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the manor house. While Beatrice flirted with the other knights and Dame Alice embroidered or prayed, Melyssan saw to the comfort of her father's guests. Unhampered by her halting step, she held gentle sway over the small household, performing such humble tasks as strewing fresh rushes upon the floor herself when necessary. He even came across her one afternoon mending her father's drawers while humming a little tune. Half envying her air of cheerful serenity, her mind obviously at peace, he backed out of the room hoping to escape undetected. But she glanced up and smiled.
    "Good day, Lord Jaufre. I trust you slept well last night."
    "Yes. Yes, thank you," he said, trying not to stare. For once her hair was not bound up in tight coils over her ears or hidden within the folds of a veil. The silken waves flowed over her shoulders in charming disarray. Tendrils damp from perspiration clung to the soft curve of cheeks flushed a rosy hue from the warmth of the afternoon.
    Suddenly she tugged at the neckline of her cambric gown as if it irritated the expanse of creamy flesh beneath. Moistening the outline of full, tempting lips with the tip of her tongue, she concentrated on rethreading her needle, and Jaufre shuddered, startled by a familiar stirring in his loins.
    She caught the movement and looked back at him with large candid eyes. "Is there aught I can do for you, my lord? Anything that you desire?"
    Jaufre felt the redness surging up his neck. "I—I—no, nothing at all."
    He stumbled from the room, out of the house to the yard, where he splashed large handfuls of cold water over his face. What was he thinking of? She was still as untouched as a child and destined for the nunnery besides. What sort of savage had he allowed himself to become?
    He avoided her after that, pressing Sir William to move forward the date of his marriage to Beatrice, despite the sullen looks he received from his bride-to-be. The girl was young, malleable, not too clever—everything he wanted in his second wife. A strong wench to bear his sons, a woman who would be pleased enough with a steady supply of new gowns and trinkets, a simple creature incapable of entangling him in a silken web of lies and deceit.
    At least she seemed so when her parents were present—demure, her mouth drawn down into a sulky little pucker. He'd almost felt sorry for forcing her into a marriage she did not want. But that was before he overheard her at mealtime boasting to some whey-faced youth, "Even though I detest Lord Jaufre, do pity the man. He adores me. Why, I have even had him kneel at my feet just to kiss the hem of my gown."
    Suppressing his anger, Jaufre shoved in another mouthful of the tasteless stew from his trencher and resolved then and there to show Beatrice that he would be the master if he decided to go through with this wedding. As soon as he found her alone, he would teach her that he meant to kiss more than her skirts.
    His opportunity came at dusk when he saw her standing in the garden. Gliding up behind her, he encircled her breasts and pressed kisses along her neck. Her reaction was not the frightened gasp he had expected. Instead she sighed, leaning against him, her warm, slender fingers caressing his own. He was beginning to forget he had begun this only to teach her a lesson when she turned her head to face him. And he found himself gazing down into eyes not an insipid blue, but a vivid green. Melyssan.
    In that startling second, he was honest enough to wonder if he had indeed made an error. Had he not sensed somehow before he ever touched her that she was not Beatrice? And yet he had allowed some demon to drive him on. He could not check his desire this time with the illusion that Melyssan was still a child. The evidence of his hands molding her soft curves told him otherwise. Inexorably he drew her nearer, wanting just one taste of those soft, trembling pink lips. If only she had closed her eyes, those haunting, sea-shaded eyes.
    But she didn't.