When Love Awaits (4 page)

I
N Crewel that night, a different kind of fear was taking its toll on Lady Amelia. She did not want to be sent back to court where she had been just another of Princess Alice’s ladies-in-waiting, just another pretty face among so many. She had no power there, no control over her own life. She must forever dance attendance on the princess, do her bidding, suffer her moods.

A landless widow without relatives could expect few prospects. More important, Amelia had found being a wife not nearly as desirable as being a mistress. She had been her husband’s mistress before they wed and her circumstances changed so drastically afterward that she was not at all displeased when he died. A man will not strive to please his wife as he does his mistress, for a wife cannot leave him, while a mistress can.

She knew, too, that the quality of lovemaking from a husband could not be compared with that of a lover. Perhaps the church had much to do with that, preaching that lovemaking was solely for procreation and not to be enjoyed. Amelia’s husband had been an attentive lover until they wed, and then he looked on their joining as a duty and, like other duties, best done quickly.

No, Amelia was not fool enough to want another marriage, not even marriage with her current lover, who was the most handsome of all the men she had
taken to her bed. But she also did not want to leave him. He might be abrupt, even prone to rages, but her position as Rolfe d’Ambert’s mistress had turned out to be so much better than she could have hoped for. She was treated with respect, almost as if she were the lady of Crewel Keep. She had power here, as much as any wife would have, and she loved it. There was no other woman of rank here, only servants, no other woman she must answer to. Here there was only Rolfe, and he asked nothing of her that she wasn’t willing to do.

But Amelia did not deceive herself over the situation. She had all that she wanted here, but it was only by Rolfe’s will that she had it. When he finished with her and sent her back to court, there would be nothing she could do about it. All she could do was delay that time and wheedle as many trinkets and gifts from him as she could so that, when the time came for parting, she might be able to buy a house in London where she could sell her favors.

If Rolfe put her aside now, she would have to return to the princess or look for a new lover. She knew she would never find another one like Rolfe, a man willing to take her into his home. It was only because he was unmarried that she had managed that.

It was late when Rolfe entered his chamber and found Amelia ensconced in his large bed. She was not sleeping. She watched him as he crossed to the fire, now burning low. He had not looked her way, and the frown creasing his brow kept her from speaking. Was he thinking how he would tell her they must part?

“Come help me with this armor, Amelia. I have already dismissed that incompetent squire of mine.”

So he did know she was there, and awake. The simple request told her so many things that she wanted
to laugh. He had not forgotten her! He meant to join her in the bed. That he expected to do so on the night before he was to wed told her what he felt about his intended bride.

Amelia slipped from the bed. She did not reach for her bedrobe. She was a tall, statuesque woman, twenty-three, with a sleek body of which she was proud. She did not need to resort to hidden bindings to attain a stunning effect, even in the form-fitting clothes of the day. Naked, she carried herself proudly, her chestnut hair flowing down her back, her green eyes sleepily seductive.

Rolfe watched her approaching slowly. She saw the immediate effect she was having on him.

“Sit, my lord,” she purred. “I am not tall enough to lift your heavy mail from you.”

Bemused, Rolfe moved to a stool by the hearth. Amelia caught the hem of his chain mail and lifted it, then brought it over his head as he sat down. Some men remained in their armor for days when they were doing battle, and stank worse than an untended stable, but she had never known Rolfe to do so. He had an odor of sweat about him now that was a clean smell, his own smell. It was pleasant.

“You have been away several days, Rolfe,” she said, adding a little pout as she bent down to untie his cross-garters. “I began to wonder if I would see you again before your wedding.”

He grunted and Amelia smiled to herself. How much did she risk saying about the wedding? “Sir Evarard has been busy hunting for the feast,” Amelia continued. “I myself saw to the cleaning of the hall, for your steward was too busy.”

This was a lie. She never bothered with supervising servants, but Rolfe didn’t know this. She wanted him
to think she didn’t mind that he was marrying, that she intended to help.

Amelia next removed his tunic and undershirt, but with such slow deliberation that Rolfe yanked her onto his lap before she could put the clothing aside. She feigned a squeal of protest, and he fastened his lips to hers in a heated kiss.

She felt his urgency, but was unmoved except to feel satisfaction in knowing he wanted her so badly. She leaned back from him, bracing her hands against his chest so he could not capture her lips again. “Then you do still want me?” she asked him.

“What fool question is this?” He frowned. “Does it seem I do not?”

“I was not sure you would, my lord, when I heard of your marriage.” She spoke very quietly, as though wounded.

“You need not concern yourself with that,” Rolfe replied gruffly.

“But I must, my lord. I have been so afeared you would send me away.” The tears sprang to her eyes, just as she’d expected they would.

“Why should I?”

Amelia nearly lost her whole campaign by showing surprise, but she quickly recovered.

“It is my wish to stay, Rolfe, but…your wife may have something to say about it.”

“She will not.”

“You must not be accustomed to women’s jealousies if you can say that. If she knows that you favor me in any way, she will demand that I leave.”

“She will demand nothing here,” he stated flatly. “My will shall be her will.”

“But you are not always here, Rolfe.” Amelia pouted. “What if she is cruel? What if she beats me?”

He scowled. “Then she will be beaten. I will not have my people living in fear of their mistress.”

That was not the answer she was looking for.

“But how can I protect myself from her wrath when you are not here?” Amelia persisted.

“You concern yourself without reason, Amelia. She will not abide here. I marry her for her land, no more.”

“Truly?” She could not hide her surprise, and he laughed. “My dear, if I desired her, then I would have no need of you.”

Amelia grinned, relief making her almost giddy. “On the morrow, there will be many guests here for the wedding. What do you tell them—”

“That you are my ward.”

She put her arms around his neck, rubbing her firm breasts against his chest. “Then my position here will not change, Rolfe? The servants must still do my bidding and—”

“You talk overmuch, woman.”

Rolfe fastened his lips over hers. He knew her game and was amused by it. But had he not needed this distraction, he would not have been amused, for he was not a man to be manipulated. If he had not been willing to grant what she asked, the time of asking would have made no difference. He refused to be enslaved by his own desire.

As far as Rolfe was concerned, ladies were silly creatures, good only for sewing and gossiping and making trouble. His mother and her ladies had taught him that. All women used sex to get what they wanted. He had watched his mother work her wiles on his father for years. He had seen the same in every court he had been to. He made it a rule, usually, never to grant a woman anything she asked if she asked it in the bedchamber.

When Rolfe finished with Amelia, she was forgotten. Without the distraction of Amelia, his mind returned to what was troubling him so badly. In a rage, he had decided he wanted Leonie of Montwyn. Another rage had taken him to the king to secure her. Now that the rages were past, he was filled with dread.

He did not want a wife he could feel no pride in and would never love. He planned to confine her to Pershwick, and he told himself it was because of the ills she had caused him, but it was really her reputed ugliness that worried him. Already he was feeling guilty over that. It was not her fault she was ugly. Perhaps her appearance was what caused her to be such a spiteful woman.

Rolfe was sick at heart for what his fool temper had gotten him into. His honor would not let him try to squirm out of the situation, and his guilt mounted each day, thinking of the girl and her expectations. The poor creature was more than likely overjoyed to finally have a suitor, even one she had been doing battle with. Why shouldn’t she be pleased? What prospects had she ever had before this one?

His guilt rose to choke him. Perhaps he wouldn’t send her away. There was an old tower at Crewel. She could have that for herself. He would not have to see her, and she would not have to bear the disgrace of being sent from her husband’s home. Still, her expectations for a child, for a normal married life, would be crushed. He came back to wondering again if he could bed her, whether the sight of her would turn him cold. Every man wanted an heir and he was no different in that. But if the sight of her made it impossible…

For a man whose nerves were usually like steel, these were very uncomfortable feelings. On the morrow, he would have to bed her, at least for that one
time, for her parents and the other guests would inspect the wedding sheets the morning after, as was customary. He might choose to forgo some of the customs, such as the bedding ceremony, but there was no way he could avoid the inspecting of the sheets which confirmed the girl’s virginity. There was no way to escape it. He would have to bed her or face more jesting taunts than his temper would stand for.

L
EONIE came to at the sound of Wilda’s startled cry. She could have cursed the girl for rousing her to the pain.

“What they did to you, my lady!” Wilda wailed. “Your face is black and swollen. May they roast in the fires of hell! May the hand that dared touch you rot and fall off! May—”

“Oh, hush, Wilda!” Leonie snapped, trying to move her jaw as little as possible. “You know how easily I bruise. I am sure I look worse than I feel.”

“Truly, my lady?”

“Bring me my mirror.”

Leonie tried to grin to ease the girl’s anxiety, but her jaw and her cracked and bloodied lips hurt too much to manage it. The polished steel mirror handed her confirmed that she looked like something trampled under the hooves of a great war-horse.

One of her eyes was swollen tightly shut, the other was a mere slit. Blood had dried on her lips and chin and beneath her nose, but it was hardly noticeable against the deep blue-black bruises surrounding the whole of her face. She was loath to imagine what her chest and arms looked like, for Richer had not confined his blows to her head.

She was clothed as fully as she had been when Richer left her. And someone had kept Wilda from
coming to her last evening, so she had not disrobed at all. She had, she guessed, lapsed into unconsciousness soon after Richer left, and not wakened since.

“I think I have looked better,” Leonie said, setting the mirror down. “I thought he had broken my nose, but now I think it will mend—along with the rest of me.”

“How can you jest, my lady?”

“Because it is better than crying, and that is what I will do if I think of what this beating accomplished.”

“You will marry him then?”

“You know about it?”

“My lady, the horses are saddled and waiting. Everything is prepared and ready…except you.”

Leonie would have given anything to stop this, but now that she had given her word, sworn on all that was holy as well as her mother’s grave, she would have to marry Rolfe d’Ambert. It did not matter that the vow had been beaten out of her—she had said the words and she would have to abide by them.

Oh, how she wanted to cry. She had been so sure she could withstand Richer’s hands, but she was wrong. He had slapped her again and again, and when, her cheeks scarlet, she did not cower or beg, he began using his fists. She had borne as much as she could, believing that the beating could not be worse than whatever the Black Wolf planned for her. But when she realized that Richer would kill her if he was not stopped, and that there was no one to stop him, she had given up. If her father could let this happen, he would not save her.

No one interfered. No one came, even when she screamed. She knew then that there would be no help, and so she did what she had to do.

Sir Guibert would kill Richer for her, but what good
was that? The scum was only following her father’s orders. And although she was choking in sorrow and hatred for her father, she did not wish for more violence. Therefore, she would have to conceal what had been done to her.

“Bring me my medicines, Wilda, then find me a suitable gown to be married in. I care not if my husband knows I was forced to wed him, but no one else is to know. Do you understand? Find me a veil, a dark one, and gloves, I think. I have had a recurrence of my childhood rashes, and there is no time to make the ointment to relieve it. Do you hear? That is what you will go and tell my aunt and Sir Guibert.”

“But you outgrew those rashes.”

“I know, but it is not impossible that I became so nervous about meeting my future husband that the rash reappeared. And it is also understandable that I would wish to hide it. Just make sure Sir Guibert believes the story. Do that now, then return and help me dress. And carry my medicines along to Crewel. I will have more need of them later.”

Alone, Leonie put her head in her hands and sobbed. This day was going to be one horror after another.

For the swelling and bruises she applied a mixture of the marsh mallow root and oil of roses. For her nerves and the overall aching she drank a sedating syrup made from chamomile flowers. She would have taken a mixture of white poppy, but she didn’t think she should fall asleep during the wedding ceremony.

By the time Wilda returned, Leonie was already feeling the effects of the sedative.

“You told Sir Guibert what I bid you?”

“Aye. He was most sympathetic and said he would himself explain to your husband the reason why you will be veiled. And your aunt began to cry. She wanted
to come to you now but Lady Judith has kept her busy through the night and all morning. Why, I don’t believe she has had any sleep.”

“It is just as well. I do not want her to see me like this.” Looking at her young maid squarely, she said, “Tell me something, Wilda. Have you ever had a man?”

“My lady! I—”

“I will not scold you, Wilda,” Leonie quickly assured her. “My mother died without preparing me, thinking she would have time for it later. And I could not ask Aunt Beatrix about these things. I want to know what I will face today. Tell me.”

Wilda lowered her eyes, speaking softly. “It will be painful the first time, my lady. It is the tearing of your maidenhead that causes the pain and the bleeding that will be displayed on your sheets the next morning. But it is not a great pain and is quickly over. Afterward—is most enjoyable.”

“Truly? The other girls at court said it was horrible.”

“They lied. Or they repeated what their mothers told them.” She shrugged. “For some women it is always painful because they believe it is a sin to enjoy it. But as long as you have some feeling for your husband—” Wilda gasped, realizing her blunder. “Oh, my lady, I am sorry. I know you have no liking for the man.”

“So I am doomed always to feel pain? But he has no liking for me, either, so perhaps he will not bother me often. I thank you for telling me, Wilda.”

Leonie told herself to stay calm. She could not go to Crewel trembling in dread. If he hoped to see her cower, he had much to learn about Leonie of Montwyn.