She felt a fluttering in her belly and her face flushed hot as fire. This would not do, this complexity of emotions he was able to stir in her. She had to stop his effect on her.
“Do you call me ‘little flower’ to remind me of how you might have shamed me before my people?”
Rolfe’s spirits sank. She was angry. Her eyes shone like polished silver, her dark brows were slashed together, and her lips were set in a hard line. Once again, her anger caused his own to rise.
“Damn me, I thought that was settled!”
Leonie flinched, but she didn’t move. Virile strength exuded from the powerful body so close to her, but she held her ground.
“I merely questioned your motive in reminding me of the incident.”
Rolfe frowned. How cleverly she made him feel like a cloddish bore for attacking her. Dealing with this particular woman was not going to be easy.
He smoothed the tight line of her lips. “Do you realize the effect you have on me, dearling?” he asked gently. “I see you and my thoughts fly away. If I reminded you of something unpleasant, it was unintentional and I apologize.”
Leonie was stunned. Could she believe him? Was he toying with her, trying only to placate her? If so, he was succeeding, and her anger was quickly giving way to nervousness.
She lowered her eyes, utterly confused and helpless. “You—you sought me out, my lord. Was there something you wanted of me?”
He chuckled softly, wickedly, and she drew back.
“My lord—”
“Rolfe.”
“I—”
“Rolfe,” he insisted. “You are my wife and formality is uncalled for when we are alone.”
The reminder was uncalled for! As if she could forget she was his wife! And now he was waiting for her to say his name and, in saying it, acknowledge his ownership of her.
“Leonie?” His voice was husky. “Are you still so shy?”
She could use that excuse…but she decided not to hide her feelings just to keep him in a good mood.
“It is more than shyness, my lord,” she said frankly. “Perhaps in time…”
Rolfe sighed and Leonie felt a certain triumph over not giving in.
“Time I do not have,” he told her. “I leave here on the morrow. I do not know when I will return, but when I do, I shall expect you to be more at ease with me. We have been married more than a month.”
“But we have not been together that long,” she reminded him coldly.
“Even so, you have had time to adjust,” he declared.
“I beg to explain,” she said stiffly. “You sent me away from here and I thought I would not see you again. That is what I adjusted to, my lord.”
“So!” he said as if he had learned something important. Leonie grew uncomfortable when he said nothing further.
“My lord, you still have not said why you sought me out.”
“I had the ridiculous notion that spending the day with you would be pleasant. Where were you, my lady?”
She began to despair. Everything was getting worse. This quiet anger was worse than shouting.
“I—I walked to the village.”
“Who accompanied you?”
Sweet Mary, he was going to make an issue of even that!
“You must know I went alone.”
“If I knew, madame, I would not ask. Alone? This is not Pershwick where you may do as you please.”
“I am most aware of the truth of that, my lord,” she said bitterly.
His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you care nothing for your safety, but you are mine now and I protect what is mine. Must I place a constant guard on you?”
“Do not!” She gasped. “I—I know I was wrong to leave the keep without escort, but I was not thinking. I needed—some time. It will not happen again, my lord,” she finished quickly, embarrassed by her stammering.
She looked away from his penetrating eyes, and he gripped her chin. “I am not asking more than I should, Leonie. Do not begrudge me my concern.”
She hated herself for being so nervous with him. She hated his reasonable tone. But most of all she hated what he was doing to her, this up and down of churning emotions. She was angry one moment, intimidated the next—and worse was this strange feeling that intruded whenever he touched her.
His fingers moved from her chin up across her cheek. Leonie held her breath, waiting for him to kiss her, but he only gazed into her eyes. His eyes were dark and unfathomable.
“Anger is beneficial at times,” Rolfe said. “It clears the air, stimulates the blood. Do not hide your anger from me, Leonie. I may not like it, but I will like it less if you let your anger fester. Do not sulk with me, wife. And never, never bring anger to my bed.”
A quick, feather-light brush of his lips against hers and then he let her go and walked away.
Leonie stared after him, bemused, her fingertips on her face where he had touched it. Her heart was racing.
Chapter 18
THE hall had filled quickly and servants were bringing in large platters of food. A maid lost her balance and her huge cauldron of soup tipped a little, spilling soup onto the rushes. Five dogs instantly converged on the spot, but the hot liquid was not tempting enough. After a few sniffs, they went back to following the platters of meat, hoping for another accident.
Erneis, the Crewel steward, had seen the accident, but he went on filling his plate, giving it no more thought. The maid would think no more of it either. She would not return later to clean up the mess, because no one would tell her to do so.
Common occurrences in Crewel Keep, gone on so long that those conditions were taken for granted. The men-at-arms might deplore the filth, but it was not their place to order these servants. Sir Evarard had lived under worse conditions and took little notice. The servants never did anything on their own initiative and had, in fact, grown lazy.
Sir Thorpe had long ago given up trying to get anything done. He never stayed long enough in Crewel to oversee a thorough cleaning, anyway. And Rolfe had too many other things on his mind. Amelia seemed to have no knack for handling servants. It was enough that she had kept Rolfe’s room reasonably clean.
Rolfe had mused aloud about having a wife in residence, hoping the problem would be solved. But it was not to be. Amelia told him that she had had words with his wife and that Leonie said she could not be bothered with the running of Crewel. Rolfe was furious, especially after the scene in the garden. She could see to Pershwick, which was hers, but she would not see to Crewel?
But Amelia pointed out that ladies of Leonie’s stature were accustomed to spending their days in needlework and gossip. Rolfe knew that to be true, for his own mother had never lifted a hand to run her household. No doubt Leonie had an able steward at Pershwick. Ah well, Rolfe thought, let things stand as they were.
Unfortunately, his anger over that difficulty did not have a chance to abate before Leonie came in. She was wearing the same unhappy expression she had worn in the garden, and he almost sent her away, but too many eyes were on them.
Neither one spoke, and his anger mounted. She was going to nurse her anger, and that infuriated him. He wanted her to be the way she had been the night before, when she talked with him, accepted him. He had believed they were making a new start.
Damian had returned to Crewel in the afternoon with Rolfe’s newly polished armor. Cleaning armor was the only thing the boy did well. Rolfe was not used to having so young a squire, nor did he have enough time at present for the boy’s training. It was Damian’s duty to attend him, to select his clothes in the morning, help dress him, and to serve him at table. Strict rules governed all a squire did, even the carving of meat and presenting of his lord’s wine cup. Damian knew all that was required of him, but nothing was ever done smoothly.
Today, having used all his patience on his wife, Rolfe had none left for the boy. When his wine was spilled a second time, he dismissed the boy with harsh words that rose above the din in the hall. Silence followed, and then
everyone resumed eating. Rolfe’s losing his temper was a common enough occurrence, after all.
Leonie was already on edge, having watched Lady Amelia direct the serving of the meal with Rolfe’s apparent approval.
“Are you always so hard on the boy?”
Rolfe’s dark eyes impaled her. “So. You have a voice after all.”
Leonie looked down at the table. “I did not know I was required to speak. There is nothing I wish to say.”
“Common courtesy is alien to you?”
“No, my lord,” she replied softly. “It is returned when it is received.”
He grunted, dismissing the fact that he had said not a word to her, either. “So now you have found something you wish to say—and it turns out to be criticism. You would have done better to keep silent.”
“I know my opinion means nothing to you, my lord, but you would be better served by your squire if you showed a little patience. The boy is only nervous.”
“You have trained many squires, have you?”
“No.”
“Surely at least one? How else would you know how I should treat mine?”
Leonie held firm under his assault. “Common sense, my lord.”
“Patience cures clumsiness?”
“He would not be so clumsy if you did not scowl at him so,” she replied.
“I see. So when Damian faces his enemy on the field, he will do well if his enemy smiles at him? But let that enemy scowl at him even once and what have you? A sword dropped through nervous fingers instead of spilled wine. Your common sense would be the death of Damian.”
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 mo
ment 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.