Winterbourne (32 page)

He caressed her with a gentleness greater than she had ever experienced from him before, even in his most tender moments. His hands traced the sensitive hollows of her passion's center with the reverence of one exploring the portals to some holy temple. The lightness of his touch tantalized her until she bit her lip to keep from pleading for the consummation of her desire.

With slow deliberation, as if he would savor every moment, he glided himself inside her, each thrusting movement of his powerful hips seeming calculated to prolong the sweet flame-racked torture, delay the blinding moment of climax. With a low groan, she buried her hands in the thick waves of his hair, drawing his head down beside her, her senses spinning with the musky scent of his maleness, the heady perfume of the roses.

"So right," he said hoarsely, the warmth of his labored breaths tickling the sensitive flesh along her neck. "This is where you belong, my Lyssa."

"A-aye, my lord."

"Then swear it. Swear you'll never leave. Swear—you—are—mine." With each fierce word, his velvet shaft penetrated deeper, faster, as if he now moved to claim all of her with this union of their bodies, wedding her spirit to his with the joining of their flesh.

"I swear it. Forever." The cry tore free from her throat as her world exploded around her, setting her aloft in a storm of fire that flared into white-hot shards of light, then becalmed, leaving her bathed in a warm glow.

And still Jaufre moved inside her, bracing himself on his strong arms as she lay gasping beneath him. She watched him, her heart wrenching with love at the rugged beauty of his male features as, head thrown back, he emitted a guttural cry. A thrill rushed through her almost as potent as Jaufre's lovemaking at the realization she had the power to do this to him, bring him to the same miraculous fulfillment as he did her.

She felt bereft when he drew away from her, dissolving them into two separate beings once more. Her only consolation was that Jaufre settled himself gingerly on his side, drawing so close that his leg intertwined with hers. He trailed his fingers over her bare shoulder, a languorous smile upon his lips.

"Ah, Lyssa. What you do to me. How could you be so foolish as to think I would ever let you go?"

"Or that I could go," she whispered, remembering the promise he had wrung from her in the midst of their passion. Right or wrong, she was now pledged to be his as assuredly as if she had taken her marriage vow.

Was it but a trick of her imagination, or was there a certain amount of self-satisfaction in Jaufre's smile? She plucked free some of the velvety pink petals that had somehow become matted in the dark curling hairs of his chest… rose petals, which had been carefully placed in a bed with turned-down sheets, a chamber with a well-lit fire…

She jerked herself up onto one elbow and glared at him accusingly. "Jaufre. You—you planned this whole thing. You seduced me!"

"Nay!" But no matter how wide he stretched those dark brown eyes, he could not quite convey an impression of innocence. "Well, mayhap I did, a little."

When she began to scramble away from him, he sat up and caught hold of her upper arms. "Now, Lyssa," he said, barely suppressing a deep chuckle, "how else could I show you 'twas of no avail, your refusal to wed me? An I mistake not, you enjoyed my little persuasion as much as I."

She felt two hot spots of color settling into her cheeks. "That is not the point. I like not feeling that I have been somehow tricked."

"Is it trickery for a man to woo his bride?" He gave her a gentle shake. "You are so stubborn. You would never believe that I did not wish to wed you out of pity, so I had to offer you proof otherwise."

He sighed in frustration as he saw from the mulish set of her chin that his plans were going awry. His eyes flickered over the soft swell of her stomach, the barely perceptible thickening of her waistline. No. Somehow he sensed this was not the time to tell her he knew about the child.

"Lyssa, 'twas the only way to make you understand. I will have you at any cost."

She stared up at the canopy above them, her eyes blinking back large tears. " Tis you who do not understand. What I feel for you has no cost. I love you, Jaufre. I have ever since you rescued me from those cruel boys at the tournament. You—you laugh when I say it, but to me you were like Sir Launcelot, everything that was noble, that a knight should be. My dream was always that one day you would come riding back to me, swear that you…" Her voice trailed away as she bowed her head.

Jaufre fidgeted uncomfortably." 'Twas all a long time ago. A child's fantasy, Lyssa, all this talk of Sir Launcelot and love. Now I come to you as a man to a woman, with an honorable proposal of marriage."

"Aye, honorable!" She choked on the word.

"Lyssa, I want you. I need you for my wife. Tis more than most women have from their husbands. Can this not be reason enough for you?"

She raised her head, her sea-shaded eyes staring into his as if she sought a mirror into his soul. It was all he could do not to look away, her gentle gaze piercing him with an inner pain as if she cleared away the dust from motives hidden in the dark recesses of his heart, motives for wanting her he himself did not as yet dare examine in the bright light of day.

After an eternity, she lowered her eyes. "Aye, Jaufre, I will try to make it enough." Burrowing her face against his chest, she flung her arms around him, pressing her fingers against his naked back.

"Lyssa, my sweet—" His words broke off as she felt a strip of skin tear away.

She recoiled in horror as Jaufre arched back, his lips twisted with pain. He collapsed onto his stomach, mumbling curses into the pillow. For long moments he lay still, gasping for breath until the color gradually returned to his face.

"M-my lord, I am so sorry," she whispered, reaching out to touch him and then drawing back guiltily. "I—I will fetch some of Enid's herbs to numb the pain."

"No!" He caught her hand. "Not necessary. All I need is you beside me. Stay and… all will be well."

Despite her better judgment, she allowed him to dissuade her from doing more than cleansing away the fresh streak of blood that trickled down his back. When she had done, he nuzzled the rough satin of his beard against her shoulder, his arm tightening around her waist as if he feared she might disappear while he slept,

"Lyssa," he murmured. "You look so beautiful, firelight glinting on your hair, your skin… Would that I could make love to you again. When I've rested…"

The furrows disappeared from his brow, the long dark eyelashes rested against his cheeks. She studied his harsh features gentled by repose and placed her fingers against his chest, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart.

All will be well
. So Jaufre had said. She wished she could believe that and chided herself for the lingering doubt that cast a shadow over her happiness. The earl was right. Most women considered themselves lucky if they could tolerate the husband their families selected for them. And she, who had never thought to be wed at all… Why was she such a dreamer as to keep hoping that somewhere in Jaufre's mahogany eyes she would find love?

He had confessed his need for her. She should be satisfied, sweep her misgivings aside. Placing a hand upon her stomach, she reflected that she was glad he knew nothing of her condition. At least she could be sure it was not thought of the babe that drove him on to marry her.

She would tell him the night of their wedding. Would he be pleased? She believed so. He had spoken of his desire for an heir. If only the child would not be born with… No. She blotted that frightening prospect from her mind.

The child would be perfect. And there would be others. She would wait, be patient with Jaufre. Perhaps in time, she could teach him to believe in dreams again, to believe in love… They would have all die time in the world now that Jaufre had dealt with the king.

Melyssan closed her eyes tight. Why had she had to think of the king? Perhaps because she could not quite accept that he was gone from their lives. Deep within her was a conviction that all Jaufre had bought them was a little time. No amount of wealth could erase the hatred she had seen blazing in John's soulless eyes. Hatred for Jaufre and herself.

Where the king hated, he had a long and ruthless memory. An image of Matilda de Briouse swam into her mind, and Melyssan shuddered. Matilda and her child, victims of a king's implacable hate, starving to death in that dungeon.

Cupping her hand protectively over the region of her womb, Melyssan snuggled closer to the lean strength coiled in Jaufre's sleeping body. She lay awake for a long time before finally drifting off into a troubled sleep, a sleep in which John's cruel laughter echoed in her ears.

Chapter 14

The castle bell clanged incessantly, calling upon all the saints in heaven to ease the painful labor of childbirth for the lady Melyssan. Jaufre scowled as he bent over the papers strewn across the table, trying to concentrate on the plans his architect had submitted for improving Winterbourne's fortifications.

Even here in the solar, the peal of the bell resounded through his brain, a constant reminder that Lyssa lay in the chamber above him, her face waxen with pain as she strained to bring life to his son. Jaufre closed eyes that burned from lack of sleep, pinching the bridge of his nose as he struggled to block from his mind his last sight of her, her slender body racked with agony, before the midwife had commanded him to leave the room. Commanded him! The earl of Winterbourne. And he had departed meekly, slinking away from a situation where he had no control, a female domain where his orders counted for naught. He could not decree an end to Melyssan's pain nor sternly reprimand his son to hasten his entry into this world before his mother's strength gave out.

Sighing, he opened his eyes and once more attempted to focus on the plans: a new outer wall beyond where the moat stood now, more flanking towers reinforced with thicker stone at the bottom, the old square contours to be replaced with circular shapes, convex surfaces to better deflect an arrow…

"M-my lord?" The young page thrust his head inside the door. "The messenger still waits. What shall I—"

""Tell him to go jump in the moat and take that bell with him." Jaufre pushed the papers from him in exasperation, his head throbbing in time with the persistent
dong, dong, dong
. "Nay, send him in, and command those superstitious fools to stop that ringing before they drive me mad."

''Aye, my lord." The page disappeared, to be replaced by a lean gray shadow of a man whose tunic and mantle blended so well with the stone wall that Jaufre had to look twice to ascertain anyone was there. The messenger stepped forward, bowing so deeply that his nose nigh touched his knee, his sallow countenance as apprehensive as an ox about to be led to the slaughter.

"Greetings to you, my lord Earl, from His Most Royal Majesty, King John of England. A thousand thanks for affording me the hospitality of your magnificent castle. The praises of Winterbourne and its master, the Dark Knight, are heard—"

"State your business," Jaufre said, returning his attention to the architect's plans.

"Oh, aye, my lord." The man fumbled with a short baton attached to his belt. "But bless me, what a charming room this is. Such a painting as I've never seen before. What colors! Your artist most truly has brought King Arthur's court to life."

Jaufre tapped his foot impatiently against the table as he followed the messenger's glance to where Arthur and his knights, Gawaine, Percival, Tristan, and Launcelot, jousted on the wall of the solar, blotting out any traces of what had once been William the Conqueror's advancing army. The earl grimaced for the hundredth time at his own whimsy in permitting such legends to grace the walls of his castle. But it had made Melyssan happy. The scarred conquest mural had been a constant reminder to her of the night she' d been attacked by Father Hubert.

Glowering, Jaufre shifted his gaze back to the messenger. "Did the king send you all the way from London merely to admire my murals?"

"N-no, my lord." The man dropped the baton, retrieved it, nearly dropped it again. "I—I beg Your Lordship's pardon. I realize my arrival is most inopportune, considering the condition of your lady. I trust you will hear good report shortly."

Shortly? It had been yesterday afternoon this nightmare had begun. How long did it take a woman to produce a child'

Melyssan seemed to be taking forever about the business. How much longer could she endure?

Jaufre leaned forward, slamming the palm of his hand on the table. The messenger jumped back a foot.

"Stop dallying with these pleasantries, man. I grow weary of this waiting. Produce your message or go to the devil."

"A-aye, my lord." The servant's hands shook as he pulled apart the baton, which was hollow inside. From it he produced a scroll, which he handed to Jaufre with another bow.

"Here 'tis. A letter from the king. The king wrote it. I did not. 'Tis—'tis not from me, but from the king."

"Cease your babbling."

Jaufre snatched the parchment away and then rose, stalking to the croslet to take better advantage of the light from the early afternoon sun. He could smell the sweet scent of new grass that cropped up in the bailey below him, borne aloft by a gentle summer wind. A season of new life, new hope, that banished all thought of death. Yet how many women died in the summer as well as any other time of year while giving birth? 'Twas as common as for a man to fall in battle.

Jaufre's fingers clenched the missive, nearly tearing it in two, and for a moment the words before him blurred. Lyssa, so fragile, warm and gentle as summer itself. Damn! Why was there no word yet?

Shaking his head as if to dispel his forebodings, Jaufre began to read, trying to ignore his growing irritation with the messenger, who hovered nearby, shifting nervously from foot to foot. His annoyance at the servant transformed to anger at the master who had sent him as Jaufre read farther down the page.

Our loyal subject, the most noble Earl of Winterbourne, To our great distress, we are obliged to refuse the Earl
's
recent request for license to add further fortification to Winterbourne Castle. Lord Jaufre forgets he is amongst friends here in England and therefore has no need to prepare for war against his castle. Rather, he should direct his military thoughts against his true enemy, Philip of France
.