forgotten." Propping himself up onto one elbow, he released her and seized the chain around her neck, jerking on it. She cried out as the links bit deeply into her flesh before the chain snapped free in Jaufre's hand. He thrust the signet ring forward until the falcon engraving was inches from her nose.
"While you're offering excuses, mayhap you'd like to explain how you came by this."
She shook her head helplessly. "I—I…"
In truth, she was not sure how Beatrice had gained possession of the ring. She only knew her sister had used the seal to forge a letter. That was how she had tricked her father's knights into taking her to St. Clare—under the pretense that it was instructions from her future husband. When Melyssan realized what had happened, she had followed Bea to the convent to reclaim the ring, meaning to return it to Jaufre one day.
Only she'd never envisioned it happening like this.
"Well?" Jaufre prompted when she remained silent.
In spite of Bea's deceit, Melyssan could not bring herself to betray her sister as a thief. "I—I found it."
Jaufre's dark eyes blazed, and for a brief moment, she thought he meant to lash the chain across her face. Instead he stood up and stalked over to one of the chests he had brought back from France.
" She found it , " he muttered through clenched teeth, knocking open the lid of his chest and throwing the ring inside.
Melyssan sat up, crossing her anus protectively in front of her, praying that Jaufre's rage was abating, praying he would become more reasonable.
"I am sorry, my lord. I never meant to anger you."
"I'll wager you didn't." He slammed the chest closed.
"I only took your name for a little while, only as a temporary escape from the king."
"Temporary?" His eyes raked her with contempt. "You've been at Winterbourne all summer, living off my estate. You even had the effrontery to get rid of Pevensy so you could continue your thieving with no interference."
"Pevensy?" Something flared inside Melyssan at the mere mention of that name. "Aye, now, if you wish to talk of thieves! I caught him selling off the oats while your horses went hungry, stealing crops from the peasants until they'd scarce strength enough left to till the fields—"
"Be silent! You'd best seek to defend yourself, not accuse my steward."
Heedless of the livid red mottling Jaufre's cheeks, Melyssan went on, "And the hall. Rushes stank like a pigsty. There was a dead bird left to taint the well, maggots in the meat. How could you leave such a knave in charge of Winterbourne?"
"Enough!" He'd had to listen to his grandfather upbraid him when he'd given Pevensy the post—he'd be damned before he'd endure such a tirade from Melyssan. By the feet of Christ, the wench forgot herself and acted as if she were his wife!
"I didn't carry you up to my bed to be regaled with more of your tales." Had she not lied from the beginning, pretending to be his lady, making him look a fool? He'd believe nothing she had to say.
Tugging on his silver belt, he dropped it to the floor and then slipped the surcoat off his shoulders. She sat frozen, watching as he slid his tunic over his head. But when he began to untruss the points that held up his hose, she suddenly came to life and began scrambling for the door.
He seized her around the waist and dragged her back to the bed, wincing as the palm of her hand slapped him full in the face. Pinioning her wrists together, he began undoing the girdle that encircled her waist. He'd never taken a woman by force before, never had to. But this one, he tried to tell himself, this one deserved to be bent to his will.
She tossed her head back and forth, writhing as he began to pull the gown up over her. "Stop it. Stop it!" she cried. "Let me go. I hate you."
"You're not the first woman to tell me that." He sneered. "Though most of them wait to be satisfied before saying so."
Melyssan choked back the sob that threatened to rise in her throat. This could not be happening. Not
"While you're offering excuses, mayhap you'd like to explain how you came by this."
She shook her head helplessly. "I—I…"
In truth, she was not sure how Beatrice had gained possession of the ring. She only knew her sister had used the seal to forge a letter. That was how she had tricked her father's knights into taking her to St. Clare—under the pretense that it was instructions from her future husband. When Melyssan realized what had happened, she had followed Bea to the convent to reclaim the ring, meaning to return it to Jaufre one day.
Only she'd never envisioned it happening like this.
"Well?" Jaufre prompted when she remained silent.
In spite of Bea's deceit, Melyssan could not bring herself to betray her sister as a thief. "I—I found it."
Jaufre's dark eyes blazed, and for a brief moment, she thought he meant to lash the chain across her face. Instead he stood up and stalked over to one of the chests he had brought back from France.
" She found it , " he muttered through clenched teeth, knocking open the lid of his chest and throwing the ring inside.
Melyssan sat up, crossing her anus protectively in front of her, praying that Jaufre's rage was abating, praying he would become more reasonable.
"I am sorry, my lord. I never meant to anger you."
"I'll wager you didn't." He slammed the chest closed.
"I only took your name for a little while, only as a temporary escape from the king."
"Temporary?" His eyes raked her with contempt. "You've been at Winterbourne all summer, living off my estate. You even had the effrontery to get rid of Pevensy so you could continue your thieving with no interference."
"Pevensy?" Something flared inside Melyssan at the mere mention of that name. "Aye, now, if you wish to talk of thieves! I caught him selling off the oats while your horses went hungry, stealing crops from the peasants until they'd scarce strength enough left to till the fields—"
"Be silent! You'd best seek to defend yourself, not accuse my steward."
Heedless of the livid red mottling Jaufre's cheeks, Melyssan went on, "And the hall. Rushes stank like a pigsty. There was a dead bird left to taint the well, maggots in the meat. How could you leave such a knave in charge of Winterbourne?"
"Enough!" He'd had to listen to his grandfather upbraid him when he'd given Pevensy the post—he'd be damned before he'd endure such a tirade from Melyssan. By the feet of Christ, the wench forgot herself and acted as if she were his wife!
"I didn't carry you up to my bed to be regaled with more of your tales." Had she not lied from the beginning, pretending to be his lady, making him look a fool? He'd believe nothing she had to say.
Tugging on his silver belt, he dropped it to the floor and then slipped the surcoat off his shoulders. She sat frozen, watching as he slid his tunic over his head. But when he began to untruss the points that held up his hose, she suddenly came to life and began scrambling for the door.
He seized her around the waist and dragged her back to the bed, wincing as the palm of her hand slapped him full in the face. Pinioning her wrists together, he began undoing the girdle that encircled her waist. He'd never taken a woman by force before, never had to. But this one, he tried to tell himself, this one deserved to be bent to his will.
She tossed her head back and forth, writhing as he began to pull the gown up over her. "Stop it. Stop it!" she cried. "Let me go. I hate you."
"You're not the first woman to tell me that." He sneered. "Though most of them wait to be satisfied before saying so."
Melyssan choked back the sob that threatened to rise in her throat. This could not be happening. Not
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