Winterbourne by Susan Carroll

Author:Susan Carroll [Carroll, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction - Historical, Romance & Love Stories, France, England/Great Britain
ISBN: 9781568957524
Publisher: Wheeler Pub.
Published: 1999-07-15T07:00:00+00:00

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Chapter 12

The pounding hooves of the sleek black stallion tore up clods of dirt as it thundered along the road toward Wydevale Manor. The horse's dark-bearded rider leaned forward in the saddle, black cape billowing behind him, his reddened eyes glowing like embers from lack of sleep.

Peasants sowing the fields with winter com paused in their task long enough to cross themselves. One stout lad ripped across the fields screaming for Father Andrew and all the saints to come to the rescue: the devil himself was raging amongst them.

Jaufre de Macy dug his knees into his exhausted mount and rode on, scarcely aware of the turmoil his presence created. Thirty-two days since Melyssan had disappeared. Thirty-two times he'd watched the sun set and plunge him into another night of hell, agonizing over what perils she might be facing, torturing himself over what dire fate had befallen her,

"A woman cannot be standing in the courtyard one moment and just vanish the next as if she were snatched by spirits," he had bellowed at his knights and servants the evening after he'd recovered consciousness and discovered Melyssan missing from Winterbourne.

How was it possible that not one of the dolts had seen her go? How could they just let her slip away? Nay, mocked a harsh voice inside him. How could you just let her slip away?

He rubbed at the grit being flung into his eyes and once more was haunted by an image of Melyssan as he'd last seen her, the pain shattering across her delicate features, swirling in the depth of her eyes as she'd turned and fled. So much he needed to tell her. Sweet Christ! Were the last words she was ever to hear from him going to be…

No! Over the next crest was Wydevale Manor. She would be there, safely hidden away in her father's home, no matter what lies Sir William had sent in reply to his urgent inquiries. He'd already spent the morning storming through the sacred cloisters at St. Clare, sending the frightened sisters scurrying before him like a nest of squealing mice until the outraged Mother Abbess had convinced him Melyssan was not amongst them.

Jaufre grimaced, his head still throbbing from the encounter. Why did the old harridan have to whack him with that crucifix in the exact same spot where he'd hit his head before? He reined in his horse and, when the cloud of dust settled, saw the small manor house nestled in the valley below.

He took a gulp from his wine sack to wet his parched throat, allowing his sweating horse to get its second wind, waiting for his entourage to catch up with him. He'd outstripped his knights by some distance, except for Tristan and Roland, who were now the first to reach his side.

The boy rode well, Jaufre admitted grudgingly. Something might be made of him yet if he could resist the urge to fling the insolent whelp back into the dungeons.

Roland took a swig from his

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