Winterbourne (22 page)

"Now I am no longer a child," Melyssan interrupted him. She caught one of his long thin hands between her own. "My dear" brother, you do not—nay, you will not understand. I cannot leave Lord Jaufre because I—I love him."

Whitney snatched his hand away, scraping her palm against the facets of his garnet ring. "Love! You dare stand there and tell me you love a man who hates me, who made a fool of me?"

"It takes so little to make a fool of you, Whitney. You are such a willing ally,'" she snapped, and then immediately repented her outburst. "Nay, I am sorry. I did not mean that. If you would but let me explain to you about Jaufre, about how I feel—"

Whitney thrust his face forward until his nose was only inches from hers. "There is only one thing I want to know, Melyssan. Do you ride away with me or not?"

She stared into green eyes that reflected her own anger and hurt. "No."

"Fine." Whitney spun away from her and stooped down to hoist the chest onto his shoulder. His body sagged under the weight until she feared his backbone would snap.

"Wait. I will summon one of the grooms to help you."

"I want no help from anyone at this place." He staggered toward the door, pausing to direct a savage glare at her. "Let his servants wait upon you. I'm sure you've earned the right. Be his whore if that is what you wish, but you'll no longer be any sister of mine."

He tromped out of the room, and she could hear his crashing progress as he struggled to drag the chest down the curving stone stairs. Tears stung her eyes. She longed to run after him, but what more could she say?

A rustling from behind alerted her that Father Andrew had risen to his feet and was preparing to glide after her brother. He had been so quiet she had almost forgotten he was a witness to the quarrel. As he passed by her, his black robes brushing against her skirts, he covered his gray head with his cowl so that all she could see of him were the aged white hands fingering the rosary at his waist. Did he mean to leave her thus without a word of farewell?

Choking back the lump in her throat, she said, "Take care of Whitney, Father. I never meant to hurt him."

"I worry more over the hurt you do yourself, my daughter."

She gave a shaky laugh. "I suppose you mean because I have not come to confess my sins. Of what avail would it be when I cannot say I am sorry?"

She thought of Jaufre's dark brown eyes bathing her with his desire, setting every fiber of her being tingling with want, with love of him. "I could not even promise never to touch him again," she said softly.

Father Andrew's hand tightened around his crucifix. "That is what distresses me more than anything. You have given yourself so completely, risking damnation for a man who is unworthy of you."

"I will not hear anything against Jaufre, not even from you, Father. Can you not see how much I need him, how happy he has made me?"

One withered finger reached out to dab at a tear on her cheek. He held out the glistening drop for her inspection. "I see little of any happiness for you, my lady. Lord Jaufre knows no future, only the darkness of his past; no love, only hate. I care not what honeyed words he whispers in your ear now, he will turn against you one day. Bitterness flows through him like poison, a poison that will spill over and infect even your innocent young life."

"You are as unjust to my lord as Whitney." She turned away, hiding the tremor that crossed her face. "There is no truth in what you say."

"No? Look deep inside yourself, my child. Has not this dark knight already tainted the affection between you and your brother?"

"That is Whitney's doing, not Jaufre's. He…" Her words faltered, and she covered her face with her hands. "You say there will be no happiness for me. Well, I could be happy. I could! If you and Whitney would just leave me be."

His hand touched lightly on her shoulder. "My lady, it pains me as much to say these things as it does you to hear them. Tis not too late for you to reconsider. Come away with us, Lady Melyssan, away from this man who will do you naught but harm."

"You'd best go, Father." She raised her head, stiffening her spine. "My brother will grow impatient. He is in great haste to be gone."

She heard the priest's gentle sigh as he withdrew his hand. "Farewell, then, my daughter. I wish I could offer you God's blessing, but I cannot. I will remember you in my prayers."

She nodded but did not turn around until the swish of his robes near the door told her he had gone. With the back of her hand, she wiped the tearstains from her cheeks, wishing she could as easily rid her memory of the priest's warning about Jaufre.

Father Andrew was wrong. He did not know Jaufre as she did. He saw only the Dark Knight striding through Winterbourne, exercising his power with the ruthless efficiency of a warrior. He heard only the legends, whispered secrets of the earl's shadowed past, of which none but she knew the painful truth.

What could the priest or Whitney know of the tender Jaufre who had cleansed away her tears and rocked her to sleep in his protective arms? What did they know of the vulnerable side of Jaufre, still raw and aching from old wounds, the wistfulness that sometimes crept into his dark eyes as the man yet sought for something to believe in?

Perhaps it was a sin to find such pleasure, such peace, from the union of their bodies. Jaufre had not said he loved her. Most likely he never would. But she loved him, and for the moment that was all that mattered. There were a hundred tomorrows for her to be a penitent. She had to hold fast to today, seize whatever happiness she could, accept whatever part of Jaufre's life he was capable of sharing.

Suddenly she was overwhelmed with the need to see him, to feel his arms closing around her, to lose all thought in the heady sensation of his lips on hers.

She nearly stumbled headlong down the stairs in her haste to reach the courtyard. Grooms exercising the horses, milkmaids hastening with their pails to the kitchen, guards preparing to change shift on the castle walls, all blurred before her eyes in the bright sunlight.

She took several cautious steps forward, trying to avoid the huge puddles of water left by the rain. Her staff sank deep in the mire, and as she tugged it free she flew forward, colliding with a large, masculine form. Sinewy arms encircled her waist, lifting her off her feet.

"Take care, my sweet, lest you plunge face first into the muck," Jaufre's deep-timbred voice murmured against her ear. "Or at least defer your mud bath until I have had my morning kiss."

She looked up into a pair of laughing brown eyes. Was it a trick of the sunlight, or did his face look younger, as if some of the creases in his bronzed skin had been smoothed away last night?

"Jaufre," she cried, and buried her hands in his thick mane of hair, so black it seemed to have caught some of the blue of the sky in its glossy strands. She crushed her mouth against his with such force she nearly sent them both tumbling over backward.

Jaufre caught his balance, his arms tightening around her, pressing her body so close to his she could feel the evidence of his aroused desire even through the layers of their clothing. His lips now took command of the kiss, his rough tongue plundering the sensitive hollows of her mouth with a passion that left her breathless. Slowly he released her, lowering her back to the ground so that she slid along the hard-muscled plane of his chest and thighs.

Across the courtyard, the saucy page Arric gave an appreciative whistle before disappearing into the stable. Jaufre drew in a deep breath and then laughed.

"Madam, how often must I caution you about assaulting me in front of my men? I vow you have put me to the blush this time."

Melyssan gave a throaty chuckle, too mesmerized by the teasing smile that so transformed his stern features to make a reply. But the smile vanished abruptly, to be replaced by a look of such tender concern as wreaked even more havoc upon her already racing heart.

"Why have you been weeping?" he asked, caressing her cheek with the warmth of his fingertips.

" 'Twas nothing. I was bidding farewell to my brother."

"If his leaving distresses you so, I will make the whelp stay."

"No!" she protested quickly." Tis better that he go."

Jaufre scowled. "No matter what my feelings, I would not harm your brother, my lady."

"I know that, Jaufre. I did not mean—'Tis only that Whitney cannot cling to my skirts forever. My father will have need of him." She hoped that Jaufre would not see through the weak excuse to her fear that despite his good intentions, a confrontation between her angry brother and the earl was exactly what she dreaded. She tried to take Jaufre's hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. For the first time, she realized he was holding something.

His frown fading, he placed a small carved oaken box into her grasp. Her eyes widening, she regarded him questioningly and found his cheeks tinged red with embarrassment.

"I was saving that to give to you as soon as I saw you this morning. But you were already dressed and gone when I returned to our bedchamber."

As she fumbled with the clasp to open the chest, he added, " Tis nothing much. My mother gave it to me when I was a stripling, though God knows what she thought I would do with it. Mayhap she meant to encourage me to comb my hair."

As the lid swung open, Melyssan saw herself reflected in the depths of a mirror of polished steel nestled in a frame of crimson velvet. Her wonder at Jaufre's gift was equaled only by her amazement at the woman confronting her. Who was this fey creature with the wild mass of nutmeg curls tumbled around flushed cheeks, sparkling green eyes, and lips bruised a bright pink from the force of a man's kiss?

She held the mirror at arm's length, almost frightened by the strange vision. Jaufre's hands came up to steady her own, which had begun to tremble. "High time this poor looking glass had something more lovely than my grim face peering into it. What think you, my lady?"

"M-my lord, I scarce have words to thank you," she said. Yet she felt she needed no mirror when Jaufre looked at her as he was now, making her beautiful with his eyes.

No, he had never said he loved her, but this was close, so close to all her dreams of him that the reality of it pierced her heart with a sharp pain. Her fingers clenched down upon the wooden case.

She cared not what Father Andrew said. She would cling to her illusions with all the strength she possessed. As long as Jaufre was near, touching her with the warmth of his hands, of his gaze, nothing could be wrong.

She smiled up at him as he bent to kiss her, her eyes flicking back to his gift. The smile wavered. A distant image behind her flashed across the polished surface of the shining steel, an image of a young man and a black-hooded figure vanishing through the gate.

Sir Tristan Mallory impatiently shoved aside the branch that threatened to tear the cap from his head. He had little liking for these dark, shadowed Welsh forests. Not that the trees grew any thicker here than in the woodland at Ashlar, but at least in the north of England, one need not fear taking an arrow in the back from some crazed Welshman hiding in the bushes.

With new trouble brewing along Wales's borderlands, it was not the time for such dallying pleasures as a day's stag hunting. But the sight of that huge buck brought down a week ago by the peasant lad Jaufre had pardoned had whetted the Dark Knight's appetite to see some sport of his own making.

Tristan scowled, struggling through some rowan bushes into the open space where the hunting party had alighted to break their fast, so early had they set out from Winterbourne.

Damn it. Why did Jaufre pay so little heed to reports of the increased number of rebel uprisings? Tristan had been standing right next to the earl when news had reached Winterbourne of how Sir Kendall's manor house had been burned, his wife and babes slaughtered. The trouble was Tristan could not be sure exactly what penetrated Jaufre's thick skull of late.

The knight's frown deepened as he stepped into the midst of the huntsmen, grooms, and pages. An excited brachet hound nearly tripped him as it tore past his legs, barking at will-o'-the-wisp light patterns the sun cast through the withered autumn leaves. Jaufre perched next to Melyssan on a fallen log, seemingly oblivious to the commotion around him, which was enough to affright any deer within a mile or alert any lurking Welsh rebels within two.

The earl leaned forward, eating out of Melyssan's hand a thick slab of wheat bread and jelly. He chuckled when some of the thick grape jam dribbled down his beard, playfully nipping at Melyssan's fingers as she tried to dab his face with a cloth.

By St. Michael, thought Tristan, the man is as giddy as a prisoner new released from the dank confines of a dungeon and suddenly comprehending he is free. If 'twere any man but Jaufre, I would swear he was…

He allowed the disturbing thought to trail away as he strode in the couple's direction. It took Jaufre a full minute before he was even aware that Tristan glowered above him, hands on hips.

"Ah, Tristan…" The earl gave him a lazy smile. "Did you find any fumes?"

"No, 'twas not signs of deer that I was looking for."

"That is obvious from the state of your boots, man."

Tristan regarded the substance caking his heel with disgust and scraped his leather-encased foot against the grass. An angry flush crept up his neck at the sound of Jaufre's booming laughter.

"I was looking, an it please you, my lord," Tristan said through gritted teeth, "for any sign you and your lady might end up massacred during this little jaunt in the forest. I appear to be the only one with enough sense to show concern." He gestured scornfully to where Sir Dreyfan played at fetch with one of the hounds.

"Thank you, my friend, but I warrant you I can well take care of my lady." Jaufre wrapped his arm around Melyssan's shoulders, pulling her cloak more tightly around her. A becoming blush mounted to her cheeks under the earl's attentions.

Tristan's lips set into a taut line. As far as the lady's feelings went, he had no doubts whatsoever. She wore her heart in her eyes for all to see, and every pulse of it beat with love for Jaufre de Macy. Damn him, how could he so trifle with her? With much pain, Tristan had watched the changes the years wrought in his friend, the hardness, the cynicism, and the mistrust of all that was good in the world. But through it all Jaufre had maintained his honor, an honor that would never let him despoil an innocent young girl… at least, not until now.