Winterbourne (20 page)

"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.

He cleared his throat. "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 tire 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—I want you gone from here."

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

"I mean," he stumbled on, " 'tis 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, 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. 'Twill 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 whispered.

"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…" Her words trailed off as her voice thickened.

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 until he found her chin and raised her head.

"Melyssan," he murmured. He gazed into aqua eyes glistening with tears and rimmed by deep blue shadows that spoke of the grief he had brought to her. " 'Twas an ill-mannered jest of mine to call you wanton. I never believed such a thing of you. I don't know why I… 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 cheekbone 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, lower…

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

"Nay, you must go." He spoke as if to himself. "Go away before I…"

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—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, as if mesmerized, he slackened the rigid muscles in his forearm and allowed her to place his hand against the base of her neck. Guiding 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 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, frightened 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… 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.

Holding back his aching need, he turned slightly on his side and pressed a kiss against her hair. He felt suddenly clumsy, as if it were his first time as well. Moving closer so that her soft nipples just barely grazed his chest, he ran his hand beneath the silken fall of her hair and caressed the nape of her neck, the area behind her ear.

"Don't, please don't be afraid, Melyssan," he whispered, searching for the gentleness he had long ago banished from his heart. He placed his hand beneath her chin, tilting her face upward until he looked down into liquid green eyes.

"Go on, Jaufre," she said tremulously. "Truly I do want you to…"

Her words faltered as he planted featherlike kisses on her eyebrows, her cheeks, her chin, her mouth. With one fingertip, he followed the velvet outline of her lips, coaxing them apart before kissing her again. Melyssan reeled with shock at the first sensation of his tongue dancing teasingly against her own, its rough moisture gliding against the sensitive hollows of her mouth.

The cold fear that had been creeping over her faded as the kiss deepened, the insistent pressure of Jaufre's lips and the rhythmic motion of his tongue sending wild currents rushing through her body.

She nearly cried out when he drew his head back, depriving her of the warm sweetness of his lips. But then he began to trail kisses along her neck, down to her shoulders, the crisp mat of his beard abrading her flesh. Kisses that were so soft, yet seemed to brand her everywhere they touched.

He looked up at her, his dark eyes misty with desire. "Melyssan, let me look at you."

Catching hold of the fur, he slipped it down toward the bottom of the bed, revealing their naked bodies lying side by side. Hers white, supple, slender like a young birch, his brown, tough, scarred like a weather-worn oak. Almost reflexively she sought to hide her foot, but he kicked the blanket to the floor.

"No, Melyssan. To me all of you is beautiful. I want to touch all of you." He moved to kneel between her legs, and taking the bent foot between his hands, he caressed it. Then his fingers began to inch their way along her calves. She tried to clamp her knees together, her body tensing in anticipation. But with a teasing smile, Jaufre moved his hands to the outer curve of her thighs and on up to her waist. Stretching himself out beside her once more, he continued his lazy exploration, coming tantalizingly closer to the swell of her breasts until her nipples ached for his touch. At last he enveloped one soft, firm globe, gently stroking until the pink-crested tip stood out hard against his palm.

He buried his face in the valley between her breasts, and where his fingers had lingered before, his mouth now followed, taking her nipple between his teeth and tugging gently, his tongue flickering over the crest as he sucked, starting a fiery blaze that spread downward across her belly to the very core of her being. She tangled her fingers in the thick mane of his ebony hair, and a low moan escaped from her throat, a sound she scarcely recognized as having come from her.

Just when she thought the exquisite torment he wrought upon her could not grow any more intense, his hand skimmed down across her stomach and back to her waist. With each stroke he went lower, until his fingers curled in the light mound of hair, causing her body to tremble with fresh urgency. His mouth captured hers as he insinuated his hand between her thighs, plumbing the soft folds of flesh, finding the pulsating center of her desire. Melyssan gasped, and he had no need to coax her lips apart this time; eagerly her tongue rose to meet his, darting, swirling, as she raised herself into the curve of his insistent caress.

Jaufre groaned. "Melyssan, can't wait—have to…"

The smooth muscles of his bronzed arms stood out in glistening relief as he braced himself above her, his knee gently spreading her legs. As he lowered himself, she felt the velvet-hard mystery of his maleness brush against her. Trembling, she parted her thighs, timidly, like a flowering bud opening to the sun's scorching rays. Slowly, gently, he eased himself inside her until she experienced a searing pain, as if she were being torn asunder.

Biting back a cry, she clutched his shoulders. Jaufre's head snapped up, and he looked at her, brown eyes clouding.

"God, I—I hurt you. Didn't mean to…"

Flinging her arms around his neck, she forced a reassuring smile to her lips. "Please. 'Tis all right. Love me, Jaufre… please just love me." Her shaking hand brushed back a lock from his brow. The pain lessened as she relaxed her muscles, and then she was aware of him inside her, filling her with the heat of his passion. He began to move.

Slowly, cautiously at first lest he hurt her again, Jaufre began a rhythmic stroking, reveling in the warm, moist sheath that enveloped him, the sweet torture of delaying the moment of release. It was his way to close his eyes when he took a woman, concentrating on satisfying his own driving need. But tonight his eyes were open, focused on Melyssan's face; the sight of the delicate pink flush on her cheeks, her sea-colored eyes heavy-lidded with desire, increased his own ecstasy a hundredfold. He bent down to kiss her again and again. With each kiss, he stroked deeper, faster.