“Thank you,” she said, and then, after inquiring whether there was anything else Mrs. Rafferty needed, she slipped out.
Melissa felt incomprehensibly lonely. She wondered where Quinn was, and what he was doing, and then decided that she was better off not knowing.
When she’d finished her meal she went to sit before the fire for a while. By then her thoughts had turned to her family in Port Hastings and the ordeal of worry they were probably enduring. She would send them a wire first thing inthe morning and let them know that she was safe and sound—and married.
She turned her thoughts to Ajax and was jarred to realize that she could barely remember what he looked like. His features, so distinct in her mind only a few days before, were now only a haze. She was still pondering this phenomenon when a maid came in, gathered up Melissa’s dirty dishes, and wheeled them out again on a serving cart.
Snapped out of her reverie, Melissa hurried over and locked the doors again. Then, with a yawn, she went into the bathroom to clean her teeth and brush her hair.
Minutes later she crawled between Quinn’s silken sheets and tumbled, end over end, into a sleep as deep as a desert well.
When she awakened the next morning she was both relieved and disappointed to find herself in bed alone. She scrambled across the impossibly soft coverlet and padded into the bathroom.
Although she’d gone to bed with wet hair, Melissa was unprepared for the sight that greeted her in the bathroom mirror. She looked like someone she’d once seen in a sideshow—the wild woman of Borneo.
She gave a startled little cry, grabbed for Quinn’s brush, which she’d appropriated the night before, and began trying to subdue her person into some presentable state. She’d succeeded, to a minor degree, by the time she crept back out of the bathroom again, wondering if Mrs. Wright had, perchance, brought up her spare calico dress. Her thoughts thus occupied, she was completely surprised when she realized that Quinn was seated by the fireplace, drinking what appeared to be a cup of coffee.
He greeted his wife cordially, with a smile, a lift of his cup, and a low “Mrs. Rafferty.”
Melissa glanced wildly toward the doors, which she’d so carefully locked the night before. “How did you get in here?” she ventured to ask.
“I used the spare key,” he replied with an offhand shrug. “It seemed simpler, if less dashing, than breaking down the door.”
Melissa hugged herself, trying to remember if she’d been ravished or not. Surely an experience like that couldn’t pass unnoticed, no matter how tired a person might be. ...
Quinn laughed abruptly, as though reading her mind. He needed a shave, Melissa deduced on closer examination; his clothes were rumpled, and his eyes had a glazed look that indicated sleeplessness. “That wrapper becomes you,” he said hoarsely.
They were mundane words, but for some reason they affected Melissa like a spate of the most romantic poetry. They weakened her, warmed her, made her tremble.
She pulled the robe more closely around herself and took a step backward in unconscious retreat. “I was relieved to learn that it’s not for your use,” she said, in an attempt to hold up her end of the conversation.
Quinn chuckled. “Did you sleep well?”
Melissa took refuge in the distance formality would afford her. “Like a rock, Mr. Rafferty,” she replied.
Quinn thrust splayed fingers through his glossy brown hair and shook his head at some private wonder. When his weary eyes came back to Melissa’s face they betrayed a strange tenderness. “I’m glad someone did,” he said. “What are you going to do today?”
“Find my dress and shoes, first of all,” Melissa answered practically, going about the search in nervous haste. “One can’t very well seek a position in this wrapper.”
“That would depend,” Quinn retorted evenly, “on what kind of position one wanted to be in.”
Melissa kept her
Melissa felt incomprehensibly lonely. She wondered where Quinn was, and what he was doing, and then decided that she was better off not knowing.
When she’d finished her meal she went to sit before the fire for a while. By then her thoughts had turned to her family in Port Hastings and the ordeal of worry they were probably enduring. She would send them a wire first thing inthe morning and let them know that she was safe and sound—and married.
She turned her thoughts to Ajax and was jarred to realize that she could barely remember what he looked like. His features, so distinct in her mind only a few days before, were now only a haze. She was still pondering this phenomenon when a maid came in, gathered up Melissa’s dirty dishes, and wheeled them out again on a serving cart.
Snapped out of her reverie, Melissa hurried over and locked the doors again. Then, with a yawn, she went into the bathroom to clean her teeth and brush her hair.
Minutes later she crawled between Quinn’s silken sheets and tumbled, end over end, into a sleep as deep as a desert well.
When she awakened the next morning she was both relieved and disappointed to find herself in bed alone. She scrambled across the impossibly soft coverlet and padded into the bathroom.
Although she’d gone to bed with wet hair, Melissa was unprepared for the sight that greeted her in the bathroom mirror. She looked like someone she’d once seen in a sideshow—the wild woman of Borneo.
She gave a startled little cry, grabbed for Quinn’s brush, which she’d appropriated the night before, and began trying to subdue her person into some presentable state. She’d succeeded, to a minor degree, by the time she crept back out of the bathroom again, wondering if Mrs. Wright had, perchance, brought up her spare calico dress. Her thoughts thus occupied, she was completely surprised when she realized that Quinn was seated by the fireplace, drinking what appeared to be a cup of coffee.
He greeted his wife cordially, with a smile, a lift of his cup, and a low “Mrs. Rafferty.”
Melissa glanced wildly toward the doors, which she’d so carefully locked the night before. “How did you get in here?” she ventured to ask.
“I used the spare key,” he replied with an offhand shrug. “It seemed simpler, if less dashing, than breaking down the door.”
Melissa hugged herself, trying to remember if she’d been ravished or not. Surely an experience like that couldn’t pass unnoticed, no matter how tired a person might be. ...
Quinn laughed abruptly, as though reading her mind. He needed a shave, Melissa deduced on closer examination; his clothes were rumpled, and his eyes had a glazed look that indicated sleeplessness. “That wrapper becomes you,” he said hoarsely.
They were mundane words, but for some reason they affected Melissa like a spate of the most romantic poetry. They weakened her, warmed her, made her tremble.
She pulled the robe more closely around herself and took a step backward in unconscious retreat. “I was relieved to learn that it’s not for your use,” she said, in an attempt to hold up her end of the conversation.
Quinn chuckled. “Did you sleep well?”
Melissa took refuge in the distance formality would afford her. “Like a rock, Mr. Rafferty,” she replied.
Quinn thrust splayed fingers through his glossy brown hair and shook his head at some private wonder. When his weary eyes came back to Melissa’s face they betrayed a strange tenderness. “I’m glad someone did,” he said. “What are you going to do today?”
“Find my dress and shoes, first of all,” Melissa answered practically, going about the search in nervous haste. “One can’t very well seek a position in this wrapper.”
“That would depend,” Quinn retorted evenly, “on what kind of position one wanted to be in.”
Melissa kept her
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