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

by Claire Delacroix

  “Does that please you?” she whispered. She tightened her legs around him. “And this?”

  Quinn’s pulse pounded in his ears, his chest was tight and still she coaxed him further.

  “Melissande... I...” Quinn could not form a coherent thought to save his life.

  “This?” Melissande stretched up and kissed his ear. The gentle touch of her tongue, the sensation of her breath there, the brush of her lips, all combined to make his blood nearly boil. She ran a line of kisses down to his nipple, then teased it as he had teased hers. Quinn was on fire. He ran his hands down her back, locked his hands around her waist, and moved deeply inside her.

  She smiled, a siren with her gleaming hair beneath her and a thousand promises in her eyes. Quinn gripped her hips and claimed her with a trio of strokes, each deeper than the last.

  Melissande drove him onward, rising against him with a passion he had not dared to share. Her legs tightened around his waist, her arms locked around his neck. Quinn was trapped within her, captured by her, enfolded and encircled by her warmth. She urged him to a frenzy with a determination that stole his breath away.

  His eyes flew open as her nails dug into his shoulders once more. Quinn realized that she was reaching the crest again. Her eyes were glittering and he nearly laughed aloud that they should find such harmony unexpected.

  Melissande was his bride and partner for all time. She was his and his alone—and Quinn would pleasure her until his dying day.

  At that realization, Quinn’s release swept through him in a torrent and he roared with satisfaction. He moved against her, ensuring that she would find her pleasure, and smiled as she gasped in wonder again. They clung together then fell to the mattress, still entangled in each other, still breathing heavily.

  Quinn lifted a hand and pushed a stray tendril of hair back from Melissande’s cheek. It twined around his finger, as if to hold him fast to his lady’s side, and he kissed it.

  “Melissande,” he whispered, awed that she was his wife. “My lady Melissande.”

  She opened her eyes and granted him a sleepy smile that warmed him through to his soul. She curled against him and slept, even as he marveled at his good fortune.

  He had feared this mating might be a trial.

  He could not have been more wrong, and he was glad of it. This was a sign that their future was bright together. They might have started badly, but all would improve from this night onward. They would have sons and rebuild Sayerne and rule their estates in wealth and harmony for decades. They would have every blessing and every joy.

  Quinn could not wait. He rose from the bed with reluctance, knowing that they would sleep better with some minor alterations. He washed them both, then retrieved the lady’s chemise and managed to tuck her into it without awakening her. He watched her sleep as he donned his own. He extinguished the lanterns, put a little more fuel on the brazier, then climbed back into the great bed. He pulled the covers over them both even as he tucked Melissande tightly against his side.

  He did not miss that her lips curved in a smile.

  He did not doubt that he was responsible for her satisfaction.

  Before he slept, Quinn resolved to prompt her smile each and every night.

  Against every expectation, he was the most fortunate man in all of Christendom and he would ensure Melissande never doubted his joy in that.

  The blood on the linens was a rude awakening the next morning.

  Melissande blinked but the incriminating red spots remained. She had awakened alone in the great bed and had peeked, guessing what she would find but startled at the brilliant red stain on the white linen.

  Her maidenhead was gone.

  She and Quinn were wed beyond any dispute.

  What would happen to Annossy? Would this marriage lead to the destruction of all her family had built? Of all she had defended? What did her new husband know of administration? And how much would he take from Annossy to rebuild Sayerne?

  She was not certain she wished to know.

  Worse, she had broken her own pledge to await Arnaud. It was true that Tulley had compelled her to do as much, but she had not needed to meet Quinn abed with such enthusiasm. How could she have forgotten herself? How could she have heeded sensation and ignored all else of import? What manner of wanton was she becoming?

  How much more base would she become in this man’s company?

  The possibilities were terrifying.

  Quinn was already tending the fire, wearing only his chemise, the morning light picking out the glints in his hair. That he granted her a satisfied smile over one shoulder did naught to lessen Melissande’s guilt.

  Even now, she felt her blood simmer at Quinn’s slow smile. Had she forgotten every virtue she had been taught to uphold?

  What else would Jerome’s son convince her to forget?

  “Good morning, my lady.” Quinn strolled back toward the bed, intent in his eyes, and Melissande was shocked that she warmed in anticipation of his touch.

  “There is naught good about it!” she replied, hearing the fear in her own tone.

  Quinn paused, watching her. Melissande knew it was unfair to blame him for her own failings—unless this had been his scheme. She pushed a hand through her hair, not surprised to find that it had tangled in the night since it had not been braided. She was a ruin and was surrounded by the scent of their mutual pleasure. She might as well have been a whore.

  It would be easier to blame Quinn if she had not been so weak.

  “I thought that last night’s deeds would have made this morning a sunny one,” he said, speaking with care.

  “Last night’s deeds are why all is in disarray,” she said, feeling her tears rise. “I might have been at home at Annossy this morning. I might have slept with my hair braided and the linens unsoiled. I might not smell of...carnal union.”

  The corner of Quinn’s mouth quirked before he sobered again. “Some might say that a woman is always at home with her husband beside her.” He raised his brows. “And that the marriage bed should smell of carnal union.”

  “Some like Tulley, perhaps.” She was no better than a tavern wench.

  He sat on the side of the bed. “It seemed to me you enjoyed the fact that you were not alone last eve.”

  It was true and Melissande knew it. She tightened her lips. “I was seduced against my will. I was led astray.”

  “Nay, my lady.” Quinn shook his head, his voice a low burr that made her blood simmer anew. “You might have been seduced, but you were willing.”

  Melissande could not argue otherwise.

  He shook a finger at her. “I was not the only one who savored the consummation of our match. I strove to try to please you, but you met me halfway. We both enjoyed it. Do not deny that truth.”

  “Do you call me a wanton?”

  “I do not.” He was resolute. “I call you my wife. It is right and good that we should find satisfaction together.”

  “And the linens will provide the evidence.” She knew she sounded bitter, but it was all so vulgar. To have every soul in Tulley know that her maidenhead had been claimed the night before was most troubling to her. She left the bed from the opposite side and went to the basin of water, then halted, modest again. How could she wash without Quinn seeing her nudity? Why did she care since he had seen her the night before? Melissande felt shaken and overwhelmed and she blinked back tears that would be of no aid.

  It was folly to wish that all might be as it had been before. She was wed. She should accustom herself to that. How many would witness her nudity when she bore a child?

  Melissande could not even think upon it.

  Quinn, as she should have anticipated, came to stand behind her. His hands cupped her shoulders and he bent to drop a kiss on the top of her head. “Shall I remind you of your passion, my lady?” he whispered. “I am certain it can be awakened again.”

  He kissed her ear, arousing her desire with such ease that Melissande was dismayed.

&nbs
p; “There is no need,” she said. “I am no better than a harlot, it is clear.”

  He paused then turned her to face him. She kept her gaze downcast, but he placed that fingertip beneath her chin and compelled her to meet his gaze. She knew he saw her tears, for his expression turned serious. “You are dismayed that we found pleasure in intimacy? Would you rather it had been painful?”

  “I cannot believe that I was so able to forget myself,” she admitted. “I was taught to maintain my dignity in all circumstance.”

  Quinn smiled crookedly. “I think it fair that there be one exception.”

  “This is no jest!”

  “I do not jest,” he said, sobering. “I thought last night a fine omen for our future.”

  “I did not!”

  His eyes narrowed, as though he suspected she might not say words he liked, but he waited and listened. Melissande already saw that was his inclination.

  “It was the wine,” she said. “The wine betrayed me and I forgot myself. I should never have accepted it from Berthe here. I indulged too much and that undermined my dignity.” She frowned. “But I did not feel its effects so greatly until dinner.” She remembering her enchanted cup, then looked at Quinn with newfound suspicion. “How curious that my cup was never empty.”

  He looked discomfited and she guessed the truth.

  “You ensured as much,” she said. “You wished me to be too besotted to avoid your touch.”

  Quinn colored. “I thought the wine might ease your fears,” he said. “I thought you might be more at ease.”

  Already he chose for her, assuming he knew her desire and her need better than she. Melissande found that a terrifying portent. “You should have asked me. We should have discussed the matter together.”

  “You had already been drinking wine,” he said. “I smelled it upon your breath. I did not think any discussion would be reasoned as a result.”

  “I saw my fears eased. It was not your responsibility to choose for me.”

  “Of course, it is my responsibility to choose for you,” Quinn replied, his voice rising. “You are my wife!”

  “I will not be your chattel!”

  His eyes flashed and his voice rose higher. “Recall, my lady, that both of us had the same intent last eve, for we had both agreed to Tulley’s terms.”

  Melissande retreated behind the table with the pitcher of water, hating how she wished to touch him even in this moment. She could just reach up and ease the crease from between his brows with a fingertip and perhaps dismiss his annoyance. That she wished to do as much was a treacherous indication of his power over her. “You thought the wine might grant you an easy conquest.”

  “There could be no easy conquest when you are bride,” Quinn replied. He cast his hands skyward. “Zounds, woman, is any matter simple with you?”

  “Of course!”

  “You were concerned about the pain,” he continued, then made a fist. “If you had clenched, the deed might well have hurt you. I tried to make matters right, Melissande!”

  “You should have spoken to me.”

  “You should have spoken to me.”

  “How could I discuss such intimacy with you, a veritable stranger?” Melissande demanded.

  “I am your husband!”

  “And still there are matters that are delicate...”

  “If you do not discuss carnal union with me, who will you discuss it with?” he demanded, his eyes blazing.

  “There is naught amiss with decorum and dignity. There is naught amiss with granting value to wit and intellect and skill...”

  “There is naught amiss with passion between man and wife.”

  “You will not have my passion, sir!”

  Quinn chuckled, curse him. “I already have it, my lady,” he murmured in that low tone that still weakened her knees.

  Melissande was more than halfway in his thrall already and she knew it, so she struck back. “Do you always ply women with wine to lure them to your bed?”

  Quinn’s eyes flashed fire again, his teasing mood banished. Indeed, he swore with a vehemence that made Melissande suddenly afraid. She feared she had pushed him too far and would see all too soon that he did resemble his father.

  To her astonishment, though, he abruptly turned and crossed the room. He flung open the shutters, admitting a cold wind, and glared into the mist of the morning. Annossy’s tower was obscured by the fog on this day and the air was chilly. Melissande did not dare complain, for she halfway feared he would fling her to the courtyard below. But Quinn folded his arms across his chest and tapped his toe, as if he counted.

  “The wine cannot make you act as you would not,” he said finally, without glancing her way. He bit off the words and spoke with precision, a sure sign that he was angry.

  Melissande waited, warily, uncertain what to expect.

  Quinn took a deep breath when she did not speak, then another. After the third such, he spoke again and his tone was remarkably temperate. “You have told me only half of the tale,” he said with a perceptiveness that startled her. “Tell me what truly troubles you this morning.”

  Then he pivoted, his gaze locking upon her as if she was his prey. Melissande’s mouth went dry, for she sensed that he would not abandon the quest for this truth very easily.

  Even through her dismay, she noted that his tone was even, his words compelling in their demand. He had not struck her.

  He had scarce shouted at her.

  She locked her hands together before herself. If naught else, she owed him the truth.

  “You know that I had no interest in this match.”

  Quinn snorted. “Yet I did?”

  Melissande eyed him. “Why would you not be? I have a holding and some affluence. I am young enough to bear children and...” she faltered, unable to claim her own beauty as an asset. She was aware of it—how could she not be?—but she was not vain.

  “And?” he prompted, teasing her as she blushed.

  “You did express an admiration for my hair.”

  His smile was quick and when his gaze swept over her, she saw his gaze heat. She was surprised by how much it pleased her to have some influence over him.

  “Make no mistake, my lady, you are fair to look upon, to be sure, but I had always hoped to choose my bride. I had hoped to make a match to suit both my heart and my lady’s.” Quinn raised his gaze to hers and the intensity of that look pierced Melissande’s very soul. “I dared to hope last night that, despite the odds, we might have made such a match.” He held her gaze for a long moment, his own searching. “Was I mistaken?”

  Melissande turned abruptly away. “Aye, you were.”

  “Ah.”

  The chamber filled with silence, but it was not one of expectation or desire. Melissande found tears pricking at her eyes and felt that she had lost something precious, and that by her own folly.

  It was all a trick, she reminded herself, a feint by Jerome’s son to fulfill his father’s fondest dream. How strange that each time she told herself such things, they seemed less plausible than they had before.

  Was she falling under Quinn’s spell, just as he planned?

  “Tell me then, as you seem so inclined to do so,” he said. “What was your objection to this match? Is my father’s shadow so long that you cannot judge me in my own right? Or do you find me lacking so grievously that you would have chosen any other man in my stead?”

  Melissande did not like to see this bitterness in Quinn and liked even less that she had provoked it. But he had to know the truth.

  “I am pledged to another,” she confessed.

  “What madness is this?”

  Melissande met his gaze. “You heard me.”

  “Pledged to another man?” Quinn ran one hand through his hair in his agitation. “Yet you did not imagine that this detail might interest me?”

  “Tulley did not care.”

  His eyes flashed and Melissande braced herself for his fury. Already, though, she began to trust that the
sum of it would be shouting.

  “I am not Tulley!” he roared. “Do you think that I am such a selfish cur? Do you think that I would care naught for a pledge you had granted? Do you think that I would not have walked away if I had only known?”

  His reaction chilled Melissande to her marrow. Was it true? “You would not have abandoned Sayerne,” she insisted.

  “I would not have willingly wed a woman sworn to another man. I would have told Tulley as much and insisted he change his terms.”

  “He would not change them for me.”

  “I might have been more persuasive,” Quinn said grimly and she had a moment to wonder what he might have said or done. Then he pointed at her. “You owed me the truth before last evening and you know it well, my lady.”

  Melissande did not know what to say. He was right, of course.

  Suddenly, Quinn’s eyes narrowed and Melissande did not trust the abrupt change in the direction of his thoughts. He crossed the floor with angry steps to confront her. “What will you do when he comes for you?” he demanded. “Whose side will you choose?”

  Melissande was astonished. She had not considered the possibility, though now that Quinn mentioned it, she wondered how likely it might be. Would Arnaud come to her?

  What would she do?

  “I cannot say,” she admitted. “I had not considered the matter.”

  “Then you should do as much with all haste, my lady. Word of our match has undoubtedly flown from this keep already. If a woman was sworn to me, I would be quick to take vengeance upon any man who dared to claim what I knew to be my own.”

  “He would not,” she protested, although she was not certain. Their gazes locked and held for a moment, long enough to make her conviction fade.

  “What is his name?” Quinn asked. There was a quiet precision in his tone that made Melissande shiver.

  “Why?”

  “Perhaps I am curious about the manner of man who captured your heart.”

  Melissande opened her mouth to correct his assumption, then closed it again. Her heart had naught to do with this matter. It was her word alone that stood compromised, though perhaps there was no need for Quinn to know that.