Winterbourne

  As he moved through the center, he glanced briefly in Melyssan's direction and bent forward to whisper something to Enid that caused her to toss back her golden head and laugh. The jeweled circlet slipped from her hair and rolled across the floor, causing much merriment as her young husband retrieved it.

  Robert and Jaufre tossed the headpiece back and forth, causing Enid to crash into the line of dancers as she tried to catch it. Breathless with mirth, she had to forfeit a kiss to each of the gentlemen before Jaufre placed the circlet back upon her head.

  Melyssan suppressed a sudden feeling of bitter envy for her beloved sister. What right had she to feel jealous of Enid's pleasure? It was their world—Enid's, Rob's, Jaufre's. They belonged here in this glittering circle of satin-robed and bejeweled courtiers. She did not.

  More strongly than ever, Melyssan resolved she would never wed Jaufre. What use had he for a crippled wife, a wife who belonged cloistered in a nunnery? She winced, remembering his anger earlier that afternoon when he had shouted his tally of what she had cost him. She only wondered why he had even bothered to come searching for her.

  Enid placed her hand on Jaufre's arm as they made their way down the line of dancers, disappearing from Melyssan's gaze when a knight blocked her view. The burly fellow wove on his feet, suffering from the effects of the heady spiced wine Enid served her guests. He blundered toward Melyssan as if he did not see her, and she had to scramble out of his way to avoid being trampled. Losing her balance, she flung out her hands to right herself. She clutched at folds of linen only to discover she had yanked Dame Alice's wimple free of her straggly gray hair.

  Her mother jerked the material away and slapped Melyssan's hand. "Why can you not be seated somewhere? Must you constantly demonstrate to everyone how clumsy that foot makes you?"

  "I beg your pardon, Mother," she said, backing away, rubbing her stinging flesh.

  Dame Alice's angular chin jutted out. "If I'd had my way, you would not even be here, putting on such a display. You should be up in the chapel, giving thanks to all the saints for your deliverance, my fine lady harlot! You've brought deep disgrace to our family. I tell you now, when the wedding is done, I cleanse my hands of you forever."

  "There will be no wedding, Mother. I won't force Lord Jaufre into marriage."

  "What foolish talk is this? You ought to go down on your knees and be grateful such a one as the earl will have you." Her mother's lips pursed as she gestured to where Jaufre had begun the lively steps of the branle, linking hands to form part of the large circle. An expression of pain flitted across his countenance, but he managed to grimace a smile at the portly dame next to him.

  "He ought to be up in his bed." Dame Alice scowled. "I swear from his performance today, the man is mad, a raving lunatic. But all the same—"

  "I will not have him!" Melyssan averted her gaze, unable to bear watching Jaufre another minute, so close, yet so much farther away than he had ever been. "I won't have any man who comes to me with a sword at his back. Nay, not another word, Mother." She turned and fled through the archway out of the hall, leaving Dame Alice staring after her, gaping with as much astonishment as if she'd discovered mice could speak.

  Melyssan did not pause until she'd reached the oriel outside Enid's bedchamber. The landing that led from the outer stairs of the castle was dark, the moonlight barely penetrating the leaded panes of opaque glass fitted into the small window. No one who chanced upon her would see if she gave way to the foolish bout of tears that threatened to overwhelm her at any moment.

  She sank down upon a wooden window seat set into the rough masonry blocks of the wall as she fought the urge to stop up her ears. She could still hear the music, echoes of laughter floating up to her from the hall below. Her heart hammered against the gossamer fabric of her chemise as she recalled with astonishment the defiant words she had dared to speak to her mother. But defying Dame Alice had been the easy part. Dealing with Jaufre would be another matter, for she knew well how stubborn the earl could be. She had been wrong to believe he would abandon her to face the world's scorn alone. Beneath his cynical facade, he was a man of honor and, where that honor was concerned, unyielding. But she had her own pride and loved him far too well to allow him to wed her out of pity and a sense of duty, especially when she knew he had far different plans for his life. It was fortunate he knew nothing of the babe nestled inside of her, or she would have no hope of dissuading him from making such a sacrifice.

  But did she have the right to keep the child a secret? If it was a boy, it would be Jaufre's heir. She would be depriving the child of his birthright. She slapped her hand against the stonework. Nay, she was weakening, trying to use the babe as an excuse to bind Jaufre any way she could, despite the risks involved. They said the children of such a one as she were often as malformed as the mother.

  "Lyssa?"

  The soft voice startled her. She leapt to her feet, her eyes straining into the darkness. Even though she could not see his face, she knew well the silhouette of the tall man who paused at the top of the stairs. How many times had she caressed the broad expanse of those shoulders, felt those strong arms hold her fast in the long hours before dawn at Winterbourne and in her dreams.

  She turned her face toward the wall, half expecting another angry outburst from him. "Please go away, Jaufre."

  "No. I will not. You have already shunned me most of this evening." She heard the timber floorboards creak and stiffened as she sensed him drawing closer. "Why have you left the feast so early, Lyssa?"

  "I did not think my presence would be missed. I am not much needed when there is dancing."

  She started when his hands came to rest lightly upon her shoulders. His breath stirred against her hair, his lips close to her ear as he murmured. "I needed you. You have not danced with me one time."

  She wrenched herself away from him and whirled around. His face loomed above her, shadowed except for the gleam of his eyes. "How can you mock me so? When you know I would give my life to be able to . . ." Her voice failed her.

  Jaufre held wide his arms. 'Then give me your life, Lyssa. Place it in my keeping, and I will grant your wish."

  She shook her head, moving out of reach. But there was nowhere to go on the small landing. She bumped against the window seat.

  "Come dance with me, Lyssa. The music still plays."

  His hands encircled her waist, lifting her easily off the ground, his feet beginning to keep time with the haunting melody of the pipe echoing from the chamber below.

  "Please, let me go." She held herself rigid, pushing against his chest as he spun her around in a slow circle.

  He pulled her closer, supporting her with one arm linked firmly around her waist, cradling her head with his large hand, forcing her to seek the security of his embrace.

  "Lyssa, forgive me," he said. "I never meant to hurt you."

  “There is nothing to forgive. . . please." She tried to ease herself back to the ground, already giddy from the sense of her own weightlessness as Jaufre's body bent and swayed to the lilting refrain.

  "Nay, stay here in my arms, Lyssa," he said, murmuring a kiss against her temple. "You ran from me once, from my cruel, heedless words, words never meant for you. You, who are all the beauty and grace I ever look for in this world."

  She felt herself weakening, her arms slipping around his neck as she became lost in the slow, sensual motion of the dance.

  "Do you know why a man likes to dance?" His voice rumbled out of the darkness, low, seductive. "When he sees a lovely lady, distant, remote, it is often the only way to get near her, feel her brush against him, breathe in her sweet perfume. And perhaps the touch of a hand, the chance meeting of the eye, will tell her what he cannot say."

  Jaufre slid his hand beneath her hips, pressing her tighter against him as the pipes picked up their tempo. She could feel the taut muscles of his chest, his strong-corded thighs undulating against her as her body melted to his. Her heart caught the beat of the music as he swirle
d her faster and faster, the sweat from his body seeping into the front of her gown, his heat arousing all that he had taught her of desire.

  It had been so long. Instinctively, her lips sought his, reveling in the sweet-salt taste of wine mingled with perspiration as their tongues mated, thrusting with the same dizzying rhythm of the music. He staggered to a halt, never breaking the fiery contact of their mouths. Then, somehow, he was carrying her into Enid's bedchamber, pressing her back into the feather pillows.

  Vaguely she noted the well-tended fire burning in the hearth of the massive chimney, the fur coverlets turned back over sheets scented with rose petals. A warning sounded in her mind even as Jaufre slipped her gown over her head. What was she doing? She could not let this happen. If she submitted to his loving, allowed herself to become one with him again, she would never have the strength to leave him.

  "No, Jaufre, I beg you let me go. We must not."

  He inserted one finger inside the neckline of her chemise, stroking a path just above the rise of her breasts that left her quivering. "Surely you will not turn prim upon me now, Lyssa. Not when we are betrothed."

  Weakly she tried to stay his hand. "I am trying to free you from being forced to marry me."

  "No one forces me to do anything." His lips brushed along the silky-smooth skin of her collarbone.

  "What else is it when your sense of honor compels you, your feelings of pity . . ."

  She gasped when he ripped the chemise down to her waist, baring her breasts, the nipples already erect from the mere warmth of his gaze.

  "Since when have I ever felt pity for anyone, Lyssa, least of all you?" His lips curved into a wicked smile. "You know they call me the Dark Knight Without Mercy." As if to prove his words, he teased one pink-crested tip with his finger, the very softness of his touch a gentle torment as she ached for more.

  Her control slipped further away as he eased the chemise down over her hips, leaving her naked beside him. He stood by the bedside, and her protests died on her lips as one by one his garments dropped to the floor. The firelight cast a bronzed glow over his bearded face, now heavy-lidded with desire. The muscular contours of his body, the hardened evidence of his growing need, glistened with sweat.

  It was not until he lowered himself onto the bed that the light flickered to reveal the angry crisscross of slashes marring the smooth surface of his flesh. How could she have permitted herself to forget?

  "Jaufre, your back! You cannot," she cried, pulling up into a sitting position.

  His mouth curved into a determined smile. "Aye, lady. I can and will, even had I received ten times the blows. It would be nothing compared to the agony of letting another day go by without loving you."

  He slipped his arm around her shoulders, guiding her back down onto the bed. Her protests he swept aside with the persuasion of his lips mastering hers in the force of his kiss, now coaxing, now demanding. She could no longer deny the fire coursing along her veins, the flames spreading outward to consume her entire being.

  He caressed her with a gentleness greater than she had ever experienced from him before, even in his most tender moments. 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."

  "Aye, my lord."

  "Then swear it. Swear you'll never leave. Swear you are mine." With each fierce word, his 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 as her world exploded around her, and 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 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 interwined 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. Jaufre. You planned this whole thing. You seduced me!"

  “Nay!" But no matter how wide he opened those dark brown eyes, he could not convey an impression of innocence. "Well, perhaps 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 it was of no avail, your refusal to wed me? And 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. Somehow he sensed this was not the time to tell her he knew about the child.

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

  “It is 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 laugh when I say it, but to me you were like Sir Lancelot, everything that was noble, that a knight should be. My dream was always that one day you would come riding back to me and swear that you . ." Her voice trailed away as she bowed her head.

  Jaufre fidgeted uncomfortably. "It was all a long time ago. A child's fantasy. Lyssa, all this talk of Sir Lancelot 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. It is more than most women have from their husbands. Can this not be reason enough for you?"

  She raised her head, her 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 sought the 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. r />
  "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.

  "My lord, I am so sorry," she said, reaching out to touch him and then drawing back guiltily. "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. He felt asleep mumbling about the plans for their wedding. Because of the interdict, he would have to carry her across the channel into France. 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. Why was she such a dreamer as to keep hoping that somewhere in Jaufre's 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.