Winterbourne Read online

  Le Gros swilled a large mouthful of wine from his leather flask. Wiping a spray of red droplets from his lips, he said, “Well, my lord. At least the bitch didn’t turn away any more of your people. Good thing. You might not have been able to get back inside your own castle.”

  Jaufre said nothing, but Tristan noticed the slight tic at the corner of his mouth. The knight wished to heaven the stupid priest had some notion of when to hold his tongue. Jaufre was most dangerous when he went quiet like that, his eyes as hard as slate.

  Tristan heartily regretted that Father Hubert had not been left on the other side of the Channel. He put little credence in Lady Finette’s explanation that the priest had ecclesiastical affairs to conduct, but broaching the subject to Jaufre had been useless. The earl didn’t care if the devil rode with him so long as he got back to Winterbourne to punish the woman pretending to be his lady. But Le Gros’s presence worried Tristan. There was always a dagger or a sword strapped where the priest’s rosary beads should have been, and the pack of servants who accompanied him looked more fit for hanging than praying.

  Tristan had tried to caution Jaufre before they set out. “It is rumored that Le Gros is not above pilfering from his host. It would not surprise me if Finette has not foisted this fellow on to you out of spite, hoping he will cause you some mischief. Everyone at Winterbourne knows you house your silver in the cupboard behind the mural. If Le Gros were to have opportunity .. .”

  “If it worries you so, hide the money in the chapel,” Jaufre snapped. “That is one place you will never find the good father.”

  And that had been all the satisfaction Tristan got from warning Jaufre. He would have to keep an eye on Le Gros himself, Tristan thought, and then returned his attention to the business at hand as the great spiked bars were raised high enough at last to clear the entranceway to the castle.

  Jaufre dug his heels into his stallion’s glossy black sides and surged forward over the drawbridge, the pleasure he had anticipated from returning home vanished completely. Instead of this frustrated anger, his heart should have swelled with pride at the sight of his castle’s gleaming white square towers and conical roofs set against the backdrop of the rolling Welsh hills. The fortress was his own, purchased by years of hard campaigning, winning prizes in tournaments, ransoming captured knights. Where was she, the scheming witch who had dared plunder Winterbourne in his absence?

  As he traveled through the gate, he raised two fingers and nodded, perfunctorily acknowledging the salute of his castle guard. He wondered what sly laughter would spread amongst them when they discovered the truth about his so-called wife. Perhaps they knew already if Beatrice had taken flight.

  But no. Standing next to Sir Dreyfan in a place of honor was a lady. Jaufre’s heart filled with a kind of savage joy. So the wench had been too feeble-witted to run when she had the chance. Perhaps she hoped to throw herself upon his mercy. She would soon learn there was a reason for his byname.

  As he cantered farther into the courtyard, the woman shifted position, and then he saw what her skirts had concealed. She leaned upon a staff. Jaufre reined in sharply, nearly wheeling his horse around and spooking Tristan’s skittish mount. But the earl was only vaguely aware of his friend’s struggles to calm his animal.

  No! No, it couldn’t be. She could not possibly have anything to do with this deceit. Not Melyssan. He slapped the reins down, moving forward until he halted only a few paces away. There was no question of it now. It was Melyssan, her slender figure garbed in an unadorned kirtle of forest green, her brown hair bound demurely in a linen fillet with a stiff barbette passing from ear to ear under her chin. Her only ornament was a braided gold chain worn around her neck, and from the end of it dangled his ring.

  Jaufre bit his lips tightly together to keep from roaring aloud. It was as if he could feel Yseult’s dagger twisting through his flesh all over again, Damn Melyssan. Damn her to hell. The only woman he had brought himself to trust, to respect, since Yseult, and she proved a greater liar than all of them.

  He swallowed hard, the extent of his rage and disappointment astonishing him. Tossing his reins down to a waiting page, Jaufre flung himself out of the saddle. He covered the ground between himself and Melyssan in three furious strides.

  Sir Dreyfan clapped him on the back in boisterous greeting and then tried to express his sorrow at the tidings of the old comte’s death.

  “Later,” Jaufre hissed, never taking his eyes from Melyssan. He planted himself in front of her, glad that she kept her head bent toward the ground. He didn’t want to see those large round eyes that would remind him of the innocent little maid who had once thought him Sir Lancelot. Where had she gone? The way of all women, grown up to be a calculating, greedy bitch.

  Then she did look up, and it infuriated him further to see no change in her serenely beautiful face, no trace of guilt. Sorrow, perhaps, and fear reflected from those luminous green eyes, but that was all. Soft pink lips trembled and then parted.

  “Welcome home, my lord Jaufre,” she whispered.

  Plague take her! What right did she have to stand there looking like a wistful young angel when her heart was so full of treachery? Jaufre drew back his hand, wanting to strike away that false expression, force her to glare at him with hatred, show herself for what she truly was.

  Melyssan flinched and then steadied herself to accept the blow. But Jaufre lowered his hand, an icy calm encrusting his heart. No, he wouldn’t make it that easy for her. He would dole her punishment out with poison-sweet slowness, racking her with uncertainty as to what he meant to do next. So the lady liked to play pretend, did she? Then he would join her in the game. Instead of flaying her body, he would flay her nerves, until she collapsed quivering at his feet. By the time this night ended, she would be ready to crawl the length and breadth of England, begging people to believe that she was not his wife.

  Melyssan watched the emotions on Jaufre’s face shift and change like sands on the shore raked by the tides of an angry sea. Sternness had given way to shocked recognition, to be replaced by the crimson flush of rage. But none of those expressions was as alarming as the devilish light that now danced in his night-dark eyes. The slow smile that spread across his face sent a chill up her spine.

  “Melyssan, my sweet wife,” he purred. “How I’ve missed you.”

  She gaped at him in wordless astonishment. Before she could resist, he seized her in his arms, grinding her body against the hardness of his chest until she thought her bones would snap. He claimed her mouth with a ruthless intensity that both stirred and frightened her, the rough satin of his beard abrading her chin, his lips punishing and searing her with a heat that left her breathless.

  When he finally released her, what little self-control she’d had shattered, leaving her quaking from head to toe. The delighted approval of the crowd roared in her ears until she thought she would swoon into an undignified heap. But Jaufre’s arm, as unyielding as a band of iron, slipped around her waist, manacling her to his side.

  “Dismount. Dismount, my friends,” he called to the other horsemen. “Come forward and pay your respects to my lady wife.”

  “My lord, please.” She tried to protest, but her voice came out in a pathetic croak. As in a dream, the figures in the courtyard flitted before her eyes, leaving her with fragmented impressions of a bulky priest who nearly crushed the small page handing him out of the saddle; a knight who regarded her through kind eyes not entirely devoid of pity; her pale-faced brother stumbling forward until he blocked Lord Jaufre’s path.

  “M-my lord, what mean you by my sister?” Whitney stammered, his shaking fingers tugging clumsily at the hilt of his sword. “I do not understand.”

  “Ah, my esteemed brother-in-law,” Jaufre drawled, giving Whitney such a buffet on the shoulder that the young man nearly lost his footing. “Whitford, is it not?”

  Knocked off balance by the words as much as the blow, her brother replied, “No, Whitney.”

  “Of course.
Whitney, the young scholar. I remember now.” Without releasing Melyssan, Jaufre turned to face his knights. “A man of much learning, gentlemen. Schooled in both Latin and Greek. Despite his youth, I’ll wager he has read more books than you have, Father Hubert.”

  “Humph, nothing to boast of,” said the priest, rubbing his stiff backside. “ ‘Cause I never read any.”

  Jaufre laughed, and Whitney flushed under the derisive stares he was receiving from most of the men.

  Melyssan’s protective instincts prompted her to try to wriggle free from Jaufre’s embrace so that she could run to Whitney’s side and somehow regain control over this bewildering turn of events. But her struggles were as ineffectual as those of a tiny linnet attempting to escape the powerful clutch of a mighty falcon.

  “Be still, my little wife,” Jaufre murmured in her ear, his breath hot upon her neck. “Would you pull away knowing how long I have desired to get my hands upon you?”

  The words struck her like the doubled-edged steel of a sword, and she froze, allowing him to drag her wherever he chose. He stopped in front of the burly priest.

  “This is Father Hubert, my sweet Melyssan, come all the way from Normandy to greet my bride and confer his blessing upon you.”

  “God give you good day, Father,” Melyssan said, dipping into a weak-kneed curtsy and thinking she surely needed someone willing to pray for her.

  “Your wife.” Father Hubert scowled. “I thought you said—“ Suddenly understanding lit his florid countenance. “Oh. Aye, your wife.” He gave Jaufre a huge wink, then turned to Melyssan and bent forward. “Blessings upon you, my daughter,” he said as thick wet lips reeking of sour wine smacked a kiss against the corner of her mouth.

  Dismayed Melyssan jerked back and stared into tiny snakelike eyes leering at her through puffs of flesh.

  “That will do, Le Gros.” Jaufre elbowed the priest aside. “You have blessed my wife quite enough.”

  “How could I forget?” Father Hubert snickered. “All the world knows what a jealous husband you can be.”

  The lazy smile Jaufre wore faded, and his fingers dug painfully into Melyssan’s side. The kind-looking knight drew in a sharp breath as his eyes flicked anxiously from the priest to Lord Jaufre.

  What had there been in Father Hubert’s teasing words to produce such a strong reaction? Melyssan wondered. Had it anything to do with the lady Yseult? She felt Jaufre’s fingers loosening one by one as he forced himself to relax, and the tense moment passed.

  “I am not all that ungenerous,” Jaufre said dryly. “What about you, Sir Tristan? You have a bold heart. Would you not like to kiss my bride?”

  Melyssan flushed with embarrassment as Jaufre propelled her toward the knight. Sir Tristan frowned at Jaufre, but he bowed stiffly over her hand and placed a chaste kiss upon the fingertips.

  “Not so bold-hearted after all,” Jaufre mocked. “Well, then, away, my friends, under my roof to rest your weary bones. Father Hubert, the hospitality of Winterbourne is yours to command.”

  He made the priest an exaggerated bow and then, glancing down at Melyssan, continued, “Let us celebrate my homecoming. Tonight, my dear little wife, we shall eat, drink. . .”

  Smiling wickedly, he pressed Melyssan even closer against the length of his hard-muscled thigh. “And be merry.”

  As dusk fell, servants hurried to light the flambeau in the great hall and set up the long trestle tables and benches for Lord Jaufre’s feast. Above them in the solar, the earl prepared to lead the procession of knights and ladies-in-waiting down to supper. He paused once to glance at Melyssan, her profile illuminated by the flickering wall torch. Her delicate features were so pinched with apprehension, he almost repented of the course he intended to follow. From the look of her, she had not been squandering his money upon her garb. Even for the feast, she was still clothed in her plain green gown, although she had released her hair from its headdress to flow down her back, a simple gilt circlet banding her forehead. Yet what more ornament did a woman need when she possessed such a glorious cascade of nutmeg tresses?

  The answer came to taunt him: his stolen ring that she yet dared flaunt before his eyes. The sight of it glittering on the chain around her neck immediately dispelled any softness, any weakening of his angry resolve.

  Melyssan felt Jaufre’s eyes rake over her, assessing the outline of her breasts, the slender curve of her hips beneath her gown. Heat crept into her cheeks, and she fidgeted with her braided chain only to note the Dark Knight’s eyes rivet on her hand.

  What was amiss? Her fingers faltered as she suddenly realized. Oh, Holy Mother, the ring! She had forgotten she was still wearing his stolen ring.

  “My lord,” she said. “You must allow me to explain. I—“

  “No time for chat now, my sweetheart.” He chucked her under the chin. “Father Hubert is so famished, I swear, he’ll soon be eating the ties off Sir Tristan’s cap. Come, it is time to go down.” And thus he cut her off again in the same manner as he did every time she tried to tell him how she came to be at Winterbourne, pretending to be his wife.

  Below the horn sounded, announcing that all was ready. Jaufre linked his arm through hers and led her down the circular stair, slowing his pace to a degree that annoyed her. Gripping her cane, she hastened her step, meaning to show him she needed no such extraordinary consideration. But Father Hubert chose that particular moment to tread upon the train of her gown, and she found herself about to pitch headlong down the steps. Jaufre threw himself in front of her, and she tumbled into his arms. Her hands clutched at his blue velvet surcoat, its softness so at odds with the virile male body sheathed beneath. He held her against him longer than was necessary, his fingers sliding up her arm to linger alongside the swell of her breast.

  “Such eagerness, sweetheart,” he said. “You must go more slowly. You will get what you have coining to you soon enough.” When her eyes flew startled to his face, he smiled mockingly. “I mean your dinner, of course.”

  She pushed away from him, her heart thudding as she smoothed out her skirts, trying to pull together the shreds of her dignity. As they entered the great hall, her skin still tingled from the impression of his hands upon her body

  The men-at-arms and household staff settled at their tables stood respectfully to attention as Jaufre led Melyssan to the head table. At the bottom of the third table, she saw Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor in their guise of humble pilgrims, blending in with a troupe of traveling minstrels. Faces were wreathed in smiles as the earl seated Melyssan in the high-backed carved chair and caught up her hand, tenderly brushing it with his lips.

  To everyone present, he must appear the doting husband, overjoyed to be reunited with his new bride. Only she could see the dangerous glint lurking in those hooded brown eyes.

  No more of this taunting! She would force Jaufre to acknowledge she was not his wife, and then he could mete out punishment to her in honest fashion and make an end to this subtle torture. Her jaw set with determination, she half rose from her chair, catching Whitney’s eye as he moved forward to take his place at the table.

  As though he guessed her intention, he shook his head vigorously, calling to mind the counsel he had whispered to her earlier. “Do not anger Lord Jaufre. Continue to pretend you are his wife, if that’s what he desires, until we can find some way to escape.”

  Even though Whitney was placed with the knights of lower rank below the salt and too far away to speak to her, the same message now flashed across his haggard features. As she sank back into her chair, she saw her brother heave a sigh of relief.

  But how far would you have me go, Whitney? She thought. How far to appease his lordship? She ran her finger over lips still bruised from the punishing fury of Jaufre’s kiss. And how much more did the earl intend to demand?

  Try as she might, she could not keep herself from staring at the earl as he stood and gave the signal for the servingmen to enter. Beneath the velvet surcoat, a tunic of blue satin strained across the powerful se
t of his broad shoulders. A silver belt cinched his narrow waist, raising his tunic enough to expose muscular calves encased in white hose. His thick black beard was newly trimmed and his blue-black mane swept back from his forehead to rest in perfect waves along the nape of his neck.

  As he seated himself beside her in his canopied chair, she thought there surely remained within the depths of this noble-looking lord some notion of chivalry. He would not, could not, be planning anything to her dishonor.

  Jaufre gave her that slow smile she was coming to dread and with one finger traced lazy circles along her forearm. The butlers and servingmen filed from behind the screens and paraded the length of the hall to the high table. They presented dish after dish of venison, mutton, roast boar, stews, minces, pies, all without gaining Lord Jaufre’s attention. He feigned not to see them as he leaned on one elbow, gazing at Melyssan like a star-struck youth, until ripples of amusement spread along the lower tables.

  Melyssan’s cheeks burned as Nelda giggled and Jaufre affected to come to with a start, waving the servants on to place their burdens on the carving table.

  Father Hubert knocked the linen tablecloth askew as he scrambled to open his nef, the ornamental box placed before each guest containing their silverplate,

  Jaufre coughed discreetly. “Perhaps you would care to favor us with the benediction, Father?”

  “What—oh, of course.” Wiping the drool from his mouth as he took one last glance at the pages hurrying to slice the meat, Le Gros heaved himself to his feet.

  “Oh, God, thank you for this food we are about to receive,” he said in one great rush before Melyssan could even fold her hands together. “And we hope to hell there will always be plenty more of it. Amen.”

  A wave of laughter rocked the hall, until Melyssan thought that she and the shocked Father Andrew were the only ones who did not join in the merriment. Father Hubert made her uncomfortable when he chanced to look her way, his wide mouth stretching into a lascivious grin as if he lusted for something more than his dinner. She averted her eyes to the table, ashamed of herself for allowing her imagination such free rein. Dame Alice had schooled her daughters to respect all men in holy orders. Father Hubert was likely only more convivial than the somber Father Andrew.