Leigh, Tamara (34 page)

Gabriel swept back to Tremoral... the garden... the words Juliana had spoken: she would do anything for her sister. So much unexplained now explained, so much without sense given sense. Still, he felt as if someone had tied his entrails into a hundred writhing knots. He detested what Juliana had been made to do, the shame he had put upon her when he'd accused her of laying with him to assure her place. As for Bernart, regardless whether or not Gabriel was to blame for his infirmity, Juliana's husband was reprehensible. Depraved. Vile.

"Until now," she said, looking to the cradle, "Alaiz is all I have had, all who has needed me." She reached a hand from beneath the coverlet and touched Gabriel's sleeve. "Had I not feared for what Bernart would do to her, I would have revealed the truth long ago. I would have trusted you."

Gabriel's self-loathing stretched. If Alaiz were not yet caught, soon she would be. Unless Erec succeeded in finding her and bringing her out of England, in that direction lay her death. Then there was Blase. Despite the assurances he would recover, he had surely come near death himself.

Juliana caught his hand hanging at his side and squeezed it. "Bernart is no longer the one with whom you trained for knighthood, Gabriel. He is no longer the man I loved when I was a child making believe I was a woman. But know that you are not responsible. Never could Bernart take his wrongs upon himself. For every failing another was to blame."

As Gabriel knew, but did it absolve him of that day at Acre when he'd turned from one who'd called him friend? He thrust the question from him, lifting his gaze to the shuttered window. He ought not have a conscience where Bernart was concerned, needed no absolution from one such as him. Though what had been done to Bernart at Acre had surely made him what he'd become, it did not excuse the suffering to which he'd subjected Juliana and Blase. Still, Gabriel could not cleanse himself of the burden that had vexed him for nearly five years. Now, even more, it was a stain upon him.

Juliana squeezed his hand tighter. "Look at me, Gabriel."

He closed his eyes, then a moment later opened them on her sad, beautiful face.

She tried to smile. "At Tremoral you spoke of coming upon me when, as a girl, I wept over Bernart's faithlessness. Do you remember?"

In the garden. He could not forget. "Aye."

"It was the first time I truly looked at you. The first time I saw beyond the young man who scorned my notions of love, whose disdain of women put me on edge. That day, I nearly came into your arms."

Well he remembered.

She swallowed. "Though Bernart insisted 'twas you who sent the wench to him—tempted him—after those moments in the garden I could no longer believe you capable of such ill."

So that was what Bernart had told her. It would have made Gabriel laugh did it not sting so. Bernart had never needed any to tempt him to a woman's thighs. Had he not given Juliana his vow of continence for fear her doting father would not honor the betrothal, that night he would have had another wench.

"In truth," she continued, "though I hated you for your betrayal at Acre as Bernart wished me to, I do not think I ever really believed it. Whatever happened—and I do not ask that you speak of it—the man I know you to be could not have betrayed."

How he longed for his heart to be in agreement. Emotions warring, he pulled his hand from her. "I have much work to do."

She drew a deep breath, then clasped her cast-off hand with the other. "In preparation for the siege?"

Had Lissant spoken what she should not? "What know you of it?"

"Only that seen of the activity in the bailey." She nipped her bottom lip. " 'Tis Bernart who comes?"

She was no dolt. "He does." Would the new fall of snow delay his crossing of the channel had he not already crossed? Likely, and of certain benefit, for it would give Gabriel more time to examine himself and Juliana's terrible revelation—to better determine his course.

"No matter the guilt you wrongly put upon yourself," she said, "do you think to give me unto him, I shall not go."

Never would he do such, though what he ought to do he did not know. She was Bernart's wife. She could seek sanctuary within the walls of a convent, but there she would remain—far from Gabriel. They could leave Mergot, run with the babe, but it would be a lifetime of running. And of certain danger.

"Gabriel."

He pulled Juliana back to focus. "My place is with you."

Was it love that brought such words from her, or the son between them? "Is it?" His tone was harsher than he had intended. Truly, it would be best for her if she ran as far from him and Bernart as her legs would carry her.

She tossed her chin up. " 'Tis what I wish."

"And what you cannot have. Do you forget, you are wed."

"Aye, to a man unable to consummate. In the eyes of the Church, 'tis not a marriage—one dissolved without apology."

Of what did she speak? "Then you would reveal Bernart's infirmity? What you were made to do?"

He felt her struggle as if it were his own. "I do not wish it, but does he force me to it, I shall."

It was not something Gabriel had allowed himself to consider, though it seemed the only way they might truly be together. But such shame would fall upon her were it revealed what she had been made to do, and the unveiling of Bernart's terrible secret....

"First, though," Juliana said. "I must be certain Alaiz is clear of his wrath. You will help me?"

What she did not know... "You ought to hate me, Juliana."

She shook her head. "One cannot hate what one loves deeply. And I love you, Gabriel."

Though part of him seized her avowal, set it to the beat of his heart, the other flung it from him. "After what I have done to you?" A bitter laugh pushed from his throat. "You are a fool to love what ought not to be loved."

She was undeterred. "Then we shall be fools together, for you also love me—and our son."

He looked to where the babe slept in the cradle, ached for the round cheek, the sweet breath, the tiny hand.

"Do you let yourself," Juliana said, "you will make a fine father. Do you forget how he was gotten, he will make you a fine son. Pray, Gabriel, do not reject him as your father did you."

Once more he was struck by something she should not know. His father's rejection of him as heir had been held close. Not even Bernart had known of it, only that no more would Gabriel be baron. "What did Blase tell you?"

Weariness bearing upon her, she returned to the pillows. "He did not. Though many speculate, none know why the third son will be Baron of Wyverly, as you ought to be. And if not you, then what of Blase? He may be of the clergy, but religion is not in his heart." She moistened her lips. "At Tremoral you said 'twas your mother who was responsible for your lost title and lands. How, Gabriel? For what were you and Blase set aside?"

That she did not need to be told. Or did she? Years of ache filled the spaces between the guilt he could not shed. "Very well," he conceded. "Throughout her marriage, our mother made of herself a whore. Upon her deathbed, she confessed all to a priest, and our father overheard. Though I am his son, as is Blase, our lack of De Vere looks made him question whose blood coursed through our veins. Thus we were set aside."

Juliana flinched. "I am sorry, Gabriel."

He did not want her pity. "I must leave."

"Gabriel." Her plea gave him pause. "If you could bring Alaiz out of Tremoral—"

"I cannot!" It was out before he could think better of it.

"Why?" There was a tremor in her voice.

Should he tell her the truth, that she might know what the man she professed to love had wrought? Was she recovered sufficiently to bear it? Aye. Not only was it best she knew, but the words he'd spoken could not be put back. "I fear your sister is no longer under Bernart's protection."

She came off the pillows. "Where is she?"

He filled his lungs. "Three days past a missive was delivered from Blase that told of her having fled Tremoral. None know where she has gone."

Juliana's breath rushed from her. It was a long moment ere she recovered it. "But why would she leave? What could have happened?"

He longed to go to her, to comfort her for what had yet to be told, but soon enough the hate she ought to feel for him would give her cold comfort. "A household knight—Sir Randal Rievaulx—was murdered before Christmas. Alaiz is accused of having put the killing blade to him."

Juliana's heart fell out of her. "She would not... could not... Nay!" Tears floated in her eyes. "Surely you do not believe—"

"I do not."

She stared at Gabriel, then clasped her hands against her lips. "Sir Randal..." "You know the knight?"

She saw again the man's cold, cruel eyes, saw him prowling the hall, his shadow too often creeping toward Alaiz's. "Aye, his half brother, Thierry Rievaulx, keeps Castle Soaring for Bernart."

"What can you tell me of him?"

"Only that I feared him, as did Alaiz."

"Why?"

"For the way he watched my sister, that he always came too near her, the things he said." She met Gabriel's gaze. "If she did this thing, it was surely in defense of her person."

"As I have concluded."

"Then you have bidden Blase to find her?"

Gabriel's hesitation boded ill. "I would have had he not been set upon at Tremoral."

"Set upon? But who—" She gasped. "Bernart."

He flexed his fists. "Methinks Blase was recognized as the priest come to the castle the night we took you. Bernart left him for dead."

Dear God, such evil, bearing no likeness at all to the one she had once loved. "He will recover?" " 'Tis as his missive tells." "I am sorry, Gabriel."

Bitterness pushed past his lips. "For what have you to be sorry? Of all who have suffered for Bernart's revenge, 'tis you—an innocent—who has borne the greatest burden. / ought to be sorry. And I am."

She shook her head. "You could not have known, and I did not tell you." She reached a hand to him, praying he would take it.

He did not take it. "Damn it, Juliana, hate me!"

She held his turbulent gaze, then dropped her hand to the coverlet. "Why? That you may more easily let me go? Nay, Gabriel, I now understand what love is and is not, and I shall let none—especially Bernart—steal it from me." She put her chin up. "Now, what are we to do about Alaiz?"

The bewilderment that swept his face reflected her own. Though she ought to be divided by fear for Alaiz, she was not. Why? The answer lay deep, but she dragged it to light. If Alaiz could devise her own escape and see it through, then perhaps she could survive outside Tre-moral's walls. By that feat, she proved she was not as helpless as all believed.

Juliana pulled her lips inward. Perhaps her absence had been good for Alaiz—forced her to think for herself, as she had not had to do since the accident. But how long could Alaiz evade her pursuers, among them Sir Randal's kin, who were likely of the same ilk? That last touched chill fingers to her spine. "You will send someone to find her?"

Gabriel inclined his head. "Does the weather not turn worse, Sir Erec should arrive at Mergot this eve or the morrow. 'Tis he I will send." A cry issued from the cradle.

Juliana looked to Gabriel. His gaze was upon the babe.

"Mayhap he is hungry again," she said. "You will bring him to me?" She wanted to see again their child in his arms, father and son together.

Gabriel's hesitation made her fear he might disregard her request, but he stepped forward and bent to the cradle. The sight of one so large holding one so small warmed her through, and more when Gabriel did not hurriedly relinquish their child.

He stared at his son, who lay in his arms, and almost smiled. "Gabrien." He spoke low and touched a small, nailing fist.

Shortly, the crying subsided.

"Such sweet innocence," Gabriel murmured, "knowing naught of hate... revenge... deceit." He made a half dozen steps of what ought to have taken two strides, then lowered the babe to Juliana. "For naught shall I relinquish this child we have made. Our son."

She reached up and laid a hand to his jaw. "And of me, Gabriel?"

Though guilt weighted his eyes, he shook his head. "Bernart may bring all he has against me, but I shall die before allowing him to have you again."

Then she would remain with him at Mergot? Possible only if the truth were known of Bernart, and it seemed Gabriel's misplaced guilt opposed such revelation. But did he think to send her to a convent, he would soon learn the error of such thought. No more would she be Bernart's puppet. She had a child now, a child who needed his mother and father. As for Alaiz, they would find her and bring her to safety. She had to believe they would be together again. Somehow.

Chapter Twenty-two

He stayed away again. Two days now. Amid Lissant's protests, Juliana turned for the maid to pull the laces of her bliaut.

Lissant tied them, then stepped around to face her. "Pray, think on this again, my lady. You are not yet healed and the babe—"

"His belly is full, and he ought to sleep through dinner."

Lissant's pretty face soured. "If he does not?"

"I go to the hall, Lissant. Does Gabrien awaken and will not be consoled, you have but to send for me." "But, my lady, what of you?"

Juliana laid a hand to the maid's shoulder. "I am sore— that is all. I shall be fine."

The maid clasped her hands this way and that, then swept them into the air. "Ah, my lady, Lord De Vere will be most—"

"Lissant, please!" Juliana dropped her hand from the woman and pushed her feet into slippers. "I am decided." She'd had enough of Gabriel's absence. And of equal import was the arrival of Sir Erec this morn. If they would not come to her, she would go to them.

"Forgive me, my lady. I am but concerned for you and the babe."

Juliana turned, staring at the maid, who was as near a friend as she had. She smiled. "Do not be. You shall take fine care of Gabrien, and I am fully capable of taking care of myself. As for Gabri—Lord De Vere—worry not. If his wrath comes upon any, 'twill be me, and I shall cool it."