Chapter 8 #3
She marveled at that, then thought of the arguments she had already overheard between the pair. It seemed that he was untroubled that her lady had views of her own, and indeed, she had seen him invite Lady Melissande’s council.
She bowed low, knowing she had no choice but to do as instructed, and hoped that he truly did have his lady’s best interests at heart. It would not be all bad for Annossy to have a happily wed lord and lady, much less children in the hall.
“Do not tell her, Berthe. Not this night.”
“She may ask, my lord.”
His gaze was steely. “And you will not tell her of my plan. I will do so.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Perhaps it is wise for a man to keep his lady wife abed,” Niall murmured when Berthe passed him and she paused to glare at him. “Especially when he has need of a son with all haste. They say that any woman can be tamed with pleasure.” He was watching her, his eyes dancing with devilry.
“You may rest assured that it is not unnatural, but civilized for a man to show a care for his lady wife,” she informed him haughtily. “Should you heed your companion instead of your lust, you might learn something of merit.”
“I have no need to learn of proper treatment of a wife,” Bayard contributed. “For I do not have one.”
“Nor will you, if you continue to listen to that one, and a fine thing that will be for women everywhere,” Berthe informed him.
Bayard blinked in surprise at that, but she turned away, marching to the kitchens. The sound of his companions’ laughter echoed behind her but Berthe did not smile.
She was thinking of a knight who was less of a rogue than his fellow.
Did that still make Sir Rogue too much of a rogue for her?
Berthe reminded herself that she had no need of any man, but felt disgruntled with her situation as she seldom was.
She knew what was right. She knew what men such as these desired of women like her and had little doubt of what would happen after pleasure had been claimed. She was neither innocent nor a fool.
Still, she felt the lack of a man in her life as never she had before.
That was the fault of Sir Rogue, as well, and all the more reason to avoid him.
Melissande slept deeply.
She awakened when the solar was still dark and rolled to her back with satisfaction, feeling restored.
The keep was quiet as the household slept on and the shadows were deep in the corners.
Melissande heard no sounds of activity from kitchen or village and guessed that even the animals had not been tended yet.
It was not yet dawn and the brazier had burned down to cold embers.
She should rise, if she meant to offer that cup to Quinn, although the bed was so wondrously warm that she was reluctant to abandon it.
She stretched, savoring her situation, and her hand brushed against warm muscled flesh.
A man’s chest.
Her fingertips had brushed a tangle of curly hair in its midst that she knew must be russet.
Melissande’s mouth went dry and she pulled her hand back in alarm. Quinn had come to bed after all? There could be no doubt of it for he was beside her, his breath deep and even. She had assumed he would remain in the hall, but he had not said as much.
Of course, the lord slept in the lord’s solar. Of course, Quinn had joined her abed, for there was but one bed.
She had slept with her lord husband by her side. He had not seized her in the night, much less demanded the marital due. Nay, he had let her sleep, as he had vowed.
Melissande turned to study his profile in the shadows.
She could barely discern it, but then that seemed a perfect echo of her view of her husband’s truth.
When would she be certain that she had married a man of merit or a deceptive villain intent upon claiming all advantage at Annossy?
How could she be certain whether he told her the truth?
Quinn had thus far, as far as Melissande could determine, but they had not even been wed two days. That was not long to pretend.
She wished she could read his thoughts and intentions as readily as he seemed to be able to read her own. She listened to his breathing, and knew that he was yet asleep.
His scent surrounded her like a cocoon. There was something reassuring about his size and his presence, and Melissande knew she could easily come to rely upon Quinn, should she allow herself to do as much.
Should she?
The man had a power over her, even in sleep, for she doubted her choices with vigor. She might have found that vexing, but at this hour, in this place, she could not be irked. His presence beside her, so large and warm, awakened her curiosity—and more.
Aye. The hum of desire he had stirred on their wedding night reawakened, turning Melissande’s thoughts to their need for a son.
She could reach out and touch him again.
Stroke him. Awaken him with a kiss, like an enchanted prince in an old tale.
The notion made her smile a little. Would he greet her with pleasure? Or would he spurn her?
Melissande was quite certain that his eyes would glow with satisfaction and he would touch her with all the persuasive power of two nights before.
That made her yearn.
His chest and shoulders were bare, as evidently he wore no chemise to bed.
Was he completely nude? Melissande had a desire to look upon him.
The truth was she had seen very little on their wedding night, admittedly because she had been too frightened.
Yet her fear of Quinn was vastly diminished and it was true that she knew little of men’s bodies.
Surely it could not hurt to peek now, before he awakened?
Curiosity, her mother had always said, was a healthy attribute.
She took a deep breath, half certain the sound of her heart would awaken him, then reached out.
Her gaze flew to Quinn’s face, her hand hesitating above his shoulder.
He lay on his side, facing her, one arm folded beneath his head, the other lying between them.
He looked less imposing in sleep with his hair tousled and his lips twisted in a half smile.
She wondered what delights filled his dreams to make him smile so.
She reached up on impulse and touched one fingertip to his lips, just as he had touched his finger to her mouth.
His lips were soft, like her own, despite the hardness of the life he had lived.
But there any similarity between them ended. Quinn had seen the world while she had stayed home and administered Annossy with breathtaking predictability, from one season to the next.
That awareness made Melissande feel very sheltered.
Her finger strayed through the prickly stubble of beard on Quinn’s chin, across his cheek and traced the outline of his jaw.
His skin seemed heavier than her own, more robust, as well as tanned by a southern sun.
He was even more handsome to her than the day before and she admitted his appeal in the privacy of her thoughts.
Her other fingertips joined the first as she let her hand trail down the strength of his neck.
They encountered the puckered end of a scar.
Her fingers halted uncertainly, hovering above the heat of his flesh.
She had not noticed this on their wedding night, but then, she had been overwhelmed.
The wound was old and long-healed, although its mark still marred his shoulder.
It was lengthy, extending down his chest, and she guessed the wound had been deep.
She recalled his tale of being injured and imprisoned with Bayard, and Lothair’s comments upon the challenge of healing his injury.
She could not doubt it, now that she studied the scar.
It was impressive that he had survived.
This was vivid evidence of how different Quinn’s life had been from hers, and how vigorous he was.
Her gaze flicked to his face, but he still slept.
She tentatively touched the scar. She could not imagine what it would be like to be injured and imprisoned far from home.
His comrades had spoken of dirt and darkness and she guessed that he might have felt despair.
She could not imagine that this powerful and resolute man would take kindly to being at less than his full capabilities.
She traced the length of the scar, knowing the injury and his recovery must have been an ordeal.
Praise be that Bayard had been with him.
No wonder they had such a close bond.
Melissande knew that she would have been hard-pressed to endure such an ailment away from everyone and everything she knew.
The discovery gave her a new appreciation of the strength of Quinn’s character, and of the gentleness he had shown her thus far.
Misfortune had not made him cruel and she respected that.
This was a man who had seen and done much. Melissande knew that she could never have been bold enough to walk away from everything she knew to seek her fortune abroad, even if Tulley had advised it.
What had happened between him and Jerome? Quinn had evaded the question, inviting her own tale of Jerome, and she wondered why. Did that truth show Quinn in poor light. Just two days after meeting him, Melissande wondered if that could be so.
Perhaps he and Yves were both men of honor, despite their father’s nature.
His chest was hard with muscle, and she let the flat of her hand slide over him, looking and feeling. He radiated warmth and she knew why the bed had become so cozy in the middle of the night. If she thought upon it, she might be able to name the very moment he had joined her.
Quinn grunted and frowned suddenly, stirring in his sleep. His hand brushed at hers as it might at a troubling fly. Melissande pulled her hand back and regarded him with wide eyes, certain she would be caught looking.