"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 it was time to buy the lady her trinkets and send her on her way. You have lain with her for more than a week. It is far longer than any of the others have lasted."
"You dare to compare her to those whores?"
Tristan gave him a stare that was a shade too innocent. "And why shouldn't I? It is what everyone else will do. After all, you surely would not be thinking 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.
“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 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. Not taken, he reminded himself fiercely. She had given herself to him. He had tried to resist. But not so very hard, a voice inside him sneered. It was you who begged her stay. Yet he had never constrained her to do so, never forced her to become his mistress. It was her 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 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, eyes half-hooded and forbidding.
"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," 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 look as if you were disturbed."
"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 it is 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 until she was jolted by something whistling past her ear.
The arrow splintered the bark of a mountain ash 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 cried. "He's been wounded."
As he struggled to get his wild-eyed mount under control, Jaufre looked down at the blood-flecked feathers and shaft protruding from his upper leg. His fingers closed around the arrow only to jerk away as if the cr
imson staining his palm was 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 shouted, 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 sharp breath, willing his mind to block out the pain.
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 a single assassin.
His trained eye caught the movement immediately, the dark-hooded figure skulking on the opposite shore, now crawling away in retreat. 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 earl 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 beast springing to the defense of its mate.
Although his prey had vanished into the thicket, Jaufre had no difficulty following the enemy's crashing progress as the hooded man tore frantically at the tree limbs barring his escape. The earl's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword as he galloped after the man, blood pounding in his temples as he closed for the kill.
The man stumbled, fell, clawing wildly at the branches that entangled his cloak. He pulled free of it and rolled over onto his back just as Jaufre checked the speed of his mount.
The cold steel of his weapon sang through the air as the earl arced it back, preparing to deliver the fatal blow. But he checked the blow, staring at a familiar young face dominated by large dark-fringed eyes, strange silver-colored eyes glazed with fear and hate.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jaufre had not succumbed to unconsciousness by the time Tristan and Dreyfan deposited him on the linen-covered mattress in his bedchamber. But Melyssan almost wished that he had as the two knights left her to finish the task of binding Jaufre's wound.
His dark eyes fluttered open to glare at her as she set aside what remained of Jaufre's blood-soaked woolen hose and drawers, along with the crimson-stained cloth she had used to cleanse the leg.
"What the hell do you think you are going to do with that knife, woman?"
Half-guilty, half-defiant, Melyssan lifted the small blade that had been partly concealed by the folds of her gown. "Please, Jaufre. I told you. I felt splinters still lodged in the wound. Sir Dreyfan was not very careful when he—"
"Careful!" Jaufre exploded. "The old fool plucked that arrow out of me like a scullery wench wriggling the spit out of a pig. He damn near finished what that boy of yours started.”
Melyssan bit her lip. "My lord. I have told you three times already how sorry I am."
"You're sorry? Not half as sorry as I am that I didn't follow my first instincts and hang the little bastard. What happened today is no more than I deserve for allowing a woman to lead me around by the nose."
Jaufre ground his shoulder back against the mattress as if somehow he could sink deep enough to escape the pain that had turned his face ashen beneath the beard. Gingerly, she settled herself beside him on the bed, the knife feeling slippery against her palm.
Under the direction of the sisters at St. Clare, she had learned to treat many wounds. Once she'd even helped to remove the foot of a huntsman who had injured himself with an axe. But it was different this time, when her own heart seemed bound up in that scrap of linen Jaufre pressed against his leg to keep her from touching the torn flesh again.
"The bleeding has stopped," he said. "Let well enough alone."
"It is not well enough. Those splinters will fester inside of you until they poison your blood." She tried to remove his fingers from the cloth, but he jerked away, snarling an oath as his other hand clenched deep into the pillow beneath his head.
"Damn you, keep away! I'll have no blood left to poison if you start carving. I already feel weak as a newborn babe."
"You'll have no leg left if I don't. You may even die. Please, Jaufre, I beg you."
He continued to stare belligerently at the knife until understanding dawned on her.
"Oh, I see." She swallowed hard, berating herself for her ridiculous hope that she could have banished the memory of Yseult. "If you are that afraid I am planning to murder you, I will summon Tristan. I am sure he could forestall any blood-thirsty intentions I might have."
When he compressed his lips into a thin white line and made no reply, she eased herself off the bed. But Jaufre's hand closed hard around her wrist. "Don't be a fool, Lyssa. Oh, hell-kite, if it will make you feel better, hack away." Ripping free the piece of linen, he exposed the jagged line of congealed blood marring the hard-muscled thigh.
Melyssan drew in a deep breath and for a moment wished she could summon Tristan, Dreyfan, one of her ladies, anyone else to inflict this agony upon Jaufre that was so necessary for his recovery. But she'd already seen a sample of the knights' healing capabilities when the arrow had been removed. As to her ladies, it was she who was supposed to be training them. She could not turn coward now.
Taking a moment to steady her hands, she rested her fingers against the coarse-haired skin above Jaufre's knee. As yet the flesh was warm but not overheated, which was a good sign. She could not help remembering how only last night Jaufre had guided her hand along his strong limbs, teaching her how he liked to be caressed, all the while doing such wondrous things to her own body with his bold, exploring fingers.
Her cheeks burned with shame that she should so allow her thoughts to wander. She wondered if Jaufre had noted the way she'd been studying him, for he draped one arm protectively across his manhood. Whether out of a belated sense of modesty or a fear she might somehow let the blade slip, she did not know.
Firmly grasping the knife, she began to probe the wound, her grim task of prying out the splinters made all the more difficult as Jaufre abandoned the silent stoicism he had exhibited earlier, marching his prisoner out of the woods at sword point and riding all the way to Winterbourne unaided. He had not uttered a sound when Dreyfan had so ruthlessly yanked the arrow free of his flesh. But now, with every prick of the knife blade, he spewed forth a string of curses Melyssan had never heard the like of before, in French, in Latin, and in another foreign tongue she was relieved she did not understand.
Interspersed with the swearing were mutters of what he would do to that accursed devil's cub responsible for his injury. At the moment, the boy was lodged in the dungeon below the great hall. Melyssan had felt nigh sick when she had recognized Jaufre's assailant as the lad whose life she'd begged him to spare. She could have wrung the young dog's neck herself when she realized how close he had come to repaying the earl's clemency with death. But surprisingly enough, it had been Jaufre who had interfered when his knights would have sought immediate reprisal upon the boy. The strange light in the earl’s eyes as he regarded
his captive had sent a shiver up Melyssan's spine. Even now she feared to speculate upon what dire fate Jaufre might be planning for the young rebel.
"Ow! Christ's wounds," Jaufre shouted, startling her so that she jabbed deeper than she'd intended. He muffled his bellow of rage into the pillow and then panted, "Lady, you are about as gentle as a wild boar rutting for acorns."
Tears of frustration stung Melyssan's eyes as she wiped away some of the blood that was making her fingers slick. He spoke as if she tormented him for her own pleasure.
"If you would but hold still. There is only one splinter remaining. Perhaps I should send for some strong spirits."
"There's not enough mead in this castle to get me drunk enough to endure your poking. Hasten and make an end."
"I was thinking of the drink to fortify me, not you," she mumbled. By the time she had removed the last sliver and cleaned and dressed the wound for the second time, packing it with yarrow leaves, her kirtle clung to her, more damp with perspiration than the shirt Jaufre wore.
He rolled over onto his back. "Praise the Lord, she's done at last." His mouth drew down into a heavy scowl. "Are you sure you removed all the splinters? Beshrew me but I feel as if I still had ten times fifty prickling my flesh."
"I am as sure as you would let me be," Melyssan said as she washed her hands in a basin of water. Returning to Jaufre's side, she felt his brow for any approach of the dreaded fever and was relieved to find his skin damp but cool.
"Try to rest now, my lord. It will be the best thing for you."
"Rest! I do so love a woman with a keen wit.” But something of his devil's twinkle returned to the pain-glazed brown eyes before he allowed his lids to flutter closed. He pressed her fingertips to his lips before drifting off into an uneasy sleep.
As restless as he was, he enjoyed more repose than Melyssan did that afternoon and night. Lying nearby on a straw pallet so as not to disturb him, she started awake at every moan and creak coming from the bed above her. Nigh a dozen times she arose, fumbling for her balance in the dark, and groped to touch Jaufre, to assure herself he had not fallen victim to delirium. She could sense the tension in his limbs even as he slept and wondered what agonies he yet suffered.