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

by Claire Delacroix

  Curse Tulley! Had she been a man, she would never have been in this position. Curse all men for their need to lord their power over women.

  Curse Quinn for making her want to surrender.

  The thought was so clear and the truth of it so resonant that Melissande clenched her fists.

  “I will not be readily convinced,” she managed to say.

  “I think otherwise,” he whispered, his breath fanning her cheek. Melissande kept her eyes closed, knowing that if he was smiling slightly, she would be lost. “I shall make you shiver,” Quinn vowed softly and she knew it was true. She felt his lips touch her cheek, as gentle as a butterfly, and it took all within her to keep from turning her head for another kiss. “I shall make you moan and I shall make you beg me to touch you. You will not invite me to your bed; you will entreat me. And we will conceive a son.” He kissed her ear and she found her back arching toward him, her hunger for his touch making her burn. “And then, we shall conceive another.”

  His lips touched her jaw, his kiss leaving a trail of fire that made Melissande gasp with need.

  His power over her was terrifying.

  She had to stop his assault, no matter what it took.

  “Never!” she said with vehemence. “I will never yield willingly to your embrace and I will never entreat you, sir!”

  Quinn, of course, smiled that wretched smile.

  “I shall take this as a challenge, my lady,” he murmured. His gaze swept over her features, his eyes glowing with such heat that he did, in fact, make her shiver.

  He leaned closer and Melissande knew his intent. Desperate to escape his kiss, she ducked beneath his arm and fled for the door.

  “You were not invited,” she whispered and saw his eyes flash. She lunged for the doorway, certain that Quinn would catch her and take his vengeance.

  To her relief, she safely gained the portal. She flung herself into the corridor without a backward glance, then ran down its length. What had she done? What was in her mind to taunt him? Within hours, they would be alone, and he would beat her, just as Jerome had beaten his women.

  She might not see the morning.

  Melissande’s heart nigh stopped when Quinn bellowed from behind her. “My lady! You would test the patience of a saint—and I have already told you, I am no saint!”

  She had finally prompted him to lose his temper.

  And it was as fearsome as she had thought.

  She ran.

  It was only once Melissande had raced up the stairs to her assigned chamber, and locked the door behind herself, that she dared to halt and catch her breath. She listened, but no one pursued her.

  Was it possible that Quinn’s fury only made him shout?

  Or did he restrain himself until they were alone?

  Melissande’s hands were shaking. She sat on a stool opposite the door and struggled to compose herself. In that moment, she realized that she had not thought once of Arnaud after Quinn had walked into Tulley’s chamber.

  How fickle was she? One kiss and her word was worthless. Nay, one look and her vow was forgotten. At Quinn’s touch, she had forgotten her own reserve and even her dignity.

  Much of what she valued was lost already—and their nuptial vows had not even been exchanged. Quinn de Sayerne would be the ruin of all she held dear.

  Worse, Melissande was powerless to halt what Tulley had begun.

  Quinn stormed into the bathing chamber near the stables, kicking open the heavy wooden door then slamming it behind himself. Three unfamiliar servants, as well as Michel, jumped and turned to regard him in surprise.

  Ye gods, but Melissande d’Annossy could set his blood to boiling as never it had before! He had never been so infuriated—and that within a heartbeat of being so consumed with desire. Quinn felt vexed and challenged and ardent, all at the same time. It was a most confusing combination and one that left him riled beyond all.

  And he had barely made the lady’s acquaintance. If she had been welcoming, this fire in his blood could have bode well for their match. As it was, he feared that he would yearn every day and night of his life, and she would ignore him.

  But Tulley could not be denied. Quinn had to wed Melissande and he had to bed her, and he had to convince her to make their marriage one of merit.

  He simply did not believe in this moment that it could be done.

  She had granted him one night to conceive an heir. Oh, he would have to ensure that her pleasure was complete. Quinn shoved a hand through his hair in frustration. If only he had possessed an increment of Niall’s charm, or a measure of Amaury’s confidence with women. Quinn knew he was an unpolished suitor and Melissande’s refinement made him more keenly aware of his lack.

  Surely this marriage could not cost him all?

  Bayard was yet bathing, characteristically taking his leisure in the hot water. The room was filled with steam and the smell of wet cloth. A fire blazing within a brazier was the only source of light, but none of this tranquility soothed Quinn in the least. He paced the width of the chamber and back, ignoring the watchfulness of the others.

  Could he successfully seduce Melissande?

  Could he win her favor?

  Michel approached him cautiously, the boy’s manner proof that Quinn’s bout of temper showed. “Would you bathe, my lord?”

  “Aye.” Quinn bit out the word.

  “Then we will need more hot water.” Michel gestured to one of Tulley’s servants, who hesitated. When Quinn glared, the man bowed hastily and fled the chamber, bucket in hand. Bayard laughed but Quinn did not so much as smile. He eyed the other servants who followed their comrade with haste.

  “And what did the Lord de Tulley say that vexed you so mightily?” Bayard asked.

  “It was not Tulley who vexed me,” Quinn admitted. “Though he struck the tinder.”

  The other knight’s dark eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Bad tidings?”

  “Bad enough.” Quinn shed his cloak and unbuckled his belt, aware of the filth layering his skin. He had to court Melissande and win her favor—though he doubted the extent of his charm and he felt the press of time.

  Could the feat be done?

  Or was Sayerne already lost?

  “I do not think I have ever seen you in such a foul mood,” Bayard commented.

  Quinn knew the look he tossed his comrade was a dark one.

  Bayard chuckled. “Aye, foul indeed.”

  “If you wish to see a foul mood, then come to my wedding,” Quinn replied. “I will take a wife in less than an hour.”

  Michel froze in the midst of folding Quinn’s tabard to stare.

  “Wedding?” Bayard laughed again. “You are to be married? On this very day?”

  “Aye, or else Sayerne will not be mine.” Quinn sighed. “Lord de Tulley has set the terms and there is little to find amusing in the situation.”

  “Married!” Bayard repeated. “And so quick as that! Do they fear she will flee?”

  “She might.”

  Bayard leaned back in the bath, his eyes dancing. “Quinn wed. There is a marvel I had not thought to see it so soon.”

  “And if you continue to comment, then it will be a marvel you will not see.”

  “How so?”

  “I shall ban you from the festivities for your comments.”

  Bayard, untroubled, laughed and laughed.

  Quinn did not join his merriment. Even though his annoyance had faded, still he felt disgruntled. The lady Melissande certainly possessed a gift for irking a man.

  Or perhaps for irking him.

  He sighed and confided the worst of it. “The Lord de Tulley has even been so courteous as to choose the bride.”

  Bayard’s eye lit. “Who is she?” he asked. “What is she like? I might wager that she does not see the appeal of the match, given your mood.”

  “She does not.”

  “How fascinating.” The other knight showed no inclination to abandon the tub. Quinn felt the chill against his bare skin, altho
ugh the room was warmer than most. He gave his companion a quelling look, but Bayard only smiled as he settled deeper into the steaming water.

  The selfish cur showed no sign of ending his bath.

  “Have you not soaked the flesh from your bones by now?” Quinn demanded. “I would not catch my death this day.”

  “Then she cannot be so unpleasant,” Bayard said. “Although, one must wonder at her looks for Lord de Tulley to be so anxious to see her match made. In such a rush, as well.” He clicked his tongue. “Is she a termagant?”

  Quinn chose not to reply.

  “Or perhaps he meant to give you no opportunity to reconsider. Tell me more of her.”

  “She is heiress of a neighboring holding, Annossy.”

  “Wealthy.” Bayard’s brows rose. “Is she old?”

  “Nay.”

  “Pretty?”

  Quinn did not reply.

  “A young heiress, likely fine of feature, given your attitude,” Bayard concluded. “That sounds like fine fortune indeed. What precisely is your objection?”

  “The objection is the lady’s.”

  Bayard chuckled. “Those boots of yours,” he teased, just as Tulley’s servants returned into the chamber with steaming buckets of water. The châtelain himself supervised them, directing them to retrieve a second wooden tub from a shadowed corner. They rolled it out to the middle of the room as more water was fetched to fill it and the châtelain snapped his fingers to hasten them.

  Two tubs? Quinn’s eyes widened slightly. It had been a long time since he had visited any hall blessed with such luxury. In fact, Quinn and Bayard had shared bathwater on so many occasions that who would indulge first was an ongoing jest.

  “This is a well-equipped keep, Quinn,” Bayard commented, evidently seeing the direction of his gaze. “And your reward for leading us here is no small one, for you will not have to be second after me into the bath on this night. Better yet, I will not have to emerge any time soon. I have waited long for this bath and I will savor it.”

  Quinn smiled despite himself at his comrade’s satisfaction.

  “Especially as I now have a wedding to attend.” Bayard leaned back in his tub, beckoning to the servant for more hot water. “By the saints above, it will take me a week to soak this filth from my hide.” He sighed and closed his eyes as his water was warmed, then sank beneath the surface for a moment.

  Quinn waited until he broke the surface again. “If you are as dirty as you say, then the second tub is a blessing indeed and I am glad of it.” He might have hoped the matter of his bride to be closed, but he knew his comrade better than that. Bayard was cursed curious and never left a matter rest until he understood all of it.

  Even now that knight watched Quinn, as if he could glean the truth from his manner. Quinn turned his back upon Bayard, purportedly to climb into the second tub, but truly to hide his thoughts from his perceptive friend.

  Bayard waited until the châtelain and Tulley’s servants had departed. Only Michel remained when Quinn settled into the water and closed his eyes at the luxury of the hot water.

  “It cannot be a bad sign for this lady to have you so troubled after only one short interview,” Bayard said. Quinn tried not to wince. “You will make the best of this match in the end, Quinn, if it begins with such passion.”

  “This match can have no best!” he replied with a vehemence that made Bayard’s brows rise. He tempered his tone with an effort. “She is as frosty as the winter wind, and there is no reasoning with her.” He frowned. “Unless, of course, she is furious and so articulate that a man can scarce utter a word in protest.”

  Bayard said naught, the silence stretching long between them.

  “It is unlike you to be so troubled about any matter,” he finally noted. “I will guess that she meets with your approval but the opposite situation is not true.”

  Quinn flung out his hands in frustration and water flew in all directions. “It is unlike me to be accused of being a mercenary, a brigand, and the echo of my sire in one interview! The lady has no shortage of criticisms to make, all unfounded.”

  “A brigand?”

  “There are raids upon her holding, which has prompted Tulley’s hand.”

  “Because she has no lord husband.”

  “But evidently she fears I am like my father. I see in her eyes that she wonders whether I lead the brigands. Her skepticism would match yours in magnitude.” With that, Quinn fell silent.

  Bayard propped his elbows on the sides of the wooden tub and sat up, a glint in his eye. “Is she foul to look upon?”

  His comrade’s curiosity troubled Quinn, which both surprised and annoyed him anew.

  “Nay,” he admitted.

  Bayard’s chuckle did naught to ease his mood. Quinn was grateful for the relative darkness of this place, for he felt color rising on the back of his neck.

  “Dare I suggest that this is a matter of pride, Quinn?” that knight asked. “A pretty lady has spurned you, and not without cause, given your appearance upon arrival here. Are you insulted?”

  “Of course not.” Quinn spoke gruffly. “But a man’s merit is not his garb.”

  “What manner of lady would she have been if she had swooned before you? No woman you would welcome to wife, of that I can be certain.”

  “Such a woman might be perceptive.”

  “Such a woman might be undiscriminating,” Bayard replied. “As whores are like to be.” He took the brush and scrubbed his nails. “I would be pleased if a pretty lady, never mind one I was commanded to wed, confessed the truth to me without hesitation. Such a deed would show her merit as one who is honest, and her trust in me that she might confide her thoughts. I should have thought you would be the same.”

  There was unwelcome truth in that.

  “I do not think she trusts me.”

  “You have only just met her, and not looking your best.” Bayard nodded. “She likely had some whimsy of wedding a man she chose, not one thrust upon her. Women put much credence in matches based upon love.”

  “Do they?”

  “Aye. It is the task of the husband to convince the lady to come to love him.” Bayard smiled. “I should think even you might manage that feat in time.”

  “I thank you for your confidence in my talents.”

  “What talents you possess, my friend, have naught to do with the seduction of reluctant maidens.” Bayard blinked. “Is she a widow?”

  “I do not know,” Quinn confessed. “I do not think so.”

  “Then she will be a maiden and rendering the marital debt will be a new obligation for her. Be gentle this night, Quinn, and that may gain you much.”

  “Do you think as much?”

  “Many women fear the first time, because of the pain.”

  Quinn recalled that tear. If Melissande thought little of his father, she might know of Jerome’s violence. Had she not recoiled as if in fear that he might strike her? Aye, if she knew his father, she might well dread this night.

  He might not have Bayard’s skill in such matters of intimacy, but he could see to her pleasure.

  “And still you scowl, as I would not if I anticipated the seduction of a beauteous woman after making her my wife.”

  “I had no thought of taking wife at this time,” Quinn said. “The timing is inopportune. No woman—let alone this one—would enjoy living at Sayerne before all is right once more. It is not seemly to expect a woman to endure it.”

  “And that is your sole objection?”

  “Aye.”

  “Ha.”

  Quinn ignored his friend. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the rim, considering how he might tempt Melissande’s pleasure. She had softened to his kiss, so perhaps his skills would be sufficient...

  “Perhaps I could coax a response from your bride,” Bayard mused. “Would you like me to try?”

  Quinn sat up and glared at his friend.

  Bayard appeared to be oblivious to Quinn’s response. “Pe
rhaps we could share her charms...”

  Quinn knew Bayard sought to provoke him, and he felt no satisfaction at that man’s success. “You will not touch my wife!” he said, pointing at Bayard with a dripping finger. “If naught else, my sire showed me the results of faithlessness in marriage and I will tolerate none of it in mine!” There was silence in the bathing chamber and Quinn took a steadying breath. “Make no mistake in this, Bayard, should you test me in this matter, it will be you who pays the price.”

  With that, Quinn sank into the bathwater again, his mood as foul as when he had arrived.

  Bayard splashed in the water, clearly unoffended. “It does seem that this matter concerns you greatly and I take warning. But you are certain that you have no interest in this lady for her own charms? You did say that she was fair to look upon.”

  “I never said...” Quinn fell silent when he saw his friend’s grin.

  The man was cursedly observant.

  “Although she is fair,” Quinn admitted.

  “Only fair?”

  “Lovely,” Quinn said, his voice husky. “And blessed with the tongue of a viper.”

  Bayard laughed aloud. “I cannot wait to meet her.”

  “I make this alliance to ensure my inheritance.”

  “Ah. And to see her borders defended.” Bayard rose from the bath, and a pair of squires brought him heavy linens to dry himself. “So, it is of no relevance that in all the years we have traveled together and fought together, despite all the foes and trials we have faced, I have never seen you agitated about any detail, save this lady and her disapproval of you as her intended spouse.” He shook a finger at Quinn. “Even when our demise at Acre seemed inevitable, you were calm, but not on this day, when you are to take a lovely heiress as your wife.” He raised his brows, inviting an explanation for a situation that did not seem to require one.

  Quinn could not hold his friend’s gaze. “It is the unexpectedness of the situation.”

  Bayard smiled and shook his head. “Quinn, you are the most temperate man I have ever known, and the one knight blessed with a serenity that would astound the very angels.”

  Quinn did not feel serene.

  “It is Sayerne at root,” he insisted. “That place is too close to my heart. It is the possibility of losing my inheritance after waiting so long that unsettles me.”