“Keep your swords sheathed,” Tristan ordered Jaufre’s knights while he placed himself between the priest and the earl.
Le Gras’s lackeys hesitated, waiting to take their cue from their master. Twisting his neck around, Hubert attempted to focus on Jaufre. His tongue shot out, and he licked almond paste and congealed gravy from his double chin. Then his eyes rolled back into their sockets, and he crashed to the floor in a drunken stupor.
Sighs of relief intermingled with the sonorous sounds of Hubert’s snoring. Tristan bent down beside the priest, but Jaufre yanked him back.
“Leave him where he is until morning. The hounds will keep him warm.” Without waiting for reply, Jaufre spun around, looking for Melyssan, his jaw working with the rage he had been forced to check.
When his eyes locked with hers, Melyssan could feel the heat of his anger scorch her like a red-hot brand. As he strode to her side, she backed away until she bumped into the wall. She knew her hour of reckoning had come.
Placing his arm behind her knees, he swooped her up high into his arms. Giddy from the helpless sensation of being borne aloft like a feather in a storm, Melyssan was dimly aware of Whitney’s feeble protest. Jaufre carried her from the room and up the circular stair.
“Put me down,” she said, stiffening her spine. “I can walk.”
“I do not doubt that you can, my sweet. But you must excuse a bridegroom’s eagerness.”
No one had ever looked less like an ardent groom than Jaufre with his thunderous countenance. Ramming her staff between them, she pushed feebly against the unyielding hardness of his chest. Her struggles became more frantic when she realized they stood just outside the bedchamber door.
“Take care, my little wife, lest I drop you.”
“I am not your wife. I’m not,” she cried, pounding on his back with clenched fist. “Now let me go.”
“Not my wife?” he mimicked. “Then what does that make you? Surely not a liar? A scheming harlot?”
Melyssan flinched before the harsh insults.
“No, you musn’t stop now, Melyssan. You’ve played your part to such perfection thus far. Now I mean to give you the chance to conclude your performance. Here--“
He kicked open the door with a resounding crash. “In my bed.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Jaufre tossed Melyssan onto the fur covered mattress, the lean hardness of his body a crushing weight as he flung himself down on top of her. Her fingers gripped the handle of her staff, but she could not bring herself to use it as a weapon against him.
Instead she placed both hands against his shoulders, feeling tense muscle ripple beneath the satin cloth as she struggled to hold him back.
“Jaufre, please”
“Please what, sweetheart?” he whispered hoarsely. “Make love to you? Aye, I will.”
Love! How could he put such a name to this, this . . . The thought was swept away as he seized her by the nape of the neck, his mouth taking savage possession of hers, bruising, scorching her with the fury of his desire. And she, God help her, felt her own pent-up tension break free, nearly overwhelming her with the urge to return his kiss with a ruthless passion to match his own.
What more would the earl need to confirm his belief she was a harlot? Desperately she yanked her head away, turning her face into the sable coverlet as she panted. “Please, listen! I knew not what else to do. The king wanted me.”
“As I do.” His beard caressed the slender column of her neck as he pressed his lips against the sensitive hollow behind her ear, his hot breath fanning the tendrils of her hair.
“The king followed me to Wydevale. He made vile hints of what he’d do to my brother if I didn’t . . .”
The words caught in her throat as Jaufre teased her earlobe between his teeth, tugging gently. He rolled off her and edged her skirt above her knee, skimming warm, rough fingers along her leg. Melyssan gasped and clamped her hand on her gown to keep him from lifting it any higher. “Please! I didn’t know what else to do. I was so afraid. I remembered I had your ring, and it was then I told the king that I—“
She got no further, for Jaufre’s fingers gouged into her thigh. “Yes, my ring! I’d almost forgotten.” Propping himself up onto one elbow, he released her and seized the chain around her neck, jerking on it. She cried out as the links bit deeply into her flesh before the chain snapped free in Jaufre’s hand. He thrust the signet ring forward until the falcon engraving was inches from her nose.
“While you’re offering excuses, maybe you’d like to explain how you came by this.”
She shook her head helplessly. In truth, she was not sure how Beatrice had gained possession of the ring. She only knew her sister had used the seal to forge a letter. That was how she had tricked her father’s knights into taking her to St. Clare—under the pretense that it was instructions from her future husband. When Melyssan realized what had happened, she had followed Bea to the convent to reclaim the ring, meaning to return it to Jaufre one day. Only she’d never envisioned it happening like this.
“Well?” Jaufre prompted when she remained silent.
In spite of Bea’s deceit, Melyssan could not bring herself to betray her sister as a thief. “I found it.”
Jaufre’s dark eyes blazed, and for a brief moment, she thought he meant to lash the chain across her face. Instead he stood up and stalked over to one of the chests he had brought back from France.
“She found it,” he muttered through clenched teeth, knocking open the lid of his chest and throwing the ring inside.
Melyssan sat up, crossing her arms protectively in front of her, praying that Jaufre’s rage was abating, praying he would become more reasonable.
“I am sorry, my lord. I never meant to anger you.”
“I’ll wager you didn’t.” He slammed the chest closed.
“I only took your name for a little while, only as a temporary escape from the king.”
“Temporary?” His eyes raked her with contempt. “You’ve been at Winterbourne all summer, living off my estate. You even had the effrontery to get rid of Pevensy so you could continue your thieving with no interference.”
“Pevensy?” Indignation flared inside Melyssan at the mention of that name. “Aye, now, if you wish to talk of thieves! I caught him selling off the oats while your horses went hungry, stealing crops from the peasants until they’d scarce strength enough left to till the fields—“
“Be silent! You’d best seek to defend yourself, not accuse my steward.”
Heedless of the livid red mottling Jaufre’s cheeks, Melyssan went on, “And the hall. Rushes stank like a pigsty. There was a dead bird left to taint the well, maggots in the meat. How could you leave such a knave in charge of Winterbourne?”
“Enough!” He’d had to listen to his grandfather upbraid him when he’d given Pevensy the post. He’d be damned before he’d endure such a tirade from Melyssan. By the feet of Christ, the wench forgot herself and acted as if she were his wife!
“I didn’t carry you up to my bed to be regaled with more of your tales.” Had she not lied from the beginning, pretending to be his lady, making him look a fool? He’d believe nothing she had to say.
Tugging on his silver belt, he dropped it to the floor and then slipped the surcoat off his shoulders. She sat frozen, watching as he slid his tunic over his head. But when he began to undo the points that held up his hose, she suddenly came to life and began scrambling for the door.
He seized her around the waist and dragged her back to the bed, wincing as the palm of her hand slapped him full in the face. Pinioning her wrists together, he began undoing the girdle that encircled her waist. He’d never taken a woman by force before, never had to. But this one, he tried to tell himself, this one deserved to be bent to his will.
She tossed her head back and forth, writhing as he began to pull the gown up over her. “Stop it. Stop it!” she cried. “Let me go. I hate you.”
“You’re not the first woman to tell me that.” He sne
ered. “Though most of them wait to be satisfied before saying so.”
Melyssan choked back the sob that threatened to rise in her throat. This could not be happening. Not even in her worst imaginings had she ever pictured Jaufre as he was now, his eyes hard, merciless, as he prepared to use his body to punish her, all honor, all gentleness, vanished. Despair washed over her as he ripped off her gown, leaving her clad only in her chemise.
Boldly he explored her body, his hands ravaging her with their heat even through the thin linen garment. He captured one breast, kneading it with his thumb, and much to her shame she felt the nipple grow taut with aroused longing. Her struggles ceased. It was hopeless, hopeless that she could prevent him having his way when a small secret part of her whispered she should surrender.
She went limp, making no resistance as he cupped her face between his hands, his kiss brushing her lips, coaxing them apart, then gradually deepening, drowning her in a sea of fire. She followed him into his own dark world, a void of swirling passionate emotions, but none of them love.
Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes, spilling over, scalding down her cheeks. Jaufre’s demanding mouth suddenly stilled, and then he drew slowly away from her, staring at the moisture that had trickled over his fingers. Staring as if struck dumb with astonishment, as if he didn’t know from where the droplets had come. When he reached out to her again, he used the back of his hand to dry her cheeks, his brow knit into a frown as if he searched his mind for some memory that eluded him. He pulled his hand back to his body, clenching it as he rolled away, turning his back to her.
“Damn,” he said hoarsely. “Damn it all to hell.” He found her cane and hurled it across the room, the wooden staff striking the wall with a sharp crack. Leaping to his feet, he snatched up his discarded clothes. Without looking around, he stormed out of the bedchamber, the door crashing behind him with such force, the very walls seemed to shake on their foundations.
Melyssan lay still, too stunned by Jaufre’s actions to move. Then her body began shaking as if with the chills that follow the onslaught of a burning fever. She hugged one of the pillows tight against her chest, feeling swallowed up by the great empty bed that seemed cold, barren now that he’d gone.
What had stopped him, driven him away, when he’d had her so completely at his mercy, even her own secret longing betraying her to his desires? She lifted one hand to her cheek, where traces of her tears lingered with the impression of bronzed fingers brushing aside the dampness.
“Would you let such pearls as these fall upon the insensible ground?” The deep male voice echoed from the recesses of her mind, confusing the image of Jaufre, angry, bitter as he was, with her remembrance of a beardless knight whose youthful eyes shone with compassion as he swept aside her tears. She sat bolt upright as the images blurred, became one man. Her heart raced with the realization that for one brief moment before he’d torn himself from her side, it had been Sir Jaufre de Macy who had regarded her through the eyes of the earl of Winterbourne, the Jaufre who could not hurt her, who yet might know how to love. He still lived, the Lancelot of her childhood dreams, buried within the battle-scarred chest of the Dark Knight.
But as she sank back down onto the feather mattress, her excitement over the discovery faded. Yes, he was still there. But would she ever find him again?
The lower floor of the donjon was dank and cold as it had been the first night Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor had arrived at Winterbourne. Even though she wore only her chemise beneath her thick mantle, Melyssan remained oblivious to the chill, her heart much lighter than it had been the last time Father Andrew had summoned her from her bed.
Shifting her sleeping babe up over her shoulder, Gunnor embraced Melyssan, tears glistening in her eyes. “Never will I forget your kindness, my lady. If ever there comes a time when I can repay you, even if it should mean my life—“
“Nay, Gunnor, talk not of such things. It was little enough I could do.” Melyssan planted a kiss on the lady’s round, dimpled cheek. “I only pray we meet again in happier times.”
She hugged Gunnor one more time and then drew away, saying, “Now you must hurry. I vow your cousin waxes impatient.”
She glanced down at the darkened waterway, where Sir Hugh had just lifted his son to a tall man seated in a small wherry. The knight mounted the stone steps made slick by the lapping water and held out his hand to help his wife down. With a misty-eyed smile, Gunnor carefully descended to the lightly rocking boat.
Sir Hugh turned to Melyssan. “Thank you again, Lady Melyssan. I hope that our stay here has caused no discord between you and the earl.”
Truthfully Melyssan could assure him it had not, since Jaufre as yet remained in ignorance of the true identity of his guests and she hoped that he would remain so. Sir Hugh saluted her hand with his lips, before leaping down to join his family.
Huddling in the warm folds of her mantle, she watched until the boat was rowed under the arched gateway and became nothing but a dim shadow on the river beyond.
Master Galvan hustled to lower the iron portcullis, grumbling to himself, “Pilgrimages in the middle of the night. Pilgrimages to the devil, I say. Good riddance!”
Although she would not have expressed it the same way, Melyssan shared the guard’s relief. She limped back to where Father Andrew stood, holding the candle, waiting to guide her back to her room.
“We did it, Father.” She smiled. “Sir Hugh and his lady are safely away from Winterbourne.”
“Aye,” the priest agreed, his gaunt face still lined with anxiety. “But I would feel better if we had got you safely away as well.”
“I will be all right,” Melyssan said, for the first believing it herself, that she had weathered the worst of Jaufre’s stormy temper and come through the experience untouched.
No, she deceived herself if she thought that. Although she was a maiden still, Jaufre’s kiss, his fierce embrace, had touched her, shattered her calm forever, awakening in her a longing to know what it was like to be loved by a man. One man . . . the lord of Winterbourne.
She became aware that the old priest regarded her through troubled eyes almost as if she’d spoken aloud, as if Jaufre’s caress had left some visible mark on her countenance. A telltale blush mounted her cheeks, and she said, “You must not worry about me, Father.”
“I have worried about you ever since that day I perjured myself before the king, telling him it was I who married you and Lord Jaufre, Now I fear I may not have helped save your honor after all."
“Nay, Father, it is not as it seemed. Although Lord Jaufre was exceedingly wroth with me, I swear to you I am unharmed.”
“I am glad to hear that, my daughter,” the priest said as if he still reserved some doubt. “Even so, I wish you were far away from this place.”
“As I surely will be soon. On my way to St. Clare.” She felt even less joy than usual at the thought of the convent. “In any case, I would not have gone without Whitney. How fared he after I left the hall?”
Father Andrew frowned. “He took no physical hurt. But his own meekness, his inability to defend you, gave him much spiritual pain. He went off with some of my lord’s knights and I fear drank himself into the same condition as Father . . .” The priest’s lips tightened as he corrected himself. “I mean Hubert Le Vis.”
“My poor gentle Whitney.” Melyssan sighed. “If only he were not an only son, if only he had your choice, Father.”
“The priesthood was not meant to be an escape from the problems of this world,” Father Andrew said sternly. “Any more than a convent is. Now come, child. It is time you returned to your bed.”
He walked on ahead, illuminating the treacherous curved steps. Melyssan followed, pondering what the priest had said. Were his remarks meant for her as well as Whitney? Yet it was not as if she willingly sought to hide herself at St. Clare. In her wickedness, she’d begun to think she would offer up her soul for another future, a future such as other women enjoyed—the shelter of a warm home,
a strong husband and babes.
All those things Jaufre’s wife would have when he married again. If he ever chose to give his heart as well, that lady would be more blessed than all the saints. Of course when Jaufre took a bride, it would be a maiden like her sister Beatrice, lithesome, beautiful, able to walk straight, graceful beside him, dance on their wedding day.
Her shoulders sagged at the thought until she felt leaden with weariness, drained by the day’s events that had so unsettled her existence at Winterbourne. She parted from Father Andrew in the great hall, assuring him that the wall torches were adequate lighting for her to find her way back. Shuffling across the rush-strewn floor, her eyes were drawn to the spot where Father Hubert had collapsed, and she half expected to find him nestled amongst the many servants asleep on their pallets. But the huge bulk of the man was gone, and she assumed that in spite of Jaufre’s command. Tristan had moved the priest to a more comfortable resting place.
All was silent, even the guards making their rounds in another part of the castle. Therefore when she approached the door to the solar, the scraping noise, slight as it was, carried to her ears. She paused, wondering if one of the greyhounds had somehow gotten itself shut up inside the room. Strange, though, that the animal did not howl and bark until it was released.
Leaning against the door, she opened it a crack and peered inside. Much to her amazement, a tallow candle burned, throwing out a small circle of light from its position on the table. The scratching issued not from just inside the threshold, but over by the Conquest mural. Swinging the door open wider, she confronted the broad buttocks of Hubert Le Vis as he bent down to squint at something, wiping away the perspiration glistening on his rotund face with a linen napkin.
Her gasp of surprise startled him, and he twisted his head around. Spotting her in the doorway, he scrambled to his feet with astonishing swiftness for a man of his size and one moreover who had been presumed dead drunk only hours earlier.