"Did I have a choice, my lord?"

"No, but you might have thought of a hundred things to delay your arrival. I am pleased you did not." She had not moved from the door.

"Close the door, Leonie, and come in."

She did not like his using her name so easily, nor did she trust his calm. She closed the door slowly and moved reluctantly back into the room, going directly to a chest by the bed where she found a belt for the robe.

Rolfe sighed when she finished tying the belt but made no move toward him. "Is this to be the way of it?" he said as he unbelted his sword and laid it aside. "Must I always ask for your help?"

Leonie reddened. He was right of course. He should not have to ask her for anything. A wife's duty was to anticipate all of her husband's needs.

Yet she did not come forward, for the situation reminded her that she was not a normal wife. Why should only some things apply to her as wife, when the most important things did not?

"I am not a squire, my lord."

He stiffened, looking at her carefully. "You refuse to help me?"

Leonie shivered. Actual defiance she did not dare, but . . .

"There are servants here."

"And you would prefer to expend yourself simply to wake one, rather than come near me? It is late, woman. All are abed but you and I."

"I . . . as you wish, my lord."

She forced her feet to move, telling herself that at least she had made her reluctance known to him, whether it angered him or not.

Rolfe began to lower himself to a stool, but she said, "I will need that to stand on."

The stool was only two feet high. Rolfe looked at it skeptically anyway. "It was not made for standing."

"I have done this for Sir Guibert," she insisted, climbing onto the stool.

"You will fall," he warned her, and she scoffed, "I will not."

"I forget how tiny you really are," he said as he knelt.

How husky his voice was, a caress. He was looking up at her, and Leonie refused to meet his eyes. She quickly bent to grasp the hem of his hauberk. The sooner done . . .

She had the last of the heavy armor over his head, but she'd forgotten how much weightier his chain mail was than Sir Guibert's. Her last hard tug sent her backward, the hauberk still in her hands, its weight throwing her off balance.

"Drop it."

She dropped it, and he grabbed her.

"I think you are not suited for this task," he said.

"Put me down."

The dismay she felt in being held in his arms made her voice overly harsh. He touched her feet to the floor, then he released her altogether, whereupon she ran to the bed and drew the curtains around her.

Rolfe picked up the stool and sat down on it, gazing thoughtfully at the bed. His little wife was not going to unbend. He had thought his warning of the day before had given her new incentive, but apparently he had only made matters worse. He ran his hands through his thick hair, exasperated. He had not known what to do yesterday besides give her a show of his temper, but it hadn't warmed things up, had it? No, anger did not inspire her. The trouble was, he wasn't sure he could control his temper.

He'd been stung more than he cared to admit when she professed not to care how many women he had as long as they were not Pershwick women. Jealousy he could understand, but not to care at all?

How could he reach this lovely girl, show her he wanted to start anew? Had she not guessed his intention in bringing her here?

Rolfe quickly divested himself of the rest of his clothing. He did not blow out the candle, nor did he close the heavy curtain on his side of the bed, for that would trap the bed in darkness.

Leonie had her back to him. She had not disrobed, and she was buried deep beneath the covers. He threw them aside and lifted her off the bed to set her down on his lap. She made no sound. He held her thus, cradled like a child, stiff and unyielding though she remained.

He held her for a long while, thinking. Finally he asked, "How old are you, Leonie?"

The voice was soft, yet startling in the quiet room. Leonie actually had to think before she could answer.

"I have lived nineteen years."

"And I ten more than that. Do you think I am too old for you?"

"I—suppose not."

Rolfe nearly laughed at the grudging reply. "Do you abhor my blackness then?"

"Blackness? You are not so hairy that your golden skin is—"

Leonie clamped her mouth shut, appalled. Next she would be telling him how handsome he was!

"Will you tell me, then, what displeases you so about my appearance?"

There it was. He really did want to hear it. She would rather cut out her tongue than flatter his vanity. If he wanted praise, he could find it elsewhere—as no doubt he did, often.

"You would be bored to hear it, my lord, the list is so long."

Leonie was delighted to hear him chuckle at her jibe.

"Dearling, there is nothing about you that displeases me. You are a mite small, but I think I like even that."

Oh, cruel lies! You do not send away what pleases you.

"You did not want a wife."

"Why do you say so?"

"Is it a sign of a happy groom to drink himself into forgetfulness?"

"In truth," he said uncomfortably, "I was reluctant to force myself on you after being told why you were hiding beneath your veil."

Leonie was surprised, not surprised that he knew she had been beaten—her father would have been forced to admit that—but surprised to know he'd been acting out of consideration for her. Rolfe destroyed that illusion in a moment, however. "And what little I knew about you before the wedding was not flattering."

"I see," she said coldly. "Then I assume it was not my person you were interested in."

"Few marriages begin differently."

"True. But few progress as ours did. You did not want a wife."

"What I found distasteful, Leonie," he said in a burst of honesty, "were my reasons for marrying you. Anger led me to offer for you, and soon there was no way out. But it was time I took a wife."

She did not reply, and Rolfe was mystified. He'd told her the whole truth. What was there left to say?

He moved her chin upward gently, coaxing her to look at him. "Is it not enough that, whatever the reason we married, I am now well pleased?"

"You sent me away," she said after all, in a small voice, surprising herself.

"A mistake," he said huskily, and began to bring his head toward hers.

"But—" She was so confused! "Do you tell me— is this why you brought me back here? To begin anew?"

"Yes. Oh, yes, dearling."

He breathed the declaration against her mouth, and then he kissed her. He had never been so completely attuned to a woman before, nor experienced such relief when she yielded. The moment he felt her relax against him, he began his assault in earnest. But he did not forget her inexperience, knowing he must go slowly.

Leonie was kissed a dozen different ways in the long minutes that followed, from soft nibbles to deep probing that played havoc with her insides, spinning her up and down. In a second she would be giddy, then there was only sweet lassitude, and then she was soaring dizzily again.

She did not know when her robe melted away, but she was acutely aware of the first touch of Rolfe's hand on her bared breasts. It seemed right for his hand to be there, resting on her with only the slightest pressure. When his hand began to move softly over her, the hand seemed to grow hotter. Her nipples hardened against gentle kneading.

She turned, one hand slipping behind Rolfe's back, the other stroking his shoulder. Her fingers splayed out, wanting to touch, thrilling to the play of muscle beneath skin, the hardness of him. She returned his kisses, exerting her own pressure now, daring him.

Gently he laid her on the bed beside him, and before her head even touched the pillow, his mouth had fastened on one rosy-peaked breast, his tongue doing what his fingers had done before.

He began a thorough exploration of the soft planes of her belly and thighs, coming closer and closer to the core of her womanhood until such a terrible yearning was built in her that she arched upward to meet his exploring hand. When he slipped his long fingers into her warmth, she moaned, her head thrust back. Her fingers closed in his hair, pressing him closer to her.

Few men had ever treated a woman with such reverence. The hands that touched her were worshipful, soothing, and exciting all at once.

Rolfe's tongue slid down the valley of her breasts and over her belly to mount her pubic mound and pay it equal homage. His hands gently nudged her legs apart and then his arms slipped beneath her lower back to pull her up.

Her head fell farther back and a gasp caught in her throat as his lips pressed deeply into her belly. Then he rested his cheek on her thighs for several wrenching moments. She was nearly mindless, ready to beg him to take her.

Rolfe, fully aware of her peaking desire, began a slow ascent, his body gliding over hers, the hair on his chest playing erotically over her sensitive breasts, making her tremble. His tongue slipped again into her mouth and at the same moment, with nerve-shattering slowness, his velvety hardness slid into her warmth, all the way, until he was completely sheathed.

For an eternity, only his mouth moved, tasting deeply of her sweetness. But nothing could distract her from that other warmth filling her, and when it began to slip out of her, she could not help the whimper that escaped her. But that changed to a gasp of pleasure as the warmth returned. That was his gift to her, making each deliberate stroke so exquisitely prolonged.

After her ecstasy had mounted feverishly, Rolfe withdrew until she held only the throbbing tip of him in her. She cried out, suspended on a precipice, and then he plunged deep within her a final time and she exploded with trembling ecstasy that pulsed through her, each shock more extraordinary than the last, until she fainted. She barely felt the last gentle kiss placed on her lips.

Chapter 15

MY lady?"

Leonie opened her eyes to find herself lying on her belly, clutching her pillow, an unusual position, as she never slept like that. Then she remembered last night and warmth rushed through her.

"My lady?"

Wilda was standing at the side of the bed, holding out her bedrobe.

Leonie sighed. She would rather have lain there and savored her memories, or found her husband there instead of Wilda. But a quick glance around told her that he was gone.

"Have I overslept?" Leonie asked.

"No. Now thatheis below, I thought it safe to come and wake you for mass," she said sharply.

Leonie grinned. She knew why Wilda was angry. "If I share the room, I must share his habits." She changed the subject. "Did you sleep well?"

"I fear I did not. The fleas!" Wilda's voice rose. "I was nearly eaten alive!"

Leonie sympathized, for she had a few bites herself. "This place is—"

She recalled the shock she had felt yesterday when she'd had her first good look at the hall.

"Dreadful," Wilda finished for her. "The kitchens and servants' quarters are even worse than the hall, and I fear to go near the garderobe.

Only this room is fairly clean."

Leonie frowned as Wilda began combing her hair. "Why, do you suppose? True, Crewel has not had a lady to supervise since Alain's mother died, but there was the Montigny steward in charge. And Lady Amelia is here now." She shuddered recalling the vermin she had seen in the rushes in the hall, vermin mixed with bones, rotten food, even dog excrement!

"That one obviously does not bother herself," Wilda said. "And the servants, from what I have already seen, do nothing they are not told to do. They have no will even to improve their own quarters."

"How can my husband . . . I would not have thought him a man to live this way."

"But he is rarely here, my lady."

"What?"

"That is what I learned from Mildred," Wilda confided. "A man of war, living in army camps and the like—the conditions here cannot be much different."

"But, Wilda, what do you mean about his rarely being here?"

"Since he took possession of Crewel, Mildred says, he has been away a great deal."

"What else did Mildred tell you?" Leonie asked, knowing that Wilda kept very little to herself.