My Darling Melissa

by Linda Lael Miller

  Melissa drew in a deep breath, enjoying the frankly curious stares she and Quinn were getting from passersby. It seemed that Gillian’s dramatic exit had not been wasted.

  A mud-splattered carriage drawn by two mud-splattered horses was waiting at the end of the platform. Quinn opened the door before the driver could do so and fairly flung Melissa inside.

  He remained in the street himself, his hands on his hips, and spoke brusquely to the driver. “See my wife safely home.”

  Aware that she was about to be abandoned, probably so that Quinn could make amends to the disgruntled Gillian, Melissa struggled with the handle of the carriage door. The vehicle was well underway when she finally got it open. She never made the decision to leap, for the choice was taken out of her hands. While she was gauging her chances of making a safe landing one foot slipped, and she went tumbling unceremoniously into the mud.

  Nervous laughter greeted her from the sidewalk, but Melissa was unconcerned. Two booted feet were striding toward her through the muck as she raised herself. When Quinn reached her and grasped her by her shoulders, Melissa twisted to be free.

  Quinn cursed and then lifted her into his arms. His neck and the lower part of his jaw turned crimson as he strode back to the carriage and put Melissa inside, much to the amusement of the townspeople, which was plain to hear. This time he joined her.

  “I ought to blister you!” he raved in a ferocious undertone when they’d settled on opposite sides of the carriage.

  Melissa was inspecting her filthy calico dress. “I wouldn’t advise that,” she said calmly.

  Quinn folded his arms across his chest. “Well?” he prompted.

  “Well, what?”

  “You got your way—I didn’t send you home alone. Just what exactly did you hope to accomplish by embarrassing me in front of half the town?”

  Melissa sat as straight and regal as a princess on her way to a ball. “We made certain agreements when we decided to marry, Mr. Rafferty. Your panting after Gillian was not part of the bargain.”

  He looked truly insulted. “Panting? I was merely trying to—”

  “You will not keep a mistress, Mr. Rafferty,” Melissa went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “Not as long as you are married to me.”

  “Fine. Then we’ll dispense with the separate bedrooms, and you’ll settle yourself in mine—Mrs. Rafferty.”

  Melissa shook her head. “I’m sorry, that isn’t possible,” she said stiffly.

  Quinn stared at her. “What happened to my eager bride?” he asked. “Are you or are you not the same woman who hurled herself backward onto my bed and demanded that I get on with it?”

  Melissa’s aplomb was crumbling. The scene they’d made in front of the Port Riley depot had been bad enough. “Keep your voice down!” she ordered in an angry whisper.

  “I will not keep my voice down!” Quinn bellowed. “And I’ll thank you to stop telling me what to do and how to do it, woman!”

  In that moment Melissa came undone. Perhaps it was the strain of the past few days; perhaps it was the realization that she’d been incredibly rash. Whatever prompted her, she flung herself at Quinn Rafferty like a hissing, clawing cat.

  He wrestled her into submission with a strange mingling of strength and gentleness, and she found herself lying face up across his lap, her wrists caught in his hands, her sodden, muddy skirts gathered around her thighs.

  Quinn glared at her for a moment, and she thought the amber fire in his eyes would consume her, but in the end it was his mouth that did that. It fell to hers, fiercely tender, threatening to draw the very soul from her.

  She struggled, but then one of his hands closed over her breast, and the kiss deepened. Melissa had lost all desire for battle; she was a willing captive.

  Four

  Quinn’s house was large and white, with an English air about it. There was a bay window on the first floor, and dormers lined the second. At one end of the structure was a turret, similar in shape to ones Melissa had seen on castles in Europe.

  Under other circumstances Melissa would have been charmed. As it was, she imagined she’d end up imprisoned in that tower like some fairy-tale princess. The fiery kiss they’d exchanged in the carriage had done nothing to change Quinn’s mood—he was coldly, recalcitrantly furious.

  Melissa felt strange and disgruntled and achy. She wished that things could be different between herself and her husband, but she had no idea how to bring about such a change. When she’d tried to seduce him aboard the train he’d laughed at her. When he’d wanted to chase after his mistress, and Melissa had exhibited normal jealousy, he’d gotten angry.

  Melissa didn’t have the first clue how to please Quinn. For that matter, she wasn’t certain that he deserved to be pleased. She held her chin at a regal angle while he helped her down from the carriage and led her up the walk by one hand.

  The late afternoon sun was blazing, making a spectacle of itself in the western sky. Melissa philosophized to herself that it was always brightest just before dark.

  Quinn’s front door was so beautiful as to be a work of art in itself. It was made of some rich, dark wood, intricately carved, and the huge oval window in its center was a design in multicolored stained glass. Melissa peered at it in interest, but before she could ask a single question Quinn turned the knob, opened the door, and fairly hurled her through it.

  A tiny, white-haired woman wearing a housekeeper’s somber sateen garb was waiting in the entryway, hands clasped together in front of her, lips pursed, dark eyes wide.

  “Mrs. Wright,” Quinn began somberly, his hand gripping Melissa’s elbow now, “this is my wife.”

  Mrs. Wright took in the state of Melissa’s hair and attire with barely hidden horror, but she executed a half curtsy all the same and said, “Welcome, Mrs. Rafferty.”

  Melissa nodded in response. “Mrs. Wright,” she said.

  Without allowing her so much as a glance at any of the rooms on the first floor, Quinn dragged his bride toward the graciously curving stairs. They had reached the landing when Melissa looked back and saw the muddy tracks they’d left on the carpeting and the expression of despair on Mrs. Wright’s small, wrinkled face.

  First Gillian, now the housekeeper. She wasn’t exactly widening her circle of friends.

  Quinn pulled Melissa down the hallway to a room sealed with towering double doors, which he flung open. The room was large enough to accommodate a massive bed of carved teak, two armoires, and a desk. At the far end was a fireplace with two barrel-back chairs and a long settee facing it, and beside the window stood a liquor cabinet. On the opposite side of the chamber was a door that she supposed must lead to a private bath.

  Melissa grasped the implications only too well. “This is your room,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.

  Quinn had gone directly to the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a drink and took a restorative sip before he bothered to comment. “That it is, Mrs. Rafferty,” he said, lifting a crystal snifter in wry salute.

  “We agreed—”

  “I know what we agreed,” Quinn broke in. He paused long enough to take another gulp from his brandy. “But when we struck that particular bargain, Mrs. Rafferty, you hadn’t taken a stand against my having a mistress.”

  Melissa suppressed an urge to stomp one foot in outrage. Control. She must learn to control her emotions. “You might have guessed how I felt—I told you why I left Ajax.”

  Quinn spread his hands. “This is not a love match, Melissa—we both know that.” Behind him, through one of the room’s three large windows, Melissa saw the red-gold glow of the sun on the bare and gaunt limbs of the trees that stood in his front yard. “Why do you care what I do?”

  Melissa’s lower lip trembled. She was tired and hungry, and she didn’t feel well, and now she was expected to carry on this irritating conversation. “I won’t be shamed, Quinn Rafferty,” she answered in a near-whisper that was nonetheless sharp with warning. “I won’t have people snickeri
ng and saying that I can’t hold my husband.”

  He smiled and availed himself of more of the brandy. “Ah, so it’s pride that motivates you. I should have known.” He paused and gestured toward the bed, which was the biggest Melissa had ever seen, graced, unless she was mistaken, by a coverlet of mink. “The choice is yours, my love.”

  Melissa knew that he was offering fidelity in exchange for the rights she’d vowed to deny him, and she blushed hotly. “You know what we agreed!”

  “You were willing enough this afternoon,” Quinn reminded her lightly.

  Melissa’s imagination, ever active, was supplying her with ideas of what it might be like to lie naked on that fur coverlet and allow Quinn free access to her body, and a wave of heat washed through her, leaving her weak. She no longer felt bold enough to follow through, however. She needed time, and a much surer knowledge of Mr. Rafferty’s character. “I’ve changed my mind since then,” she said lamely.

  “That’s a pity,” Quinn replied, and his hot, brazen brown eyes moved over her. After an inspection that was sweet agony for Melissa he seemed to lose interest, turning away to set his empty snifter down on a small table beside the settee. “I have things to do, Mrs. Rafferty. Feel free to use the bathtub.”

  With that—he didn’t even look at her again—Quinn left the room, closing the doors neatly behind him.

  Melissa was confused and furious, but she was also exhausted. Assuming that, since Quinn had abandoned her here, he was conceding the master chamber for her private use, she decided to take him up on his generous offer concerning the bathtub.

  Just to be on the safe side, however, she rummaged through the desk until she found a key, and then she locked the outer doors.

  The bathtub, made of the finest black marble and practically big enough to swim in, impressed even Melissa, who was something of an enthusiast when it came to such sweet luxuries.

  She spent nearly an hour in the tub and came out feeling languid and sleepy. She was wrapped in a towel, her hair hanging down in squeaky-clean tendrils, when a crisp knock sounded at one of the doors.

  “Who—who is it?” Melissa called out, trembling a little. It was chilly in the room.

  “It’s Mrs. Wright,” the housekeeper replied brightly. “I’ve brought your dinner.”

  It had been hours since Melissa had eaten, and she was hungry. After only a moment’s hesitation she turned the key in the lock and then dashed back into the bathroom to hide her state of undress.

  She heard a serving cart rattling cheerfully in the suite, and her stomach rumbled in anticipation.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Rafferty?” the housekeeper called out. She sounded sincere in her concern.

  “I’m fine,” Melissa replied, feeling silly. “It’s just that I haven’t a wrapper.”

  Moments later Mrs. Wright handed a ruffled robe of pink taffeta around the door of the bathroom. “There you are, dear,” she said.

  When Melissa ventured out, clad in the beautiful robe, Mrs. Wright had finished setting out her dinner on a table near the window and had gone to light a fire on the hearth.

  “Thank you for lending me your robe,” Melissa said, trying to walk at a moderate pace as she approached her supper. In truth, it was all she could do not to hurl herself on top of it.

  Mrs. Wright chuckled happily. “You’re most welcome, ma’am, but that isn’t my wrapper.”

  Melissa sank into a chair and delved hungrily into the roast beef dinner that had been brought for her. “Mrs. Wright, I’ve had a long, hard day. Please don’t tell me that my husband likes to wear pink taffeta and ruffles of an evening.”

  The old woman chortled again. “No, ma’am, he doesn’t. He’s not that sort.”

  Melissa decided to drop the subject. While the other possibilities weren’t as alarming as the one she’d raised, they weren’t comforting to think about. An image of Gillian wearing that very robe did arise in her mind, but she chased it away immediately. “This is a wonderful dinner.”

  Mrs. Wright nodded cordially in Melissa’s direction. A fire was popping on the hearth, casting warmth and a cozy copper glow into the room. “Thank you,” she said, and then, after inquiring whether there was anything else Mrs. Rafferty needed, she slipped out.

  Melissa felt incomprehensibly lonely. She wondered where Quinn was, and what he was doing, and then decided that she was better off not knowing.

  When she’d finished her meal she went to sit before the fire for a while. By then her thoughts had turned to her family in Port Hastings and the ordeal of worry they were probably enduring. She would send them a wire first thing in the morning and let them know that she was safe and sound—and married.

  She turned her thoughts to Ajax and was jarred to realize that she could barely remember what he looked like. His features, so distinct in her mind only a few days before, were now only a haze. She was still pondering this phenomenon when a maid came in, gathered up Melissa’s dirty dishes, and wheeled them out again on a serving cart.

  Snapped out of her reverie, Melissa hurried over and locked the doors again. Then, with a yawn, she went into the bathroom to clean her teeth and brush her hair.

  Minutes later she crawled between Quinn’s silken sheets and tumbled, end over end, into a sleep as deep as a desert well.

  When she awakened the next morning she was both relieved and disappointed to find herself in bed alone. She scrambled across the impossibly soft coverlet and padded into the bathroom.

  Although she’d gone to bed with wet hair, Melissa was unprepared for the sight that greeted her in the bathroom mirror. She looked like someone she’d once seen in a sideshow—the wild woman of Borneo.

  She gave a startled little cry, grabbed for Quinn’s brush, which she’d appropriated the night before, and began trying to subdue her person into some presentable state. She’d succeeded, to a minor degree, by the time she crept back out of the bathroom again, wondering if Mrs. Wright had, perchance, brought up her spare calico dress. Her thoughts thus occupied, she was completely surprised when she realized that Quinn was seated by the fireplace, drinking what appeared to be a cup of coffee.

  He greeted his wife cordially, with a smile, a lift of his cup, and a low “Mrs. Rafferty.”

  Melissa glanced wildly toward the doors, which she’d so carefully locked the night before. “How did you get in here?” she ventured to ask.

  “I used the spare key,” he replied with an offhand shrug. “It seemed simpler, if less dashing, than breaking down the door.”

  Melissa hugged herself, trying to remember if she’d been ravished or not. Surely an experience like that couldn’t pass unnoticed, no matter how tired a person might be. …

  Quinn laughed abruptly, as though reading her mind. He needed a shave, Melissa deduced on closer examination; his clothes were rumpled, and his eyes had a glazed look that indicated sleeplessness. “That wrapper becomes you,” he said hoarsely.

  They were mundane words, but for some reason they affected Melissa like a spate of the most romantic poetry. They weakened her, warmed her, made her tremble.

  She pulled the robe more closely around herself and took a step backward in unconscious retreat. “I was relieved to learn that it’s not for your use,” she said, in an attempt to hold up her end of the conversation.

  Quinn chuckled. “Did you sleep well?”

  Melissa took refuge in the distance formality would afford her. “Like a rock, Mr. Rafferty,” she replied.

  Quinn thrust splayed fingers through his glossy brown hair and shook his head at some private wonder. When his weary eyes came back to Melissa’s face they betrayed a strange tenderness. “I’m glad someone did,” he said. “What are you going to do today?”

  “Find my dress and shoes, first of all,” Melissa answered practically, going about the search in nervous haste. “One can’t very well seek a position in this wrapper.”

  “That would depend,” Quinn retorted evenly, “on what kind of position one wanted to be in.�
��

  Melissa kept her back to him, anxious to hide the crimson throbbing in her cheeks. She opened the door and peered out into the hallway.

  Sure enough, her shoes were there, freshly polished, and the dress she’d worn the day before was draped over a chair. Melissa snatched up her things and ducked back inside, meaning to make a dash for the bathroom. Instead she collided hard with Quinn, who steadied her by grasping her upper arms in his hands.

  “Melissa—”

  She reflected on where Quinn had probably spent the night and why he looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week, and it was all she could do to refrain from kicking him in the shins. “Let me go,” she said coldly.

  He made no move to release her. “Not until you listen to me. Melissa, this is all wrong—we can’t spend our lives like this. It just won’t work.”

  Suddenly an unexpected terror gripped her, holding her much more tightly than Quinn did. He was about to send her away. He’d probably already had the marriage annulled on the grounds that he had never been intimate with his wife.

  Her eyes widened, and she swallowed, staring at him in stricken silence.

  His eyes narrowed in puzzlement. “Good Lord, what is it? What’s the matter?”

  Melissa’s lower lip wobbled. “I don’t want to go, Quinn. Please don’t send me away.”

  He pulled her close and held her, and his lips moved at her temple. “I won’t,” he promised gruffly. “I couldn’t.”

  She drew back. “Then what—?”

  He cupped his hands on either side of her face and kissed her, very lightly and very briefly, on the mouth. “Melissa,” he began, “I spent last night in hell. Give me a chance to be a normal husband to you—please.”

  So that was what he wanted. Melissa stepped back, wounded to the quick but hiding the true state of her feelings as well as any actress could have done. “While you were in hell, Mr. Rafferty, did you say hello to Gillian?”

  For a moment Quinn looked as though she’d slapped him. Then he cursed furiously and turned away from her, again running the fingers of his right hand through his hair.