Winterbourne

  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.

  "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."

  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, and 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 any longer."

  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 looked at her, brown eyes clouding.

  "God, I hurt you. I didn’t mean to.”

  Flinging her arms around his neck, she forced a reassuring smile to her lips. "Please. It is all right. Love me, Jaufre, please just love me." She 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 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.

  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 him, 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 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. Had she been as awkward in lovemaking as she was in her dragging step? Sh
e did not delude herself that what had happened between them was as special to him as it had been to her, but it wounded her that he should be sorry for it .

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

  "Yes, yes, of course you did."

  Jaufre knew he should 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, "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.

  "It is like you never allowed this to heal," she said. “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 don't understand. I—"

  "He was my brother."

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jaufre’s word echoed inside her head, softly spoke words that by their very weariness hinted at a pain so great Melyssan could scarce comprehend it.

  "Your brother, my lord?" she asked. "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.

  "I never guessed his fear would drive him to such lengths. He was 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 said, "It was very noble of you to spare your brother such dishonor.”

  "Noble!" Jaufre wrenched around to face her. "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 eyes. "He was seven years younger than I, under my protection. He cared only for his music and his manuscripts. And I was soft with him. I 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 earl. "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 anymore."

  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 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, 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 in
to 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.

  It was 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. "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 is 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.