Read Winterbourne for Free Online

She came to him unresisting, her eyes wide with wonder, as if she expected something beautiful, instead of the kiss he was about to bestow, a caress to ease his own selfish passion. He shoved her away, ashamed of himself for tampering with such innocence. Leaving her alone in the garden, looking hurt and bewildered, he consoled himself with the thought she was no more confused than he was himself.
    If he wanted Melyssan, it would be an easy matter to go to Sir William and ask for her hand instead. Melyssan had taken no vows thus far, and he knew that even promises to the church could be broken if the earl of Winterbourne demanded it. Yet the girl already had an aura of holiness about her, while he…he was on more intimate terms with the patrons of hell than those of heaven.
    So he remained silent, even after Beatrice had released him from any sense of obligation by running away to seek sanctuary at St. Clare. He rode off without speaking to Sir William about Melyssan, without even saying good-bye to her…
    Jaufre's remembrance dimmed as a draft caused the candle to flicker, reminding him he still knelt on the floor half-naked, clutching the child's veil. Shivering, he folded the cloth and returned it to the chest. Well, mayhap he would keep the thing after all, as a token of more innocent days, a memento of the one wise decision he had ever made in his life.
    For wisdom it was not to have wed Melyssan. Those eyes of hers, how they would have tormented him with their sweet gravity, twin mirrors reflecting the dark corners of his soul he had kept so well hidden all these years. And he, with his blackhearted cynicism, before long he would have eroded all her shining ideals, destroyed her faith in God and man until she became no different from all the other shallow women he knew.
    He had just slammed down the lid on the chest when he heard the hammering on the bedchamber door. Had it been going on for some time, getting progressively louder, and he'd just become aware of it? Why did no one call his name—why this insistent thump, thump, thump?
    A wariness that had more than once saved his life stole over him and sent him scrambling for his sword. The summons came thundering again. It would not be long before the pounding fist discovered the door was unbarred.
    Jaufre's hand closed over the hilt of his sword, and he blew out the candle, every muscle tensed, waiting. Finette's temper may have driven her to more extreme measures than he thought. If she went whining about being insulted to her cleric, a drunkard clothing himself in priest's robes, she might have persuaded him to come down here. The fat Father Hubert fancied himself something of a swordsman.
    The knock came one final time, weaker than before. And then, at last, a muffled call: "Jaufre, it's Tristan. Open, for God's sake."
    Jaufre relaxed, his tension turning into irritation as he recognized the voice of Sir Tristan Mallory, a knight bachelor of his grandfather's household. Wrenching open the door, Jaufre shaded his eyes against the light from the flaming torch Tristan carried.
    "What the hell! Why did you not identify yourself at once, man, instead of raising enough racket to make me think the entire castle guard was out there?"
    "Sorry," Tristan whispered. He stepped into the room without saying anything more.
    "What the devil's amiss?" Jaufre's eyes flicked over the younger man, and he noted that his boyhood friend's square jaw was tightly clenched. It suddenly occurred to him that Tristan had not immediately called out because he was incapable of doing so. The knight swallowed hard, and moisture welled in his eyes.
    "What is it?" Jaufre asked more quietly.
    "I—I'm sorry," Tristan choked out. "Jaufre, it's the comte. You—you have to go to him. I summoned a physician from the town, but he says… he says 'tis too late." He reached out to place his hand on Jaufre's shoulder, but the earl drew back instinctively, rejecting the gesture as he rejected the