Winterbourne (12 page)

"Get up, you whoreson dog." The toe of the Dark Knight's boot slammed into
Le Gros's
rib cage, punctuating every word. "I said, get up!" Father Hubert groaned and was still.

Melyssan saw her arms and legs move as if they belonged to someone else, dragging her up until she crouched on the floor, violent tremors racking her body. Suddenly Jaufre hovered over her, tucking her mantle around her. But it didn't warm her. Nothing, nothing would ever draw the chill from her bones. She glanced up and found in his brown eyes a reflection of her own torment. Hands bruised from the savage blows inflicted upon
Le Gros
now gently stroked the tangled curls back from her face.

"No!" She wrenched her head away, forcing the words through swollen lips. "Don't touch. Don't look at me. I'm vile, dirty. He—"

"He didn't," Jaufre whispered fiercely. "I stopped him, tore him away. Melyssan, please believe me."

Her eyes roved fearfully around the shadowed corners of the room. "Is he gone?" she quavered.

"He's over there." At her terrified start, he clutched her shoulders. "Don't be afraid. He's unconscious, perhaps even dead. He won't hurt you again, I swear it."

But as if Jaufre's oath had been an incantation,
Le Gros
loomed up behind the earl, like a malevolent gargoyle springing to life from stone, red eyes blazing, red mouth foaming with blood.

The blade of his sword glinted as it hissed through the air, arcing toward Jaufre's neck. Melyssan's strangled cry alerted the Dark Knight, giving him precious seconds to dive for the floor, taking her with him. The sharp edge whizzed inches from the top of his head and clanged loudly against the wall. In one fluid motion, Jaufre was on his feet, assuming a defensive stance between Melyssan and
Le Gros
while he drew forth his dagger.

The short blade looked absurdly inadequate beside the priest's length of gleaming steel, the sting of a wasp against the fang of a wolf.

Le Gros
spat out a mouthful of blood and teeth and began to circle Jaufre, demented laughter shaking his bulky form. "You tried twice. Kill me over a whore. Now my turn." He made a wild lunge, which Jaufre barely sidestepped.

"Melyssan," Jaufre said. "The door. Crawl to the door."

She heard him, but she could not make her paralyzed limbs obey. She watched as
Le Gros
flew at Jaufre again and again, the wildness of his swings and his lack of agility the only things that saved the earl. Jaufre danced around him, his body tensed to spring if he ever found his opening. One instant of bad timing and
Le
Gray's weapon would hew deep into the earl's flesh. If Jaufre should tire, stumble…

She had to help him. Had to. Fighting off the numbness terror had imposed upon her, she crept forward, the straw rushes abrading her hands and knees. A few yards away she saw her staff. If she could reach it, trip Father Hubert with it or strike him, distract him for but a moment, allowing Jaufre his chance…

There, the staff was now only a foot away. She cowered back as heavy feet trampled dangerously near her arm.
Le Gros
spared her not so much as a glance, his eyes now glazed with a lust to kill. As he launched himself at Jaufre, she summoned up one last effort, throwing herself at the walking stick. Her fingers closed over the tip as Hubert's sword ripped the side of Jaufre's tunic, the blade coming to rest with a dull thud against the table. The blow reverberated the length of the wood, toppling over the candle and sending it rolling toward the edge. Jaufre swooped on it to prevent the flaming wax from dropping into the straw. The room plunged into darkness.

Melyssan could no longer identify the shapes of the two men, but she could hear, sounds all the more terrifying because she could not see who made them. The clatter of steel, a scuffling of feet, then a deep groan, someone falling, crashing to the floor near her. Nearly crazed by her blindness, she longed for the courage to reach out but dreaded what she might find.

"Jau-Jaufre?" she called softly, her heart thundering in the deathly stillness. She received no reply except for heavy breathing and boots rustling through the straw, moving inexorably to where she crouched, the thin staff her only shield.

Chapter 5

Melyssan held her breath, trying to still the movement of quaking limbs, but the footsteps continued to advance upon her as if guided by unerring instinct. Hands slick with perspiration closed on the end of the staff and she drew it back, poised to strike.

At that instant the door crashed open, flooding the room with torchlight, illuminating the face of the man bending over her. Raven strands tumbled down into mahogany eyes.
Jaufre
.

The staff fell from her nerveless fingers as she staggered into his strong aims, which closed tightly around her, banding her to his hard-muscled chest. Through labored breaths, he murmured her name, burying his lips against her hair.

Dry sobs convulsed her frail shoulders. "I thought he killed you."

"Jaufre! What the devil!" Tristan's voice broke into her consciousness. He stood frozen in the doorway, sword drawn. "
Le Gros,"
he croaked. "Sweet Mother of Christ!"

Tristan stared down at the floor, and then she saw what riveted his gaze. Large feet sprawled apart, jutting out from a mound of black wool in which the hilt of the dagger poised like a jeweled ornament. A red stain pooled over the huge expanse of chest.

Jaufre felt Melyssan shudder, and he pressed her face against his tunic, blocking out
Le
Gros's
white, puffy face contorted into a grimace of death.

"Tristan," he said, snapping the knight out of his shocked trance. "No questions. Dispose of that carcass. Keep this quiet until I talk to you."

Folding the mantle more tightly around her, he swept Melyssan off her feet, cradling her against his chest. "Now I must look after my wife."

"Your wife," Tristan repeated, giving him an odd look. "Oh. Aye, my—my lord."

But the strangeness of what he'd just said barely registered with Jaufre as he raced up the curving stair, clutching her tight against him, his only thought that he must get her warm. The hand that gripped the neckline of his woolen shirt was clammy, and the only sound issuing from her was ragged little gasps.

He'd rebuild the fire, wrap her up in the furs, and beyond that he didn't know. He didn't know how he would deal with the shattered look in those sea-green eyes, didn't know how he could soothe the pale forehead pinched with tormented thoughts he could only guess at.

Up in his chamber, he eased her onto the bed and tried to pull the coverlet over her, thinking if she would just go to sleep, then perhaps in the morning…

But she sat up, shoving the furs away. Underneath the mantle, she hugged herself across her breasts and rubbed her arms. "I have to wash," she whispered.

"What?" he asked, not understanding. " 'Tis not morning yet, Melyssan. You need to rest, forget—"

"No! I need water. Need to wash away the feel of
him
."

He could not reason with her and, in the end, sent a page to fetch a pail from the cistern. When Jaufre brought the leather bucket inside the room, he thought the icy water was the last thing she needed, but she snatched the receptacle away from him with the eagerness of one dying of thirst.

Turning her back to him, she stood near the fire he had kindled in the hearth, dropping what remained of her torn chemise. She slipped the cloak back so that it hung just from her neck, baring ivory shoulders along with glimpses of the creamy swell of her hips and firm, high breasts as she began splashing the frigid water over herself.

Ashamed to find himself staring, Jaufre averted his eyes toward the door, confused thoughts tangling a web in his mind. By God's blood, he'd killed a priest tonight. There would likely be hell to pay when his deed was discovered by the church, by the king. And yet the very idea of
LeGros
set his blood to boiling all over again. He relived with vicious satisfaction the moment he'd snuffed the candle and pinned Hubert's wrist to the table, guiding his dagger through the dark with feral accuracy, thrusting it through the layers of soft, blubbering flesh into that maggot-ridden lump that passed for a heart.

He had killed men before in battle, but never with such a degree of hatred. The intensity of his loathing surprised him. He'd viewed Hubert as a buffoon, an irritating clown, at most. Yet earlier this evening, when
Le Gros
insulted Melyssan, when he'd caught the bastard trying to rape her, he'd fallen upon the fat knave as if he'd had the chance to rid the world of the devil himself.

And all over a woman Jaufre had termed a lying wench, a scheming harlot. Yet it was no harlot's reactions to a man's lust that now drove her to scour herself as if her skin were infected with a leprosy. He stole a peek at her and saw her abrading the tender flesh of her forearm with a violence that left it raw.

Unable to restrain himself, he rushed to her side. "Melyssan, what are you doing? Stop it."

Quickly she draped the mantle around herself again, but not before he saw the livid red splotches marring the pearl-colored skin. She continued to scrape at her hands, crying out with a little catch in her voice, "It won't come off. I can still feel it. It—won’t—come—off.''

He grabbed the linen towel away from her, and when she struggled to get it back, he seized her by the wrists and hauled her away from the water bucket.

For a moment she held herself rigid, glaring at him, her eyes a mirror of helpless rage, shame, and despair. Then she collapsed, the tears flowing free at last, as she muffled her sobs against his chest.

His previous anger and mistrust of her were for the moment swept aside as he sat down on the stool by the hearth, pulling her onto his lap, cradling her in the protective circle of his arms, wanting only to comfort her, restore the serenity that was as natural a part of her as the flowing nutmeg hair he caressed.

Her arms tightened around his neck, her hot tears trickling down his throat as she pressed her face against his shoulder, weeping as stormily as a little girl.

"Why—why did he do it? Why?" The words came brokenly between her sobs. "He took—holy—vows. He was a priest—a priest!"

Jaufre did not know what answer to give as he stifled his own cynical opinion that priests were no different from other men in their lusts, and very likely worse, having to keep up a front of holiness and celibacy. Awkwardly, he patted her on the back, his hand tense with frustration that he, who could put the heart back into war-weary soldiers with but a look, was so inept at mending the broken spirit of one sensitive girl.

To his relief, she quieted at last, her arms relaxing their hold on him as she nestled her head beneath his chin. She still shuddered from time to time, the movement of her warm breasts penetrating his senses even through the layers of clothing. He became self-conscious of the fact that she was naked beneath the mantle and shifted restlessly on the stool.

"Melyssan," he said," 'tis time you were abed."

But when he attempted to lay her down upon the feather mattress, she clung to him, fear once more clouding her red-rimmed eyes.

"Do not leave me," she said. "He—he will come back if I am alone."

"Nay, little one. He cannot. He is dead." Gently he traced the outline of the bruise
Le Gros's
brutality had left on her babe-soft cheek.

She grasped his hand and hung on with desperation. "In my dreams. He'll come back for me in my dreams the same as the king always does."

Vaguely he remembered her telling him something about King John desiring her, using that as her reason for posing as his wife. But he hadn't believed her then, would have rejected any excuse she had to offer. Now he began to wonder. She was a skilled mummer indeed if she could feign that great a look of terror.

He found he was not proof against the plea in those misty, sea-shaded eyes. "Very well, I'll stay," he said, stretching out reluctantly on the bed. "You—you sleep now. I'll allow no nightmares to escape past my guard this night."

She gave him a tremulous smile and settled down beside him. He held his body rigid, aloof, but it was useless. She snuggled close to him like a lost soul in a storm seeking the shelter of a mighty fortress. She begged that he leave the bed curtains open, the candles burning, so that he had no choice but to stare at her face, so young and vulnerable as her swollen lids drifted closed, resting gold-fringed lashes against the blue shadows beneath her eyes. Her pink lips parted, issuing warm, sleep-blurred breaths. Beneath the coverlet, he could feel the soft contours of her body molding against his hip and thigh.

"Sweet Jesu," he muttered as he was assailed by a burning sensation in his groin, the same burning sensation that had driven him to walk the castle walls after he had left her earlier, hoping the frigid night air would douse the fire of his frustrated passion. He had been affected then as he was now by her air of innocence, her childlike trust. When he had dragged her away from the feast, he had been determined to punish her, but her tears had checked his angry lust, tears that reminded him of the little girl who had once thought him Sir Launcelot.

So what was she now—a little girl with a woman's body tempting him with every artless gesture she made? Or a clever schemer using all the wiles known to womankind to pluck at the chords of his compassion, playing him for a greater fool than he'd ever been before?

Was she like Yseult had been that afternoon she'd claimed Godric had raped her, pretending to be distraught? Or was Melyssan truly as she appeared, a maiden whose virginity had been spared, but whose very soul had been violated by the priest's betrayal?

He was not sure, uncertain of anything except that he wanted her, wanted her with a desire more exacting than he had known before, when his passion had been fueled only by anger. Tentatively he touched the pale hollow of her throat, but when she stirred in her sleep, he snatched his hand away in disgust.

Faugh! He was no better than that stinking whoreson
Le Gros
. If she had not wept before when he had tossed her down onto the bed, it would have been he who had ravished her and not the drunken priest, the memory of his own touch driving her near to madness, abrading her flesh to be cleansed of him.