Chapter 4
If the wedding feast had been a war, Melissande would have lost before the first foray.
It was clear that Quinn launched an assault against her senses, and it was one she could neither deny nor evade.
He had the experience in this endeavor, which left Melissande susceptible to his every assault.
He was seated beside her, on her right, with Tulley on her left.
Quinn’s comrade, Bayard, was on Quinn’s right, and Melissande guessed that to be a choice by Tulley intended to keep his niece Heloise at the greatest distance from that knight. Heloise was on Tulley’s left.
She had seen at first glance that Bayard had a twinkle in his eye and more than a measure of good looks.
Heloise was already casting glances at the two knights, which Tulley either blocked or ignored.
Melissande had seen him glare at Bayard once and that knight seemed to have taken a warning.
He flirted with Berthe, who appeared to take umbrage from his attention, a reaction that prompted him to tease her yet more.
If Bayard thought to make an easy conquest there, he would have to think again. Berthe would never indulge him.
Caught between Tulley and Quinn, Melissande felt surrounded by those who desired her match to be a success, and worse, who cared little for her own view.
She was snared, and by the time the night was through and the match consummated, she would be secured as Quinn’s prize.
The meat was good, the wine was better, and the occasional brush of Quinn’s elbow against hers was enough to keep her tingling from head to toe.
The marriage vows had been exchanged before witnesses and she was bound to respect them.
She felt the weight of his ring upon her hand, an unfamiliar burden.
The gold had been warm when he granted her the ring and she had seen the grief light his eyes when he spoke of his mother.
How and when had Jerome’s wife died? Melissande did not recall exactly, and wished she had paid more attention.
She had been young. She knew Jerome had had a daughter but not met Annelise, for she had been sent to a convent as a young girl and had only returned briefly to Sayerne.
Was that of import? How Melissande hated that she did not know.
She could feel the heat of Quinn’s thigh close beside her own and was well aware of the hard strength of him.
She heard his low voice at close proximity—indeed, she felt it as a vibration deep within her. The sensation was not unwelcome.
It might have been the wine and not the allure of her new spouse.
In fact, Melissande was certain her cup was enchanted.
No matter how much wine she drank, there was always another sip remaining.
It was most curious and a puzzle well beyond her current capabilities to explain.
Had she ever consumed so much wine in one evening?
She could not recall ever drinking more than a cup or two, but on this night, she had no reliable tally.
Two from Berthe in her chamber, then this cup which seemed to have no bottom. Why, there was yet another mouthful within it! Melissande drank the wine and when next she looked, the cup was full again.
Worse than the muddle of the wine—or perhaps because of it—Quinn could not be ignored.
He placed his hand upon the back of her waist when he leaned forward to confer with Tulley and the weight of it felt both proprietary and thrilling.
He offered her the best parts of the meat—indeed, he even fed morsels to her, his eyes twinkling with an admiration that had to be feigned.
He laughed at Bayard’s comments and told Heloise about Palestine’s wonders and captivated all at the board.
He neither provoked her nor ignored her, but seemed to approve of whatever she chose to do.
The man sought to beguile her and Melissande was shocked by his success.
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.