Authors: Johanna Lindsey
Sir Evarard was no longer as belligerent. “Perhaps I did not understand.”
“Is that all?” she demanded stiffly, and he reddened. “Forgive me, my lady. I saw only the upheaval. I thought you still meant my lord ill. It—it is known that you were forced to marry him, and a woman forced is discontent, so I believed that you…”
Leonie relaxed completely, all her anger flowing out of her. “You are very loyal to my husband.”
“There is no other lord I would serve,” he declared staunchly.
“Then let me put your mind at ease, Sir Evarard. I will tell you something if you swear you will not repeat it.” She waited for him to nod, then told him, “I ask you not to repeat it, because I have not told Sir Rolfe this. I want him to think I accept the blame for the trouble my people caused him. I accept all the blame. But the truth is this: my people did
not
act on my orders. There were no orders. But my people are loyal to me, overzealously so. They acted on their own after they heard me curse Sir Rolfe.”
“You only cursed him?”
It was her turn to blush. “It was a—rather heated
curse. But if I had known what events it would set in motion, I wouldn’t have lost my temper that day.”
His eyes lit with unexpected humor. “It is a good thing your men-at-arms are not as loyal as the others.”
“They are,” Leonie said with a grin. “They just didn’t hear me cursing the Black Wolf that day.”
“He does not like that name,” Sir Evarard said hastily.
“What?”
“My lord does not like to be called the Black Wolf,” Evarard repeated.
“Oh. I thank you for the warning.”
He smiled at her. “I thank you, my lady, for telling me what you have.”
“Do not mistake me, Sir Evarard. You were correct in thinking I am not content here. But that is between my husband and myself. I wanted you only to know that you need not fear I will ruin anything that is his. It is my lord who will know what I feel, not his possessions or his people.”
She could see it in his eyes. Their truce was over. She should have left well enough.
Leonie sighed. “I am sorry, Sir Evarard, but we differ in our opinions of Rolfe d’Ambert. He has offended me too grievously for my opinion to change, but I will say no more to you against him.”
Sir Evarard held his tongue. He was drawing his own conclusions, and they were the wrong ones. He assumed the lady had been offended by being sent away from her husband directly after the wedding. But she was back now, and she ought to have forgiven that slight. He did not guess that she was referring to Lady Amelia’s presence at Crewel Keep. He knew she had been told Amelia was Rolfe’s ward, and he saw no reason for her to suspect the truth.
Too, if anyone knew how thoroughly Rolfe’s affair with Amelia was over, Evarard did. Amelia was now sharing Evarard’s bed. More exactly, he was sharing hers. He would never have trifled with his lord’s former mistress, but she had convinced him that Rolfe had relinquished all claims to her. Proof was, the lady said, that Rolfe did not even care if she stayed in his household, so completely had he dismissed her from his mind.
Sir Evarard brought himself to the present situation. “You sent for me, my lady?”
Leonie stepped back into her role as mistress of Crewel, however empty that role often seemed. To display her authority, she would give orders, not make requests.
“I want one of your men to ride to Pershwick. He is to speak to Sir Guibert, or if he is not there, then to my aunt Beatrix. He is to say he comes from me, that I need wormwood and chamomile from my supplies. They will know why I need those herbs.”
“We have supplies here, my lady. I do not think Sir Rolfe will like you taking from Pershwick.”
“My husband has no say in what I take from Pershwick, for Pershwick is mine,” Leonie stated firmly. “And since those herbs have not been in use here, I doubt that you have them in supply. I want the herbs today. The wormwood will help combat the fleas here. It must be strewn before the new rushes are brought into the hall, and afterward as well. The chamomile will curb the odors in the rest of the keep until all the rushes can be changed. I will not tolerate filth. Sir Evarard, and please do not question my motives when I give orders.”
“As you will, my lady,” he replied brusquely and turned away.
“I am not finished,” she said sharply.
He turned back reluctantly. “My lady?”
“How often do you hunt, Sir Evarard?”
“Every day. For sport as well as for the table.”
“You use the dogs or do you have hawks?”
“Hawks are too tedious to carry with us and we did naught but move from place to place before we settled here. My lord has not yet purchased good hawks. The few we have here bring down an occasional bird. I do not use them. I prefer the dogs.”
“Then I can assume the hunting dogs get enough exercise, and if not, that can be seen to outside the walls of the keep. Inside, they will no longer have free rein. And I do not mean just inside the hall. Their habits are too foul.”
“But they are fed in the hall.”
“No longer,” she replied, shaking her head with distaste. “Is there no master of the hounds?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell him to keep the animals penned at all times when they are not in use. If Crewel has no dog pens, he is to build some—adequately, so the pens can easily be cleaned daily.”
“The man will balk, my lady,” he warned her.
“Then you will replace him,” she replied smoothly. “And if there is no one else who qualifies, then deal with him harshly until he stops balking. Otherwise I will have to bring my own man here from Pershwick.”
“I will see the matter settled, my lady.”
He said it so quickly that it was comical. She supposed she could use that threat again if she had any more trouble. He wouldn’t be the only one at Crewel who would resent outside help. She’d do well to keep that threat in her arsenal, she told herself.
H
E could not stay away even for a week, was Rolfe’s thought about himself as he rode into the bailey at Crewel in time for dinner, five days later. He felt as much disgust with himself as he had when he’d found himself drawn back to Leonie the day after his wedding, when he hadn’t even known what she looked like. Still, there were reasons other than his wife for his early return.
The campaign at Wroth had come to a standstill. For the fifth time the tunnel they were working to get under the walls had collapsed. Rolfe could not afford this new delay. Time was working against him now. The remaining keeps that he had yet to win had been closed up for nearly seven months. They would be getting desperate, reaching a point where they would be forced to open up and fight. And if Rolfe was not there with the bulk of his force when one did open up…
He had a decision to make about Wroth Keep, but it was a decision he could make at home as easily as he could camp outside of Wroth—easier here, in fact, for once he took his wife to bed he could at last put her from his mind long enough to devote his thoughts to Wroth.
Rolfe had not looked forward to eating at Crewel, so he had eaten when he stopped at Kenil to check on
the repairs in progress there. The food there was good, and he was considering moving the Kenil cook to Crewel. But on entering the hall at Crewel with Damian and two men-at-arms, he was greeted with a very pleasant aroma.
He had only a moment to wonder about it before his eyes fell on Leonie, and his sense of smell gave way to other senses. She was sitting at the high table, an ethereal vision in an ice-blue bliaut, her silver hair in two thick braids resting one on each breast. A short blue square of lace was her only head covering. Evarard and Amelia were dining with her, but seemed to be talking only to each other.
The hall was full and noisy, yet it seemed to Rolfe that there was only himself and Leonie. He gazed at her to his heart’s content, willing her to look at him. At last, sensing something, she did. Their eyes locked, and his desire for her rose hot and strong, stunning him with its force.
When she saw Rolfe, Leonie’s heart jumped into her throat. She took a deep breath to steady herself as, his expression intense, he moved toward her. A tight knot formed in her belly.
She was about to learn what he thought of the changes she had made in his home, and she found she wasn’t feeling at all brave. The rushing of her blood roared in her ears.
But Rolfe, whose eyes did not leave hers for a second, was paying no attention to his surroundings, and sudden hot color flooded her face as she realized what made him look at her so intently. She quickly bent her head and turned a little away from him as he approached the table. She was not going to acknowledge him—she couldn’t find her voice.
Many eyes watched Rolfe crossing the hall so pur
posefully, but he was blind to everything except Leonie. Wilda and Mary held their breath, fearing for their mistress, while Rolfe’s men grinned at one another. Amelia failed to keep the resentment from her eyes, though no one noticed her because the meeting between lord and lady held everyone’s attention.
Leonie gasped as her chair was pulled away from the table, and shrieked as Rolfe scooped her up and, without a word, started toward the stairs. Behind them, laughter erupted in the hall, and cheers, as the assembled company watched them disappear up the stairs.
Leonie was so mortified that she hid her face against Rolfe’s chest. Shame paralyzed her, and it was not until their door closed on the noise below that her voice returned. “How
could
you?” she cried, struggling against him.
Gripping her firmly, he answered innocently, “What have I done except to bring you where I want you to be?”
“Everyone knows exactly what you intend!” she stormed, mindless of all but her shame.
Rolfe chuckled, his eyes velvety brown with warmth. “You make too much of it, dearling. They might think I brought you up here to beat you. Would you be appeased if you returned to the hall with a blackened eye?”
“You make light of it,” she told him furiously, “but even animals show their mates some respect. I would be appeased only if I returned below immediately.”
He kissed her so forcefully that her thoughts disappeared like silken threads on the wind. When he finished, his kissing fired by passion, she was so bemused that she hardly knew he had set her on her feet.
“There,” he said. “With your lips swollen, everyone
will think I only wanted to steal a kiss. So you may go below and be appeased now, Leonie.”
“You mean it?” She gasped.
“I want you, but if my keeping you here is going to upset you…Go quickly now, before I change my mind.”
Leonie lowered her eyes, her voice tremulous. “Thank you, my lord.”
“
My lord
,” he repeated disgustedly, sighing. “Finish your dinner. And please order me a bath and send my squire to me. Also, Leonie, have your maids come and take their things away now if they moved back here while I was away. But you must return here within the hour or you will again have reason to call me an animal.”
Leonie hurried out of the room. The tasks Rolfe had set her to made her feel almost like a real wife and she saw to them with a measure of pride. It was enough to obviate her embarrassment, and she even relaxed enough to finish her meal.
But as the time neared for her to return to Rolfe, her calm fled. Rather than delay and let her nervousness get the best of her, she mounted the stairs in a rush before she could succumb to the urge to find a hiding place.
He had finished his bath and was sitting in a chair by the hearth. He had moved the chair to face the door, and was staring at her as she entered. He wore a bedrobe of fine yellow silk. It made his eyes a lighter brown. He wore it loosely, falling open to reveal the thick black hair of his chest. It was to this mat of hair that her eyes kept returning, and she blushed furiously when he caught her staring.
On the table beside him was her own soap and a thick woolen towel that she had told Wilda to give to
Damian for Rolfe. The soap had been put back in its little wooden box to dry, and the wet towel folded.
Rolfe’s eyes followed Leonie’s. “Was there a subtlety in your offering me that sweet-smelling soap?” he inquired.
“No, my lord. For as long as I have known you, you have not smelled unpleasant to me.” He grinned at the unintended compliment. “The soap is made with oil of rosemary. I thought you might prefer it to the abrasive soaps I found here.”
“Is it costly?”
“Costly only in time, my lord. I make it myself.”
“Then I am pleased you offered it.” His voice deepened when he added, “But I would have been more pleased if you had found your way back here sooner.”
“I am not late.”
“You quibble with me when you know what it cost me to let you go?”
“I—I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps,” he replied softly, “but I think it more likely you do.”
Leonie had no answer for that. He was looking at her in a way that increased her nervousness so much that she darted over to the bed, praying that preparing it for sleep would distract them both. But the bedlinens were already turned down, and there was nothing for her to do.
She sat down on the far side of the bed, away from him, refusing to look at him any more. The picture he presented was all too masculine, corded muscle, virile strength, compelling handsomeness, all wrapped up in self-assurance. She would wager that
he
was never afraid, while she sat there feeling her belly churn with dread.
She closed her eyes, but that didn’t stop him from coming to stand before her. “Let me help you disrobe.”
“I can manage,” she whispered, and Rolfe tensed.
“Are you still sulking, Leonie?”
“I do not sulk. I never sulk. Children sulk! I am not a child.”
She rasped out each word, fighting with the laces at her side. He stood there patiently, watching her whip her bliaut off, then vengefully attack the laces of her chemise. Finally it was discarded, leaving only her knee-length cream-colored sleeveless shift. The garment was so thin that he could see her nipples. Rolfe caught his breath.
She was so incredibly lovely, this wife of his, even when she was bristling with anger. He had thought about her too much while they were separated, her image a living dream, seeing her eyes flash with silver fire, or soft with innocent confusion. Her hair was a glorious beacon, haunting him as he imagined running his fingers through the silver softness. Her body, the sweetly curving ripeness, was before him now in all its beauty—no longer a dream. This exquisite girl had yielded to him once. Would she again?
Leonie bent over to remove her slippers and stockings. Then, knowing she could not remove her shift, not with him standing there watching her, she folded her hands and was still, head bent, averting her gaze.
Rolfe gently removed the lace square from her head, lifting the braids and unbraiding them. Swiftly, he removed her shift and tossed it aside. Before she could protest, he took her face in his large hands and made her look up at him.
“Leonie, I did not ask your forgiveness for what happened at Pershwick. I ask it now. Do not be angry with me over that anymore.”
She was so surprised she couldn’t speak. But Rolfe wanted no answer, he wanted an end to her anger. And he desperately wanted her to want him.
He bent and kissed her, gently at first and then, as she began to respond to him, his kisses became more passionate. At last she moaned and he carried her to the center of the bed and lay down beside her, wrapping her hard against him. She forgot everything else and melted into him, enraptured, gloriously happy in his love.