When Love Awaits(22)

“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.





Chapter 20




HE 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 purposefully, 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?