The moon was riding high when Quinn heard Melissande roll over in the great bed. She sighed, as if her dreams saddened her, and the sound tore at his heart. Her breathing remained slow and deep, though, and he knew she had not awakened.
The most vexing thing about his wife was not that she was inclined to be outspoken. It was not that she challenged him, for Quinn welcomed that. The most irksome thing was that he lost his composure in her presence, like some brute, and then, invariably, had to acknowledge that she was right.
If only she did not set his blood afire. If only the sight of her—eyes flashing, color high—did not make him yearn to kiss her to silence, seduce her, tickle her and coax her laughter. If only every exchange did not make him yearn for a true marriage in every sense.
