Free Winterbourne by Susan Carroll Page B

circular stair, slowing his pace to a degree that annoyed her. Gripping her cane, she hastened her step, meaning to show him she needed no such extraordinary consideration. But Father Hubert chose that particular moment to tread upon the train of her gown, and she found herself about to pitch headlong down the steps. Jaufre threw himself in front of her, and she tumbled into his arms. Her hands clutched at his blue velvet surcoat, its softness so at odds with the virile male body sheathed beneath. He held her against him longer than was necessary, his fingers sliding up her arm to linger alongside the swell of her breast.
    "Such eagerness, sweetheart," he said. "You must go more slowly. You will get what you have coming to you soon enough." When her startled eyes flew to his face, he smiled mockingly. "I mean your dinner, of course."
    She pushed away from him, her heart thudding as she smoothed out her skirts, trying to pull together the shreds of her dignity. As they entered the great hall, her skin still tingled from the impression of his hands upon her body.
    The men-at-arms and household staff already settled at their tables stood respectfully to attention as Jaufre led Melyssan to the head table. At the bottom of the third table, she saw Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor in their guise of humble pilgrims, blending in with a troupe of traveling minstrels. Faces were wreathed in smiles as the earl seated Melyssan in the high-backed carved chair and caught up her hand, tenderly brushing it with his lips. To everyone present, he must appear the doting husband, overjoyed to be reunited with his new bride. Only she could see the dangerous glint lurking in those hooded brown eyes.
    No more of this taunting! She would force Jaufre to acknowledge she was not his wife, and then he could mete out punishment to her in honest fashion and make an end to this subtle torture. Her jaw set with determination, she half rose from her chair, catching Whitney's eye as he moved forward to take his place at the table.
    As though he guessed her intention, he shook his head vigorously, calling to mind the counsel he had whispered to her earlier. "Do not anger Lord Jaufre. Continue to pretend you are his wife, if that's what he desires, until we can find some way to escape."
    Even though Whitney was placed with the knights of lower rank below the salt and too far away to speak to her, the same message now flashed across his haggard features. As she sank back into her chair, she saw her brother heave a sigh of relief.
    But how far would you have me go, Whitney? she thought. How far to appease His Lordship? She ran her finger over lips still bruised from the punishing fury of Jaufre's kiss. And how much more did the Dark Knight intend to demand?
    Try as she might, she could not keep herself from staring at the earl as he stood and gave the signal for the servingmen to enter. Beneath the velvet surcoat, a tunic of blue satin strained across the powerful set of his broad shoulders. A silver belt cinched his narrow waist, raising his tunic enough to expose muscular calves encased in white hose. His thick black beard was newly trimmed and his blue-black mane swept back from his forehead to rest in perfect waves along the nape of his neck.
    As he seated himself beside her in his canopied chair, she thought there surely remained within the depths of this noble-looking lord some notion of chivalry. He would not, could not, be planning anything to her dishonor.
    Jaufre gave her that slow smile she was coming to dread and with one finger traced lazy circles along her forearm. The butlers and servingmen filed from behind the screens and paraded the length of the hall to the high table. They presented dish after dish of venison, mutton, roast boar, stews, minces, pies, all without gaining Lord Jaufre's attention. He feigned not to see them as he leaned on one elbow, gazing at Melyssan like a star-struck youth, until ripples of amusement spread along the lower tables.