Winterbourne
even in her worst imaginings had she ever pictured Jaufre as he was now, his eyes hard, merciless, as he prepared to use his body to punish her, all honor, all gentleness, vanished. Despair washed over her as he ripped off her gown, leaving her clad only in her chemise.
    Boldly he explored her body, his hands ravaging her with their heat even through the thin linen garment. He captured one breast, kneading it with his thumb, and much to her shame she felt the nipple grow taut with aroused longing. Her struggles ceased. It was hopeless, hopeless that she could prevent him having his way when a small secret part of her whispered she should surrender.
    She went limp, making no resistance as he cupped her face between his hands, his kiss brushing her lips, coaxing them apart, then gradually deepening, drowning her in a sea of fire. She followed him into his own dark world, a void of swirling passionate emotions, but none of them love… none of them love.
    Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes, spilling over, scalding down her cheeks. Jaufre's demanding mouth suddenly stilled, and then he drew slowly away from her, staring at the moisture that had trickled over his fingers. Staring as if struck dumb with astonishment, as if he knew not whence the droplets had come. When he reached out to her again, his arm trembled as he used the back of his hand to dry her cheeks, his brow knit into a frown as if he searched his mind for some memory that eluded him. He pulled his hand back to his body, clenching it as he rolled away, turning his back to her.
    "Damn," he said hoarsely. "Damn it all to hell." He found her cane and hurled it across the room, the wooden staff striking the wall with a sharp crack. Leaping to his feet, he snatched up his discarded clothes. Without looking around, he stormed out of the bedchamber, the door crashing behind him with such force, the very walls seemed to shake on their foundations.
    Melyssan lay still, too stunned by Jaufre's actions to move. Then her body began shaking as if with the chills that follow the onslaught of a burning fever. She hugged one of the pillows tight against her chest, feeling swallowed up by the great empty bed that seemed cold, barren now that he'd gone.
    What had stopped him, driven him away, when he'd had her so completely at his mercy, even her own body betraying her to his desires? She lifted one hand to her cheek, where traces of her tears lingered, lingered with the impression of bronzed fingers brushing aside the dampness.
    "Would you let such pearls as these fall upon the insensible ground?" The deep male voice echoed from the recesses of her mind, confusing the image of Jaufre, angry, bitter as he was, with her remembrance of a beardless knight whose youthful eyes shone with compassion as he…
    Swept aside her tears . She sat bolt upright as the images blurred, became one man. Her heart raced with the realization that for one brief moment before he'd torn himself from her side, it had been Sir Jaufre de Macy who had regarded her through the eyes of the earl of Winterbourne, the Jaufre who could not hurt her, the Jaufre who yet might know how to love. He still lived, the Launcelot of her childhood dreams, buried within the battle-scarred chest of the Dark Knight.
    But as she sank back down onto the feather mattress, her excitement over the discovery faded. Yes, he was still there. But would she ever find him again?
     
    The lower floor of the donjon was dank and cold as it had been the first night Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor had arrived at Winterbourne. Even though she wore only her chemise beneath her thick mantle, Melyssan remained oblivious to the chill, her heart much lighter than it had been the last time Father Andrew had summoned her from her bed.
    Shifting her sleeping babe up over her shoulder, Gunnor embraced Melyssan, tears glistening in her eyes. "Never, never will I forget your kindness, my lady. If ever there comes a time when I can repay you, even if it should

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