Read Online Winterbourne by Susan Carroll - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Carroll
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to keep an eye on Le Gros himself, Tristan thought, and then returned his attention to the business at hand as the great spiked bars were raised high enough at last to clear the entranceway to the castle.
Jaufre dug his heels into his stallion's glossy black sides and surged forward over the drawbridge, the pleasure he had anticipated from returning home vanished completely. Instead of this frustrated anger, his heart should have swelled with pride at the sight of his castle's gleaming white square towers and conical roofs set against the backdrop of the rolling Welsh hills. The fortress was his own, purchased by years of hard campaigning, winning prizes in tournaments, ransoming captured knights. Where was she, the scheming witch who had dared plunder Winterbourne in his absence?
As he traveled through the gate, he raised two ringers and nodded, perfunctorily acknowledging the salute of his castle guard. He wondered what sly laughter would spread amongst them when they discovered the truth about his so-called wife. Perhaps they knew already if Beatrice had taken flight.
But no. Standing next to Sir Dreyfan in a place of honor was a lady. Jaufre's heart filled with a kind of savage joy. So the wench had been too feeble-witted to run when she had the chance. Perhaps she hoped to throw herself upon his mercy. She would soon learn there was a reason for his byname.
As he cantered farther into the courtyard, the woman shifted position, and then he saw what her skirts had concealed. She leaned upon a staff.
Jaufre reined in sharply, nearly wheeling his horse around and spooking Tristan's skittish mount. But the Dark Knight was only vaguely aware of his friend's struggles to calm his animal.
No! No, it couldn't be. She could not possibly have anything to do with this deceit. Not—not Melyssan. He slapped the reins down, moving forward until he halted only a few paces away. There was no question of it now. It was Melyssan, her slender figure garbed in an unadorned kirtle of forest green, her brown hair bound demurely in a linen fillet with a stiff barbette passing from ear to ear under her chin. Her only ornament was a braided gold chain worn around her neck, and from the end of it dangled his ring .
Jaufre bit his lips tightly together to keep from roaring aloud. It was as if he could feel Yseult's dagger twisting through his flesh all over again. Damn Melyssan. Damn her to hell. The only woman he had brought himself to trust, to respect, since Yseult, and she proved a greater liar than all of them.
He swallowed hard, the extent of his rage and disappointment astonishing him. Tossing his reins down to a waiting page, Jaufre flung himself out of the saddle. He covered the ground between himself and Melyssan in three furious strides.
Sir Dreyfan clapped him on the back in boisterous greeting, then tried to express his sorrow at the tidings of the old comte's death.
"Later," Jaufre hissed, never taking his eyes from Melyssan. He planted himself in front of her, glad that she kept her head bent toward the ground. He didn't want to see those large round eyes that would remind him of the innocent little maid who had once thought him Sir Launcelot. Where had she gone? The way of all women, grown up to be a calculating, greedy bitch.
Then she did look up, and it infuriated him further to see no change in her serenely beautiful face, no trace of guilt. Sorrow, perhaps, and fear reflected from those luminous green eyes, but that was all. Soft pink lips trembled and then parted.
"W-welcome home, my lord Jaufre," she whispered.
Plague take her! What right did she have to stand there looking like a wistful young angel when her heart was so full of treachery? Jaufre drew back his hand, wanting to strike away that false expression, force her to glare at him with hatred, show herself for what she truly was.
Melyssan flinched and then steadied herself to accept the blow. But Jaufre lowered his hand, an icy calm encrusting his heart.
Jaufre dug his heels into his stallion's glossy black sides and surged forward over the drawbridge, the pleasure he had anticipated from returning home vanished completely. Instead of this frustrated anger, his heart should have swelled with pride at the sight of his castle's gleaming white square towers and conical roofs set against the backdrop of the rolling Welsh hills. The fortress was his own, purchased by years of hard campaigning, winning prizes in tournaments, ransoming captured knights. Where was she, the scheming witch who had dared plunder Winterbourne in his absence?
As he traveled through the gate, he raised two ringers and nodded, perfunctorily acknowledging the salute of his castle guard. He wondered what sly laughter would spread amongst them when they discovered the truth about his so-called wife. Perhaps they knew already if Beatrice had taken flight.
But no. Standing next to Sir Dreyfan in a place of honor was a lady. Jaufre's heart filled with a kind of savage joy. So the wench had been too feeble-witted to run when she had the chance. Perhaps she hoped to throw herself upon his mercy. She would soon learn there was a reason for his byname.
As he cantered farther into the courtyard, the woman shifted position, and then he saw what her skirts had concealed. She leaned upon a staff.
Jaufre reined in sharply, nearly wheeling his horse around and spooking Tristan's skittish mount. But the Dark Knight was only vaguely aware of his friend's struggles to calm his animal.
No! No, it couldn't be. She could not possibly have anything to do with this deceit. Not—not Melyssan. He slapped the reins down, moving forward until he halted only a few paces away. There was no question of it now. It was Melyssan, her slender figure garbed in an unadorned kirtle of forest green, her brown hair bound demurely in a linen fillet with a stiff barbette passing from ear to ear under her chin. Her only ornament was a braided gold chain worn around her neck, and from the end of it dangled his ring .
Jaufre bit his lips tightly together to keep from roaring aloud. It was as if he could feel Yseult's dagger twisting through his flesh all over again. Damn Melyssan. Damn her to hell. The only woman he had brought himself to trust, to respect, since Yseult, and she proved a greater liar than all of them.
He swallowed hard, the extent of his rage and disappointment astonishing him. Tossing his reins down to a waiting page, Jaufre flung himself out of the saddle. He covered the ground between himself and Melyssan in three furious strides.
Sir Dreyfan clapped him on the back in boisterous greeting, then tried to express his sorrow at the tidings of the old comte's death.
"Later," Jaufre hissed, never taking his eyes from Melyssan. He planted himself in front of her, glad that she kept her head bent toward the ground. He didn't want to see those large round eyes that would remind him of the innocent little maid who had once thought him Sir Launcelot. Where had she gone? The way of all women, grown up to be a calculating, greedy bitch.
Then she did look up, and it infuriated him further to see no change in her serenely beautiful face, no trace of guilt. Sorrow, perhaps, and fear reflected from those luminous green eyes, but that was all. Soft pink lips trembled and then parted.
"W-welcome home, my lord Jaufre," she whispered.
Plague take her! What right did she have to stand there looking like a wistful young angel when her heart was so full of treachery? Jaufre drew back his hand, wanting to strike away that false expression, force her to glare at him with hatred, show herself for what she truly was.
Melyssan flinched and then steadied herself to accept the blow. But Jaufre lowered his hand, an icy calm encrusting his heart.
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