One Knight's Return, page 18
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, uncertain 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.
Quinn retreated to his side of the bed. “The choice is yours,” he assured her, and she knew he would turn away, or even leave, if she so asked.
And that made her decision so simple that it might have been inevitable.
Chapter 9
Melissande nodded then sat up beside Quinn, filled with resolve. She seized the hem of her chemise and lifted it over her head, casting it toward the foot of the bed before she could change her thinking. She looked away from Quinn, uncertain what he would say or do.
She was nude. Exposed. Vulnerable. Her heart fluttered at her throat and she took a quick breath, hoping her instinct had been right. She feared otherwise when silence filled the solar.
“Beautiful,” Quinn breathed finally.
Melissande dared to look, only to find his eyes glowing. His hand moved slowly from her waist and she knew she did not imagine that his fingers quivered.
His uncertainty reassured her as naught else could, and Melissande rolled toward him. Quinn’s other hand rose to her cheek and she reveled in the strength of his fingers tangling in her hair. His hand swept lower in an endless caress, his attention diverted from her face as he avidly watched its progress.
Melissande looked at his lips and considered how she would kiss him. She would take his strong jaw in her hands, just once, just to see how it felt, and press her lips resolutely against his. She would arch her back so that her breasts rubbed in that tangle of russet hair and Quinn would open his mouth to her.
The audacity of the impulse stole her breath away.
Then Quinn flicked a glance to her and grinned mischievously. Melissande did not know what to expect, but suddenly he wriggled his thumb within her navel.
It tickled. She laughed, even as she writhed to escape him. Quinn chuckled and his other hand joined the fray.
“Quinn!”
“Ticklish, my lady?” he demanded, his eyes dancing.
“Oh, Aye! Oh, stop!” Melissande could barely catch her breath from laughing. She twisted desperately, pushing at Quinn’s hands in an effort to escape. “Nay! Stop, please! I beg of you!”
Quinn stopped suddenly, his hands locked around her waist, his fingertips too close to her ticklish spot for her to relax. He loomed over her and Melissande did not trust the unruly twinkle in his eyes.
“I will stop for a kiss,” he whispered.
Melissande’s heart leapt. “You are a devil,” she protested lightly, more because she thought she should than because she had any particular objections.
Quinn laughed and the merry sound tempted Melissande to join him. “A devil?” he demanded with an arch of his brow. “Only a saint would demand so little from such a wife.”
Though he jested, it was clear the compliment was meant honestly.
“One kiss will not make a son,” she reminded him.
Quinn’s grin broadened. “I am at your service, my lady. Take of me what you will.”
The breath abandoned Melissande in a rush. “You do not mind if I make demands?”
“Far from it. I would encourage as much.”
He wished her to be bold? There could be no doubt of it, not when he watched her with such anticipation. Melissande dared to indulge her notion. She reached up, framing his face in her hands. Quinn smiled, just a little, and waited.
The man’s patience made it simple to follow her urge. She leaned closer, brushing her lips softly against his own. She felt his breath and her nipples barely touched the hair upon his chest. His grip upon her waist tightened. She saw him close his eyes, his expression so rapturous that she wanted to tempt him more.
She angled her mouth over his, just as he had kissed her, and deepened her kiss. Quinn moaned, the sound apparently coming from the depths of his soul, and Melissande felt triumphant in her seduction. She touched the tip of her tongue to his lips and closed her own eyes when he shuddered, then he rolled her to her back. His mouth locked over hers, even as he braced his weight above her and Melissande welcomed his touch. Her fingers fanned out of their own accord, sliding over his shoulders to pull him closer.
It was blessedly simple to welcome him. Indeed, it seemed both natural and right.
Quinn’s groan made her smile, for it reassured her that he was as powerfully affected as she. His kiss was everything Melissande had longed for just moments before. His arms enfolded her and he eased his thigh between her legs. His tongue explored and Melissande greeted it with hers. She mimicked him, learning from him, feeling the heat rise to a crescendo between them. That she had the power to entice him, even to satisfy him, was a marvel. His hands slipped from her waist to spread behind her, one at her nape again and one cupping her buttocks.
Still she wanted more of him.
This time, they seduced each other, and Melissande felt the difference. It was a hundred times more potent, each caress sending her to new heights and tempting her to respond in kind. Melissande wound her fingers into Quinn’s hair; she arched against his strength; she let her hands rove over him; she loved how gently he touched her. She wanted to know him, to touch him, to taste him as she had never before. She wanted to feel his strength within her with a ferocity that astonished her.
Quinn dragged his lips from hers, and Melissande was aware of the evidence of his arousal. She instinctively rubbed the softness of her belly against him.
“My lady,” he gasped. “You must choose now if it will be a kiss or more. Any more and I will not be able to stop.”
But Melissande did not want to stop.
She stretched up and rolled her tongue in Quinn’s ear, savoring her power over him. He shivered, much as she did beneath his touch, and that evidence of his vulnerability emboldened her to new heights. She wanted to disarm him, she wanted to see this supremely self-controlled man surrender to her.
She wanted to feel him explode within her again.
She pushed him to his back and straddled him, capturing his face in her hands again and bending to taste him. “The lady desires another kiss,” she whispered against his mouth, then she kissed him again. She was more demanding this time, echoing his moves when he had kissed and seduced her. Quinn clutched her buttocks with his hands and moaned.
“My lady, test me no further,” he murmured, and the strain of maintaining his control was evident in his voice.
