All's Fair in Love and War

Chapter 10

Melissande was humiliated. Not only was her pledge ignored but she was compelled to wed Jerome’s son within the hour. Worse, Tulley himself would check the linens in the morning for evidence of the match’s consummation. Her agreement was not sufficient to appease him and that irked her beyond all.

If only Jerome’s son had not returned with such haste, she might have found Arnaud herself. She did not believe that he had betrayed their vow and wed Marie instead. Why else would Tulley insist upon both haste and blood on the linens? Obviously, he feared that Melissande would learn the truth and demand an annulment. Tulley had a plan and meant to see it brought to fruition before either she or this warrior could choose otherwise. Once their match was consummated, they would be compelled to remain wed.

Until death did so part them.

It said much for her frustration that she wondered how soon that moment might arrive.

“This is your fault!” she said, turning her frustration upon Jerome’s son. “Could you not have remained abroad? Or lingered in some city to delay your return?”

“Me?” he echoed. “What man would not make haste to claim his inheritance?” He lifted a brow. “And truly, it has taken a year to ride from Palestine. I could not be expected to linger more than that, lest Tulley change his mind.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I already feared I might come too late.”

It seemed he did know Tulley sufficiently well to recognize that their liege lord could be changeable. “Aye, why not hasten home, when you gain Annossy in the bargain?”

His eyes narrowed slightly as he surveyed her. “I came for Sayerne.”

“And you are welcome to it.”

“It is a fine holding.”

“It is a ruin.” Melissande folded her arms across her chest, feeling that the chamber was too small with this large and masculine man beside her. She was aware of his attention and his mood, and even of the heat of his skin. “Sayerne is neglected beyond hope of repair and you are a fool to even imagine it can be rebuilt in a lifetime.”

He smiled, ever so slightly, and the sight made her heart skip. The expression softened his features and weakened her resistance with dangerous ease. “Perhaps I am a fool when it comes to matters of holdings and administration. Perhaps I have need of your counsel.”

“No woman finds it alluring to be considered useful.”

Quinn’s smile broadened and her heart skipped again. “That is a harsh summary, my lady. Do you not think a man and wife should confer together to decide what is best for their holdings?”

How could Jerome’s son know about a good marriage and how it might work?

“I do not think that the affluence of Annossy should be used to pay for the rebuilding of Sayerne.” There, she had said it aloud.

His expression turned thoughtful and she wondered if she had given him an idea. “When we are joined in marriage, the holdings will become one.”

Melissande closed her eyes at that prospect.

“And be administered as one,” he continued.

“Just as your father desired.”

“Perhaps. Of greater import is Tulley’s desire in this matter.”

Tulley. Melissande gritted her teeth in vexation.

Quinn took a step closer and lifted her hand in his, unfurling her fingers with a stroke of his finger. God in heaven, it was persuasive for such a powerful man to touch her so gently. “My lady, I think we have little choice but to cede to Tulley in this, and endeavor to make the best of a match neither of us anticipated.” His tone was yet more persuasive.

“Or desired,” she added.

“But it must be so. And perhaps there is advantage to be found in our union.” His words were compelling and his voice low. Melissande had a difficult time catching her breath. Quinn de Sayerne had a charm about him, to be certain. Having that amber gaze fixed upon her disturbed her more than she would have liked to admit, never mind having her fingers caught in the warmth of his hand. Her gaze lifted to the firm outline of his lips, but she glanced away before he could make more of her reaction than was justified.

Quinn de Sayerne had accepted her hand only to obtain his inheritance.

He needed Annossy’s wealth to restore Sayerne.

And what would be left of Annossy when he was done? Both she and her parents before her had labored too hard to lose everything at Tulley’s whim.

She tugged her hand from Quinn’s grasp. To her surprise, he released her fingers without a fight.

Melissande shuddered to think that Jerome had triumphed after all.

“Surely you cannot find my presence so loathsome as that?” Quinn asked. “We scarce know each other.”

“But I know your goal. How do you imagine that you will make Sayerne prosper again?” she asked. “The estate has been mismanaged for as long as I can recall. Where will you find the coin to do it? Do you have any notion of the cost? You would be better off to pledge your blade elsewhere and move on. You do not even have a villein to call your own.”

Color rose on Quinn’s neck. Melissande wondered whether she had pushed him too far, although she had done no more than state the truth. What was this man like when he was furious? She had a strange desire to know, to see his composure shattered, to know the truth of him in a temper.

She wished she could see his worst before they wed. That was the truth of it. Then she would know better what to expect.

“Undoubtedly because they have all moved to the richer abodes,” he replied more harshly than he had thus far. His gaze bored into hers and Melissande took a step backward in trepidation. “Might I guess that some of them have moved no farther than Annossy?”

Melissande flushed. “I did not steal them, nor did I tempt them away. A villein of good sense will seek out a place where he might see his belly filled and his family sheltered. Your father ensured that most on his lands spent their nights in hunger.”

“Is it not an offense to harbor the villeins of another estate?”

He knew the law, against her expectation, and Melissande realized she would be a fool to underestimate him. “It is, but I merely showed charity to those in need of it.”

“Charity?” Quinn echoed and she felt her flush deepen.

“They were being abused. How could I turn them away?”

“And so your compassion was shown and appreciated. And now that they are no longer in peril, I will expect their return.”

Melissande caught her breath. “They are my villeins now.”

He arched a brow. “Will Tulley take your side in this, if I appeal to his court?”

“To what will they return? Ruined homes and empty larders, fields left fallow too long and no seed to plant? You must think beyond your own ambitions to their welfare. That is the task of a responsible baron.”

That“I would ensure their welfare.”

“They would have to see it to believe as much of Jerome’s son. They are not fools, to be sure.”

Quinn folded his arms across his chest as he considered her, that slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Wretched man. She could not even think coherently when he looked at her thus.

She tingled.

“Perhaps I must ride to Annossy and make an appeal in your court, my lady. I wager you would like to see me kneel before you, as Lady of Annossy and source of justice there.”

The suggestion was surprisingly provocative and Melissande found herself at a loss for words. Quinn took another step closer, pressing his advantage, his gaze locked with hers. Melissande could not take a breath. She could feel his heat. She was snared by his intent gaze and she yearned for something she could not name.

Quinn could name it. Melissande would wager upon that.

“Do you mock the notion of me as judge?” she asked. “Or do you mock the notion of a woman as administrator?” She lifted her chin. “If so, I invite you to compare the state of Sayerne and Annossy, to see who fares better at this task.”

He raised a hand to her shoulder, resting its weight there as if he would draw her into his embrace. Melissande recognized the hunger within herself and knew that this would be war. They would battle for supremacy and, to her dismay, Quinn already had her body upon his side. She felt the shiver that rolled through her body, the heat that emanated from the weight of his hand upon her shoulder, and she knew that if he kissed her again, she would be lost.

She raised her hand to remove his. “We are not wed yet, sir,” she said with heat, knowing it was a feeble excuse.

He caught at her wrist and pulled her closer. “Nay, not yet,” he whispered, his voice so low and his tone so intimate that her knees were weakened. His gaze heated as he bent toward her and she felt a desire beyond what she had experienced before. Melissande was stretched to her toes, her breasts tantalizingly close to his chest. His proximity fanned the flames kindled by his earlier kiss, but Melissande would have died rather than confess this truth.

How could she be surprised that a barbarian knew best how to awaken her base urges?

Quinn bent and his lips were against her hair, his breath in her ear, and Melissande was shaken by the power of his touch. She averted her face in an attempt to hide her reaction, knowing it was only a matter of time before he had all he desired of her.

And then what? She would be discarded, like one of Jerome’s women, and left to fend for herself—without Annossy.

Her heart tore at the truth of it.

“Do not imagine, my lady, that you will compel me to defy Tulley,” Quinn whispered. There was steel in his tone and she heard the truth of his resolve. “I will not lose Sayerne. On this night, we must make our match and we must consummate it, by Tulley’s command. It need not be an ordeal, though you can make it so.”

Melissande twisted away from his whisper but glanced up. She was trapped then by the determination in his eyes. Despite herself, she recalled the brush of his lips over hers. Would he be gentle with her? Or did he seek only to disarm her? Her blood simmered, as if she was no better than a harlot.

“Scoundrel,” she whispered, hating how readily he fed such urges within her. “You care for only your own ends. I can see clearly that you are your father’s son.”

Quinn’s eyes flashed like lightning, but his grip did not tighten and his voice did not rise. Again, she glimpsed the power of his restraint and had to admire it. “My sire and I had naught in common,” he insisted. “You, my lady, will be the first to learn the truth of that.” Their gazes held for a long moment and Melissande knew she had engaged an opponent who would not readily retreat.

His gaze dropped to her mouth. He smiled that slow smile again, the one that undermined her belief in all she knew to be true, and she could scarce draw a breath.

“Perhaps we should seal our pledge anew,” he suggested, a rogue to his marrow. The mischievous glint in his eyes was so beguiling that Melissande did not move away in time.

Then Quinn bent and his mouth slanted across hers.

His kiss was firm, his lips coaxing, the strength of his hand on the back of her waist before she guessed what he was about. He did not claim, he did not possess: he invited, and that so astonished her that Melissande did not even consider making a protest.

Indeed, she surrendered and it was bliss. Quinn’s kiss was gentle and intimate, yet tempting all the same. It hinted of greater pleasures to come and made her heart race. He smelled of sun and leather and horses, but beneath it all was the heady scent of his own skin. He made a sound of surrender that pleased her greatly, then locked his arm around her waist, drawing her to her toes. Her breasts were crushed against his chest and his mouth opened, claiming her more boldly.

Nay, he feasted upon her, coaxing her response, and she let him.

Melissande was overwhelmed and awed—and more desirous of his touch than she could have believed possible. She guessed that this was not the first time for Quinn to kiss like this, that he knew she was innocent in such matters and tempered his own desire for her, but that awareness still did not check her response.

When he deepened his kiss, that warmth spread within her, destroying her ability to deny him and feeding her own desire. Melissande was aware of every fiber of her being; she tingled from head to toe; she burned for more of whatever he might give. She found herself pressing herself against his strength, her eyes closed in pleasure. His fingers fanned out against the back of her waist, holding her captive to the pleasure he was determined to give. When her own fingers slid into his hair, pulling him closer, she realized her folly.

He was trying to disarm her.

He succeeded with great haste.

She would be valued for her beauty and her womb, for her ability to give him sons—if indeed she could—while her wits and skill would be ignored.

He would train her, claim all she possessed, and discard her.

Then he would sacrifice Annossy to Sayerne.

“Nay!” Melissande tore her lips from Quinn’s and laid her hands flat on his chest to push him away.

He obediently retreated, though he watched her closely.

“We are not wed yet, sir,” she repeated, hearing the tremble in her voice. She felt rumpled and flustered as she never had before. Her skin was flushed and she knew that her cheeks were stained crimson. Her lips throbbed and she felt a new heat in the depths of her belly.

“Yet I find more promise in our union than earlier,” he replied, his voice a low rumble. His eyes glinted and again, she was treacherously close to be being beguiled.

Melissande shook her head, her fear rising. How could she forget what she knew of his kin? She wagged one finger at him. “You will beat me, as your father beat his women.”

Quinn shook his head with reassuring resolve and propped his hands on his hips. “I told you that we two were different,” he said with such conviction that even she was tempted to believe him. There was something about this man that made his pledges weighty. “I will never lay a hand upon you in violence. I will never compel you to welcome me to your bed.”

Did he speak the truth, or was she a fool to give his words any credit at all?

He was resolute, to be sure.

What did she know for certain? That he loved Sayerne as much as she loved Annossy. And in that was the trouble. Melissande did not wager that Quinn’s objectives would be readily put aside, for any reason.

“Even if I deny you this night?”

“I hope you will not,” he said solemnly, his gaze locked with hers. “For it will cost us both dearly.”

Melissande exhaled at the truth in that.

Then he smiled crookedly and reached to brush a finger gently across her cheek. “Be warned, my lady. I reserve the right to attempt to convince you to welcome me.”

Again, there was a playfulness in his manner, one that disarmed her for its unexpectedness. And that intimate rumble of his voice when he murmured. God in Heaven, the sound heated her to her toes! Melissande struggled against the sense that she could rely upon Quinn, knowing full well that he was manipulating her.

And with ease.

She was a fool. Surely she could not abandon her suspicions that he was behind the raids on Annossy as readily as that? She would not have put it past Jerome to have arranged such attacks in order to see his goal achieved.

What of his son?

A year’s ride from Palestine? What if he had been returned for a month or two, yet had not declared his presence before?

“Nay, you will not,” she said. “Indeed, I must have your pledge before we wed this day.”

“What pledge?” he asked warily.

“I may be compelled to marry you, and I may be compelled to welcome you this night, but after this night, you will come to my bed only if you are invited. You said yourself that you would not force yourself upon me.”

Quinn’s voice dropped and already Melissande knew him well enough to be warned that his temper was thinning. “I do not intend to lose my estate,” he said. “Remember that Annossy also hangs in the balance, my lady.”

“I have already agreed to the consummation of our match, but that will be the sum of our intimacy, until I so choose.”

“Ever after you would deny me?”

“Aye.”

“You know Tulley will desire that we produce a son.”

“Then you had best make haste to win my trust, sir.” She shrugged. “Or perhaps that son will be conceived this very night.”

“Why?”

Melissande flung out her hands. “I know naught of you, sir, and what I suspect is not encouraging. I will not be reduced to chattel without a fight.”

Quinn eyed her for a moment, then stepped closer. Melissande retreated from the resolve in his gaze, but Quinn did not halt. He closed the distance until Melissande found herself backed into the wall. Then he leaned over her and she closed her eyes that he might not see how keenly aware of his proximity she was.

“I offer that pledge, my lady, and I take your wager,” he whispered. “We both have need of a son and I intend to be...persuasive.” His lips brushed her cheek again and Melissande held herself taut.

Curse Tulley! Had she been a man, she would never have been in this position. Curse all men for their need to lord their power over women.

Curse Quinn for making her want to surrender.

The thought was so clear and the truth of it so resonant that Melissande clenched her fists.

“I will not be readily convinced,” she managed to say.

“I think otherwise,” he whispered, his breath fanning her cheek. Melissande kept her eyes closed, knowing that if he was smiling slightly, she would be lost. “I shall make you shiver,” Quinn vowed softly and she knew it was true. She felt his lips touch her cheek, as gentle as a butterfly, and it took all within her to keep from turning her head for another kiss. “I shall make you moan and I shall make you beg me to touch you. You will not invite me to your bed; you will entreat me. And we will conceive a son.” He kissed her ear and she found her back arching toward him, her hunger for his touch making her burn. “And then, we shall conceive another.”

His lips touched her jaw, his kiss leaving a trail of fire that made Melissande gasp with need.

His power over her was terrifying.

She had to stop his assault, no matter what it took.

“Never!” she said with vehemence. “I will never yield willingly to your embrace and I will never entreat you, sir!”

entreatQuinn, of course, smiled that wretched smile.

“I shall take this as a challenge, my lady,” he murmured. His gaze swept over her features, his eyes glowing with such heat that he did, in fact, make her shiver.

He leaned closer and Melissande knew his intent. Desperate to escape his kiss, she ducked beneath his arm and fled for the door.

“You were not invited,” she whispered and saw his eyes flash. She lunged for the doorway, certain that Quinn would catch her and take his vengeance.

To her relief, she safely gained the portal. She flung herself into the corridor without a backward glance, then ran down its length. What had she done? What was in her mind to taunt him? Within hours, they would be alone, and he would beat her, just as Jerome had beaten his women.

She might not see the morning.

Melissande’s heart nigh stopped when Quinn bellowed from behind her. “My lady! You would test the patience of a saint—and I have already told you, I am no saint!”

, I am no saint!”She had finally prompted him to lose his temper.

And it was as fearsome as she had thought.

She ran.

It was only once Melissande had raced up the stairs to her assigned chamber, and locked the door behind herself, that she dared to halt and catch her breath. She listened, but no one pursued her.

Was it possible that Quinn’s fury only made him shout?

Or did he restrain himself until they were alone?

Melissande’s hands were shaking. She sat on a stool opposite the door and struggled to compose herself. In that moment, she realized that she had not thought once of Arnaud after Quinn had walked into Tulley’s chamber.

How fickle was she? One kiss and her word was worthless. Nay, one look and her vow was forgotten. At Quinn’s touch, she had forgotten her own reserve and even her dignity.

Much of what she valued was lost already—and their nuptial vows had not even been exchanged. Quinn de Sayerne would be the ruin of all she held dear.

Worse, Melissande was powerless to halt what Tulley had begun.

Quinn stormed into the bathing chamber near the stables, kicking open the heavy wooden door then slamming it behind himself. Three unfamiliar servants, as well as Michel, jumped and turned to regard him in surprise.

Ye gods, but Melissande d’Annossy could set his blood to boiling as never it had before! He had never been so infuriated—and that within a heartbeat of being so consumed with desire. Quinn felt vexed and challenged and ardent, all at the same time. It was a most confusing combination and one that left him riled beyond all.

And he had barely made the lady’s acquaintance. If she had been welcoming, this fire in his blood could have bode well for their match. As it was, he feared that he would yearn every day and night of his life, and she would ignore him.

But Tulley could not be denied. Quinn had to wed Melissande and he had to bed her, and he had to convince her to make their marriage one of merit.

He simply did not believe in this moment that it could be done.

She had granted him one night to conceive an heir. Oh, he would have to ensure that her pleasure was complete. Quinn shoved a hand through his hair in frustration. If only he had possessed an increment of Niall’s charm, or a measure of Amaury’s confidence with women. Quinn knew he was an unpolished suitor and Melissande’s refinement made him more keenly aware of his lack.

Surely this marriage could not cost him all?

Bayard was yet bathing, characteristically taking his leisure in the hot water. The room was filled with steam and the smell of wet cloth. A fire blazing within a brazier was the only source of light, but none of this tranquility soothed Quinn in the least. He paced the width of the chamber and back, ignoring the watchfulness of the others.

Could he successfully seduce Melissande?

Could he win her favor?

Michel approached him cautiously, the boy’s manner proof that Quinn’s bout of temper showed. “Would you bathe, my lord?”

“Aye.” Quinn bit out the word.

“Then we will need more hot water.” Michel gestured to one of Tulley’s servants, who hesitated. When Quinn glared, the man bowed hastily and fled the chamber, bucket in hand. Bayard laughed but Quinn did not so much as smile. He eyed the other servants who followed their comrade with haste.

“And what did the Lord de Tulley say that vexed you so mightily?” Bayard asked.

“It was not Tulley who vexed me,” Quinn admitted. “Though he struck the tinder.”

The other knight’s dark eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Bad tidings?”

“Bad enough.” Quinn shed his cloak and unbuckled his belt, aware of the filth layering his skin. He had to court Melissande and win her favor—though he doubted the extent of his charm and he felt the press of time.

Could the feat be done?

Or was Sayerne already lost?

“I do not think I have ever seen you in such a foul mood,” Bayard commented.

Quinn knew the look he tossed his comrade was a dark one.

Bayard chuckled. “Aye, foul indeed.”

“If you wish to see a foul mood, then come to my wedding,” Quinn replied. “I will take a wife in less than an hour.”

Michel froze in the midst of folding Quinn’s tabard to stare.

“Wedding?” Bayard laughed again. “You are to be married? On this very day?”

“Aye, or else Sayerne will not be mine.” Quinn sighed. “Lord de Tulley has set the terms and there is little to find amusing in the situation.”

“Married!” Bayard repeated. “And so quick as that! Do they fear she will flee?”

“She might.”

Bayard leaned back in the bath, his eyes dancing. “Quinn wed. There is a marvel I had not thought to see it so soon.”

“And if you continue to comment, then it will be a marvel you will not see.”

“How so?”

“I shall ban you from the festivities for your comments.”

Bayard, untroubled, laughed and laughed.

Quinn did not join his merriment. Even though his annoyance had faded, still he felt disgruntled. The lady Melissande certainly possessed a gift for irking a man.

Or perhaps for irking him.

He sighed and confided the worst of it. “The Lord de Tulley has even been so courteous as to choose the bride.”

Bayard’s eye lit. “Who is she?” he asked. “What is she like? I might wager that she does not see the appeal of the match, given your mood.”

“She does not.”

“How fascinating.” The other knight showed no inclination to abandon the tub. Quinn felt the chill against his bare skin, although the room was warmer than most. He gave his companion a quelling look, but Bayard only smiled as he settled deeper into the steaming water.

The selfish cur showed no sign of ending his bath.

“Have you not soaked the flesh from your bones by now?” Quinn demanded. “I would not catch my death this day.”

“Then she cannot be so unpleasant,” Bayard said. “Although, one must wonder at her looks for Lord de Tulley to be so anxious to see her match made. In such a rush, as well.” He clicked his tongue. “Is she a termagant?”

Quinn chose not to reply.

“Or perhaps he meant to give you no opportunity to reconsider. Tell me more of her.”

“She is heiress of a neighboring holding, Annossy.”

“Wealthy.” Bayard’s brows rose. “Is she old?”

“Nay.”

“Pretty?”

Quinn did not reply.

“A young heiress, likely fine of feature, given your attitude,” Bayard concluded. “That sounds like fine fortune indeed. What precisely is your objection?”

“The objection is the lady’s.”

Bayard chuckled. “Those boots of yours,” he teased, just as Tulley’s servants returned into the chamber with steaming buckets of water. The châtelain himself supervised them, directing them to retrieve a second wooden tub from a shadowed corner. They rolled it out to the middle of the room as more water was fetched to fill it and the châtelain snapped his fingers to hasten them.

Two tubs? Quinn’s eyes widened slightly. It had been a long time since he had visited any hall blessed with such luxury. In fact, Quinn and Bayard had shared bathwater on so many occasions that who would indulge first was an ongoing jest.

“This is a well-equipped keep, Quinn,” Bayard commented, evidently seeing the direction of his gaze. “And your reward for leading us here is no small one, for you will not have to be second after me into the bath on this night. Better yet, I will not have to emerge any time soon. I have waited long for this bath and I will savor it.”

Quinn smiled despite himself at his comrade’s satisfaction.

“Especially as I now have a wedding to attend.” Bayard leaned back in his tub, beckoning to the servant for more hot water. “By the saints above, it will take me a week to soak this filth from my hide.” He sighed and closed his eyes as his water was warmed, then sank beneath the surface for a moment.

Quinn waited until he broke the surface again. “If you are as dirty as you say, then the second tub is a blessing indeed and I am glad of it.” He might have hoped the matter of his bride to be closed, but he knew his comrade better than that. Bayard was cursed curious and never left a matter rest until he understood all of it.

Even now that knight watched Quinn, as if he could glean the truth from his manner. Quinn turned his back upon Bayard, purportedly to climb into the second tub, but truly to hide his thoughts from his perceptive friend.

Bayard waited until the châtelain and Tulley’s servants had departed. Only Michel remained when Quinn settled into the water and closed his eyes at the luxury of the hot water.

“It cannot be a bad sign for this lady to have you so troubled after only one short interview,” Bayard said. Quinn tried not to wince. “You will make the best of this match in the end, Quinn, if it begins with such passion.”

“This match can have no best!” he replied with a vehemence that made Bayard’s brows rise. He tempered his tone with an effort. “She is as frosty as the winter wind, and there is no reasoning with her.” He frowned. “Unless, of course, she is furious and so articulate that a man can scarce utter a word in protest.”

Bayard said naught, the silence stretching long between them.

“It is unlike you to be so troubled about any matter,” he finally noted. “I will guess that she meets with your approval but the opposite situation is not true.”

anyQuinn flung out his hands in frustration and water flew in all directions. “It is unlike me to be accused of being a mercenary, a brigand, and the echo of my sire in one interview! The lady has no shortage of criticisms to make, all unfounded.”

“A brigand?”

“There are raids upon her holding, which has prompted Tulley’s hand.”

“Because she has no lord husband.”

“But evidently she fears I am like my father. I see in her eyes that she wonders whether I lead the brigands. Her skepticism would match yours in magnitude.” With that, Quinn fell silent.

Bayard propped his elbows on the sides of the wooden tub and sat up, a glint in his eye. “Is she foul to look upon?”

His comrade’s curiosity troubled Quinn, which both surprised and annoyed him anew.

“Nay,” he admitted.

Bayard’s chuckle did naught to ease his mood. Quinn was grateful for the relative darkness of this place, for he felt color rising on the back of his neck.

“Dare I suggest that this is a matter of pride, Quinn?” that knight asked. “A pretty lady has spurned you, and not without cause, given your appearance upon arrival here. Are you insulted?”

“Of course not.” Quinn spoke gruffly. “But a man’s merit is not his garb.”

“What manner of lady would she have been if she had swooned before you? No woman you would welcome to wife, of that I can be certain.”

“Such a woman might be perceptive.”

“Such a woman might be undiscriminating,” Bayard replied. “As whores are like to be.” He took the brush and scrubbed his nails. “I would be pleased if a pretty lady, never mind one I was commanded to wed, confessed the truth to me without hesitation. Such a deed would show her merit as one who is honest, and her trust in me that she might confide her thoughts. I should have thought you would be the same.”

There was unwelcome truth in that.

“I do not think she trusts me.”

“You have only just met her, and not looking your best.” Bayard nodded. “She likely had some whimsy of wedding a man she chose, not one thrust upon her. Women put much credence in matches based upon love.”

“Do they?”

“Aye. It is the task of the husband to convince the lady to come to love him.” Bayard smiled. “I should think even you might manage that feat in time.”

“I thank you for your confidence in my talents.”

“What talents you possess, my friend, have naught to do with the seduction of reluctant maidens.” Bayard blinked. “Is she a widow?”

“I do not know,” Quinn confessed. “I do not think so.”

“Then she will be a maiden and rendering the marital debt will be a new obligation for her. Be gentle this night, Quinn, and that may gain you much.”

“Do you think as much?”

“Many women fear the first time, because of the pain.”

Quinn recalled that tear. If Melissande thought little of his father, she might know of Jerome’s violence. Had she not recoiled as if in fear that he might strike her? Aye, if she knew his father, she might well dread this night.

He might not have Bayard’s skill in such matters of intimacy, but he could see to her pleasure.

“And still you scowl, as I would not if I anticipated the seduction of a beauteous woman after making her my wife.”

“I had no thought of taking wife at this time,” Quinn said. “The timing is inopportune. No woman—let alone this one—would enjoy living at Sayerne before all is right once more. It is not seemly to expect a woman to endure it.”

“And that is your sole objection?”

“Aye.”

“Ha.”

Quinn ignored his friend. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the rim, considering how he might tempt Melissande’s pleasure. She had softened to his kiss, so perhaps his skills would be sufficient...

“Perhaps I could coax a response from your bride,” Bayard mused. “Would you like me to try?”

IQuinn sat up and glared at his friend.

Bayard appeared to be oblivious to Quinn’s response. “Perhaps we could share her charms...”

Quinn knew Bayard sought to provoke him, and he felt no satisfaction at that man’s success. “You will not touch my wife!” he said, pointing at Bayard with a dripping finger. “If naught else, my sire showed me the results of faithlessness in marriage and I will tolerate none of it in mine!” There was silence in the bathing chamber and Quinn took a steadying breath. “Make no mistake in this, Bayard, should you test me in this matter, it will be you who pays the price.”

With that, Quinn sank into the bathwater again, his mood as foul as when he had arrived.

Bayard splashed in the water, clearly unoffended. “It does seem that this matter concerns you greatly and I take warning. But you are certain that you have no interest in this lady for her own charms? You did say that she was fair to look upon.”

“I never said...” Quinn fell silent when he saw his friend’s grin.

The man was cursedly observant.

“Although she is fair,” Quinn admitted.

“Only fair?”

“Lovely,” Quinn said, his voice husky. “And blessed with the tongue of a viper.”

Bayard laughed aloud. “I cannot wait to meet her.”

“I make this alliance to ensure my inheritance.”

“Ah. And to see her borders defended.” Bayard rose from the bath, and a pair of squires brought him heavy linens to dry himself. “So, it is of no relevance that in all the years we have traveled together and fought together, despite all the foes and trials we have faced, I have never seen you agitated about any detail, save this lady and her disapproval of you as her intended spouse.” He shook a finger at Quinn. “Even when our demise at Acre seemed inevitable, you were calm, but not on this day, when you are to take a lovely heiress as your wife.” He raised his brows, inviting an explanation for a situation that did not seem to require one.

Quinn could not hold his friend’s gaze. “It is the unexpectedness of the situation.”

Bayard smiled and shook his head. “Quinn, you are the most temperate man I have ever known, and the one knight blessed with a serenity that would astound the very angels.”

Quinn did not feel serene.

“It is Sayerne at root,” he insisted. “That place is too close to my heart. It is the possibility of losing my inheritance after waiting so long that unsettles me.”

“Is it?” Bayard asked, his tone indicating that he expected no answer. He wrapped a length of linen about his waist with a flourish. “Then might I assume that you have no interest in what you wear to take your vows?” He picked up Quinn’s tunic, which Quinn realized was looking even more disreputable than he had realized. Bayard held it high, then sniffed at it with disdain. “Your travel garments will do well enough, if this wedding is only a formality to be endured. A man’s merit is not his garb, after all.” He met Quinn’s gaze with all the innocence of a new babe.

Curse the man.

Quinn could not attend his own nuptials in such worn clothing, with his hair untended and his jaw unshaved. The lady already thought him a ruffian and Quinn wanted naught more than to prove her wrong.

“You speak aright,” he said. “The institution of marriage must be respected, if naught else, regardless of the reason for the match.”

He turned to Michel and deliberately ignored Bayard’s grin. “Go, Michel, and see if Lord de Tulley might lend me suitable garb for this occasion.” The boy bowed and would have raced immediately to the door. “But bring my knife first, for I am in need of a shave. Perhaps you could lay hands on some shears, as well, for my hair is in dire need of a trim.”

Michel grinned as he produced Quinn’s dagger and the shears from behind his back. “Bayard said you would be needing these. I sharpened the blades, sir.”

“I thank you, Michel.” Quinn glanced toward his companion.

Bayard waved into the air and narrowed his eyes, as though he spied something elusive in the distance. “My dame often said I should have been a seer.”

Quinn threw the soap at him and hit him square in the chest. Bayard jumped in surprise, not having seen the missile coming. Quinn laughed at his friend’s surprise, his customary mood restored, at least for the moment.

He could win Melissande, and he would—for Sayerne.