Leigh, Tamara Read Online Free PDF

regarded Bernart a moment longer, then lowered his gaze to Juliana.
    Bernart had wondered whether or not his enemy, the only man he had known to be impervious to Juliana's beauty, intended to acknowledge her. From the day Bernart had introduced his friend to the girl who was to be his bride, their mutual dislike had been more tangible than the chill in winter. Gabriel had named Juliana's notions of love and chivalry foolish, and she had declared him ill-mannered and dishonorable. When Bernart had tried to convince her otherwise, she'd pointed out that Gabriel's own father had set him aside. Bernart had been unable to argue that, for Gabriel had never explained the reason that his future as Baron of Wyverly was past.
    "Lady Juliana," Gabriel said.
    "Lord De Vere." Her tone was frigid enough to cause a man to sink more deeply into the folds of his mantle.
    Just as it should be, Bernart told himself. Juliana would do what was required of her and hate every moment of it—no possibility she would feel anything for Gabriel.
    With a curt nod, Gabriel turned and strode after Sir Erec.
    The commotion in the hall resumed. Servants returned to their tasks, squires to their excited chatter, lords and knights to their boasting, and the ladies who'd accompanied their husbands to the tournament resumed their idle talk.
    Try though Bernart did to ignore the gaze that seemed to bore through him, he looked down. The hatred that shone from Juliana's eyes wounded him as no words could. She would never forgive him for what he did.
    He'd had enough. He wanted music to deafen the voices in his head that spoke against him, jongleurs to make him laugh, tales of the troubadour to wash away his pain. He signaled an end to the meal and stepped from behind the lord's table. "Minstrels!" he shouted.
    Slowly Juliana gained her feet. She felt cold, as if she might never know warmth again. Holding her arms at her sides to keep from hugging them to her, she watched as Bernart and his guests surged toward the hearth. As lady of Tremoral, her place was there, but she could not bring herself to join them. Not on a night such as this—a night made tenfold worse by the arrival of the one with whom Bernart intended her to lie.
    She swallowed hard. Why had De Vere come? Greed? Vainglory? Or did he truly believe Bernart had forgiven him his betrayal? Was it renewed friendship he sought? If the latter, he was a fool. But then, he did not know the extent of Bernart's anger. That ignorance could mean the death of him. Not that she cared. It was through De Vere's resentment and cowardice that Bernart had been rendered impotent. He was as much her enemy as her husband's. Pained by her years of marriage to a man who would not even touch her, she looked across the hall to where the dark knight and his fair-haired companion stood apart from the others.
    Although De Vere had matured and seemed broader of shoulders, he was not much changed from the young man who'd accompanied Bernart to Castle Gloswell all those years past. He exuded the same darkness he had then and, doubtless, was no more chivalrous. A hard man. Incapable of loving and being loved. And if not this night, then the next, she would be forced to submit to him.
    Desperation gripped her. How could Bernart ask it of her? What possessed him to choose his enemy? If she refused him, would he truly turn Alaiz out? Alaiz, whom he had ordered to remain abovestairs until after the tournament?
    Suddenly Gabriel's pale gaze pierced her.
    As badly as Juliana wanted to look away, she held her eyes to his. She was not frightened of him. He was a man, like any other. Not that she was intimately familiar with any other.
    In the end, it was she who broke the stare. Uncaring that she might be missed, she lifted her skirts clear of the debris that littered the rushes, crossed the hall, and ascended the stairs.

    He was not accustomed to losing. But then, neither was he in the habit of ignoring every instinct that had warned him