Winterbourne (16 page)

Lord Jaufre looked down at his handiwork, his expression masked by his armor. Melyssan flung herself down beside Whitney, then reeled back in horror. Although it was Whitney's back she touched, what stared up at her was the front of his helmet.

"Dear God," she choked. "You twisted his head around."

To her outraged astonishment, a deep chuckle rumbled inside Jaufre's steel kettle." Tis not the head that's turned around, only the helmet."

The earl removed his own head covering and tossed it to a page, while swiping at the perspiration glistening in his dark beard.

As if to lend credence to Jaufre's words, a low moan echoed from the back of Whitney's helmet. Sir Dreyfan moved in and rolled Whitney over, testing his limbs. "Easy, lad. No bones broken. Only the wind knocked out of ye."

"Only the wind!" Melyssan said. "He's half-dead. Take that thing off him before he suffocates."

Dreyfan tugged at the metal headgear, but it wouldn't budge. "Take care," Tristan said as he rushed to kneel beside them. " 'Tis crushed here on this side. You might rip his face. Arric, go get the blacksmith."

As the page tore off in the direction of the barn, Melyssan felt Jaufre step behind her. "Do not fret, my dear. Your valiant brother isn't the first man this has ever happened to. He will live to fight another day."

The earl's bronzed fingers rested on her shoulder, but she wrenched herself from his grasp and said, "No thanks to you." She captured one of Whitney's groping hands. The fingers curled pathetically around hers as he issued another muffled groan.

"I was only trying to teach the lad his sword was meant for something more than a place to store holy relics in the hilt."

"You pounded him into the ground as if he were a—a tent stake." She sniffed and glowered up at Jaufre.

"Well, to be sure." He stroked his beard, the thoughtful gesture belied by the unholy glint in his mahogany eyes. "There were times I did wonder if I was not fighting the wooden dummy by mistake."

The chortle of mirth from the other men who had gathered around only added more fuel to her indignation. Seething inwardly, Melyssan continued to caress Whitney's hand until the burly figure of the blacksmith arrived, hefting a large iron hammer and chisel in his fist.

Melyssan was pushed aside as Sir Dreyfan dragged Whitney's body to position his head on a large rock. He and Tristan held her brother down as the smithy commenced the delicate task of trying to batter the helmet back into shape without crashing Whitney's skull. Melyssan cringed with every chink of the hammer while the cause of her brother's torment looked on with folded arms, his face alight with sardonic amusement.

"Don't be too concerned if you can't get the helmet turned around," Jaufre said. "I'll wager Master Whitney fights just as well with it on backward."

"Oh, go to the devil, Jaufre," Tristan snapped as another whimper escaped from the young man.

Shrugging, Jaufre sauntered over to Melyssan, where he tried to flick the tears off her cheeks, but she slapped his hand.

"Don't touch me, you great oaf. How could you so strike down a defenseless boy?"

Jaufre's brows drew together in annoyance. Perhaps he had gotten a little rough, but she had no call to speak to him as if he were some sort of a monster, attacking unarmed children.

"When I was the age of that 'defenseless boy,' I'd already been knighted two years and acclaimed the champion of at least twenty tournaments."

"Truly?" she said, her green eyes flashing. "I believe I may swoon, I am so impressed."

"You should," he said, feeling red heat sting his cheeks at being made to sound like such a braggart. "Though most men could do as well. At least those not coddled by their sister. Your brother will never win his spurs at this rate."

"If that means changing into a great hulking brute like you, I'll see the damned spurs flung to the bottom of the well first."

Jaufre threw his hands into the air and grimaced at his squires. "Women!"

Their answering snickers caused Melyssan to ball her hands into tight fists until her nails gouged her palms. And to think she'd dared to imagine that in the heart of Jaufre de Macy existed some fragment of chivalry, some part of the gentle knight who had rescued her as a child. Bah, what a fool's dream.

She tensed as the helmet was eased upward, revealing Whitney's white, bruised features. With trembling hands, he felt his chin, nose, and teeth as if checking that they were still intact. Rolling to his knees, he retched into the grass for several seconds.

"Never let it be said the lad has no stomach," Jaufre said. "He's leaving half of it scattered over the bailey."

"Oh, let up on him, Jaufre." Tristan scowled.

Melyssan crossed over to Whitney and gave his shoulder a sympathetic squeeze, her heart wrung by the sight of his peaked, humiliated face. But her ungrateful brother shoved her hand away.

"Stop, Lyssa," he whispered. "You're only making everything worse."

Tucking his helmet under his arm, Jaufre approached and bent down to peer at Whitney. "All better now? Come on. I'll give you another chance, but I'll fight with my left hand this time."

Whitney's only reply was a sullen shake of his head. He struggled to his feet and walked away. Melyssan tried to hold him back, fearing that if he left now, he would never be able to face these men again. But he yanked free and kept on going, causing her to stumble back and stub her bent foot on the blacksmith's discarded hammer.

"Another time, mayhap when you've more the belly for it," Jaufre called after Whitney.

Melyssan grimaced with pain as she wriggled her throbbing toe, fury and frustration churning inside her at Jaufre for his insensitivity and at her brother for his meekness.

"Well, lads," said the earl, "despite the mighty buffets I sustained from Sir Whitney, I believe I'm still up to a little more exercise." Something in the jaunty way he donned his helmet and stooped to pick up his shield snapped Melyssan's remaining hold on her temper.

"I'll give you mighty buffets," she cried. Dropping her staff and using both hands, she strained to lift the heavy iron hammer. As Jaufre was straightening up, she banged the smithy's tool down on his helmet near the region of his ear. The force of the blow reverberated up her arms, causing her to fly backward, tripping over the hem of her cloak so that she landed on her bottom with a hard thud.

Jaufre sank to one knee and then, with a muttered curse, staggered up and ripped off the helmet. Bells were ringing in his ear louder than the chimes at Westminster the day of the king's coronation. He struck his palm vigorously against his temple to stop the insistent clanging.

Sweeping the crowd of laughing men, his furious gaze wiped the mirth from their faces, except for Tristan, who continued to smirk, and Sir Dreyfan, who slapped his thighs and guffawed until tears streamed down onto his beard. By the feet of Christ, who had dared to—

Then he saw her sprawled upon the ground, skirts shoved up past her knees to where her garters were tied around shapely thighs. Disheveled strands of golden-brown hair fell across storm-washed green eyes as her dainty hands contended with the unwieldy hammer. The way she looked up at him, baring small white teeth, put him in mind of a ferocious kitten.

"Why, you little witch," he hissed, although he was having great difficulty keeping up the appearance of being furious.

Melyssan trembled with savage exhilaration. It was the first time in her life she'd ever permitted her temper such free rein. But when she saw the Dark Knight advancing, her jaw dropped open in dismay. Dear God, what lunacy had come over her? Feeling much like a foolish mouse who has just tweaked a lion's tail, she attempted to escape, but the hammer rolled between her legs, pinning the folds of her kirtle to the ground so that all she could do was scoot helplessly backward.

Jaufre straddled over her, his face screwed into an expression of angry menace as he lifted the hammer with one hand, tossing it aside effortlessly. Seizing both her arms, he hauled her to her feet and rammed her against his chest until she could feel the hard links of chain beneath his tunic. Her heart leapt into her throat, but she compelled herself to raise defiant eyes to his, biting the inside of her lip to keep it from quivering. Even though his mouth was set into a tight line, she had the fleeting impression it cost him an effort to look so fierce. Beneath Jaufre's thick-fringed black lashes glittered devilish lights she remembered all too well.

"So, little vixen," he said with a mock growl. "You're not as tame as I thought. Well, I know how to deal with that."

Banding her squirming wrists to her back with one large hand, he brought his other arm up behind her shoulders. Her startled gasp was smothered beneath the burning sensation of his lips crashing down upon hers. Struggling against the hard embrace and his demanding mouth became even more futile as fire coursed through her veins, robbing her of what little resistance she possessed, until she melted to him, the iron strength of his arms all that prevented her shaking limbs from collapsing beneath her.

Suddenly she realized how much she had hungered for his touch all these long endless days at Winterbourne. Remnants of her anger, her frustration, her growing passion, all swirled inside of her, sweeping away her natural shyness, until she pressed her lips back against his, returning the kiss with equal fervor. It was Jaufre who ended the embrace, slowly drawing back, his lips lingering as if they parted from hers with the greatest reluctance. While her giddy world gradually ceased revolving, she felt the rise of his chest as he drew in a shuddering breath. His face drained of color as if he had received a great shock.

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, because…

Scenting danger as cannily as a wolf being stalked by a hunter, the Dark Knight hardened his jaw, determined to shatter the glow he saw in Melyssan's vulnerable sea-shaded 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 7

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.

"Mayhap 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 involuntarily 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.

Her chin trembled. 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… be not 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." The ghost of a smile flitted across his face. "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," she replied, "if he treats all ladies so unchivalrously."

"None has had your courage, or—if you will forgive me—has 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."