When Love Awaits (7 page)

L
EONIE’s every prayer had been answered. Her husband was forgotten. Her life was her own again. No steward had been sent to Pershwick to tell her that a man ruled her life now. She had taken great pains to prepare for a steward, abandoning all her hiding places so that the steward could never accuse her of trying to keep anything from her lord. Everything was in order. But no one arrived and she stopped expecting anyone.

No longer did she have to worry that Judith’s steward would come raiding either. She had freedom, independence, and peace.

But good things do not last forever. One afternoon, working in her garden, she heard the call to halt from the gate, but gave it little thought. Sir Guibert was away, leaving her master-at-arms in charge of defending the keep. The man took his responsibilities very seriously, ordering the gatekeeper to question anyone who wished to enter the keep, familiar face or not.

Leonie continued to fill her basket with parts from her elderberry tree. The gatherings would make dyes for the weaving room, black from the bark and root, green from the leaves. Shades from blue-lilac to purple would have to wait until the berries ripened in the fall.

A second basket, filled earlier, contained herbs and flowers for medicines and cooking: chicory and en
dive, lovage, sweet marjoram, spearmint and catsmint, white poppy, rosemary, and the petals of marigolds and violets. Leonie trusted no one else to gather these cuttings, for it was too easy for a servant to mistake one herb for another and pick something poisonous for a salad.

The sound of horses entering the bailey made her wonder who could be visiting Pershwick, for Sir Guibert was not expected back until that evening. Horses heralded either guests or a rich merchant, and few of either came to such a small keep as hers.

She leaned over the low garden wall to investigate, and spied a man bearing the Black Wolf’s colors over full armor. He was dismounting from a huge black destrier. There were two men-at-arms attending him.

She jumped back away from the wall before he could see her. In a panic, she wondered why her husband was there. She was trapped there in the garden, for she would be in plain view if she left it.

With that thought, she decided to hide in the garden until he left, all day if necessary, so she moved to the far end of the garden and knelt behind some laurel bushes, praying that Rolfe would leave and she would be spared a meeting with him. But apparently no one above was inclined to grant such a petty request, for it was only moments before she heard someone walking into the garden. Rather than face the embarrassment of being caught hiding, she gathered her courage and stood up.

She was lucky. She saw him first. Her old green bliaut blended well with the surroundings, and he was facing the other end of the garden anyway. She even had a moment to compose herself before he turned around.

She cringed. Besides being afraid, she knew she
looked terrible. She was wearing working clothes, and her long braids were wrapped tightly in a hair veil to keep them from trailing in the dirt when she bent over. Even the circlet holding the veil across her forehead was only a strip of worn leather. She looked her worst, and she was facing a man who terrified her.

When Rolfe did not see his wife immediately, he told himself to turn around and go. He had no good reason for coming. It had been impulse that brought him, and he could only blame mental and physical tiredness for causing him to act without thinking. He had slept poorly all the last week. But could he tell his wife that he yearned for her company? That he missed her? That he wanted to see how she fared? It was better she think he didn’t care. Yet there he was, ignoring that, and looking for her.

The best thing for them both would be for him to find her uncloaked and revealed at last. It was not unreasonable to hope that might happen. She was among her own people here, and would probably not hide herself. That would end the mystery, and end, too, the yearning he had for her.

With that hope, he turned around, making one last effort to find his wife here where her servant had said she would be found. This time he saw a girl he must have missed before because her clothing was so nearly the color of the foliage. The lady was not his wife. Dear God, would that she were! For as he moved close enough to see her well, he was stunned by how remarkably lovely she was.

Never had he seen such fair skin, such delicate rosy lips, straight little nose, and sweetly oval chin. She had, not the rosy cheeks of English maids or the dark beauty of the French, but ivory skin, pearllike, without a blemish to disturb its smooth surface. Long silvery
lashes hid her lowered eyes, and he longed to see their color.

He seemed unable to speak, to say something to make her look up at him. He could only stand there, staring at her like a fool.

Who was she, this exquisite girl? She did not carry herself like a servant. She was surely old enough to be married. Was she a companion to his wife? How terrible for his hideous wife to be near such a beauty every day!

The girl began to fidget, twisting her fingers together nervously, and Rolfe realized he was making her uncomfortable. Did she know who he was? If so, then she realized she was subject to his will because his wife was her liegelady. Everything he was feeling for her sharpened with that thought, and he knew how much he wanted her. Lord, this girl was making him forget his scruples!

“Be at ease, little flower,” Rolfe said gently. “I mean you no harm.”

“Do you not?”

He liked the sound of her voice, soft and whispery. “Have I given you reason to fear me?”

She raised her eyes to him at last, then quickly lowered them. Leonie had forgotten how beautiful he was. With his helmet clasped in his hand, his black unruly hair curling around his head gave him a boyish appearance contrasting with the rest of his powerful body. His silence had unnerved her, but his gentle voice was just as frightening somehow.

“Your overlong silence was disconcerting.”

“Forgive me, my lady. I deliberated too long, wondering what name to call you.”

“I have a name, but if you wish to choose another, that is your prerogative.”

“You misunderstand, my lady. It is your own name I would call you by—if you will tell me what it is.”

Leonie’s eyes widened and she looked up at him. “You want me to tell you my name?”

Patiently, he said, “That would be helpful, yes.”

She frowned. Was this some game he found amusing? No, she didn’t think he would amuse himself that way. But that left only one other possibility. She was so insignificant to him that he truly had forgotten her name!

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.