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

by Claire Delacroix

  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.

  But Quinn merely rolled to his back, apparently satisfied that the “fly” was gone. He folded his hands upon his belly and his breathing deepened again. Melissande propped herself up on her elbow to study him as the chamber became lighter. Had his nose been broken once? The angle of it made her wonder. And there was a small scar on
his cheek, as well as a few more on his hands. Doubtless, he thought them of little import. They were marks of his trade as much as his destrier and his mail.

  Quinn’s continued slumber made her even more bold. There was a great deal that she had not truly seen. Carefully, Melissande drew the linens even lower. Even in the shadowed light, the sight of him made her mouth go dry.

  He was a warrior and his body showed the evidence. His muscles were developed to hard curves, there were more small nicks and scars all over his flesh. His flesh was darker than her hand, tanned to a bronze hue that still lingered.

  Melissande’s overwhelming impression was one of power. Here was a man who had earned his way with his hands and his blade. That choice hinted at a code of honor she could admire and Melissande found herself intrigued with her spouse.

  Her fingers fell to his flesh again and she touched the dark circle of his nipple, surprised to find it like her own. Her hand followed the trail of hair that led toward his navel. Below his navel, a matching russet arrow swept upward from his masculinity.

  She had not dared to look at that part of him, for only a wanton or a whore would do as much. She did as much in this moment, confident that no one would know of her curiosity. She lifted the linens and her eyes widened in surprise at his arousal.

  Was he always like this? The recollection of his strength within her prompted Melissande to explore further. Was the surrounding hair wiry or soft? Was the flesh truly as hard as it appeared? Amazed by her own audacity, she touched him.

  That part of him lifted to her hand, as though welcoming her touch.

  She pulled back her hand, certain he had caught her looking. Melissande eyed Quinn but his chest merely rose and fell as he slept peacefully.

  Surely she had been mistaken. Surely he had just moved in his sleep.

  Surely there was no harm in knowing for certain.

  She swallowed and reached out once more. As soon as her fingertips brushed against Quinn’s hardness, it rose slightly.

  This time she did not pull away. Melissande laid her hand across him and felt the slight swell beneath her touch. The skin was smooth and he was hard. Her fingers closed gently and quite naturally around Quinn’s strength. Shocked at her own audacity and uncertain how to proceed, Melissande flicked a glance at Quinn.

  Only to find his amber gaze locked upon her.

  He smiled, looking wicked, and Melissande knew she flushed scarlet.

  “I am sorry,” she began in a fluster.

  When she might have pulled away her hand, the weight of Quinn’s hand landed atop hers, capturing it there.

  “Do not apologize,” he said with reassuring calm. “Curiosity is only natural.”

  “I do not mean to give offense,” Melissande began.

  Quinn chuckled. “And none is taken, my lady. Rest assured of that.” His thumb slid across the back of her hand and the hue of his eyes deepened to a rich amber.

  Melissande pulled her hand abruptly out from under Quinn’s, feeling her face burn.

  “You mock me,” she accused and could no longer hold his gaze.

  “I do no such thing,” Quinn countered. “I welcome you to continue your exploration.”

  Melissande dared to look at him again and he smiled slowly at her. He caught her hand again and held it captive over his heart. She felt its steady beat beneath her palm. It seemed she could not take a breath, not when he watched her so steadily.

  “I thought you did not mean to come to my bed last night.”

  “I came to our bed, but hope I did not disturb your sleep.”

  Melissande exhaled and sat up, but Quinn did not release her hand. Indeed, his thumb began to move slowly across her palm and she found it as seductive a caress as when he had traced circles on her back at their wedding feast. She stared at him and swallowed.

  “Did you sleep well, my lady?”

  “Aye. And you, sir?”

  His smile disarmed her. “Aye! I have never known such comfort as this.” He lifted a brow and stretched his arms over his head. Despite herself, Melissande could not resist the opportunity to look upon him again. His smile did not waver and he did not complain, merely claimed her hand again and placed it on his chest, covering it with his own. “I shall have to ensure that I am not completely seduced.”

  Melissande found herself flushing even more.

  “There were comments, my lady,” he added in an undertone. “As you anticipated. I thought we had best ensure rumor found no footing in our hall.”

  She had to concede the wisdom of that, and nodded once.

  He still did not release her hand. She tugged a little, to no avail.

  “Where do you mean to go so early when the hall is cold?” he murmured. “Stay and be warm, my lady.”

  He lifted the bedlinens in invitation and smiled. There was a dangerous seduction in his voice, yet Melissande was tempted all the same.

  “We should, perhaps, endeavor to create a son,” she said, knowing that she sounded breathless. “To secure the future for both of us.”

  “Indeed.”

  Their gazes held for a moment, then Melissande slipped beneath the bedcovers. She left a distinct distance between herself and Quinn.

  “You will be too cold there,” he said. “And we surely must touch to create that son.”

  “Aye,” she agreed, then Quinn’s arm locked around her waist, pulling her against his side. Melissande gasped at his quick move. He was wondrously warm, though, and she dared to release the breath she had been holding. It was quite comfortable to be nestled against his strength.

  And thrilling, as well.

  Then his hand lifted from her waist and his fingertip dropped unerringly to her lips. He could not have been awake when she touched him, she told herself. It was only a coincidence that he touched her where she had first touched him.

  But Quinn’s finger retraced the precise path her own had taken, though across her flesh instead of his.

  Melissande felt his finger’s warmth slide across her cheek, around her ear, down the length of her jawline. She swallowed when his other fingertips joined the first in sliding down the length of her neck.

  She caught her breath when his fingers eased beneath her chemise and gently traced the silhouette of her collarbone.

  “You mock me again,” she whispered, mortified. She felt Quinn lean over her and reluctantly opened her eyes to find his eyes gleaming with intent.

  “Nay, my lady,” he murmured. “I would simply know you as you now know me.”

  Melissande might have protested, but she could not find the words when Quinn cupped her breast in one hand. His thumb slid across her nipple and she gasped as it tightened to a peak.

  All she saw was Quinn’s easy smile.

  “This does not lie,” he whispered. “You like this caress.” Before she could argue, he bent to touch his lips to that taut peak. Melissande found her fingers in his hair as he gently suckled and teased her nipple. It was potent to be touched with such gentleness, knowing that he was so strong. He could have injured her easily, but he marveled at her instead.

  And he gave her pleasure. He had to realize as much. His tongue flicked against her and Melissande was filled with a heat that left her trembling.

  “Too much?” Quinn lifted his head and smiled at her, his expression seductive.

  She shook her head, mutely. “So much but not too much,” she whispered.

  The warmth of his fingers slid around her breast and she saw his throat work as he watched his own hand. “You are beautiful,” he murmured, and the awe in his voice could not have been contrived. “It astounds me that you should be my wife.”

  “Tulley willed it.”

  “Tulley could have chosen a crone.”

  “Not if he wanted you to have a son.”

  Quinn nodded agreement, his gaze fixed upon his fingertips. “He could have chosen a maiden whose wits were not so keen as yours.”

  Melissande opened her mouth and closed it again, uncerta
in what to say.

  “It is your nature that crowns your beauty, Melissande,” Quinn said softly. “The way you speak, the way you walk, the way you plan and think.” He shook his head. “It is more, far more, than the shape of you that beguiles me.”

  He met her gaze, his eyes filled with a wonder that she realized was an echo of her own.

  “It seems too much for chance alone to have brought us together.”

  Melissande smiled. “Will you tell me a tale of romance and destined love?” she asked lightly.

  Quinn smiled. “My mother believed in it. She told me many such tales.”

  She bit her tongue, lest she note that such a conviction must have led his mother astray if it had brought her to Jerome.

  Quinn must have noticed for he shook his head. “She loved another man,” he confessed, again watching his fingers stroke her breast. “But they were not allowed to wed. Her father arranged her match with my father, and though she was unhappy, she endeavored to be a dutiful wife.”

  Melissande watched his throat work. “What happened?” she whispered.

  Quinn shook his head. “I cannot think of it, even now,” he admitted, his voice husky and she reached to touch his cheek. He turned his head and planted a kiss against her palm, his gaze locked with hers for a potent moment.

  Then he smiled and she knew he would make a jest. “But we have an injustice to address, my lady,” he said.

  “An injustice?”

  “Aye. You were able to look without restraint, while I do not have that privilege. Should we not be fair?” He indicated her chemise. It was unlaced at the neck and her breast exposed to his view, but the fine cloth covered her to her knees.

  “You would look upon me? Again?”

  He lifted a brow. “Surely you do not imagine that I am much more familiar with the makings of ladies than you were with that of knights?”

  He was teasing her. Melissande tore her gaze away, her hands rising to the tie of her chemise. It felt uncommonly bold to expose herself to his view, yet he was her spouse.