lap for all the suffering you endure."

Gabriel clenched his hands into fists. "Were you not my brother, you would suffer for such foolish talk."

Blase smiled. "I am most fortunate."

Infuriating!
"Even where you are concerned, there are limits to my patience. Thus I suggest you speak no more of this."

Blase nodded. "As you would have it." Gabriel turned to go. "I received a missive today." Gabriel came back around. "From?" "The bishop of Briarleigh. He has called me to England." "And?"

"I leave on the morrow." Gabriel frowned. "For what reason?" Blase laughed. 'The bishop is my master, Gabriel." "Aye, yet rarely do you allow his summons to move you."

"True, but 'tis time I left Mergot."

"I have need of you here." Gabriel had come to depend upon him, especially as he, himself, was minimally learned in letters and numbers.

"You do not need me," Blase said. "Another can as easily keep your books. Perhaps Juliana."

"Juliana?"

"It would give her something to while away the hours."

Blase hoped to force them together. "Your scheme will not work, Blase."

He appeared unconcerned. "Even so, I leave on the morrow."

Was Juliana privy to his plan? Was this the reason for the change? He glanced across the hall. Her hand was on her belly, stroking it as he had not seen her do before, as if she were going to be a mother to the child. His chest tightened. Blase was a fool to believe she sought anything other than her release.

"You won't take the child from her," he said.

Wouldn't he? Gabriel turned his gaze to his brother, and found himself confronted with one he hardly recognized.

Blase looked older, his young face drawn with seriousness that, for once, matched his outspoken wisdom. "You will not," he affirmed. "You feel too much for her."

Gabriel had had enough. "Godspeed your journey," he said in a growl, and turned on his heel. It having been a long time since he'd found a good night's rest, he decided to seek his bed. Upon entering the solar, he dragged his clothes off, scooped them from the rushes, and threw open the chest at the foot of the bed. As he tossed the garments inside, something caught his eye. He reached for it, knowing what it was the moment he touched the fine weave. He drew it forth.

Juliana's chemise, the one she'd left behind on the second night she'd come to him. He rubbed the material between his fingers, stirred as he recalled it gliding over her silken flesh, the pleasure he had given and taken as if they were the truest of lovers. Far different from the first night, when he'd consumed too much drink. Though his memory of their initial joining was vague, he knew Juliana had not enjoyed it. In fact, more than once she'd reacted as if he were hurting her. As if she were inexperienced in love-making. But that was not possible. As for the scant blood she'd left on his sheets, it had to have been her monthly flow.

He wadded the chemise, pushing it to the bottom of the chest, where Juliana's wedding ring and girdle lay atop a dozen or more unopened missives his father had sent him these past years. He dropped the lid, extinguished the torch, and climbed between the sheets. As chill as they were, they did naught to cool his loins. He groaned, turning onto his stomach to subdue his straining manhood. Blase was wrong. This was desire. Were he not so tired, he would send for a wench and take his relief.

An hour later, he awoke from a fitful sleep even more aware of his need for the woman who slept in the chamber beside his.