Winterbourne

  "What's this?" he said, starting forward. "Have pixies invaded Winterbourne in my absence?" At his approach, the babe backed away, nearly stumbling onto her rump. He stepped out of the tent, following her.

  Babe. She was scarce that any longer, but more of a little girl. Her cheeks had lost some of that babe-like roundness, her dusky hair brushing against the neckline of her linen shirt, which did not quite reach her knees.

  "Jenny," he said, lowering himself on one knee to her level, stretching out his arms. Although he had been home over a week, she was still shy with him. It pained him to think she had no memory of him.

  "Come, child. I will not hurt you." He spoke gently. He longed to lift her into his arms but dreaded that he would frighten her. After studying him for several minutes, the child moved closer without a trace of fear in her eyes.

  He soon discovered it was not himself she had come to inspect. She swooped past him, pouncing upon his discarded clothing.

  With a crow of delight, she lifted the jeweled sheath that contained his dagger, her stubby fingers attempting to pluck free the shining rubies embedded in the leather.

  "No, Jenny." He snatched the weapon from her grasp. "It is not a toy for little girls to play with."

  Shocked indignation swirled in her velvet-brown eyes. She plunked herself onto the ground, her lower lip thrust out before she let loose an ear-shattering wail.

  He gaped at her in astonishment before sternly commanding, "Genevieve. Stop that racket at once." He swiped ineffectually at the large tears trickling down her face. She ignored his soothing attempts at placation, stiffening her spine when he lifted her onto his lap. Despite himself, his irritation gave way to a twinge of amusement at the killing look his daughter directed at him. Faith, if the child were a queen, she would be screaming, "Off with his head!"

  "Oh, here." He returned the sheathed weapon to her. "I do not suppose you are strong enough to draw forth the blade in any case."

  Jenny gave several more wounded sniffs before she would accept the offering. She began to examine the jewels once more, her woebegone face splitting into a dazzling smile. Jaufre expelled a great sigh of relief.

  "Such a temper! I'll wager someday you will make your husband tremble in his boots."

  She peered up at him through long dark lashes, coy dimples quivering in her cheeks as though she understood his words. Jaufre tangled his fingers in the silken strands of her curls.

  "Ah, Jenny. Do you have any notion at all who I am?"

  A look of keen intelligence crossed the child's face. She poked one pudgy finger against his stomach. "Darnigh. Darnigh," she said.

  "Darnigh?" he repeated, his brow furrowing in confusion. Then his face cleared, and he smiled at her. "Oh. Dark Knight."

  Jenny bobbed her head vigorously. "Aye, Darnigh."

  "I can see your mother has been stuffing that wee head with too many foolish tales." He flicked his fingers under her plump chin. "Dark Knight is not my name, Jenny. I am your father. Fa-ther," he said, emphasizing each syllable.

  Her small nose crinkled. She patted her warm, moist palm against his chest. "Fa-ther," she pronounced solemnly, then surprised him by bouncing upward to plant a wet kiss on his cheek. She hugged the dagger sheath, regarding him with large, innocent eyes, eyes that held no knowledge of lost battles, broken oaths or defeat.

  The child's look of open adoration touched some chord deep inside him. For the first time in many months, Jaufre discovered he still knew how to smile.

  It was sometime later when Melyssan realized the nurse had misplaced her daughter. Canice was full of apology. She had looked away for but a moment. Melyssan curtly ordered her to check the stableyard. Jenny wandered in that direction whenever she got the chance and none of the men would possess the sense to send her back.

  Melyssan turned her own footsteps to the garden, another of her daughter's favorite hiding places. As she neared the large apple tree she paused, listening in alarm. A deep growling issued from the bushes, followed by Jenny's high-pitched giggle. Surely the child could not be teasing one of the hounds again. She had been bitten a fortnight ago.

  Hefting her cane like a club, Melyssan hurried forward—only to stop, frozen in her tracks. She blinked, rubbing her eyes to make sure she was not imagining the scene before her.

  Jaufre scrambled on all fours, pursuing Jenny until he cornered her by the apple tree. The child squealed with delight, her small fist swiping at her father's nose. He rolled over, his arms and legs twitching in the air while he emitted some of the strangest gurgling sounds Melyssan had ever heard. When he finally lay still, Jenny leapt on top of him, shouting with triumph. Jaufre swooped the child up. Jumping to his feet, he spun her around, a light of tender pride in his eye. "Aye, you win again, my ferocious princess. Now give your poor beastie a kiss."

  Melyssan took a quick breath as she watched Jaufre hug the child she had thought he despised. Her heart caught in her throat at the sight of them together, the tall, battle-scarred man and the fresh-faced child, so much alike. Somehow Jenny had accomplished what no one else could: she had breached Jaufre's wall of despair.

  Loath to disrupt the magic surrounding them, she tried to retreat unseen, but a twig snapped beneath her foot, alerting Jaufre of her presence. His leathered face flushed the brightest shade of red she'd ever seen. With a sheepish expression, he set Jenny down, raking his hand back through the hair that had tumbled into his eyes.

  "Well, what are you gawking at?" he blustered. "Someone has to see to the child if her nurse is going to let her run wild."

  He folded his arms, trying to look stern and aloof, but Jenny would not permit it. She wrapped both arms around his leg, her bare toes pushing against his as if she would scale him like a tree.

  "Father," she repeated in a demanding voice until he relented and lifted her back into his arms.

  "Well?" he snapped. "Have you nothing to say about this neglect?"

  Melyssan placed her hand across her lips to stifle her smile. 'I crave your pardon, my lord, but she has always been permitted to play in the garden. We have never had bears here before."

  Jaufre glared at her. "I was not a bear. I was a wolf. We—" He broke off, a peculiar expression crossing his face as if he had just taken a dose of very bitter medicine. "Summon this child's nurse at once."

  "Oh, no, my lord. Jenny is safe. Surely there is no reason to dismiss the woman."

  "I said nothing of dismissing her. I merely want her to come and take the babe. She has great need of a dry tailclout."

  Flinching, he thrust Jenny into Melyssan's arms. She realized that not only was the child soaked through, but a large wet stain was spreading across Jaufre's drawers. Unable to restrain herself any longer, she burst into peals of laughter right in the face of her outraged husband. Faith, but it felt good to laugh again; it had been so long. Jaufre stalked away in high dudgeon, but Melyssan sensed that his anger was feigned.

  After she had returned Jenny to Canice, she followed him into the tent, feeling almost giddy from her discovery, as if a heavy weight had lifted from her heart. He stood by the large wooden tub, swearing and tugging at the cord of his drawers.

  "May I assist you with your bath, my lord?" she asked.

  He hunched one shoulder, affecting indifference, but when she eased her fingers inside the waistline of his remaining garment, he did nothing to prevent her.

  She peeled away the wet wool, crouching down before him as she slid the breeches to his ankles. As he stepped out of them, she glanced up, her pulses quickening. He towered over her like some bronzed god out of the old pagan legends the villagers whispered of despite the disapproval of the priests.

  Jaufre's eyes met hers, and she thought she detected a flicker of some stronger emotion before he averted his gaze as if embarrassed. He eased himself into the large wooden tub, doubling up his knees so that the water lapped to a level just below his stomach.

  Melyssan scooped up the soap. Slowly, sensually, she began to lather the broa
d plane of his back, her fingertips skimming the faint pink ridges, all that remained of the scars left by the whip. She began to talk to divert her thoughts from the desire that stirred inside her when her fingers made contact with the warmth of his flesh. "So what think you of our daughter, my lord? Has she not grown?"

  He didn't answer as her hands trailed the soap across the dark curling hairs of his chest, gently washing the mark Yseult's treachery had left upon him. She felt him tense.

  "Yes, she has grown." He spoke as if the words were wrung from him. "She promises to be as beautiful as her mother one day."

  "Thank you, my lord." She flushed at the unexpected compliment. Or was it another kind of heat that flooded the color into her cheeks, the heat that grew inside of her as she soaped the sinewy lengths of Jaufre's arms down to the back of his hands, the strong, supple fingers that had always appeared so dark against the whiteness of her own skin, teasing, caressing, seeking out all those mysterious places only he seemed to know would render her weak with pleasure.

  She hesitated when she touched a fresh scar that streaked down Jaufre's forearm to his wrist.

  "A memento from Bouvines" was all he would tell her as he drew the arm away.

  He stared with fixed interest at the tent pole as she began to wash the flat surface of his stomach, the muscles tensing beneath her hand. He wet his lips and began to talk of Jenny again. "I shall be plagued with the task of finding her a husband one day. I do not know where we shall find a knight worthy of her."

  "If we could find her a man like her father." Melyssan's hand slipped below the surface of the water, leaving a trail of soap bubbles behind.

  Jaufre squirmed, gripping the side of the tub. “She must do better. I’ll not have her given short shrift in the matter of—" He sucked in his breath. Melyssan had closed her hand around his hardened shaft.

  "I have never felt the lack of anything, my lord," she murmured, astonished at her own boldness.

  Jaufre pulled her hand away, perspiration beading on his brow despite the coolness of the water. "I will wash my own—legs. You tend to my hair."

  Her mouth went dry with disappointment. She had felt the evidence of his arousal. Why did he behave as though he wished to deny it?

  Ducking his head in the water between his knees, he wet his hair so that she could apply the soap. Her hands began to tremble with the force of her rising passion so that she clumsily spattered soap in his eyes. When she tried to rinse him, the bucket slipped from her hands, banging the side of his temple and sending a cascade of water into his mouth that choked him.

  As soon as he could draw breath, he flicked the soap out of his face and squinted at her. "Damn it, Lyssa. What are you trying to do? If I'd wanted to drown, I could have managed it myself." Scowling, he bent forward to rinse his own hair.

  Her frustration boiled over. "Nay, let me help you," she said, shoving his head under. He came up sputtering, shaking back his thick mane like a sleek wet greyhound and seizing her by the wrist at the same time.

  "No, Jaufre. Stop!" she cried in dismay as he tugged her down.

  "Did you think to attempt such a deed and escape without tasting my vengeance, madam?" With a sharp heave, he toppled her over into the tub.

  She gasped, feeling the cold water soak into the back of her skirts as she came to rest between Jaufre's slickened thighs. He splashed great handfuls of water up over her bodice until the layers of kirtle and chemise clung to her, revealing the swelling shape of her breasts and hardened nipples.

  "Stop. Stop," she begged, blinking away the droplets that clouded her eyes, feeling the tendrils of her hair cling to her cheeks.

  She felt the heat of Jaufre's hand pressing against her back as he pulled her forward, crushing her to his chest so that she could feel the erratic beat of his heart.

  "There is only one way to purchase mercy from the Dark Knight," he said huskily, the anger in his eyes flaming into passion.

  "Indeed? Then name your price." She slid her arms around his neck as his mouth claimed hers, the cool taste of the water replaced by the sweet fire of his lips. He hooked his arm beneath her knees, lifting her out of the tub, staggering beneath the weight of her dripping gown. Easing her down upon the grass, he murmured, "We shall have to get rid of these wet things, lest you drown me yet."

  She helped him pull the gown and chemise over her head, her hands trembling with eagerness to be free of them. He spread his surcoat along the grass and placed her upon it, his eyes drinking in the beauty of her nakedness. How oft he had imagined her thus during those endless days in France, until he had become terrified his imagination waxed too keen, conjuring up visions of a beauty that did not exist, only to discover now his memory had been faulty. His dreams did not do her justice. He stroked back the wet strands of nutmeg from her brow, felt himself being drawn into the tumultuous sea of her green eyes.

  "Lyssa," he groaned. "It has been so long." He seized her against him, molding the soft curves of her hips to the hard length of his manhood. "No matter how I fight it, I am consumed with my desire for you."

  "Then don't fight it, my lord. Don't. Am I not your wife?"

  "Aye, mine."

  He gave himself over to a pull too strong to resist, the call of all that was woman in her to the man in him. He spread her thighs, thrusting forward into the soft core of her desire, watched her head tip back, her pink lips parting, her eyes closing at the painful ecstasy of their union. He needed her too much to hold back, the passion that he had denied for so long clamored for release. But she did not ask for tenderness. The shy acceptance of his desire that he remembered was gone. She clutched his shoulders, arching against him with a fury that bespoke a need as raw and primal as his own.

  Burying his face against her shoulder, he gave himself up to the fire, allowing it to devour them both, until he exploded inside of her, felt the shudders of her body as she, too, reached the apex of desire.

  He collapsed on top of her, his heart steadying to a more normal beat as he remained joined with her. He felt her warm breath against his ear as she murmured his name over and over again. Then he became aware she was telling him how much she loved him. He wrenched away from her, his hands reaching out to cradle the softness of her passion-flushed face.

  He shut his eyes, releasing her. Sitting up, he turned his back to her.

  He felt her stir behind him, her arms sliding around his waist as she pressed her forehead to his back. At last she burst out, "Why? Why, my lord, do I no longer please you? Why do you always feel this regret after we make love?"

  He placed his hand on top of hers and sought to put into words what he scarce understood himself. "I do not regret . . . It is only that sometimes you frighten me, Lyssa."

  He felt her raise her head, heard the surprise and disbelief in her voice. "I frighten you?"

  "You have become too much a part of me. No other woman has ever been so ingrained into my being. When I left here to go to France, I left with half a heart."

  "Is it so terrible a thing to care that much for someone, Jaufre? You took all of my heart away with you, and I never complained."

  "But I failed, Lyssa."

  "Nay, It was not your doing. It was the king. He—"

  "I was not strong enough! My feelings for you weaken me." He broke off, rubbing his hand over his eyes.

  "Not strong enough!" He heard the sudden intake of her breath. When he turned to look at her, he was surprised to see the anger rising in her face.

  "Are you conceited enough to think you could have turned the tide of battle all by yourself? God's wounds!" She struggled to her feet, groping for her chemise.

  "Lyssa." He tried to pull her down beside him, but she jerked away from him, tugging her kirtle back over her head.

  "My patience has come to an end. I have waited too long to hear you say you loved me to listen to you ruin it once more. It is not my love that weakens you, but the self-pity you have been wallowing in since your return. Nay, don't touch me. I don't want yo
u. I want the man who left here for France a year ago."

  He stood up, wrapping a towel about his lean hips, his face darkening with an anger to match hers. "Oh, no, that's not the man you want, Lyssa. You want the one who knelt at your feet when you were a child. Sir Lancelot ready to ride out on some damned fool quest, slay your dragons and sing love songs to you. Well, he's dead, Lyssa. He died many years ago."

  "And you killed him! Not Yseult, not Godric! It was you with your own miserable cynicism and bitterness." With a choked sound, she turned and stumbled from the tent.

  Jaufre whirled, smashing his fist into the tub. How dare she speak thus to him? It only fueled his rage when a voice deep inside him taunted him, telling him her words were true.

  Curse her! If she was not satisfied with what he was, let her go from him and retire to a nunnery. She would have to beg on her hands and knees before he ever made love to her again.

  He grabbed for his fresh clothing, savagely yanking on the drawers. What did he care if he had lost his wife's respect? It didn’t matter a whit. It was no different than . . . His shoulders sagged, the fury draining from him as suddenly as it had come. It was no different than if the sun had gone out of the world.

  Jaufre did not speak to Melyssan of their quarrel. It was as if nothing had passed between them, neither the lovemaking nor the anger, and yet the expression on his face became harder with each passing day, the light coming to his eyes only when they chanced to rest on Jenny.

  He spent more time alone in the solar going through the contents of the trunk that contained his books, poring over old documents. Oft she caught him not reading at all, the parchment sprawled across the desk while his dark, brooding eyes fixed on the painting of Sir Lancelot. When he acknowledged her with the curtest of nods, she thought her heart would break.

  But to her surprise, she found new reserves of strength within herself. She could no longer yield, accepting Jaufre on any terms while the man she had loved slowly disappeared before her eyes to be replaced by a cold, shallow stranger.