Winterbourne Read online

  "God knows what instinct caused me to wake. But wake I did, in time to save my throat. As it was, she nearly ripped my heart out with her dagger. And that was the last I ever saw of my beautiful Yseult, her face so distorted with her blood lust she looked like a succubus spawned from hell."

  Jaufre concluded his tale in dull, wooden tones. "While I lay unconscious, my grandfather had her hanged. Probably as well, for who knows? I might have listened to her explanations again, damn bloody fool that I was. Damn besotted young fool."

  "No more," Melyssan said, her warm tears now mingling with the slow drops of rain that fell upon Jaufre's chest. She stroked the scar as if somehow the gesture could draw out the pain from his heart. "Do not berate yourself so bitterly. You did nothing wrong. You loved, trusted. It was she who betrayed you."

  "Love." He jerked her hand away, his voice hardening once more. "Don't make me sick. I never loved her. It was a madness, an infatuation. Blindly following the dictates of my heart instead of my head. It is not a mistake I've ever made since." He caught Melyssan by the arm and gave her a rough shake. "So you remember that the next time you are tempted to appeal to my mercy."

  Jaufre hauled in on the reins, pulling up the head of his horse, who had used the interval to crop at some dried grass. He turned the animal around and galloped back toward his waiting knights.

  Melyssan's head collided with his shoulder as she entwined her arms around his neck, making no attempt to shield her face from the pelting rain. At St. Clare, the good sisters had taught her much of medicine, but she knew of no herbs that could heal the bitterness in Jaufre's heart. She sickened with despair at her own helplessness, helpless to save the boy about to lose his life, helpless to restore that part of the man that was already lost.

  When they rode back into the circle of restive horses, Jaufre lowered her to the ground, where Tristan hastened to help her remount her pony.

  "Are you going to stand here all day getting soaked?" Jaufre shouted to his people. "Head back for Winterbourne at once."

  They all moved to obey except Tristan, who waited for Melyssan. She lingered, ignoring the folds of her wimple clinging wet to her cheeks and her gown weighted down by the rain. Haunted by the thin captive trembling with cold at the end of the rope, she could not tear herself away.

  The guard started to ride off, preparing to carry out his grim commission, when the earl said, "Wait." Edging his horse closer, he peered down at the boy. "Tip his face up.”

  The guard obeyed, yanking on the rope in such a way that the lad was obliged to face Jaufre. The black hair was plastered to the boy's forehead, sending trickles of water down his narrow cheeks, but he met the earl's regard with sullen defiance.

  Jaufre tugged at his beard in frowning concentration. The boy's strange silver-hued eyes momentarily lost some of their fierceness, and his lips parted in a look that was almost eager, expectant.

  Dear God, help him, Melyssan offered up in silent prayer. Help both of them.

  It seemed to her they spent hours in that meadow, heedless of the sheets of rain pouring down. At last, Jaufre shook his head and said, 'Whip him for trespass and send him on his way. Warn him never to set foot on my lands again."

  "Aye, my lord," the guard agreed, scratching his thick skull in bewilderment.

  Without another word, the earl turned and rode away.

  Melyssan choked back a sob of relief, but as she looked down at the boy she wondered if he understood that he had been spared. He continued to stare in the direction where the earl's horse had disappeared. Melyssan shivered as her wet clothes layered to her back like a second skin, but she was more chilled by the boy's face before her . . . a young face suddenly aged with hate.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Thunder reverberated off the thick walls of the gray stone solar, rumbling as if the sky made war on Winterbourne. Jaufre sprawled in his chair, his fingers crooked around a pewter goblet. He left the wine untasted as he stared through the croslet at the black night pierced by jagged spears of lightning, pierced like the darkness of his life with flashes of illumination, revealing to him some hidden truth if he could but catch the light long enough to see.

  He raked his nails back through his hair, attempting to shake off the strange thoughts that had taken possession of him since he had returned from the hawking. What madness had beguiled him into releasing that boy? He knew full well the dangers of his position as a marcher lord. Any sign of weakness, and the wild, rebellious Welshmen would swoop out of the hills to overrun Winterbourne. The king trusted him to keep order on these lands, not encourage his enemies to think they could defy the law with impunity.

  Yet there had been something disturbing about the boy that Jaufre could not define. Those peculiar silver eyes of his, his manner of speaking. Obviously no Welsh peasant, so from where had he come?

  Bah! Jaufre scowled, and his fingers clenched the goblet's stem. Why did he deceive himself? It was nothing about the lad that had softened his heart: it was Melyssan. She clouded his judgment with her honeyed beauty, her gold fringed green eyes misting with tears, begging, accusing, until he had become unsure of his own verdict.

  He prided himself on the justice he dispensed on his fiefs. Hard he was, yes, the Dark Knight Without Mercy, but just, always just. Or so he had thought. He was no longer certain of anything. Perhaps over the years he had come to mistake ruthlessness for stern impartiality.

  But he must not allow her softness to steal over him, wreak havoc with his senses, weaken him. Jaufre propped his elbows on the table and lowered his head, splaying his fingers against throbbing temples.

  It was surely a weakness for a man not to stand by his first conviction. He hoped he never had cause to regret having spared the boy. Already he repented of his outburst about his first marriage. What charms had Melyssan used to so loosen his tongue until he'd told her almost everything about Yseult and Godric, revealing to her the secret pain he had kept locked inside himself for so many years? The confession left him feeling raw, like a wound with the healing scab ripped away.

  No matter how he fought it, Melyssan was bewitching him in a way not even Yseult had done. He thought he had kept her at Winterbourne only to punish her, to make her serve him for the use of his name, but he'd forced her to stay because he desired her beyond all reason. Today even in the midst of his fury, when she had sat perched in front of him upon his horse, he had been painfully aware of the full curve of her hips pressed against his thighs, the soft swell of her small firm breasts moving against his chest, the feel of her slender warm fingers tracing the scar on his flesh.

  He wanted nothing so much as to bury himself inside her gentle sweetness, losing all his anger, anguish, and pent-up longing in one great, shuddering release. Jaufre mopped at the perspiration beading on his brow. Sweet Jesu, what was he thinking? She had repaid her debt to him many times over. If he took her, he might end by owing her a price he could never pay.

  The earl pushed back from the table and heaved himself to his feet. Then let her go from Winterbourne. Go to the nunnery where she belonged. He would tell her tonight she was free and thus free himself before it was too late. Then he could find a woman to wed who would give him his heir, someone like Finette, who would be satisfied with his wealth and his titles and never expect more. Never haunt him with sea-green eyes probing too deeply into old wounds, seeking out that vulnerable part of him he thought had died long ago.

  By this time tomorrow, Melyssan could be far away from Winterbourne. A cold emptiness washed over him, but he shook off the feeling. He strode from the solar, his footsteps never faltering until he came to the heavy oak door leading to his bedchamber. To his annoyance, his stomach knotted as if he were some guilty lad gone to confront his confessor.

  Disgusted by his nervousness, he flung the door open with unnecessary force. Melyssan sat on a low stool before the hearth while Nelda leaned over her, combing the damp tendrils of her mistress's newly washed hair. At the sound of the wood crashing against the
stone wall, the lady-in-waiting gasped and dropped the comb. Melyssan twisted around with a start, her robe of blue wool slipping off one shoulder.

  Jaufre towered in the doorway, the flickering light from the hearth illuminating only the thick boots and powerful outline of his thighs. His face was obscured by the shadows from the darkened outer room, but Melyssan could feel the tension emanating from every muscle in his body. She trembled as a surge of fear mingled inside her with a strange quivering anticipation.

  Jaufre entered the chamber and closed the door behind him. He stepped forward until the firelight revealed his face to her. It was blank, masked by his heavy black beard and thick eye-brows. Only the brown eyes were alive, darting restlessly around the room before settling on her naked shoulder until his stare became almost a physical thing, warming her flesh far more than the burning logs.

  Hastily she pulled up the rough wool and held it pinned against her neck. The defensive gesture snapped Jaufre out of his trance.

  "Get out," he snapped to Nelda. "I would be alone with your mistress."

  Nelda ducked into a respectful curtsy and with a nervous giggle skittered out of the chamber. Conscious of the fire crackling behind her in the stillness of the room, the pounding of her own heart, Melyssan bent to retrieve the comb Nelda had dropped, delaying to regain her composure. Why had he come? Was he still angry at her interference over the lad? But he had let the boy go. Surely that augured well, suggested that some change had come over Jaufre, some return of the gentleness she had once known in him.

  "What is your will, my lord?" She straightened and, trying to appear calm, began to feather the damp ends of her hair before the dancing flames.

  “To talk," he said, and then immediately fell silent. He spun around and paced to the stained-glass window, now only a mosaic of odd dark shapes without the sun to give it life. Even from where he stood, he could breathe in the scent of rosemary the heat coaxed from her drying curls. The fire played upon the glints of gold in her long, flowing hair as the comb fanned out nutmeg strands only to allow them to fall and nestle back against the ivory hollow of her throat. His fingers tingled from the urge to sweep aside that mass of tawny waves and press his lips against the warm, slender column of her neck.

  "Melyssan. I want you gone from here."

  Her hand froze in mid-stroke. She raised her head to face him, but he refused to meet her gaze.

  “It is time we put an end to this mummery. I am letting you go."

  The comb fell unheeded onto her lap and her lips parted, but no words would come. In that instant she admitted to herself what she had always known deep in her heart. She loved him, always had and always would. Only that afternoon she had begged him to allow her to leave, but now his pronouncement passed over her like a sentence of death.

  "By the blood of Christ," he said. "Why must you make even this so difficult? You are free, damn it. Don't you understand? Free of any further obligation to me. My men will escort you safely to the convent. It will be done in secret so that you will be safe even from the king. Most likely he will forget you in time."

  As easily as you will, Jaufre? She choked back the question before uttering it aloud. She had thought to steel herself against any further wounds from him, but once more, with the skill of a master warrior, he had found the blow capable of bringing her to her knees.

  "When did you want me gone?" she asked.

  "Could you be ready tomorrow?"

  "Of course, if you wish it." Moisture pricked at her eyelids and she leaned forward, cursing the fact that she must always dissolve so easily into a bout of tears. She pulled her hair around her, hoping to conceal her face from Jaufre.

  He swore softly. "I should have sent you away that first day I returned."

  "Then why didn't you?" she asked with a brittle laugh. "Are you so fond of wanton women you decided to keep me?"

  Jaufre crossed his arms over the region of his heart. He knew he should stay as he was, keeping distance between them, but the firelight formed an aureole with the wisps of her fine hair, and the fragrance of her perfume hung in the air. A strange notion stole over him, the notion that he was trapped, a creature lost in the shadows and there ahead of him, radiating around Melyssan's gentle beauty, was a circle of light and warmth. He could be free of the chilling blackness, if only he could reach out and touch her. Drawn by a force he scarce understood, he approached and reached inside the shimmering veil of her hair until he found her chin and raised her head.

  "Melyssan," he murmured. He gazed into eyes glistening with tears and rimmed by deep blue shadows that spoke of the grief he had brought to her. "It was an ill-mannered jest of mine to call you wanton. I never believed such a thing of you. I don't know why, I only know that it is best you leave. I do not want to hurt you."

  Using his knuckles, he gently traced a path along her cheek-bone up to her temple, down and back, down and back. Melyssan closed her eyes, desperately wanting to clutch at his hand and keep him from ever withdrawing it, to make this moment last forever so the dreaded time of parting would never come. After tomorrow she would never know his touch, never hear his voice, never know what it would have been like to truly belong to him. Suddenly nothing mattered but the warmth of his fingers, as with each caressing stroke they trailed farther down her face. Eagerly she waited for him to drift down along her jaw line, down her neck and lower still.

  Her lips parted in unknowing invitation. The stroking suddenly ceased.

  "Nay, you must go." He spoke as if to himself. "Go away before I am tempted---“

  Her eyes flickered open, and she saw that he had backed off, putting the open mouth of the hearth between them. His dark brown eyes glowed with a strange hunger. He does want me, she thought, a fierce joy flooding through her. He wore the look on his face she had imagined a hundred times, the yearning of a man for a woman. But his features contorted in agony, and she sensed he was using all his will to fight against his desire. Why?

  Leaning against the coarse stone of the fireplace, she struggled to her feet. As she did so, Jaufre's gaze dropped to the ground and then she thought she understood. The robe had fallen back, exposing her twisted foot. In her mind, it waxed more grotesque placed in comparison with Jaufre's own straight limb. He shuddered and seemed incapable of tearing his eyes away.

  Bitterness edged her voice. "That is why you are sending me away. You've learned to pity me the same as the rest of them."

  He shook his head slowly, and then she realized it was not the foot that riveted him. Jaufre's eyes followed the curve of her calf, up the rounded, silky texture of her thigh, disappearing into dark regions yet concealed by the robe. He clenched his teeth.

  "You are wrong. I pity you not. But I wish to God you had some pity for me."

  "I would happily take pity upon you, my lord. Command me what you will.” She moved closer, allowing the robe to slip down her shoulders, knowing that she was goading him. But she didn't care. Some sweet madness seemed to have taken possession of her.

  "Stop it," he snapped. "I have no wish to dishonor you."

  “And if I think it no shame?"

  "Then I have confused you with my damned cynicism.” He edged past her. "I never believed in the angels until I met you. But you are one of them, and I can't . . . I won't destroy you.-

  In a panic, she saw that he was going, robbing her of her last chance of ever being loved by him. She hobbled after him, placing herself between him and the door.

  "I'm not any kind of a saint,” she cried. "Look at me. I am but a woman."

  She tugged at the robe until it billowed to a sea of blue at her feet. She stood before him proudly, exposing skin rosy-tinted from the blood drumming through her veins. Jaufre turned pale and raised his arm as if to ward her off, but she caught his hand and pulled it toward her.

  “Touch me." she pleaded.

  He resisted at first, but then, he slackened the rigid muscles in his forearm and allowed her to place his hand against the base of her neck. Guidin
g the unresisting fingers down to the curve of her breast, she felt a tremor shoot through him. Suddenly his arms closed around her, crushing her body against the rough camlet of his tunic. Hard, demanding, his mouth covered hers, and she pressed her lips back against his, exultant, eager to please him.

  Swooping her off her feet, he held her cradled high against him and carried her over to the bed. "Melyssan," he said, his voice husky.

  Lowering her upon the soft ermine covering, he pressed his weight on top of her, assailing her with fierce kisses on cheeks, her mouth, the side of her neck. When he cupped her breast and and clamped his mouth over one pink, swollen nipple, Melyssan knew her first twinge of fear at the storm she had unleashed. She tried to draw his face back up beside her own, but he pulled away. Edging his way to the side of the bed, he pulled off his boots and stripped away his tunic and the shirt beneath, baring the firm muscles of his back, already glistening with perspiration. As he stood up and began to undo the cord to his drawers, Melyssan closed her eyes and tunneled beneath the furs.

  Impatiently Jaufre fumbled with the linen undergarment, feeling the blood rush to the painful focus of his swelling groin. Naked now, he turned eagerly back to Melyssan, to find her huddled under the bedclothes. Large, apprehensive eyes finally risked a peek at him, only to close tightly again.

  Berating himself as a savage and a fool, he carefully pried her fingers loose from the fur and eased himself underneath to lie beside her. How could he have forgotten she was a maiden still, in spite of the bold way she had offered herself to him? Even her gesture of disrobing had a kind of innocence about it, displaying a trust in him that he now betrayed because beneath his desire he was himself afraid to show any tenderness.

  Awkwardly he slid his arm beneath her shoulders and drew her to nestle against his chest. She trembled, and he raised one hand, tentatively this time, to stroke her cheek. Never had a woman come to him like this before, offering everything, demanding nothing but his touch. He had no love to give her, but at least he could try to bring her a pleasure that would equal his own.