"I'm here, love. I'm here." She held his head close against her, her own tears flowing as she pressed her lips into the midnight strands of hair, her hands gently stroking the nape of his neck. She held him thus for a long time until he quieted, her heart too full to speak. She closed her eyes, reveling in the almost painful joy of having him restored to her.
At last she whispered, "My lord, please rise."
"Nay, I cannot."
She tried to see his face. "Jaufre, what is it? Are you ill?"
"Nay." His arms fell to his sides as he drew away from her, tipping his head back, the liquid depths of his rich brown eyes shining with a light she had never seen in them before. No, whispered a voice inside her. She had seen him look thus, such a very long time ago at a tournament on a summer's day.
"I cannot rise, my lady, until you have given me some token of your favor."
"I could give you my veil, Sir Knight."
Jaufre's lips curved into a semblance of his old smile. "Only a veil, my lady? I do not think I could any longer be satisfied with just that."
Melyssan felt her pulse skip a beat. "Then what would you ask of me?"
"Your heart, my lady. I will take nothing less."
She took his hand and placed it over the region between her breasts. "It is yours, my lord. It always has been."
He stood, his strong arms drawing her close within their protective circle, his lips pausing inches from her own.
"As I swear that my heart belongs to you, my beautiful Lyssa. Until the day of my death and beyond."
He sealed the vow with all the reverent passion of his kiss.
The light of dawn had not yet filtered through the closed shutters of the small room in the hostelry when Melyssan awoke in her husband's arms. Nearly a week had passed since she had been reunited with Jaufre in the church. But sometimes she could still not believe he was truly restored to her.
She nestled her head against the warmth of his chest, lightly touching the dark curling hairs, breathing quietly so as not to awaken him. Her face glowed with the memory of the passion they had shared the night before, a mating of their bodies without constraint, each giving freely to the other with no shadows lingering between them, the joining of their flesh as joyous and complete as the union of their hearts.
How deeply he slept, Melyssan thought, feeling the even rise and fall of her husband's chest beneath her hand. She pressed a small kiss against the rough satin of his beard. Peaceful as a babe. Her lips curved into a half smile, half pout. Jaufre seemed to have grown younger, the lines carved by painful memory well-nigh smoothed away until she vowed she would soon feel positively ancient beside him.
Yawning, she stretched out her feet and recoiled in fright when they encountered a solid lump at the end of the bed. Sitting up quickly, she clutched the sheets across her naked breasts. Down below her, something burrowed onto the pallet. She risked a timid touch and encountered a smooth round bottom, a bunched-up shirt, a curly head.
Jenny! Sometime in the night, the child must have slipped away from the kindly woman Melyssan had found to look after her daughter. Having found her father again, Jenny could scarce bear to let him out of her sight. Sighing, Melyssan tucked a blanket around the form of her sleeping daughter. Would they ever find a nurse capable of keeping pace with the child or, when she had grown, a husband able to tame her indomitable spirit?
Taking care not to wake either Jaufre or the little girl, Melyssan eased herself out of bed. Judging by the pale light seeping through the wooden slats, it must be almost sunrise. She was just drawing the chemise over her head when she was startled by the loud clamor of church bells. She had become accustomed to the deep peal, as it often sounded, marking off the portions of the monks' day. But this clanging was different, ceaseless and urgent.
Jaufre bolted upright in the bed, his expression disoriented at having been awakened so abruptly. He scrambled out of bed, pulling on drawers and tunic. By this time Jenny had wakened and whimpered, rubbing her eyes.
"Father. Are more bad soldiers coming?"
"Nay, sweetheart," Jaufre said. He lifted Jenny into his arms, giving her an affectionate hug. "There is nothing for you to fear."
But even as he spoke, shouts erupted from the inner courtyard, rising above the thunder of hooves.
"Jaufre?" Melyssan faltered.
Depositing a quick kiss upon her brow, he pushed the shutter open. He slipped his arm about her waist, drawing her closer as the three of them stared out the window.
In the pale light, they could make out the white-robed forms of the monks scurrying from their cells. The pealing of the bells stopped. A trumpet sounded. Silence descended upon the courtyard and then a loud voice proclaimed, "The king is dead!"
Another moment of silence passed before someone took up the cry. "The king is dead. Long live King Henry!"
"Long live the king!"
Melyssan's hand closed over Jaufre's at her side. So the nightmare, indeed, had ended. Their greatest enemy, King John, was dead. She glanced up at her husband to see how he received the news.
There was no exultation or even satisfaction in his face. He was not looking toward the court but out past the monastery walls, to the distant horizon. The sky tinted gold and rose as the sun topped the trees.
"We can leave this place now, Lyssa. We can go home to Winterbourne ," he murmured.
"But the castle isn't there, Father," Jenny protested. "The bad men broke it."
"Then we'll build it again, little one. Stronger than before." He smiled at the child, but his gaze traveled past her to rest upon Melyssan.
"See, Lyssa, how the sun rises over the hills. Is it not beautiful?"
She stared up into the dark-fringed mahogany eyes, shining soft with the light of dreams.
"Aye, my lord. Beautiful."
She rested her head against his shoulder, feeling Jenny's small hand touch her cheek as it curled around Jaufre's neck. Together they watched the dawn of a new day heralding the reign of a new king. New beginnings for their love, for their life together, for England.
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About the author:
Author Susan Carroll began her career in 1986, writing historical romance and regencies, two of which were honored by Romance Writers of America with the RITA award. She has written twenty six novels to date. Her St. Leger series received much acclaim. The Bride Finder was honored with a RITA for Best Paranormal Romance in 1999. Ms. Carroll launched a new series with the publication of The Dark Queen set during the turbulent days of the French Renaissance. Ms. Carroll was born in Latrobe, Pa. She spent much of her childhood in South Jersey where she graduated from Oakcrest High School in Mays Landing. She attended college at Indiana University of Pennsylvania, where she earned a B.A. in English with a minor in history. She currently resides in Illinois.
Discover other titles by Susan Carroll at Smashwords.com
Masquerade
Rendezvous
Escapade
The Painted Veil
Susan Carroll, Winterbourne
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