Winterbourne (31 page)

"Aye, and Clairemont, Grandfather," he murmured. "I've not forgotten. One day your grandson will wear the honors that were yours."

None would stand in the way of this, not the French, not King John, not Melyssan's obstinacy. Jaufre's next son would be born no bastard.

Yet Tristan's prediction worried him. He did not have to be reminded of Melyssan's strength. If she persisted in refusing to marry him, no priest in the land would perform the ceremony. According to the church, if the girl held firm, not even her parents could compel her to take the vows. Most maidens surrendered, however, when the alternatives were starvation, beatings, and imprisonment. Lord Jaufre would not put it beyond Dame Alice to employ any of those methods if Melyssan remained recalcitrant. But that he would never tolerate, any more than he would tolerate losing her.

Jaufre scratched thoughtfully at his beard. Nay, if he was going to win his lady, 'twould not be by force. He must needs have recourse to some more gentle ally.

Melyssan shrank back, against the wainscoting of Norwegian fir that ornamented the walls of Kingsbury Castle's great hall. The wood was painted with murals depicting maps of the world, the vastness of which only served to emphasize her feelings of being small and insignificant. The shrill piping of the hautboys mingled with the staccato rhythm of clapping hands as the dancers pranced and swirled under the center archway of the room, celebrating her forthcoming betrothal to Lord Jaufre.

She had told Enid there was naught to celebrate. There would be no betrothal. But her sister had only smiled knowingly, refusing to heed her. As did everyone else. Melyssan bit her lip, twisting a strand of the hair that flowed down past her shoulders. Most of Enid's noble guests had all but forgotten her presence, the ladies more concerned with laughingly sweeping the trains of their velvet gowns from under the feet of the stomping men. And Jaufre? He never once sought her out, as if, having declared his intent to marry her, there was no more to be said on the matter.

She had never seen him as he was tonight, intently playing the role of the practiced courtier. The deep red of the tunic he had selected earlier provided a brilliant foil for the waves of sable hair swept back from his high forehead. Although his movements were a trifle stiff, he showed no sign of discomfort as he bowed to her sister and flashed a dazzling smile. His body swayed through the measures of the carol with the same muscular grace he displayed when wielding his sword.

As he moved through the center, he glanced briefly in Melyssan's direction, then 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. He had every right to be furious. 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 hungry 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 arm. "Why can you not be seated somewhere? Must you constantly demonstrate to everyone how clumsy that foot makes you?"

"I—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! Madam Liar." The folds of skin on her mother's scrawny neck flushed redder with every insult she hurled. "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 said, averting 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 colored 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 a boy, it would be Jaufre's heir. She would be depriving the child of his birthright, depriving Jaufre… 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. And the risks involved: they said the children of such a one as she were often as accursed 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?"

Melyssan swallowed the lump that formed in her throat. "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.'' The tears she had suppressed for so long formed two warm rivulets, streaming down her cheeks. 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 and consolation of his embrace. Her tears soaked into the satin material as he buried his lips in the hollow of her throat.

"Lyssa, Lyssa, forgive me," he whispered. "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 sobbed, feeling 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 rambled out of the darkness, low, seductive. "When he sees a lovely lady, distant, remote, 'tis oft the only way to get near her, feel her brush against him, breathe her sweet perfume. And mayhap 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 swirled 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 Jaufre's pulsating body. 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 nearly betrothed."

Weakly she tried to stay his hand. "I—I am trying to free you from—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—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 eagerly 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.

"Please…" she moaned, no longer sure what it was she begged him to do. Her control slipped further away as he eased the chemise down over her hips, leaving her naked beside him.

He stood then 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?

"No, 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. 'Twould be naught 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.