All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances

by Claire Delacroix

  Indeed, she found herself intrigued by her spouse, even though she knew that curiosity was treacherous. It was but a step from curiosity to concern and she knew it well. But still, she wondered.

  Why had Quinn gone on crusade? Had it been merely Tulley’s suggestion or was there more to that tale?

  Where had he earned his spurs?

  What were his other alliances?

  Why did Tulley hold him in such affection? Was it simply because Quinn was a man and a knight, or was there more of a bond between the two?

  If he had left twenty years before, then she had been very young, too young to even know of him. What had her father known of him?

  How did Quinn imagine he might rebuild Sayerne? She knew how much labor it would be and that it was nigh impossible, given the lack of coin and villeins at that holding. Did he have no real idea of what lay before him or was he simply optimistic? She could not imagine that he was a fool.

  Would Melissande have thought differently of Quinn if she had first encountered him as he appeared on this night? She did not wish to be one whose opinion was governed by appearances, but she had to admit that she would have given this Quinn more credit. Aye, he was cursedly handsome, the man who had taken her to wife. Now that he was clean, it was impossible to ignore his allure. Yet he was not one to court the affection of every woman in the hall. She could not fail to note that. He was attentive to her, granting that dangerous smile to her alone, as should be.

  How could he be Jerome’s son and share so little of that man’s wicked nature?

  Or was Quinn simply better at disguising his truth than Jerome had been?

  Melissande could not decide. Clearly, it was to his advantage to win her approval. Perhaps once she had surrendered to him, his charm would vanish.

  As the evening continued, despite her doubts, Melissande found that sweet and unfamiliar hum of awareness building within her. It was a spell that Quinn had cast and even knowing that, Melissande enjoyed the sensation. She watched Quinn’s deft handling of his knife, admiring the grace of his hands. She smelled the heat of his skin and felt his warmth. Her heart nigh stopped when he pressed the length of his thigh to hers and did not move it away again.

  Indeed, she could not take a breath, she was so shocked.

  Tulley talked about the merits of barley as opposed to rye. Quinn leaned forward, apparently intent upon Tulley’s counsel. His hand was on her back again and Melissande felt her very blood simmer. She sipped her wine, seeing that her hands trembled when she placed the cup on the board. Quinn’s hand moved on her back, a lazy stroke of his thumb along her spine that melted her bones. He did not glance her way, as if he were unaware of the contact. Melissande was flustered beyond all. She did not move away, but found it impossible to follow the conversation.

  “You planted barley at Annossy last season, did you not?” Tulley invited.

  “Aye.” Melissande nodded, smiled, and seized her cup.

  “And it fared well?” Quinn asked, almost whispering in her ear.

  “Aye,” Melissande ceded, unable to summon a more authoritative response. She sipped from her cup again, relieved when Tulley abandoned his efforts to include her in the discussion. He turned to explain to Heloise the various kinds of grain that prospered locally and their merits.

  Quinn’s thumb never halted. Now, he made circles on her back, enticing little circles that made her mouth go dry even as that heat spread further.

  She realized that she wanted to touch him. She wanted to slip her hand beneath the table and place it on his thigh. She wanted to feel how different his body was from her own. She wanted to explore him, and that curiosity shocked Melissande truly. Did marriage make a woman wanton? Quinn laughed at a comment from his comrade Bayard and she decided she liked the hearty sound of his laughter.

  “My lady?” Berthe said from behind her.

  Melissande saw that the meal had been removed from the board.

  It was time.

  Melissande drained her cup and this time, it remained empty. Quinn’s hand closed upon her elbow to support her as she stood and she was aware of how much she needed that assistance.

  “Do not trip, my lady,” he advised, his voice pitched low. Melissande felt a tide of terror that the moment was nigh upon her. Quinn gave her elbow a little squeeze and she found him smiling at her. He kissed the back of her hand, his gaze glowing. “I shall be along shortly,” he murmured, as if that was promise not threat.

  Melissande stared into his eyes, astonished that she was soothed by his words.

  “Aye, husband,” she managed to whisper. His quick smile sent a jolt through her. She turned hastily and the room spun. Quinn’s grip tightened on her one elbow and Berthe caught the other so that Melissande regained her balance.

  How much wine had she drunk?

  “Come along, my lady,” Berthe said.

  “Do you need my assistance?” Quinn asked.

  “Nay, nay, nay,” Melissande said, her panic rising anew. “Stay and enjoy the minstrels.” She turned quickly and stumbled anew.

  Bayard had stood and he quickly steadied her. “Whoa!” he declared, then gave her an engaging smile.

  “I thank you.” Melissande was surprised to find that she felt no reaction to his touch.

  There was a puzzle, for Bayard was not hard upon the eyes. He had a charming smile and a confidence that many a maid might find alluring.

  But not Melissande.

  She turned and crossed the hall hoping her fear did not show.

  “My lady, let me aid you on the stairs,” Berthe said.

  Melissande felt Quinn’s gaze upon her but did not look back. The stairs required every measure of her attention. It was curious how they shifted and moved. Melissande knew that they had not acted in such a manner before, but this was yet another puzzle best left for later.

  She conquered them with Berthe’s aid, as well as the hall above, which seemed to have developed a markedly uneven floor. Finally, they reached the chamber and Melissande sighed with relief. A fire burned brightly in the brazier and there were four lanterns lit, as well. The bed linens had been changed and turned down. The import of that could not be mistaken.

  It would be soon.

  And there was no escape.

  “Come along, my lady,” Berthe urged. “We do not want to keep your lord husband waiting. You have fared well in this match, my lady.”

  “I think not,” Melissande managed to say.

  “Aye?” Berthe’s cheer sounded forced to Melissande. “He is young and unmarred. He is handsome and strong, a knight no less, and an heir in his own right. You could have been wedded to an old friend of Tulley’s, a cripple of good lineage, or a man much enamored of his ale.” Melissande might have fought to remain in her garments, but she was helpless against Berthe’s efficiency. The maid turned her around and removed her clothing quickly. Even the hope of remaining in her chemise was overcome. “You might have been bound to widower with a houseful of children, all determined to despise you because you are not their mother. You might have been...”

  All too soon, Melissande was nude and bathed and being hustled toward the bed.

  “I thank you, Berthe,” she said as she climbed into the bed. At least the linens would offer some modesty. “I shall count myself fortunate, with your counsel.”

  “You do not sound convinced, my lady.”

  “I suspect you are sufficiently convinced for both of us.”

  Berthe scoffed, then kneeled on the bed. She unbraided Melissande’s hair and combed it out. “Do not concern yourself with this night’s task, my lady,” she said. “Your lord husband is a kind man, any woman could see that, and I am certain that you have naught to fear on this night.”

  He was Jerome’s son.

  She had no notion of whether his nature was deceitful or not.

  And they would be alone together all the night long.

  Melissande gripped the linens in dread. The sound of men’s voices came from outside
the door and her heart skipped. Any effect from the wine seemed to be dismissed, leaving her both cold and uncertain. The men fell into silence outside the door, then a knock resonated through the quiet room.

  It sounded imperious to Melissande. Commanding. Would Quinn command all her choices from this day forth, as was his right?

  “Good evening,” Berthe called.

  “Good evening, my lady,” roared one who might have been Bayard. “We found a gift for you in the hall!”

  “Wretch,” Berthe whispered, fighting a smile, and rose to open the door. She did not reach it, though before it burst open. Quinn was shoved into the chamber, laughing and protesting. He clutched his tabard in one hand and his chemise was torn open. Laughter carried from the men outside the chamber. Melissande flushed as rude jests were made, knowing they would be seeking a glimpse of her.

  “Spare the lady’s gentle ears!” Quinn insisted, but he was ignored.

  Melissande could not look away from the skin revealed by Quinn’s gaping chemise. His skin was bronzed, no doubt from the sun in the East, and there was a dark patch of hair upon his chest. His sleeves were pushed up and she could see his forearms. She blinked and stared, even as Berthe made a quiet hum of approval.

  A lady should have no interest in her husband’s physical charms. Melissande burrowed beneath the covers, feeling the weight of every curious male eye upon her.

  “Come, Quinn,” Bayard said. “It is time to put you to bed with your bride.”

  He might have followed his comrade into the chamber, but Berthe blocked his progress. His eyes twinkled as he surveyed the maid, but she held her ground. Indeed, she braced her hands on her hips. “You will do no such deed, sir,” she said, though she did not seem like a formidable obstacle to the knight.

  “Do you deny me, wench?” Bayard said.

  “Aye, I deny you and all your kind,” Berthe said, making a shooing motion with her hands. “Away with you, all of you rogues and knaves!”

  “But we must put Quinn to bed,” Bayard said with a grin.

  Berthe swatted his shoulder and he blinked in surprise. “You will not!”

  “I can manage the feat alone,” Quinn interjected. There was determination in his tone and he moved to stand beside Berthe.

  “But...” Bayard protested.

  “It is time that you were leaving, sir rogue,” Berthe said.

  “Sir Rogue!” the other men echoed, then laughed.

  Berthe did not smile. “My lady welcomes only one man to her chamber and it is a finer man than you.”

  “But it is tradition!” Bayard argued. He yelped when Berthe reached up and grasped his ear. Evidently, she was not gentle. The other men erupted into gales of laughter as she tugged Bayard toward the door.

  “But naught,” she said. “Out with you, Sir Rogue. It should be clear to even the most dim-witted soul that a man and a woman need their privacy at this moment. How much of a fool are you that you cannot see the truth?” Berthe hauled him into the corridor by his ear, much to the delight of the other men.

  They chanted “Sir Rogue” as they followed, laughing.

  “I am no fool,” Bayard argued. “And I am no rogue.”

  “And how would I know?” Berthe demanded. “I might have expected finer behavior from a knight, especially one who has taken up the cross and gone to the Holy Land, but it is clear that I have overestimated you...”

  Berthe continued her lecture, Bayard continued to object and the other men kept chanting.

  Quinn flicked the door closed with his fingertips. He dropped the latch, then turned to face Melissande. She watched him over the linens, her palms damp.

  “Alone,” he said softly.

  “Aye.”

  The fire crackled and Quinn slowly smiled. That smile would be Melissande’s undoing, she knew it well.

  “Hail, my lady wife,” he said softly. “Well met.”

  Perhaps it would be his low murmur that tumbled her defenses forever.

  Melissande swallowed. “Hail, husband,” she replied in a whisper.

  The moment of their consummation was upon her and the wine had abandoned her to her fate.

  She supposed it was too late to pray.

  His wife resembled nothing more than a cornered and terrified rabbit. Quinn laid his tabard aside, moving slowly that he might not frighten her even more.

  She peeked over the linens and her gaze was locked upon him. Her eyes were wide and of a darker emerald in her uncertainty. Quinn knew then that this consummation would not be achieved as easily as he had hoped.

  Sayerne hung in the balance. That was both a sobering and a fortifying thought. The certainty that Tulley would rap on the door with the very dawn in search of his evidence did little to help.

  The deed must be done, though the lady was afraid.

  Perhaps she knew little of what must transpire. Perhaps she had been told dire tales.

  Either way, it was his responsibility to gain her trust in this. He must prove himself different than whatever she feared he would be.

  “Ah, that Bayard is such a rogue!” he said, ensuring his tone was light. He considered his torn chemise and shook his head. “He never misses an opportunity for some jest or another. Mercifully, your maid treated him as he deserved. Sir Rogue,” he said and shook his head, laughing. “It is an apt title for him.”

  Melissande remained silent but Quinn would not be so readily discouraged.

  “What is her name? She looks to be a loyal one.”

  “Berthe.”

  A single word but it was more than before. “Was that not a fine meal?” he asked. “I could scarce believe Tulley’s cook concocted such a feast with such little notice. Tell me, are all cooks hereabout so talented, or is Tulley particularly fortunate?”

  Melissande cleared her throat. Quinn did not look toward her, but removed his belt and set it aside.

  “Tulley’s cook is particularly gifted even among those in the region. He has been here long.” Melissande spoke slowly and with care and Quinn imagined that she was still feeling some effect of the wine. He could see her lips now, above the barrier of the linens.

  “Then I shall have to ensure I do not become plump, now that I am home,” he said amiably. Quinn heard a soft rush of his wife’s breath that might almost have passed for a laugh.

  “I doubt that will transpire,” she said, with some of her earlier fire.

  “Nay?”

  “Given those raids, you will have labor aplenty defending Annossy’s borders.”

  “Excellent. I have no desire to be idle. A knight should use his skills to good end, lest his abilities fade.” Quinn pulled off his shirt, unable to keep from glancing over his shoulder to see her reaction. Melissande hastily averted her gaze, but there was new color in her cheeks.

  The evening showed more promise than just moments past.

  Quinn strode over to the bed and sat on its edge, leaving on his chausses. Melissande put distance between them. She lay on her back, clutching the linens before herself like a shield.

  She did not flee, though. Quinn took his time removing his boots before he turned to her anew. He leaned on the mattress, easing closer to her, and her eyes widened. She did not retreat, though.

  “Do you think that I am too plump now?” he asked. Melissande did not seem able to keep her glance from darting over his bare chest.

  “I think you are vain,” she replied, but her voice was breathless.

  Quinn grinned as he leaned closer.

  “Are you plump?” he asked.

  “You know I am not.”

  “Are you vain?”

  “If you think I will display myself to you like a whore, you are doomed to disappointment, sir.”

  So much for the effect of the wine. Her eyes were flashing with vigor.

  “What needs to be done cannot be done with the linens between us.”

  She glared at him. “Perhaps it need not be done. Perhaps an annulment would suit us both better.”

&
nbsp; Quinn touched the tip of her nose with his finger. “Then you can greet Tulley in the morning and confess that truth to him.”

  She smiled with obvious reluctance. “Do not tell me that a knight and crusader of your repute fears Tulley.”

  “Of course, I fear him. He holds all that I desire in his grasp.” Quinn sighed. “If we do not consummate the match, I will put my own blood on the linens to ensure that Sayerne is not lost.”

  She sat up abruptly then, forgetting the linens. “You would not!” The sheet slipped lower, revealing the softness of her throat and shoulders. He could see the gleam of her hair, but strove to hide his body’s reaction to her beauty.

  Instead, he spoke deliberately. “I am willing to meet you abed. I am willing to do as Tulley decrees. I am not willing to lose my family holding. Are you?”

  She exhaled. “Of course, you are willing,” she said with impatience. “You will have no pain.”

  “Is that it?”

  She held his gaze and nodded. “I am told it hurts.”

  “Ah.” Quinn reclined beside her, apparently at ease, even as his thoughts flew. “I am given to understand that it is only the first time that hurts, and that only if there is haste.”

  “I will not linger over this obligation,” she said through her teeth. “If it must be done, I would have it done and over and...”

  “Oh, but I will linger,” Quinn vowed softly. He saw her inhale and reached out to touch a fingertip to her arm. He felt her go taut, then she compelled herself to relax. “Indeed, I would savor.” He let his finger wander toward her shoulder and the softness of her skin fairly made him dizzy with desire.

  “Your eyes grow darker.”

  “That is not the sole change, my lady.”

  Her gaze swept over him and her eyes widened. “Close your eyes and I will cast away the sheet. Then we might put the ordeal behind us and sleep.”