Leonie blushed furiously. Everything he said was true. If Damian did not learn to control his nervousness now, he would not live to be a knight. Serfs and women could be clumsy, fighting men could not.
“I concede,” she offered. “Yet I still say you were overly harsh with the boy. A small measure of patience once in a while would benefit you both.”
“You recommend patience for the boy—what do you recommend for yourself?”
Leonie raised her eyes to his slowly and asked in a sweetly innocent tone, “Have I raised your displeasure, too, my lord?”
Rolfe was not amused. He was in fact infuriated by her attempt to make light of his anger.
“What do you recommend?” he repeated darkly.
“Retreat.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Then another measure of patience, my lord.”
“Patience without reward is not worth the effort,” he shot back.
A warning. He expected too much. If he was not willing to give, neither was she.
“Reward comes only to the deserving.”
“You mean I am not deserving?”
“That is a matter for your conscience, my lord.”
“Damn me, what has conscience to do with this?” he demanded. “My conscience is clear!”
“No doubt,” she returned.
To say any more now was dangerous. Rolfe drained the last of his wine and bellowed for more.
Leonie let out a sigh. She should never have spoken to begin with. There was no reasoning with such a man.
Most men lived by a double standard and her husband was no different. You could not tell him he was wrong, and you could not question his integrity as he saw it. And as he saw it, there was nothing wrong with his keeping a mistress in the same household as his wife. Or with letting his mistress direct the household. A man’s adultery was always winked at, but woe betide the wife with inclinations to stray. Hypocrites all! She might have to live with it for there was very little she could do about it, but she would not condone the hypocrisy of it.
The meal was ruined, but she had no appetite anyhow. It was bad enough having to eat with her belly knotted with tension, but the food was awful, tasteless, without benefit of spices. Even the minced meat paste made with milk and bread crumbs to spread on bread was lacking herbs. There was cheese made from ewes’ milk, but the butter that would have enhanced the vegetables was rancid. It vied with the stench from the rushes.
“Do you give me leave to retire, my lord?”
Rolfe looked at her for a long time before he nodded curtly. But he stopped her just as she turned away.
“Leave your spite behind, Leonie. I will join you soon.”
It was still early, and the last place Leonie wanted to await her husband was in his bed. The memories it aroused warred with her embitterment, causing a frustration that had her pacing the floor. It was not fair to be placed in this limbo. She could not have Rolfe d’Ambert for a real husband, nor would he leave her alone. All that was left was a frustration that she would have to tolerate until he no longer found his newest possession amusing.
After a while, when Rolfe still had not come, Leonie searched through her chests in the anteroom until she found the Pershwick accounts. She took them with her to one of the chairs by the cold hearth and settled herself there. She had brought the accounts with her so she could put them in order before turning them over to Sir Guibert.
All the long hours she had spent learning to read and write so she could keep her own records, and now her skill would go to waste—for a while anyway. How long would he keep her there? If only she knew.
Hours later, Rolfe found Leonie curled up in the chair, the parchments spread over her lap, an inkwell on the low table beside her. He had not expected this. The church, which dispensed all learning, frowned on imparting any at all to women. Very few men outside the church could read and write. Rolfe could write, but it was a skill he did not make use of, relying on clerks to see to such things.
Rolfe picked up one of the parchments and examined it. But her eyes opened, and he dropped it back on her lap.
“Do you make sense of those scratches, my lady?”
Leonie sat up, startled. “Of course. They are my records.”
“Who taught you to write?”
“A young priest at Pershwick.”
“Why would he?”
Leonie was wary, but his tone was agreeable. He seemed merely curious.
“I threatened to dismiss him if he would not.”
Rolfe had to stop himself from laughing. “Did you? I take it he succumbed to your threats. But why would you want to learn? Did he not keep accurate records for you?”
“Accurate, yes, but he balked at certain changes I wanted made. It is a long story, my lord. Rather than involve the priest in what I wanted done, I decided to do it myself, so I insisted he teach me.”
“I am pleased, then. Here is one thing you cannot object to doing for me,” Rolfe said. “You will serve as my clerk.”
“Me?” she cried. “You mean you do not write?”
“I spent my youth on the training field, not cloistered with a tutor.”
He felt no embarrassment over the half lie. It was true that he had not given up any training time for learning, nor was he ever cloistered with a tutor. His tutor had had to follow him onto the training field, an inconvenience the old priest did not appreciate.
“But surely you have a clerk?”
“I am not asking you to take over the Crewel accounts,” he said. “But you can deal with simple correspondence.”
She bristled. “I suppose I can, if you do not think it will overtax my intelligence.”
Her sarcasm amused him. “Not at all.”
Leonie rose stiffly. “Very well, my lord.”
She put her accounts away, and when she came back into the room, Rolfe was sitting in the chair she had vacated. His eyes fastened on her, hooded, unreadable. She raised a hand to hold her linen bedrobe closer together, acutely aware of how thin the cream-colored robe was.
“Come here, Leonie.”
It was a soft command, but it was a command. Nervously she glanced at the big bed. As abhorrent as it was to her, it did offer an excuse.
“It is late, my lord, and—”
“You have had a nap, so do not say you are overtired.”
She met his steady gaze, but it was a moment before she could get her feet to move. Finally she stood near him.
“Closer.”
She took another step, and then Rolfe reached out and pulled her down onto his lap. His hands locked around her, resting on her hip. Hesitantly, her eyes met his.
“I am glad you took my warning seriously, dearling, for I do not give warnings more than once.”
Leonie closed her eyes. He assumed she was acquiescent because he had ordered it. He was going to find she was not a servant.
“What happens, my lord, when your warnings are not heeded?” she asked.
His lips nuzzled her neck. “You do not want to know.”
“But I do, my lord.”
“Rolfe,” he corrected, his lips moving to the center of her throat.
Leonie groaned. “I am sorry, my lord, but I cannot.”
“Cannot what?”
“Call you by name.”
He leaned back. His hands came up to clasp her face. “Just say it. It is a short name, easy to say. Say it.”
He was smiling and his tone was husky, persuasive. But as she gazed into his eyes, she saw Lady Amelia. That lady sat firmly between them.
“I cannot.”
“You mean you will not.”
“Very well, I will not.”
Instantly, Rolfe was on his feet, Leonie held firmly in his arms. He carried her to the bed and dropped her there, glaring down at her.
“Woman, if I did not think you had more sense, I would swear you do this purposely, just to rile me. If you wish to sulk, do so, but do so alone. If you are wise, you will be done sulking when I come to you again.”
He strode angrily from the room, slamming the door.
Leonie lay back, slowly relaxing. She sighed. She guessed she would not see him again before he left in the morning. That suited her fine. But then she realized where he would spend the night and she tensed.
Surely someone would see him going to his mistress, and no doubt everyone would know of it by the next day, for things like that were kept secret only from the wife. This wife already knew, however, and her husband did not care whether she knew or not. That was the vilest insult, that he made no attempt to spare his wife’s feelings.
Chapter 19
ROLFE had indeed left Crewel by the time Leonie ventured into the hall the next morning. Thorpe de la Mare had gone with him, leaving Sir Evarard as castellan of Crewel, in charge.
Leonie was in a foul mood after losing so much sleep trying to convince herself that what her husband did did not matter to her personally, only the shame of it disturbed her. Her mood was not lightened when she found Lady Amelia breaking her fast at the high table with Sir Evarard, the two of them laughing together.
They presented a tableau illustrating that the mistress was accepted there and the wife was not. It was also stabbingly clear that Amelia was in an excellent humor.
The two fell silent as they saw Leonie. She did not greet them or even glance their way again, but continued on toward the chapel as if that had been her destination all along. She knew she was too late for mass, so she didn’t even glance inside the chapel, but left the forebuilding and stepped outside into the bright morning light.