Chapter 1 #2
Tulley’s expression remained impassive.
“Tell me that you did not find Arnaud,” she dared to continue.
“Tell me that you refuse to seek him out for whatever reason; tell me what flaws you find in his nature or why you find our fathers’ scheme to be a poor one, but do not lie to me about his fate.
I know that I must do as you dictate. Do you think that deception will reconcile me to your will? ”
“If you do not wed my choice, you will lose all this very day.”
Melissande was startled. “I shall see your word tested, sir. I shall appeal to the emperor himself!”
“Whose authority is thin this far from his court,” Tulley responded.
“Do you think that he will strain his relations with me over the pleas of a landless noblewoman, however beauteous she might be? Annossy is mine to grant as I see fit. I could easily make an argument that your refusal to wed threatens the security of my borders.” The lord settled back in his chair again.
“Do you truly imagine that he would take your side?”
Melissande stared at her shoes. “I made a vow at my father’s behest.”
“And now you will make another.” Tulley’s gaze was resolute.
Melissande would be wed, regardless of her own will.
Soon.
And likely to a man whom she did not know.
Melissande could imagine no worse fate than this.
She had been tutored by both her parents to administer Annossy, due to their lack of a son, and she knew she excelled at the task.
It was unfair for her abilities to be discarded, simply because of her gender, and her blood simmered at the injustice of her situation.
“At least, you have seen the wisdom of holding your tongue,” Tulley muttered.
Melissande took three deep breaths before she trusted herself to speak. “Who would you insist I wed, my lord?”
A rap at the door to the lord’s office interrupted whatever Tulley might have replied. The lord smiled, his expression prompting Melissande to glance toward the portal.
A knight filled its frame.
Nay, not a knight but a renegade.
Foreboding touched Melissande’s heart. Not a ruffian. Surely Tulley would not wed her to a man far beneath her social status. She said a silent prayer as the room, which had seemed too warm just a moment past, felt suddenly chilly.
Was this one of the men in that ragged party they had glimpsed on the road? Nay, it could not be. They had ridden in the same direction and there were several holdings east of Annossy, as well as abandoned Sayerne and high mountain passes blocked with snow.
Nay, her first impulse had to be wrong. This had to be some man-at-arms in Tulley’s employ. A messenger or a mercenary. His arrival at this moment was naught but a coincidence. He brought a message, no more than that.
But still Melissande looked.
He was tall and broad of shoulder, though his travel-stained garb made him look rough and disreputable.
His mail glinted in the candlelight, half-hidden beneath a tabard with a torn hem.
A well-worn cloak was tossed over his shoulders, its hem dirty, and his thick leather gloves were scuffed from years of heavy wear.
His boots were worn and dirty. His armor was not grand and it was not for appearances only.
He was a warrior, one who had meted death and confronted it.
Melissande shivered, intrigued despite herself.
He carried his helmet and ran one hand through the length of his untrimmed hair as she surveyed him, as if he sought to groom himself.
It was an ineffective effort. His hair was wavy but clearly unclean, falling to his shoulders.
There was stubble on his chin and a streak of mud across his cheek.
His eyes were the most remarkable hue of amber and they lit with appreciation after his gaze swept over her.
Indeed, the corner of his mouth lifted, as if he might smile, and the expression was more beguiling than it had any right to be.
Melissande told herself that he must be plagued with lice, and took a step back.
Perhaps he had sought out Tulley to pledge his blade to that lord’s service.
But the chatelain would never have shown him into this chamber while she conferred with Tulley, if that had been the case. The vagabond would have been left to wait in the hall.
God in heaven, nay.
“My lord,” intoned Tulley’s chatelain. “Quinn de Sayerne, son of Jerome de Sayerne, as you requested.”
Son of Jerome de Sayerne! Melissande regarded the arrival with new horror as the truth proved to be even worse than her suspicions. Jerome de Sayerne was finally dead, but his son arrived to plague her anew. That lecherous serpent could only have spawned a son of no greater merit than himself.
Melissande had believed Annossy’s troubles over when Jerome died. Though it was not difficult to believe Jerome’s son might sell his blade as a mercenary. The thievery Jerome had initiated against her family’s holdings had nearly destroyed Annossy.
Now the son would finish what the father had begun.
Indeed, if sire and son were cut from the same cloth, it was not unlikely that this man was behind the recent raids on Annossy.
Surely, Tulley would not compel her to wed him.
But her overlord’s resolute expression left no doubt that he would do exactly that.
Quinn de Sayerne would be Melissande’s husband and, if she did not miss her guess, their vows would be exchanged without delay.
She and Annossy were lost forever, and worse, there was naught she could do about it.
It was troubling to see such a beautiful woman displeased, and worse to recognize that Quinn himself was the source of her dismay.
The noblewoman in Tulley’s office had long fair hair, although it was twisted and braided so that its golden glory was difficult to see.
She frowned at Quinn when he entered the chamber, her expression making him well aware that Tulley had granted him no opportunity to bathe before the meeting.
He had been troubled enough about that fact, but the chatelain had insisted he bend his knee first, and so Quinn had complied.
Even the lady’s foul mood did not deter from the beauty of her heart-shaped face and slender form.
Her green eyes were tipped upward at their corners and heavily lashed despite her fair coloring.
They snapped with fury as she glanced toward him, as if he were guilty of some crime.
Her very presence made Quinn aware of how long he had lived in the company of men.
It seemed that she, too, had been rushed to this chamber, for a fine dark cloak lined with fur still hung over her shoulders and her gloves were yet in her hand.
She must have been in the small party that rode down the valley ahead of his own.
Quinn was not certain what to say to her or if he should speak to her at all. In all honesty, he recalled few of the niceties of polite society. The company of noble ladies was a distant recollection for him and he had never possessed the easy charm of a knight like his comrades Amaury or Niall.
He considered his own garb and knew he would have to improve his wardrobe before he sought a bride.
“Lord de Tulley?” he said, knowing his voice dropped lower in his effort to appear composed. The lord’s smile seemed genuine and Quinn dared to hope that all was not lost.
“Aye, Quinn. I suspect that you barely recall our last meeting.” The lord rose from his chair and rounded the desk to shake Quinn’s hand. “You were only a boy, then. You have grown tall these twenty years.”
“Aye, sir. And I thank you for your support.” Quinn regarded the older man with surprise at his unexpected familiarity.
He recalled those bright blue eyes and the relentless set to the older man’s lips.
He also recalled Tulley being stern and uncompromising.
Although the thick mane of white hair was new, there was a vigor in the lord’s grasp that recalled a long-ago summer afternoon to Quinn’s mind.
“It was you who sent me to earn my spurs and bade me seek my fortune,” he said.
The lord nodded as he released his hand. “Aye. I always knew that you would grow up straight and true, despite the challenges laid at your door.” He looked Quinn in the eye again. “How are matters at Sayerne?”
Quinn flicked a glance to the silent lady, disliking that he had to confess the truth before her.
Although, it seemed impossible that she could think less of him.
“Neglected,” he admitted.
The lady sniffed at his admission and averted her face.
Obviously, she thought the fault was his and Quinn immediately longed to defend himself.
That she evidently thought little of him was something he should not find troubling.
Bayard had warned him often enough of the fickleness of noblewomen for Quinn to let such a judgment concern him.
He fired a hostile glance in her direction when the lord turned away. She held his gaze boldly and something sparked between them, something that put a flush in her pale cheeks and a fire in his own blood. She averted her gaze again, tossing her head like a filly objecting to the bridle.
Tulley paced behind his desk. “You appear undaunted by Sayerne’s state,” the older man mused. His manner was much that of a cat toying with a mouse and Quinn eyed him before he responded.
Surely the lord did not intend to grant Sayerne to another? Quinn realized suddenly that the missive had only summoned him here. It had not mentioned his investiture, although he had assumed...
Quinn resolved to learn the truth in short order.
“Sayerne is my inheritance,” he said with care. “And there is naught wrong with the holding that hard work will not put right.”
The lady folded her arms across her chest. “And who will do this work, now that your abused villeins have fled?”
“It is only natural that villeins would leave an estate without a lord,” Quinn countered. “I am convinced that they will return when they hear that I have arrived and intend to rebuild.”