Tempting the Knight: A Novella

Tempting the Knight

A novella

Annette McCleave

Copyright 2011 Annette McCleave

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter 1

Château Miron, France, 1254

The door to his chamber creaked open, and a delicate waft of lavender swirled into the warmth of the room. Rolfe did not need the soft pad of slippers over the floor or the whisper of fine woolen skirts to know who had entered. The sudden tightness of his skin told him exactly who it was.

Melissande.

Slowly, so as not to hinder his squire’s efforts to dress him, he turned.

As with each time he had encountered her since his return, she unsettled him. Nothing matched his memories. Not the bold look in her blue eyes, not the glimpse of caramel tresses beneath her wimple, and definitely not the lush figure so poorly disguised by the simple lines of her bliaut. Yet, a stirring in his gut told him there was no mistake—this woman was indeed the Comtesse de Miron.

His wife.

To mask his unease, he arched a brow. My lady? Is there something you desire?

She did not flinch at his silky tone. Rather, her chin lifted in an unconscious gesture of pride, a sign of quiet strength that spurred his reluctant admiration. And his pulse.

Yes. I wish to resume my place in our marriage bed.

A fine sweat sprang to Rolfe’s chest. Lord, whatever he had imagined she would say, it was not that. He’d rehearsed a thousand different reunions with her, all filled with righteous indignation and justifiable anger, not sex. But then, the woman he confronted in his thoughts had possessed the gentle looks and slender form of the girl he’d wed five years ago. Not the tempting curves of this siren.

Wife or not, desiring her felt remarkably like sinning.

He glanced down at Hugues, whose cheeks were crimson as he attended the knotted ties of Rolfe’s points.

Go, he said.

With a grateful bob of his head, Hugues fled.

Rolfe wore only a loose linen undertunic and his hose, a dearth of attire he had commonly affected in the stifling heat of his dwelling in Acre, unabashed. Here, standing before his wife, he felt naked.

On the far side of the massive, velvet-draped bed, Melissande waited on his response, a vision of demure femininity in her cinnamon gown and snow-white headdress. She displayed no waver, no hesitancy, not even a tremble. But he wanted her to tremble—no, needed her to tremble.

He crooked a finger. Come.

A flush rose in her cheeks and her lashes swept down. Suggestions of a girlish innocence at odds with what he knew, but certainly a match to their brief history. They’d been little more than children on their wedding day, and he had departed for the Holy Lands only a fortnight later.

Melissande skirted the heavy chest at the end of the bed. She halted before him, so close that her perfume engulfed his senses. Fresh. Familiar. And surprisingly evocative. Faded images rose from the depths of his memory—fragments of their lengthy courtship, their lavish wedding feast, and the awkward but pleasurable consummation of their vows. Not a love match, but still a union deserving of respect.

I’ve been returned but a day, he said, forcing a polite smile. A period of re-acquaintance would be appropriate.

The rift between us will not be healed by time apart.

Indeed. He studied her lovely face. Had time been the only barrier between them, he would have leapt upon her invitation. But it was not.

Allowing the dark tumult of his thoughts to show in his eyes, Rolfe deepened his smile. Not to the pleasant, genteel mien of a husband, but to the wicked smile of a rogue bent on sampling every taste and texture of the woman before him.

Rift? Nay, wife, no more than a handspan, he murmured. And that quickly met.

Giving into temptation, he cupped the fullness of her breast and deliberately brushed a sword-callused thumb over the peak.

Her lips parted with a gasp.

Rolfe dragged his gaze up to her eyes. His intent had been to take undue liberty, offend her noble sensibilities, and send her scurrying from the room. Yet, her reaction confirmed how little he knew of this new Melissande. Her blush intensified, but she did not quake or flee. Instead, she leaned into his hand, slid her arms around his neck, and pressed those hellishly tempting lips to his.

For a moment, he was lost. He knew only sensation—the plumpness of her breast against his palm, the velvety rub of her mouth against his, the intoxicating scent of warm, willing woman. As any male would do in a like situation, he reacted swiftly and primitively. His blood surged, his cock hardened, and his arms twitched with intent. The need to toss her upon the bed and take her was nearly untamable.

Still, despite her fearless response to his touch, she didn’t move beneath his hands, nor open her mouth to invite a more thorough taste. As kisses went, hers was rather chaste. Almost maidenly.

Which he knew to be false. Bitterly, cruelly false.

Rolfe’s wits returned in a pounding rush. He seized her arms and thrust her away. Perhaps not as temperately as a gentleman is wont, but in all fairness gaining his freedom at that moment was an act of raw desperation.

My lady, he said, pinning her gaze with the haughtiest stare he could manage, you abuse the dance of discovery. We are, after all, strangers.

Not strangers, she refuted. Husband and wife, married before God and king.

Her comment sliced deeper than he thought possible. A truth you conveniently ignored while you were in Paris.

Yes. He finally got his tremble. Just a tiny one, quickly buried in the folds of her gown. And for that, I’m profoundly regretful.

So you wrote in your letters. A convenient platitude.

The pulse at her throat beat noticeably. You had the opportunity to put me aside, but you did not.

No annulment or divorce has ever tarnished my family’s long and honorable history. I will not be the first.

Then you intend to resume the marriage.

Not precisely.

Confusion softened her features.

Rolfe abruptly turned from the sight. Staring into the hearth, he grasped for threads of the bitter anger that had sustained him for so long. "I owe a duty to the comté to beget an heir, and I intend to fulfill it."

He paused to let the implications of his statement sink in.

But once the babe is born, he added, you will no longer be welcome in my bed.

***

Melissande blinked at her husband, unprepared for the hard bite of his scorn. An icy chill pierced her flesh and burrowed deep, numbing her chest and fingers and toes. Toes that could no longer feel the soft leather of her slippers or the crunch of the rushes upon the floor. Fresh, herbed rushes she