Winterbourne (24 page)

Although his prey had vanished into the thicket, Jaufre had no difficulty following the enemy's crashing progress as the hooded man tore frantically at the tree limbs barring his escape. The earl's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword as he galloped after the man, blood pounding in his temples as he closed for the kill.

The man stumbled, fell, clawing wildly at the branches that entangled his cloak. He pulled free of it and rolled over onto his back just as Jaufre checked the speed of his mount.

The cold steel of his weapon sang through the sudden quiet as the Dark Knight arced it back, preparing to deliver the fatal blow. But the blade wavered, froze in midair, as he found him-self staring down at a thin white face dominated by large dark-fringed eyes, strange silver-colored eyes glazed with fear and hate.

Chapter 10

Jaufre had not succumbed to unconsciousness by the time Tristan and Dreyfan deposited him on the linen-covered mattress in his bedchamber. But Melyssan almost wished that he had as the two knights left her to finish the task of binding Jaufre's wound.

One dark eye fluttered open to glare at her as she pushed aside what remained of Jaufre's blood-soaked woolen hose and drawers, along with the crimson-stained cloth she had used to cleanse the leg.

"What the hell do you think you are going to do with that knife, woman?"

Half-guilty, half-defiant, Melyssan lifted the small blade that had been partly concealed by the folds of her gown. "Please, Jaufre. I told you. I—I felt splinters still lodged in the wound. Sir Dreyfan was not very careful when he—"

"Careful!" Jaufre exploded. "The old fool plucked that arrow out of me like a scullery wench wriggling the spit out of a pig. He damn near finished what that boy of yours started."

Melyssan bit her lip. "My lord. I have told you three times already how sorry—"

"You're sorry? Not half as sorry as I am that I didn't follow my first instincts and hang the little bastard. What happened today is no more than I deserve for allowing a woman to lead me around by the nose."

Jaufre ground his shoulder back against the mattress as if somehow he could sink deep enough to escape the pain that had turned his face ashen beneath the beard. Gingerly, she settled herself beside him on the bed, the knife feeling slippery against her palm.

Under the direction of the sisters of St. Clare, she had learned to treat many wounds. Once she'd even helped to remove the foot of a huntsman who had injured himself with an axe. But it was different this time, far different when her own heart seemed bound up in that scrap of linen Jaufre pressed against his leg to keep her from touching the torn flesh again.

"The bleeding has stopped," he said. "Let well enough alone."

" Tis not well enough. Those splinters will fester inside of you until they poison your blood." She tried to remove his fingers from the cloth, but he jerked away, snarling an oath as his other hand clenched deep into the pillow beneath his head.

"Damn you, keep away! I'll have no blood left to poison if you start carving. I already feel weak as a newborn babe."

"You'll have no leg left if I don't. You may even… Please, Jaufre, I beg you."

He continued to stare belligerently at the knife until understanding dawned on her.

"Oh, I see." She swallowed hard, berating herself for her ridiculous hope that she could have banished the memory of Yseult. "If you are that afraid I am planning to murder you, I will summon Tristan. I am sure he could forestall any bloodthirsty intentions I might have."

When he compressed his lips into a thin white line and made no reply, she eased herself off the bed. But Jaufre's hand closed hard around her wrist.

"Don't be a fool, Lyssa. Oh, hell-kite, if it will make you feel better, hack away." Ripping free the piece of linen, he exposed the jagged line of congealed blood marring the hard-muscled thigh.

Melyssan drew in a deep breath and for a moment wished she could summon Tristan, Dreyfan, one of her ladies, anyone else to inflict this agony upon Jaufre that was so necessary for his recovery. But she'd already seen a sample of the knights' healing capabilities when the arrow had been removed. As to her ladies, it was she who was supposed to be training them. She could not turn coward now.

Taking a moment to steady her hands, she rested her fingers against the coarse-haired skin above Jaufre's knee. As yet the flesh was warm but not overheated, which was a good sign. She could not help remembering how only last night Jaufre had guided her hand along his strong limbs, teaching her how he liked to be caressed, all the while doing such wondrous things to her own body with his bold, exploring fingers.

Her cheeks burned with shame that she should so allow her thoughts to wander. She wondered if Jaufre had noted the way she'd been studying him. for he draped one arm protectively across his manhood. Whether out of a belated sense of modesty or a fear she might somehow let the blade slip, she did not know.

Firmly grasping the knife, she began to probe the wound, her grim task of prying out the splinters made all the more difficult as Jaufre abandoned the silent stoicism he had exhibited earlier, when marching his prisoner out of the woods at swordpoint and riding ail the way to Winterbourne unaided. He had not uttered a sound when Dreyfan had so ruthlessly yanked the arrow free of his flesh. But now, with every prick of the knife blade, he spewed forth a string of curses Melyssan had never heard the like of before, in French, in Latin, and in another foreign tongue she was relieved she did not understand.

Interspersed with the swearing were mutters of what he would do to that accursed devil's cub responsible for his injury. At the moment, the boy was lodged in the dungeon below the great hall. Melyssan could still feel remnants of the sick feeling that had curled in her stomach when she had recognized Jaufre's assailant as the lad whose life she'd begged him to spare. She could have wrung the young dog's neck herself when she realized how close he had come to repaying the earl's clemency with death. But surprisingly enough, it had been Jaufre who had interfered when his knights would have sought immediate reprisal upon the boy. The strange light in the Dark Knight's eyes as he regarded his captive had sent a shiver up Melyssan's spine. Even now she feared to speculate upon what dire fate Jaufre might be planning for the young rebel.

"Ow! Christ's wounds," Jaufre hissed, startling her so that she jabbed deeper than she'd intended. He muffled his bellow of rage into the pillow and then panted, "Lady, you are about as gentle as a wild boar rutting for acorns."

Tears of frustration stung Melyssan's eyes as she wiped away some of the blood that was making her fingers slick. He spoke as if she tormented him for her own pleasure.

"If you would but hold still. There is only one splinter remaining. Mayhap I should send for some strong spirits."

"There's not enough mead in this castle to get me drunk enough to endure your poking. Hasten and make an end."

"I was thinking of the drink to fortify me, not you," she mumbled. By the time she had removed the last sliver and cleaned and dressed the wound for the second time, packing it with yarrow leaves, her kirtle clung to her, more damp with perspiration than the shirt Jaufre wore.

He rolled over onto his back. "Praise the Lord, she's done at last." His mouth drew down into a heavy scowl. "Are you sure you removed all the splinters? Beshrew me but I feel as if I still had ten times fifty prickling my flesh."

"I am as sure as you would let me be," Melyssan said as she washed her hands in a basin of water. Returning to Jaufre's side, she felt his brow for any approach of the dreaded fever and was relieved to find his skin damp but cool.

"Try to rest now, my lord. 'Twill be the best thing for you."

"Rest! I do so love a woman with a keen wit." But something of his devil's twinkle returned to the pain-glazed brown eyes before he allowed his lids to flutter closed. He pressed her fingertips to his lips before drifting off into an uneasy sleep.

As restless as he was, he enjoyed more repose than Melyssan did that afternoon and night. Lying nearby on a straw pallet so as not to disturb him, she started awake at every moan and creak coming from the bed above her. Nigh a dozen times she arose, fumbling for her balance in the dark, and groped to touch Jaufre, to assure herself he had not fallen victim to delirium. She could sense the tension in his limbs even as he slept and wondered what agonies he yet suffered.

In the lonely hours before dawn, doubts beset her. Had she done right by her lord? He had lost so much blood. Perhaps her trembling hands had been too clumsy with the knife. Mayhap she had done him more harm than Sir Dreyfan or the boy. Wrapping the blanket tightly around her, she sat on the pallet and hugged her knees to her chest.

What if the leg forever plagued him, forced him to walk with a limp? She could bear the thought of her own affliction, but that her tall and stalwart Jaufre might be so burdened hurt her more than a lifetime of slights and cruel jests.

Her Jaufre. Melyssan's lips curved into a mocking smile that she even dared think such a thing. When only this morning he had said to her… She pressed her head tightly against her knees, but the memory refused to be blocked. He had said," Tis time I took a wife."

A wife. Jaufre's long limbs stretched against the mattress as he struggled for a more comfortable position, and Melyssan had a sudden unwelcome image of another lying beside him, some nameless golden-haired beauty, thrusting her sleek, supple body against his broad back.

Melyssan's nails gouged through the thin chemise into her legs as fierce jealousy gnawed at her, the like of which she'd never known before. Hatred surged through her for this noblewoman she'd never met. And Jaufre. She longed to fly at him and pummel his chest with her fists, waking him out of his unthinking slumber wherein he could select a wife as carelessly as he chose a new surcoat.

Hot tears coursed down her cheeks, and she prayed God's forgiveness for indulging in such shameful feelings. What right had she to be jealous of the lawful bride Jaufre would choose? She had offered herself up to him like any common harlot, placed temptation in his path when he would have spared her virtue. It was not fair to upbraid him for what had happened when she had always known what the outcome of her actions must be.

For a brief time, she had been granted a miracle. Jaufre had desired her, made her feel beautiful, made her feel almost… loved. She knew from the beginning it could not last, that she should not expect, should not hope, for anything more.

But she had. She had! Melyssan flung herself back down, stifling her sobs in the pallet. Somewhere in his kisses, in the warm light kindled in his velvet-brown eyes, in the caressing way he called her his Lyssa, hope had been conceived, a hope that she now had to strangle before it drew first breath. She must summon together what remained of her pride and flee from Winterbourne, steel herself to relinquish what had never been hers, bid farewell to the man who had brought love into her life and would just as surely snatch it away again.

Such resolution did little to stem the flood of tears. She wept until she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. Her eyes felt raw and swollen when she opened them again to find pale sunlight streaming into the room. It took her a few moments to account for the ache in her head and the torpor that weighed down her entire body as if her very spirit had been drained out of her.

Summoning all her will, she forced herself to roll off the pallet. Bracing herself with her hands, she attempted to rise. Her fingers came into contact with something wet and sticky intermingled with the rushes. Snatching back her hand, she stared through sleep-blurred eyes at the red staining her palm.

Fresh blood. Memory jogged her brain like a sharp slap across the face. Jaufre. His wound. Scrambling to her knees, she grabbed at the bed hangings and peered at the mattress.

The great bed was empty.

In the darkness of Winterbourne's dungeon, the boy slammed his head against the damp wall as he tried to shield his eyes from the onslaught of light from the flaming torch. His arms yanked against the fetters that bound both wrists outstretched above his head, pinning him to the rough stonework so that he could not even bend his knees. His hands closed into fists straining toward his face as if he would knuckle away the sleep in a gesture that was so childlike it stirred some strange emotion inside of Jaufre he did not understand.

"Well, 'pears as if the murderin' bastard survived the night, Yer Lordship," Master Gal van said, peering at the prisoner as if he were one of the vermin that skittered through the filthy rushes at his feet.

Jaufre deigned no reply, but it was as if Galvan's addressing him made the boy aware of his presence for the first time. Those odd silver-hued eyes pierced the earl like points of steel, hatred replacing the confusion that had clouded the boy's face. But Jaufre had known hatred before. It was a common enough emotion. Why should this lad's loathing be more disturbing than any other man's?

"His lips are parched," Jaufre said. "Give him a drink. I want him able to speak."

"Aye, my lord." Grudgingly, Master Galvan settled the torch into one of the sconces and fetched a dipperful of water. He held it to the prisoner's lips, pouring the water so roughly down the boy's throat that he choked, half of the liquid slopping over the front of his tunic.

"Don't drown him," Jaufre said.

Leaning heavily on Melyssan's staff, he dragged himself over to a three-legged stool and eased himself down. Shards of pain stabbed the length of his leg as if he'd been shot all over again. Something warm oozed down his thigh, warning him he'd torn the wound open. He ground his teeth together, damning the weakness of his own flesh that would plague him over such a petty matter as this hole in his thigh. As the room spun around, he shook his head to clear it. He had no time for his body to betray him.

Galvan's grumbling finally drew his attention. "Should've been hung at once 'stead of being coddled here at Winterbourne."

When Jaufre shot him an imperious glance, the guard began to whine. "Beg pardon, Yer Lordship, But the scum almost killed you. To say nothing of being a desperate thief as well." Galvan fished inside the opening in his tunic. "Look what we found hiding underneath his shirt ahangin' round his neck."