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  Sir Dreyfan's voice boomed out. "By St. Michael, the lord looks more befuddled now than when she hit him with the hammer."

  Befuddled? Jaufre thought as the knight's comment penetrated his consciousness. No, more like stunned. What had happened?

  The kiss has begun as a game, to tease her for daring to strike him. He had expected her to squirm and kick in indignation, not mold the soft curves of her body to his in a way that felt too right while her lips captured him with their sweetness, arousing a passion that seemed so much stronger than the mere physical ache in his groin, as if his very soul . . .

  Soul! The word jolted him into releasing her as if she'd burned him. What the devil was he thinking of? He had no soul. That was claptrap put about by romantic minstrels and priests afraid of dying.

  He backed away, unnerved by the trembling pink mouth that invited him to kiss her again. And God, how he wanted to! The sharpness of his longing cut through his delusions. He had not kept her at Winterbourne to protect her from the king, or to punish her, either. He had kept her there for himself.

  Scenting danger as cannily as a wolf being stalked by a hunter, the earl hardened his jaw, determined to shatter the glow he saw in Melyssan's vulnerable eyes, fearful of what such a look betokened.

  "No, not nearly so tame as I thought," he said harshly, "but in future, madam wife, you'd best learn to control yourself and not behave so wantonly in front of my men."

  His cruel words had the desired effect. One hand flew to her cheek as if he'd struck her, her eyes brimming with confusion and hurt. He gave her no chance to reply but whirled around, blundering into the squires who had gone silent, their faces clearly showing their puzzlement over his abrupt change of mood.

  "Stop gawking! The show is over. Get back to your practice. Arric, bring me a horse,"

  They all scattered, even Dreyfan daring no more than an inquiring lift of his brows. As Arric led forward the black stallion, Jaufre pushed the boy aside and flung himself onto the animal's back. He was dimly aware that Tristan had crossed over to Melyssan's side, but he dared not risk looking at her again. He didn't know what madness was stealing over him, but he would rid himself of it, if he had to ride halfway to hell.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Melyssan’s cheeks flamed as Sir Tristan picked up her staff from where she had dropped it. Mumbling her thanks, she accepted the walking stick but shrank from the sympathy she saw reflected in the knight's kind gray eyes.

  "Perhaps it would be better, my lady, if you did not come down to where the men are practicing with their weapons," he said gently. "Some tend to get a little rough."

  "So it would seem." Her gaze traveled to where Jaufre's black stallion disappeared through the iron gate. Bitter envy and resentment surged through her. How pleasant it must be to leap on one's horse and just ride away from a humiliating situation. She touched a finger to lips yet tender from the heated embrace; anger and embarrassment churned inside her, mingled with a small twinge of fear at her own boldness.

  How much of her feelings for Jaufre had she permitted to show in those few unguarded moments? Enough for the earl to have regarded her with scorn, sneering his disapproval over her wantonness. She had dared to offer him only a small part of her affections, and even that he had rejected.

  It was so unfair. He had begun the kiss. She had first tasted of desire from his lips. What right had he then to despise her for returning his passion? How could he kiss her with such scorching intensity and yet mean nothing by it?

  "Lady Melyssan." The sound of Tristan's voice jolted her into realizing that he stood watching her with troubled eyes. He took one of her hands between his own and patted it awkwardly. "Please don’t be distressed, my lady. You must not take the earl's teasing to heart. He was ever one for tormenting the ladies. Though I swear you are the first one who ever paid him back in full measure.” Tristan smiled. "I believe he's not taken such a knock as that to his pate for a good many years."

  "I am astonished that he has not, if he treats all ladies so unchivalrously."

  "None have had your courage, or—if you will forgive me—have been as sensitive as you. I hate seeing you thus upset. Sometimes Jaufre carries his jests too far, but you have nothing to fear from the earl. Despite his hard ways, he is a man of honor. I promise you he meant nothing by that kiss."

  Melyssan pulled her hand away, little comforted by Tristan's well-meant assurances. She forced herself to smile. "You mistake my feelings, Sir Tristan. The only part of the earl's boorish behavior that disturbs me is his treatment of my brother. Whitney has done nothing to offend my lord. I cannot understand why Jaufre should hate him."

  "Nay, my lady, he does not hate the lad. It is only that Whitney bears an unfortunate resemblance to Godric."

  "Godric? Who is Godric?"

  Tristan looked very much as if he wished he had not spoken. "Well, the lady Yseult—after she— We do not speak much of Godric anymore. Jaufre killed him in a duel. It was all a long time ago."

  The knight avoided her eyes and began pacing across the field. "Now by the rood, where did I set down my shield? You had best go back to the donjon, my lady. It is too cold for you to keep standing there."

  Since Tristan obviously intended to say no more, Melyssan followed his advice. Raising the hem of her cloak so It did not trail across the damp grass, she walked away, pondering the information Tristan had allowed to slip, information about Jaufre that even the lowest menials at Winterbourne took care never to discuss. Those mystery-shrouded events of the earl's past that had taken a gallant young knight and carved him into a man of granite, a man who could flood her entire being with the heat of his kiss and the next moment all but stone her as a harlot.

  Now she had another shadowy figure to wonder about along with that of Lady Yseult. Yseult and Godric. The pairing of those names and remembering the comment Hubert Le Vis had made about Jaufre being a jealous husband provided her with some clue as to what might have happened. Melyssan had seen for herself that Jaufre was not one to wait for explanations. If he had thought himself wronged, the earl's retribution would have been sure, swift, and violent. And both Yseult and Godric were dead.

  The Dark Knight Without Mercy. Melyssan shivered and suddenly felt afraid for her brother. If Whitney did indeed remind Jaufre of a man he had hated enough to kill, then perhaps it was no longer safe for her brother to remain at Winterbourne. The earl did not insist that Whitney stay. It had been her brother's own choice, trying to protect her in whatever small way he could. She would have to try to persuade Whitney that he must go now and leave her alone to sort out this tangle with Jaufre. Surely the earl would release her soon. Perhaps even today Jaufre would order her to be gone because of his evident disgust for her.

  She had no opportunity for speech with her brother, for after the morning's humiliation Whitney refused to talk with anyone. In desperation, Melyssan sent Father Andrew to deal with the young man. Part of her whispered that she worried for nothing. She could not believe that Jaufre would ever harm anyone in a spirit of cruel, unreasoning vengeance.

  But the appearance of the earl the next time she saw him was not calculated to soothe her apprehensions. Lord Jaufre had decided to go hawking that afternoon, and Tristan had invited Melyssan and her lady Nelda to join in the sport. Melyssan would have refused, preferring to avoid Jaufre and the sight of the birds cruelly rending their prey. But she had not been outside the walls of Winterbourne since the day of her arrival. The mighty white stone fortress, once so sheltering, seemed more and more like a trap, where she had lost not only her freedom, but stood in danger of losing her heart as well.

  When the great portcullis creaked upward. she restrained herself from kicking her pony's sides and galloping away from Tristan and Nelda, away across the open fields until there was nothing in her mind but the joy of the animal moving beneath her, the wind tearing her hair free from the wimple that confined it. But even had she given in to the mad desire, her pony appeared content to move at no mor
e than a brisk trot. Her mount and Nelda's had been selected for their stolidity and not for speed. The last thing one desired around temperamental hawks was a skittish horse.

  When they joined up with Lord Jaufre and his party of grooms, austringers, and spaniels just outside the village, Melyssan saw that even the earl had exchanged his formidable black stallion for a quiet roan gelding. Jaufre sat in the midst of a group of knights, unhooding his hawk for their inspection. These were tenants from outlying manors, Tristan explained, who had come to pay their respects and render their yearly accounting to Jaufre's clerks as Michaelmas was fast approaching, the saint's day when the annual audit of the earl's property would be taken.

  When Jaufre saw her coming, he edged his mount forward with such a dark scowl upon his brow, Melyssan was tempted to turn and gallop back toward the safety of the castle. The earl was garbed in a black cloak that billowed behind him and a sable-colored surcoat trimmed with silver so that it was as if his plumage matched that of the large, fierce hawk that perched on his gloved wrist. The charcoal-winged peregrine spanned the length of the Dark Knight's arm, its toothed beak at a level with his shoulder. As Jaufre moved closer, Melyssan felt as if she were being studied by two pairs of cold, unmoving eyes, the man's and the bird's, measured as if for prey, measured and then dismissed as not worth the bother.

  "Where the devil have you been?" Jaufre growled at Tristan. "I thought you meant to go hawking, not skirt chasing.” He eyed Melyssan and Nelda with distaste.

  "I invited the ladies to join in our sport. I am sure the other gentlemen will not mind."

  “Then it is your responsibility to keep them out of the way." Without sparing her so much as another glance, Jaufre wheeled his horse around and rode off. Despite the encouraging smile she received from Tristan, Melyssan found that her pleasure in the ride was already gone. Unwilling to let Jaufre see how much his cold reception had daunted her, she slapped down on her reins and continued doggedly.

  In summer, they would have had to skirt the fields for fear of damaging the crops, but now fences were pulled back to allow the sheep to graze on the stubble that was all that remained after the harvest. In the distance loomed the outline of the Welsh hills, gray as the sky above that threatened rain before the day was out.

  Nelda fell in readily with Jaufre's knights, her dark curls bouncing as she laughed and flirted. But Melyssan did not converse easily with strangers, and she found herself riding alone. The others maintained an unhurried canter to allow the grooms, who were on foot leading the hounds and the austringers carrying the smaller hawks on their square frames, to keep pace with them.

  Discovering that her pony had more spirit than she supposed, Melyssan drew ahead of the rest, her eyes on the forestland, a sinister patch of blackness on the horizon. Suddenly she was aware of galloping hoofs close behind her, and then Jaufre's horse shot past her. He plunged the large gelding in front of the pony, coming to a dead stop. Melyssan was obliged to rein so sharply her mount nearly reared back on its haunches.

  The hawk on Jaufre's opposite hand twitched its long wings, the clawed talons tugging against the leather jesses that held its legs secure. He paused a moment to soothe the bird, his hand stroking its head near the hooked beak that could easily rip the fingers from a man. Melyssan shuddered to watch him.

  Then he glared at her. "It is not a race, my lady. Or perhaps you were running away. How far did you expect to get on that pony?"

  "I was not running away," she said. "I simply did not realize how far I had outstripped the others."

  "I suggest you pay more attention. We are on the border of a hostile land. The possibility of encountering a party of Welsh raiders exists even in the light of day."

  She bit her lip. "I know that. I am sorry. I will turn back and rejoin the others."

  "You need not bother. They are catching up. Just ride more slowly."

  She did as he bade her, although discomfited to have him trotting beside her looking as put out as if he had been saddled with a troublesome child. He rode so close at times his knee nearly brushed against her thigh. The silence between them stretched out to such uncomfortable length, Melyssan sought for words to break the awkwardness. When she saw him glance toward the distant towers of Winterbourne, a perceptible softening in his granite features, she said, "Aye, you have a right to look so proud, my lord. It is a most magnificent castle."

  He started as if surprised she should guess his thoughts, then shrugged, trying to appear indifferent. "It is well enough."

  "Well enough! Camelot itself cannot have been more beautiful."

  He snorted. "Certainly not as costly. I would prefer less beauty and stronger walls, more flanking towers. I only hope if we are ever under siege, Winterbourne proves to have been worth my thousand pounds."

  Melyssan hung her head, determined to attempt no further conversation. Why must he always value everything in terms of silver?

  After a time, he peered down at her. "Still sulking over what happened this morning?"

  She swallowed the urge to tell him it was not she whose face looked more thunderous than the clouds gathering overhead. "No," she said, "but I have been wondering whether you were ready to let me leave Winterbourne."

  "Leave! By God, you are in a great hurry all of a sudden. You seemed content with the situation not so long ago. What a deal of fuss you are making over one kiss."

  "I?" she cried, unconsciously giving the pony a kick that sent him surging forward. As she struggled to bring him back under control, she stared up at Jaufre. The hawk on his wrist emitted a strident cry as if mocking her.

  "Nay, my lord, I only thought that as you were so displeased with my behavior, it would content you that I should be gone."

  "I would not say I was displeased, my lady, only startled," Jaufre said. "After all, you creep as quietly about my castle as a nun, and you dress as if you were my widow." He curled his lip as he glanced at her drab brown kirtle and wimple. "It is no wonder I was not prepared to have you kiss me in such a way as would have put the most experienced courtesan to the blush."

  "How dare you! You instigated that kiss. It is not my wont to behave thus. I was not myself."

  "You think you were not," continued her merciless tormentor. "All this time you spent praying in my chapel, you never dreamed you had this other wicked side to your nature, did you? I am surprised that pale priest never warned you against yourself."

  Melyssan nudged her pony forward, but Jaufre dug his heels into the gelding and kept up with her. "I heard a sermon once regarding women. Vessels of sin. Of male and female, it is the woman who is most lascivious. You need to keep up your guard against your own evil, my lady."

  “How astonishing you should have remembered that sermon all these years." she said through clenched teeth. "For you must have heard it the day you were baptized, since I'm sure that's the last time you were ever in a church."

  Jaufre gave a short bark of laughter, which frightened the hawk. It shifted its wings in angry protest. "Well, be not ruffled," said the earl, although Melyssan was not sure if he addressed her or the bird. "You have nothing to worry about. Fortunately I have enough self-control for the both of us."

  Before she could think of a retort, he reined in his horse and gave the signal for the party to halt. Reluctantly, Melyssan did likewise.

  "Get those hounds up here," Jaufre shouted. "They should be able to flush a hare out from under the hawthorn, and at least we will provide some sport for the goshawk."

  He moved off looking as if he had not a care in the world except finding some hapless rabbit for his birds to rip apart. Melyssan's shoulders slumped. How could she be thinking that she was in love with such a man, a man who scorned and ridiculed her, a man who mocked every belief and ideal that she held sacred? It was ridiculous. And yet as he rode away, something deep inside her yearned after him, making her want even now to cry out his name and call him back to her side.

  Aware of her regard, Jaufre was annoyed by his desire to pr
ance his horse and blustered to the beaters to start the dogs through the bushes at the edge of the forest. Hadn't he made enough of a fool of himself earlier, vaunting his skill on the practice field, showing off like a squire at his first tournament? That was bad enough without now flexing his muscles and preening like a peacock before his hen.

  And a plain little brown hen at that. Jaufre glowered at Melyssan, determined to find some flaw in that perfect oval of a face that peered out from the folds of the wimple. Not a striking beauty by any means. She had not Yseult's high cheekbones, nor Finette's pouting red lips. But damn those green eyes of hers that always put him in mind of the sun sparkling upon the sea. Even now they chipped away at the layers of stone he had masoned around his heart.

  He had ridden all morning as if the devil were after him to escape the memory of those eyes. He'd flattered himself that he had had some measure of success, only to feel thrown off balance all over again when she but looked at him. Jaufre watched as Tristan took charge of one of the goshawks and presented the bird to Melyssan for her use, but she vigorously shook her head.

  The earl shifted in the saddle, the great bird on his arm stretching its talons in such a way that Jaufre was grateful for the protection of the leather glove. If Melyssan had no desire to participate in the sport, why had she come out? Simply to throw herself in his way?

  With great consideration, Melyssan now suggested to Tristan that her lady would like to try the bird, and smiled with artless pleasure at the way Nelda crowded forward for her first lesson in hawking. In Jaufre’s experience women did not usually take much account of the wishes of others of their sex. Nor did they usually relinquish male attention to another female. Yet Melyssan appeared quite content to efface herself while the men gathered around offering all manner of foolish advice as Nelda held out her wrist for the little hawk to perch there.

  A bark and a splash announced that one of the spaniels had blundered into the pond on the other side of the trees. A small coot collided with a branch as it flew out of the forest to escape the intruder. As the gray duck spiraled upward, Tristan deftly unhooded the goshawk and then cautioned Nelda, "Now wait-- wait. You must select just the right moment to release the bird. If you send her too soon, it will be too easy a kill. If you hold back too long, you could lose your own bird. And if—"