Free Winterbourne by Susan Carroll

No, he wouldn't make it that easy for her. He would dole her punishment out with poison-sweet slowness, racking her with uncertainty as to what he meant to do next. So the lady liked to play pretend, did she? Then he would join her in the game. Instead of flaying her body, he would flay her nerves, until she collapsed quivering at his feet. And then for his final vengeance… By the time this night ended, she would be ready to crawl the length and breadth of England, begging people to believe that she was not his wife.
    Melyssan watched the emotions on Jaufre's face shift and change like sands on a shore raked by the tides of an angry sea. Sternness had given way to shocked recognition, to be replaced by the crimson flush of rage. But none of those expressions was as alarming as the devilish light that now danced in his night-dark eyes. The slow smile that spread across his face sent a chill up her spine.
    "Melyssan, my sweet wife," he purred. "How I've missed you."
    She gaped at him in wordless astonishment. Before she could resist, he seized her in his arms, grinding her body against the hardness of his chest until she thought her bones would snap. He claimed her mouth with a ruthless intensity that both stirred and frightened her, the rough satin of his beard abrading her chin, his warm, moist lips punishing and searing her with a heat that left her breathless.
    When he finally released her, what little self-control she'd had shattered, leaving her quaking from head to toe. The delighted approval of the crowd roared in her ears until she thought she would swoon into an undignified heap. But Jaufre's arm, as unyielding as a band of iron, slipped around her waist, manacling her to his side.
    "Dismount. Dismount, my friends," he called to the other horsemen. "Come forward and pay your respects to my lady wife."
    "My lord, please…" She tried to protest, but her voice came out in a pathetic croak. As in a dream, the figures in the courtyard flitted before her eyes, leaving her with fragmented impressions of a bulky priest who nearly crushed the small page handing him out of the saddle; a knight who regarded her through kind eyes not entirely devoid of pity; her pale-faced brother stumbling forward until he blocked Lord Jaufre's path.
    "M-my lord, what mean you by my sister?" Whitney stammered, his shaking fingers rugging clumsily at the hilt of his sword. "I—I do not understand."
    "Ah, my esteemed brother-in-law," Jaufre drawled, giving Whitney such a buffet on the shoulder that the young man nearly lost his footing." Whitford, is it not?"
    Knocked off balance by the words as much as the blow, her brother replied, "N-no, Whitney."
    "Of course. Whitney. The young scholar. I remember now." Without releasing Melyssan, Jaufre turned to face his knights. "A man of much learning, gentlemen. Schooled in both Latin and Greek. Despite his youth, I'll wager he has read more books than you have, Father Hubert."
    "Humph, nothing to boast of," said the priest, rubbing his stiff backside." 'Cause I never read any."
    Jaufre laughed, and Whitney flushed under the derisive stares he was receiving from most of the men.
    Melyssan's protective instincts prompted her to try to wriggle free from Jaufre's embrace so that she could run to Whitney's side and somehow regain control over this bewildering turn of events. But her struggles were as ineffectual as those of a tiny linnet attempting to escape the powerful clutch of a mighty falcon.
    "Be still, my little wife," Jaufre murmured in her ear, his breath hot upon her neck. "Would you pull away knowing how long I have desired to get my hands upon you?"
    The words struck her like the double-edged steel of a sword, and she froze, allowing him to drag her wherever he chose. He stopped in front of the burly priest.
    "This is Father Hubert, my sweet Melyssan, come all the way from Normandy to greet my bride and confer his blessing upon you."
    "G-God give you good day, Father," Melyssan said, dipping