Free Winterbourne by Susan Carroll Page A

into a weak-kneed curtsy and thinking she surely needed someone willing to pray for her.
    "Your wife." Father Hubert scowled. "I thought you said—" Suddenly understanding lit his florid countenance. "Oh. Aye, your wife." He gave Jaufre a huge wink, then turned to Melyssan and bent forward. "Blessings upon you, my daughter," he said as thick wet lips reeking of sour wine smacked a kiss against the corner of her mouth.
    Dismayed, Melyssan jerked back and stated into tiny snake-like eyes leering at her through puffs of flesh.
    "That will do, Le Gros ." Jaufre elbowed the priest aside. "You have blessed my wife quite enough."
    "How could I forget?" Father Hubert snickered. "All the world knows what a jealous husband you can be."
    The lazy smile Jaufre wore faded, and his fingers dug painfully into Melyssan's side. The kind-looking knight drew in a sharp breath as his eyes nicked anxiously from the priest to Lord Jaufre.
    What had there been in Father Hubert's teasing words to produce such a strong reaction? Melyssan wondered. Had it anything to do with the lady Yseult? She felt Jaufre's fingers loosening one by one as he forced himself to relax, and at last the tense moment passed.
    "I am not all that ungenerous," Jaufre said dryly. "What about you, Sir Tristan? You have a bold heart. Would you not like to kiss my bride?"
    Melyssan flushed with embarrassment as Jaufre propelled her toward the knight. Sir Tristan frowned at Jaufre, but he bowed stiffly over her hand and placed a chaste kiss upon the fingertips.
    "Not so bold-hearted after all," Jaufre mocked. "Well, then, away, my friends, under my roof to rest your weary bones. Father Hubert, the hospitality of Winterbourne is yours to command."
    He made the priest an exaggerated bow and then, glancing down at Melyssan, continued, "Let us celebrate my homecoming. Tonight, my dear little wife, we shall eat, drink…" Smiling wickedly, he pressed Melyssan even closer against the length of his hard-muscled thigh. "And be merry."
     
    As dusk fell, servants hurried to light the flambeau in the great hall and set up the long trestle tables and benches for Lord Jaufre's feast. Above them in the solar, the earl prepared to lead the procession of knights and ladies-in-waiting down to supper. He paused once to glance at Melyssan, her profile illuminated by the flickering wall torch. Her delicate features were so pinched with apprehension, he almost repented of the course he intended to follow. From the look of her, she had not been squandering his money upon her garb. Even for the feast, she was still clothed in her plain green gown, although she had released her hair from its headdress to flow down her back, a simple gilt circlet banding her forehead. Yet what more ornament did a woman need when she possessed such a glorious cascade of shimmering nutmeg tresses?
    The answer came to taunt him: his stolen ring that she yet dared flaunt before his eyes. The sight of it glittering on the chain around her neck immediately dispelled any softness, any weakening of his angry resolve.
    Melyssan felt Jaufre's eyes rake over her, assessing the outline of her breasts, the slender curve of her hips beneath her gown. Heat crept into her cheeks, and she fidgeted with her braided chain only to note the Dark Knight's eyes rivet on her hand.
    What was amiss? Her fingers faltered as she suddenly realized. Oh, Holy Mother, the ring! She had forgotten she was still wearing his stolen ring.
    "M-my lord," she said. "You—you must allow me to explain. I—"
    "No time for chat now, my sweetheart." He chucked her under the chin. "Father Hubert is famished, I swear, he'll soon be eating the ties off Sir Tristan's cap. Come, it is time to go down."
    And thus he cut her off again in the same manner as he did every time she tried to tell him how she came to be at Winterbourne, pretending to be his wife.
    Below the horn sounded, announcing that all was ready. Jaufre linked his arm through hers and led her down the