When Love Awaits(13)

She drew herself up as tall as she could. “What does a name matter?”

Rolfe was amazed to see those lovely silver-gray eyes become stormy. He had riled her somehow. Well, if she wanted to keep her identity a secret, that was her affair.

“Indeed, ‘little flower’ will do just as well,” he said agreeably, taking a step closer.

“I wish to discuss something with you, in a more private place,” he said softly.

“Private?” She stepped back and looked around, wondering how much more private he wanted to be. “Where—did you wish to go?”

“Where you sleep, little flower.”

There was no need to be more explicit. She was mortified by the telltale blush spreading over her face. She had never expected him to come to her home for that reason. Amelia had said he wouldn’t bother her in that way, and she had believed her. The dreadful thing was, she could not refuse her husband.

“If—if you will follow me, my lord.”

She had trouble saying the words, and even more trouble walking. Her legs felt leaden, and tears threatened. For all his gentle manner, she suspected an angry motive for his wanting to take her to bed. On their wedding night he had been drunk, perhaps too drunk to recall the revenge he’d wanted to exact from her. Had he come now to punish her? She would not beg for mercy. She would not.

Rolfe was so surprised he almost didn’t follow her. Her acquiescence had been too easy. Did that mean she did this often? Who was her husband that she cared for him so little? An older man, or one she despised? Still, Rolfe wanted her, so he followed.

As they crossed the bailey to the forebuilding leading into the great hall, Rolfe suddenly remembered where he was. His wife was there somewhere. Did she know he was there? Even if she did, how could he give up this opportunity? The girl leading him to her bedroom was exquisite.

He barely noticed the room she brought him to, so intent was he on the girl as she closed the door and turned slowly to face him.

“I do not suppose there actually was something you wanted to discuss?” she asked him.

Rolfe mistook the hopeful note in her voice for teasing and smiled, shaking his head. “Come here, little flower.”

Leonie detested the ridiculous name he had chosen for her and wished she could tell him so. She detested, as well, the fact that she feared him.

She approached, miserably, eyes downcast, and waited in front of him. She didn’t quite know what she expected—a slap, an announcement regarding the wretchedness that would be the rest of her life, a beating.

What she didn’t expect was to be drawn gently into his arms and held. They stayed that way, and then he picked her up and carried her to her bed. He settled her carefully, then sat down beside her, running his finger along her smooth cheek.

His eyes, like dark brown velvet, moved over her disturbingly. There was a look in those eyes that made her body go rigid, and when he bent his head toward hers, she gasped. His lips touched hers and she imagined a thousand gasps trapped inside her, trying to escape through her belly, for that area came suddenly alive with the strangest sensations.

The pressure of his lips increased steadily and then her mouth was opened and their tongues entwined, and Leonie was bemused to realize who was giving her this first kiss.

Rolfe might have guessed her inexperience if she hadn’t followed his lead so well, but deep in her lived the knowledge that this was one man she didn’t dare resist, so she followed his every move. It caused him to think she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

He sat up, his breathing irregular, and pushed aside her leather girdle. The laces on the sides of her bliaut were not so easily shed and, impatient, Rolfe drew the dagger at his waist and slit the sides open.

Her small shriek drew his eyes back to hers. “Do not begrudge me my impatience, dearling, for you have caused it. Your laces will be replaced, I promise.”

Leonie bit her lip. It was his methods she objected to, not her ruined laces. She was reminded of Ethelinda’s rape, for Ethelinda had been cut from her clothes too. Rape was no more than her husband was offering her, for he quickly took his knife to the laces of her chemise as well.

She began crying silent tears of shame and misery, and she hated him for that. She had sworn she would never cry in front of him, and now…

“Did the laces mean so much to you, little flower?” he whispered, his face a study in contrition. He truly thought she mourned her silly laces, and he was sorry for it. What was she to make of this?

“I—I have a hundred laces to replace them, my lord, but I have never had my clothes cut from me.”

“Ah, then I am indeed at fault. Will it appease you to do the same to me?”

Leonie stared wide-eyed at the sharp blade he placed in her hand. “You jest, my lord. I could not cut through your mail.”

“You will have to help me remove that, but the rest you can shred to rags if it will stop your tears.”

The idea of taking the knife to his clothing with his permission was so ridiculous that a very slight grin curled Leonie’s mouth.

“If I could find clothes to replace yours I would do it, but we have no one here quite as large as you are, and I wouldn’t like to send you away with only your mail covering you. Though I would be interested to hear how you explained that to your men,” she said with a laugh.

Rolfe laughed with her. Tears in bed were not something he was accustomed to, but neither was humor, and he found it delightful, especially from this shy girl.

“As to that,” Rolfe said, grinning, “I would have told the truth—that a saucy wench was so hot for me that—”

“Lies!” Leonie gasped, a giggle escaping. “Would you really say such an awful thing?”

“My men would believe me after seeing my bony knees poking out from beneath this heavy armor,” he said.

“Then it is just as well I decline the use of your dagger.”

“Well, indeed. And now, if you would help me remove these trappings?”

Leonie nodded, grateful for the opportunity to move behind him, to where he couldn’t see her. He had almost made her forget that she was naked, but her vulnerable state made her feel even more embarrassed when she realized that he would soon be naked too.

What had Leonie confused was a strange feeling of acceptance. Her fear of him was gone, dispelled by kind words and lighthearted banter. She spared a moment to silently beseech God not to let this be a cruel trick.

“Wouldn’t it be easier for you to stand before me, dearling?” Rolfe asked as he removed his belt and sword and set them on the floor. He lifted the heavy chain-mail hauberk to his waist.

“No, my lord.” Leonie gripped hold of the armor. “I am not so tall that I could manage this even with you sitting.”

It was the truth, for she had helped Sir Guibert often enough, and each time he was forced to kneel while she stood on a stool to raise his armor over his head. But even on her knees behind Rolfe’s back she was having trouble, and at last had to stand up on the bed to finish the task.

At last he was naked, and Leonie moved slowly to stand in front of him. She wondered if she could unbraid her hair for the mantle it would make, but doubted he would have the patience to wait for that. He was thoroughly enjoying her bashfulness and he reached for her, putting his hands on her waist, then moving them slowly up and down her sides, over her gently curving hips, over the full swell of her breasts.

She was biting her lower lip in an endearing way, a little frown puckering her brow. She was trying to keep her head down, too mortified to meet his eyes. His head bent and his lips fastened on the high pointing perfection of a nipple, his tongue grazing over skin like silk. He heard her gasp, and just at that moment there was a single knock.

The door opened and Beatrix stepped into the room. “Leonie, I—oh! Oh, my lord, forgive me!” Beatrix turned scarlet. “Leonie, I—I did not—oh, it can wait—” Beatrix backed out of the room as fast as she could.

Leonie’s first impulse was to laugh, and she would have except for the look on her husband’s face. He wore such a perplexed frown.

“You must not mind my aunt,” she said. “She shares this room with me and…”

He did not take his eyes from her face. Nor did his expression change.

“Lady Leonie?” It was a question.

She jerked away from him.

“So now you remember my name,” she said bitterly. “It is not consoling that you had to be reminded before—”

His face went tight, but whether or not it was anger she couldn’t tell.

“You are my wife?” This, too, was a question.

“Of course I am. Who else—”

The Black Wolf fell back on the bed laughing, laughing so hard he writhed with it. Leonie stared at him incredulously until everything came together in her mind. Who else had he thought she was? It didn’t matter to him.

Oh, the shame of it, the shame! He had not been making love to his wife, but to some stranger he’d chanced upon in the garden. No wonder he hadn’t known her name, he thought he’d never met her before. But for him to do such a thing in her keep, where he knew his wife would hear of it, where her people would see how little respect he bore her!

Leonie moved away from the bed and opened her clothes chest, taking out the first thing she touched, a short linen shift. Attired, she returned to the bed where her husband was still convulsed with laughter. Calmly, she picked up a pillow and began hitting him with it until she finally gained his attention.