Winterbourne (21 page)

Feverishly, Melyssan returned his kisses, her breath coming quick, shallow, as she caught the rhythm from him, small waves of pleasure becoming mighty breakers as she arched against his lean hardness, following him to the top of each new crest. All sound, sight, spun away from her until she felt as if her flesh were dissolving, blending, becoming a part of her lover until they were one being, one heart, one soul.

"Jaufre, Jaufre, I love…"

Her words were swept away as a dam of shuddering sensation burst inside her, flinging her into a whirlpool of incredible rapture. From a great distance, she heard Jaufre's hoarse cry, sensed the spasms that racked his powerful frame. Then her giddy world slowly ceased revolving, leaving her filled with a delicious weariness, ceasing all motion to float peacefully back to consciousness.

Jaufre collapsed, blanketing her with the weight of his warm body, burying his face alongside her neck. She was aware of the sharp rise and fall of his breathing, the racing of his heart in tempo with her own, gradually slowing to its normal steady beat.

She clasped her arms around him, holding his head tightly against her, savoring the joining of their bodies, wanting this moment to go on forever. But she knew it was over. Now he would draw away, leaving her cold with only the memory of his touch to warm her.

Already she felt him stirring, raising his head. The kiss he planted on her forehead was chaste, almost reverent. He rolled off her, and she felt the chill air striking against her skin. The fire had burned itself out, leaving only glowing embers. Melyssan shivered and tried to clear the constriction rising in her throat.

'"Are you cold, Melyssan?" He stood up and found the covering to drape over her. But she drew scant comfort from the heavy folds of the fur blanket as she shut her eyes, not wanting to see him begin to dress, readying himself to go.

Then, to her wonderment, she felt him settle beside her again, drawing her close so that her head rested upon the firm flesh of his shoulder. Stifling the joyful sob that threatened to escape her, she snuggled against him, resting her palm against his chest, all cold and fear once more kept at bay by the magic circle of his arms.

"My beautiful…" His chest rumbled as the words came, hoarse, halting. "My… Lyssa."

It was as close to an endearment as he could come, but for Melyssan nothing had ever sounded sweeter. His fingers entwined in her hair and he kissed her, not with the compelling passion of moments before, but softly, lingeringly, a gentle brushing of lips. Her heart full to overflowing, Melyssan's tears spilled over onto the satiny thickness of his beard.

He caressed her cheek, flicking the moisture aside with one callused fingertip. "Oh, God, Lyssa, what have I done? I wish… I should never have allowed this to happen."

Hearing the note of regret in his voice, she jerked her head up, trying to read his expression. But in the darkness all she could make out was the soft glow of his eyes. Fear gripped her heart. He had known so many beautiful women, perfect women, experienced in all the ways to delight a man. And she… Had she been as awkward in lovemaking as she was in her dragging step? She did not delude herself that what had happened between them was as special to him as it had been to her, but that he should be sorry for it…

"Then—then I did not please you?" she asked.

"Yes, yes, of course you did."

Jaufre knew he should say more, offer her more reassurance than his curt reply. But how could he even begin to put into words what he did not understand himself? Even during the days he had been infatuated with Yseult, he had never known the like. A passion so strong he had no control of it, a fulfillment so great that for once he had been sated without the immediate return of his hunger, no restless feeling that there should be something more.

He ran his hands through the lengths of her silken hair, shaken by the way he had surrendered to his desire for her, binding her more closely to him when he knew he must let her go tomorrow.

Unconsciously, his arms tightened about her, forcing her head back down against his shoulder. Although the possessive gesture delighted Melyssan, it did not completely soothe away the doubt he had raised. She wanted to cuddle against him, forgetting that he had all but wished undone the most beautiful event of her life. But she could not.

Nervously twisting her fingers through the dark hairs that curled along his chest, she said in a small voice, "If we made each other happy, then I do not believe what we did was so very wrong, Jaufre."

"It was wrong of me. I robbed you of your innocence, and I do not know how I will ever repay you."

Melyssan stiffened. "Payment. Why must you always talk of payment?"

"Because it is the way of the world, Lyssa. Everybody wants something." He dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head.

"Is that what
she
taught you? Yseult?" Melyssan could have bitten out her tongue. The forbidden name suspended over them like a sword ready to slice down at any second and rend them apart. Although Jaufre did not move a muscle, she could sense his withdrawal.

"Yes, Yseult taught me a great deal," he said. Slowly, he began to shift Melyssan away from him, but she reached out and drew her fingers down the raised white skin that formed his jagged scar. Yseult's legacy.

" Tis like you never allowed this to heal," she whispered. "And after all this time, although you say you never loved her, she wounds you still."

He caught her hand and held it away from him. "It wasn't Yseult. At least, not only her. It was…"

"What? What was it, Jaufre?" she prodded, longing to understand the force that had so embittered him, rendered him incapable of receiving her love without counting the cost.

Silence stretched between them, and she thought he would not answer her.

"It was Godric," he replied at last, his grip tightening unconsciously on her hand.

"Yseult's lover? I—I don't understand. I—"

"He was my brother."

Chapter 9

Jaufre's words echoed inside her head, soft-spoken words that by their very weariness hinted at an agony so great Melyssan could scarce comprehend it.

"Your brother, my lord?" she asked. "You—you killed your own brother?"

She had not meant to sound accusing, but she felt Jaufre flinch. He released the hand he had been crushing with such unconscious strength and rolled away from her. Sitting on the side of the bed, he propped his elbows on his knees and lowered his head into his palms.

"Yes—killed him, or may as well have." Jaufre's voice was muffled as if he spoke more to himself, going over and over the same thoughts with which he must have tortured himself hundreds of times before.

"Never guessed his fear would drive him to such lengths. So ashamed of plotting against me, so afraid of my grandfather's wrath. Godric threw himself on his own sword."

Melyssan sat up, holding the fur robe across her breasts. Tentatively, she placed one hand against the flat, taut muscles of Jaufre's back. When he did not pull away, she gently stroked the ridge of his spine. "Oh, Jaufre. And you were blamed for his death?"

"I took the blame on myself. Better it should be thought I killed him, or he would not have been buried in consecrated ground." Jaufre lowered his hands and gave a listless shrug. "Not that I set store by such things, but it would have broken the old comte—that one of his grandsons should be so stained with dishonor, discarded like an animal carcass on a refuse heap."

He fell silent, and Melyssan continued her stroking, assailed by the same sensation of helplessness she had experienced that afternoon when Jaufre had first told her about Yseult and Godric. What could she say or do in the face of such pain and bitterness—she, who with her sheltered experience of the world would never have dreamed such betrayal between brothers possible?

She swallowed and said, " 'Twas—'twas very noble of you to shield your brother's good name."

"Noble!" Jaufre wrenched around so suddenly, her caressing fingers grazed against hair-roughened skin. "There was nothing noble about my dealings with Godric. I failed him, Lyssa. Don't you understand? I failed him."

He seized both her wrists and hauled her closer until even in the dark she could see the self-reproach glittering in his night-dark eyes. "He was seven years younger than I, under my protection. He cared naught but for his music, his manuscripts. And I was soft with him. Never pushed him, never taught him to fight as a man should, never taught him a sense of honor."

He released her hands and ran his fingers roughly along her arms until he gripped her shoulders. "And without honor, a man is nothing. Nothing! That is why…" He hesitated. "That is why I was so hard on your brother. He is as Godric was."

"No!" Despite her sorrow for Jaufre, her defensive instincts toward Whitney caused Melyssan to jerk away from the Dark Knight. "No. Don't say that. My brother would never—"

"Betray you? Aye, he would, even as Godric did me. Even love cannot last in the face of cowardice. When a man is weak—"

"Stop. I will not hear any more."

His words were like the remorseless litany of a sorcerer, conjuring up unwelcome images of how Whitney had quailed before King John when her virtue had been threatened, how her brother had nearly abandoned her when Jaufre's return was imminent.

But he came back, she reminded herself fiercely. He came back.

The earl ceased his accusation, but he withdrew to the edge of the bed. As they sat there in silence, Melyssan hugged herself against the chill that settled over the room, feeling as remote from Jaufre as if the warmth and magic of their lovemaking had never taken place.

Folding his arms across his chest, Jaufre tried to tell himself he was right about Whitney, right to force Melyssan to face the truth about her brother lest she be hurt someday as he had been. Yet she was hurting now. Even in the vehemence of her denials he could sense a quality of desperation, and he knew he had imbedded the first seeds of mistrust in her heart. Damn, what was he trying to do to her?

"Lyssa," he whispered, drawing her hard against him. She avoided his kiss by ducking her head, her cold slender arms pressing on his chest, forming a barrier between them. He wanted to tell her to forget what he had said, forget the whole wretched tangle about Yseult, Godric, Whitney… forget everything and turn back to the moment when they had been lost in the wonder of their desire, the desire that he felt building within him again as he clasped her trembling nakedness in his arms.

Her voice came to him, quavering, pleading. "You are wrong about Whitney, Jaufre. I know you have to be. You confuse weakness with being gentle."

"Is there a difference?" he murmured against the silken strands of her hair.

"Aye, my lord."

He tipped her head back and said, "Then teach me. Teach me the difference, Lyssa."

He swept aside any reply she might have made by covering her mouth with his own. At first her lips strained against his, tight and unyielding. Then they parted, her tongue darting forward to meet his with an urgency that was anything but gentle. Jaufre knew a moment's surprise at the fierce way her arms encircled his neck, so different from the timid embraces she had bestowed upon him earlier.

Then he forgot everything but his need for her. Tumbling down onto the fur-covered mattress, he pulled her with him, his hands and lips feverishly scoring her flesh as if he would absorb all of her into himself.

Melyssan writhed against his lean hardness, trying as frantically as he to recapture the passion they had known before she had raised the specters of Yseult and Godric to haunt them. Clutching the firm muscles of his back, she rose to meet him as he thrust deep inside of her, allowing his driving need to sweep her into a mindless world of fiery sensation, her only awareness the heat of his body inflaming and consuming her as they reached the peak of their mutual desire.

'Twas not like it was the first time, Melyssan reflected with a touch of sadness as she sank back against her pillow. The tenderness, the almost spellbinding rapture, were missing; yet it had been good, for it left her drained of the confusing doubts Jaufre had raised, left her too tired to dread the coming of dawn when she would leave, perhaps never to see him again.

She could tell it had had the same effect upon him, for he collapsed against her, one arm draped possessively across her waist, while his head rested against her breast, his entire body relaxed of all tension. She felt his warm, steady breath against her skin and thought he had fallen asleep.

She was startled when he suddenly said, "You're not leaving tomorrow."'

Her heart lurched, hope warring with disbelief. "Wh—what?"

Jaufre raised his head. "I said you're not going. I don't want you to—I mean—do not leave me, Lyssa."

Then out of the darkness came that other word, so soft she scarce heard it.

"Please."

Tears of joy, fear, and uncertainty blurred her vision, but she wound her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his brow.

"Yes, my lord," she whispered. "I will stay."

"You're not staying!" Whitney said as he slammed down the lid of the chest that contained the meager belongings he had brought with him to Winterbourne. "No matter what it takes, we are riding out of here just as we came in, through the main gate." With shaking fingers, he girded his sword to his belt.

Melyssan bit her lip and stared at the empty dormer room that her brother shared with the young squires and pages. The others were all gone about their daily tasks in a courtyard mud-soaked from yesterday's storm. The large drafty chamber was empty except for Whitney and Father Andrew, who sat on one of the straw pallets stacked up alongside the wall as he silently-watched the young man pack. When the priest chanced to look up at her, his face so mournful, knowing, Melyssan could not meet his gaze. Her eyes flicked back to the pale, angry face of her brother.

"There is no need for you to take on so, Whitney," she said. "'Lord Jaufre will not try to stop you from leaving."

"Nor you, either. I—I will die before I leave you here with that—that animal. I swear I will." But despite his bluster, beads of sweat gathered on Whitney's brow. "I know you dread going home to face our mother, but Enid has already written to say she would receive you. You were always wont to take her your problems when you were a child—"