Winterbourne (23 page)

Jaufre glanced up at him again, teasing devils dancing in his dark brown eyes. "Now tell me true, Lyssa. If you met a bear in these woods wearing such a peevish expression as Tristan's, would you not be likely to die of fright?" Jaufre gave an exaggerated shudder. "I promise you I would."

Although she laughed at Jaufre's comment, Melyssan gave Tristan such a kind smile as made him resolve that the earl should do right by this maiden if he, Tristan, had to beat the man insensible first.

"Nay, my lord," she said in her sweet, gentle accents, "there is naught in Sir Tristan's comely face as would frighten any lady."

"Is that so?" Jaufre cupped Melyssan's chin with mock ferocity. "Well, I'd best not find you too admiring of his comely face, or I shall force him to start wearing a mask."

Then he kissed her swiftly, heightening the color in her face to an even brighter hue. She cast Tristan a look, half-embarrassed, half-pleading. He understood her thoughts as well as if she'd spoken them aloud. Please. I am so happy. Do not condemn me.

Tristan whirled on his heel and stalked away, muttering, "If you insist we proceed with this madness, then let's get on with it."

Jaufre's forehead puckered as he watched his friend's retreat. Plague take him! It was not like Tristan to be so surly. What the devil ailed him? Never mind, he told himself at last, drawing Melyssan closer and staring deep into her anxious green eyes. Nay, never mind. He did not want to know. He hadn't given much consideration to anything since he had asked Melyssan to stay with him. He only wanted to feel, to revel in gentle sensations too long denied.

Closing his eyes, Jaufre brushed his lips against her mouth, so tender, so sweet, then across her cheek, so petal-soft, and felt her warm, rapid breaths tickle his beard. Let Tristan keep whatever lectures he harbored shut away in his self-righteous bosom. Jaufre did not want to hear.

Standing up, he lifted Melyssan by the waist and twirled her around, delighting in her laughing pleas for him to stop, and then settled her carefully back in her saddle. How strong he felt when she was in his arms, invincible, as if he could conquer not only Clairemont, but half the world.

One of the huntsmen reported a sighting of some antler rubbings on a birch nearby, and Jaufre led the hunting party in that direction, following the course of the stream as it meandered through the woodland.

In truth, Jaufre cared little whether they found a deer or no. He would have been content to while away the day making love to Melyssan on the moss-covered banks, in less hurry than the brook spilling over the rocks. Aye, content… if he did not constantly fancy Tristan's eyes were boring holes in his back.

He allowed Melyssan to precede him with Sir Dreyfan and held back his own mount until Tristan drew alongside. Some-thing in the knight's stiff-necked manner made Jaufre long to slip a burr under his friend's saddle.

He reached out and snapped off a long twig whose dried leaves of gold and red clung precariously to their stems. Brandishing it like a sword, he rustled it under Tristan's nose.

"Smile, man, before your face freezes that way."

"I see little to smile about, my lord." Tristan slapped the branch out of Jaufre's grasp, sending several of the dried leaves flying in the face of the earl's horse. In spite of Jaufre's lazy grip on the reins, the stallion was too well trained to do more than toss his head.

"Why, whatever is amiss?" Jaufre asked, then snapped his fingers. "Ah, I'll wager I know. You've had an eye to that little chit who waits upon my wife. What's her name? Nellie?"

"Nelda."

"Nelda. And she's been dropping her handkerchief young Arric's way of late." Jaufre fetched a deep sigh. "How fickle these females. Always preferring someone younger. You are growing ancient, my friend. You should think of taking a wife."

For a moment, the earl believed Tristan was going to choke. "So should you!" he shouted, then, as if recalling himself, compressed his lips.

Jaufre grinned. "But I have a wife. I assure you I have never felt so married in my entire life."

"I see. That, I suppose, is why you no longer sleep on the pallet in my chamber."

"Is that what distresses you? I never suspected you were afraid of the dark. Why, you have only to call out, and any of the squires—"

"Will you cease this buffoonery! You know what I am leading to, Jaufre. How soon are you planning to rid yourself of Melyssan? How soon?"

Jaufre's eyes focused on Melyssan's back, her honey-brown hair feathered across the maroon cloak covering her slender shoulders, her colors and delicate frame blending with the fragile beauty of the autumn-scaped woods. But unlike the trees' discarded leaves, he would never allow her to be tossed and buried by the chill storms of winter. Be rid of Melyssan? Why did Tristan even ask him such a thing?

"I only wondered," Tristan continued, "because you summoned to Winterbourne those merchants traveling to display their wares at the fair. I assumed 'twas time to buy the lady her trinkets and send her on her way. You have lain with her for more than a week. 'Tis far longer than any of the others have lasted."

"You dare! You dare to compare
her
to those whores?"

Tristan gave him a stare that was a shade too innocent. "And why shouldn't I? 'Tis what everyone else will do. After all, you surely would not be thinking—heaven forbid—of marrying the girl?"

The line of oak trees spread their gnarled roots closer to the stream bank, and Jaufre was obliged to fall behind or risk plunging into the water. Forced to contain his rising anger until clear of the obstacle, he pulled his horse back alongside Tristan at the first opportunity.

"And why the hell not? Why wouldn't I think to marry her?"

Tristan raised his eyebrows in exaggerated astonishment. "You could have your pick of maidens from noble families, maidens of great beauty…"

"There is none more beautiful. None! None to even compare."

"And women of great accomplishments, skilled in looking after a great lord's household—"

"Melyssan has more learning than the lot of them. I'd entrust her with the care of any of my estates, entrust her with my very—" Jaufre broke off, then added gruffly, "With my very life."

Tristan went on as if he had not heard. "And then a man of your religious piety, of course, must be disturbed by her affliction. That lame foot. Surely a curse of God, that might in turn be visited upon your children."

"What!" Jaufre roared. Any man but Tristan daring to imply such a thing would have been sprawling in the dirt by now, spitting out blood and loosened teeth. As it was, Jaufre leaned over and caught Tristan's bridle, bringing his horse up short.

"Any son of hers, I care not if he were lame in both legs, if he had but half her spirit, my son would wrest Normandy from the French single-handed."

For the first time that morning, Tristan smiled. "Before you get wrought up enough to run me through on behalf of this son of yours, I suggest you and the lady take steps to ensure he will not be a bastard."

"Well, of course there is no son," Jaufre sputtered. "I used that to point out that I—that is, any man would be proud to take Melyssan as his wife."

Tristan pried Jaufre's fingers from his bridle. "Don't tell me. Tell her."

With that, he kicked his horse in the sides and rode to the head of the hunting column, leaving Jaufre fuming and feeling very much as if he'd walked into a velvet-lined trap.

Tristan was getting too clever for his own good. How skillfully he had stirred to life the conscience Jaufre had repressed ever since the night he'd first taken Melyssan. Nay, not taken, he reminded himself fiercely. She had given herself, come to him. He had tried to resist.

But not so very hard, sneered a voice inside him. 'Twas you who begged her stay. Yet he had never constrained her to do so, never forced her to become his mistress. It was her own choice.

But he knew why she had stayed. Even now she glanced back at him, inviting him to ride to her side with that radiant look on her face that both gladdened and terrified him. Terrified him because at times the love glowing in her eyes elicited a response from him that was more than physical.

Damn Tristan! With a few well-chosen barbs, his irritating friend had ruined the enchanted idyll Jaufre had enjoyed with Melyssan. It was all the more annoying because he knew Tristan was right. The knight had only reminded him of what he knew all along must be the outcome of his relationship to Melyssan.

He would have to marry the girl. Honor demanded it. Ask her to make vows, promises that he well knew were so easily broken. And he was afraid he might care too much this time if they were.

What galled him most was the feeling that somehow the decision had been taken out of his hands. At what point had he lost control of his own destiny, been cornered by that same innocence and gentleness that had first attracted him to Melyssan? Perhaps his fate had been sealed that long-ago summer evening when he'd first pulled her into his arms, pretending that he mistook her for her sister.

How would she react when he told her they were to wed? She would not be human, would not be a woman, if her face did not light up with some sign of triumph. He watched in brooding silence as she brought her pony around and maneuvered into place by his side.

He had no way of knowing the courage it took her to do so. Ever aware of Jaufre, Melyssan had stolen glances at him from time to time while he had talked with Tristan, seen the change come over him, her heart wrenching with fear as she did so.

He did not return her timid smile but instead regarded her with what she had come to think of as his Dark Knight look, mouth set in a grim line, brown eyes half-hooded, forbidding.

"M-my lord is disappointed we have not yet found a deer?" she ventured.

"The morning is young. If you would be a hunter, Melyssan, you must have more patience when you stalk your prey."

"'Yes, my lord. I—I do," she said, bewildered by the almost accusing tone in his voice. Had she done something foolish during the course of the hunt to displease him? "I only thought you—you look as if you were disturbed."

"Aye, I am. With matters that have nothing to do with deer hunting."

"Oh." She longed to touch his cheek and ask him to share his trouble, but when Jaufre wore that guarded expression he put such distance between them that he might as well have been riding on the opposite side of the stream.

"If you must know," he said, leveling her with a hard stare, "I have been thinking 'tis time I took a wife."

Her breath caught in her throat, the words jolting her as if he'd knocked her from the horse. He'd told her once he meant to seek a bride, but it was something she'd allowed herself to forget. The forest around her became a golden blur as she felt the blood draining from her face and a keen whistling past her ears.

The arrow splintered the bark of a mountain ash only inches from her head. Jaufre's hand shot out and clamped down on her upper arm as his mind registered the narrowness of her escape. The next instant something sharp ripped through his thigh, slamming his leg against the saddle. His strangled curse mingled with the shrill cry of his horse as it lunged forward, jostling Melyssan's pony.

"Get down," he said, half shoving, half dragging Melyssan out of the saddle. "Take cover. We are under attack."

Her pale face flashed before his eyes as she clutched at the bridle to save herself from falling. She screamed his name as Dreyfan caught her around the waist and hauled her toward the shelter of the bushes.

"My God. Help him," she sobbed. "He's been wounded."

As he struggled to get his wild-eyed mount under control, it took Jaufre a moment to realize it was himself Melyssan was weeping over. He glanced with a sense of detachment at the blood-flecked feathers and shaft protruding from his upper leg. His fingers closed around the thin rod only to jerk them away as if the crimson staining his palm were fire. Pain spiraled upward along his side like a hundred knife strokes lacerating his flesh. Grinding his teeth, Jaufre hunched over, forcing himself to hold the leg immobile. Sweet Christ, he was pinned to the saddle.

"Jaufre!" He heard Tristan's shout and became aware that his friend was running forward to help him.

The earl shook his head to clear away the black webs rising before his eyes. "No. Get back!" he cried hoarsely, knowing if the arrow were removed now, it would render him useless for the battle to come. Yanking his sword from the scabbard, he drew in a shuddering breath, willing his mind to block out the agony that threatened to rob him of his senses.

Horses and baying hounds bolted around him in confusion as his men sought cover, drawing forth their weapons. His heart pounding, Jaufre scanned bent tree trunks, rustling branches, for some sign of the invisible enemy. His instincts already alerted him that something was wrong. What manner of attack was this? If an ambush, his small band should have been overrun by now. But two arrows fired? It was more like the work of…

His trained eye caught the movement immediately, the dark-hooded figure skulking on the opposite shore, now crawling away in retreat. By St. Michael, 'twas but the work of some cowardly assassin.

Jaufre's lips curled back in a feral snarl as he kicked his horse and whirled around to pursue the whoreson knave who had come so close to killing Melyssan. As the courser's muscles stretched into a gallop, a snapping sound split the air. The arrow imbedded in Jaufre's thigh broke free of the saddle, tearing flesh and sinew. The scream that rose in his gorge erupted in a savage battle cry as the Dark Knight plunged his horse into the narrow stream.

Water splayed out from under the charger's hooves as Jaufre thundered toward the crouching figure, who now abandoned all attempts at concealment and fled into the forest. The earl's throat burned raw with each ragged breath as the white-hot shards that pierced his leg slammed repeatedly against the saddle, the wooden shaft rasping against the marrow of his bone. His horse clambered up the opposite bank, and the green and gold of the woodland misted red before his eyes as he surged forward with the fury of a ravaged beast springing to the defense of its mate.