Johanna Lindsey - When Love Awaits

"If you would rather not tend me, Leonie, I will understand."

She found the humility in his voice less than convincing. "The gift I received from my mother to heal and comfort is mine to share. If I cannot use it, it becomes worthless. Now will you let me stop your bleeding?"

He nodded, and she pulled the sheet to the side to remove the stained bandage. As she worked, she glowed with pleasure, proud and glad to be using her skills.

"You find pleasure in helping others?" Rolfe asked suddenly.

"Yes."

He sighed. He had been wrong. As Thorpe said, it was simply her way to help people. He was nothing special to her.

"Something is wrong, my lord?"

"No," he lied glibly. "It has just occurred to me that I may have hurt you by calling for the leech instead of you."

"I was not hurt," she assured him quickly. "I was angry at the foolishness of it, because I knew Odo was incompetent. But your order to keep me from you was understandable. You were weak and in pain. You were not thinking clearly."

"Why do you make excuses for me?"

She shook her head. "If you had been yourself, my lord, I am sure you would have had me put in irons instead of simply barring me from here."

"Put in irons!" He frowned. "I would never . . . You are my wife."

"That is not the issue," she said angrily. "Someone tried to kill you.

That person must be found and punished—no matter who it was. I would expect no less if I had tried to kill you."

Rolfe laughed ruefully. "I admit I thought of you first when the arrow struck and I saw the villain moving off toward Pershwick. I did notwant to believe you capable of arranging my death, but the thought was there, and not unreasonable, given your past . . . I am truly sorry for doubting you this time, Leonie."

Why wouldn't she look at him? She had finished changing his bandage, and was rummaging in her basket. She held up a small blue bottle. "Will you let me give you this for the pain, my lord?"

Rolfe frowned at the evasion. She wouldn't meet his eyes, and she seemed most uncomfortable suddenly.

"No!" he snarled, regretting it immediately.

"So you still doubt me?" she asked softly.

"I did not say so."

"Yet you refuse my tonic, and I know you are in pain. You fear I mean to poison you, is that it?"

"Damn! Give me that!" He grabbed the bottle from her and took a swallow. "There! Now tell me why you cannot forgive me."

"But I do," she said softly, her gaze steady. "I can only hope that you will be forgiving when I tell you—"

"Do not tell me." He cut her off abruptly. "I want to hear no confessions from you."

"But I want to tell you about—"

"No!"

She stood up and glared at him, all meekness gone. "You would make me wait and dread your anger until someoneelsetells you? Well, I will not do that. My lord, I dismissed your steward and I am not sorry for it."

She waited for the explosion, but Rolfe simply stared at her in amazement.

"Is that all?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied stonily.

"What—what did you expect me to do, Leonie?"

"You have every right to be angry, and it won't hurt your wound if you feel like shouting at me."

"Perhaps," he said quietly, trying not to grin, "if you told me why you dismissed him?"

"I discovered Master Erneis was stealing from you, and not just a little.

Hundreds of marks."

"How do you know he was stealing?" he asked sharply.

She quickly explained. "I am only sorry that I handled it badly, for he is gone now and so is your money."

"You still have not said why you are sure he was stealing."

"My lord, I wouldn't know how much you gave the steward to begin with, but he said you gave him eleven or twelve hundred marks. You have been here seven months, and in that time he recorded spending nine hundred marks. That is far, far too much."

"Leonie, how do youknowthat?" Rolfe asked in exasperation.

She flushed and bowed her head. "I—I was my own steward, which I did not tell you. I know that an estate this size should be self-sufficient unless there are frequent guests staying here, and I know what it costs to maintain a household of this size."

Rolfe shook his head. Her own steward, yet she refused to take the reins at Crewel.

"It must be obvious to you that the management of property is not my strength. So I will have to take your word for it that I was cheated by my steward."

"I swear I read his accounts correctly and—"

"I was not doubting you. But this leaves me without a steward.

Evarard cannot take over, for he would know even less than I do."

"Indeed."

"So what do you suggest? You dismissed the man. Have you anyone in mind to replace him?"

"I can think of no one."

"Well, I can. You will have to fill the position yourself."

"Me?"

"Is that not just? You are responsible, you realize."

"Yes, of course." Leonie turned away, carrying her basket to the hearth so that he would not see how delighted she was. He thought he was punishing her, when in fact he was ordering her to do what she thrived on. She would have made the suggestion herself, but had feared he would refuse. After all, he had denied her any responsibilities at Crewel—until that moment.

She managed a controlled expression, then turned back to face him. "If there is nothing else you wish to discuss, my lord, I will have your dinner sent to you."

"You will join me?" he asked sleepily. The morphine he had drank from the blue bottle was affecting him.

"If you wish."

"Good. And, Leonie, where have you been sleeping?"

"I—I moved a few of my things to a room across from the servants' quarters."

"Bring them back." Sleepy though he was, his manner brooked no refusal. "You will sleep here from now on."

"As you will, my lord," she murmured, blushing.

She left the room then, happy and apprehensive all at once.

AFIRE crackled in the great hearth as servants moved through the hall, setting the tables for dinner under Wilda's careful eye. Amelia worked her stitchery by the fire, deliberately ignoring what was going on around her. Sitting beside her, Sir Evarard was enjoying a mug of ale, his duties finished for the day.

When Leonie came downstairs from the lord's chamber, Amelia's eyes fastened on her. She watched intently as Leonie said a few words to her maid, then left the hall.

Amelia sat back with a smug smile. She had waited for the day when Rolfe would confront his wife with her crimes. Evarard had told her what Rolfe suspected, and whether or not it was true, he would surely send Leonie back to Pershwick now.

Amelia had kept out of the way when Rolfe was wounded, for if he had died and no one could prove that his wife was to blame, Amelia would have been sent packing. She could not have afforded to be enemies with Leonie.

But Rolfe was recovered now, and believed his wife had wanted him dead.

"Do you think he has told her to begin packing?" Amelia asked Evarard, who had also watched Leonie crossing the hall to the servants' stairs.

"Packing? Why?"

"To go back to Pershwick, of course."

"Why would he send her there?"

Amelia stared at her lover angrily. She was always having to explain every little thing to him because their minds did not run the same course.

She could never confide everything to Sir Evarard, for he was a man plagued with honor.

"Did you not tell me that he believes her responsible for the fire at the mill and the attack against him?" she whispered, exasperated.

"That was a mistake," Evarard said casually.

"A mistake? Whose mistake?"

Evarard shrugged. "Sir Rolfe knows now that he was wrong."

"How do you know that? Did he tell you so himself?"

"Sir Thorpe said so before he left. He has gone to begin the siege of Warling."

"But he was tending Rolfe."

"The lady Leonie will see to him now, so there is no reason for Sir Thorpe to remain here."

Amelia gritted her teeth. "Do you think she will still be tending him when he hears about poor Erneis?"

"Sir Rolfe will deal with that in his way, but I doubt he will put his wife from him simply because she overstepped her authority. He is most pleased with her in every other way. Why, look at all she has done since she came here."

Amelia suppressed a scream of fury, stabbing her needle into her embroidery instead. Evarard seemed not to notice her agitation.

It was not fair! Just when Amelia had begun to hope that she could drop her pretense of being pregnant, saying that she had miscarried.

Now she would have to continue her affair with Evarard, at least until he got her with child. That had to happen immediately. If she had her monthly flow again, she might as well give up, for Rolfe was not a stupid man. As it was, if she did have a child, she would have to pretend it was a delayed birth.

She tried to stop her mind from whirling. Yes, she would have to become pregnant. She might even be forced to allow the pregnancy to run its course, unless . . .

Leonie must be told about the child. Amelia could let it slip as though by accident, then step back and see what that news did to the relationship between the lord and his lady. Leonie's pride might have kept her from speaking to Rolfe about having a mistress living in his house, but it was another thing entirely for the mistress to bear him a child—especially a child conceivedafterthe marriage.

It would not matter if Leonie confronted Rolfe, for he could not deny the child. But Leonie might not even ask him about it, but simply leave.

Once she was gone, Amelia might still have time to get rid of the child, using the potion she'd learned about at court years ago.

As Amelia dreamed on, her smug smile returned.

THEY were going to court. Leonie's stomach turned over in dismay when she was told. Much to her chagrin, she had to write the letter accepting the king's invitation.

Rolfe would not hear her excuses, but insisted she accompany him to court.

"Henry wants to meet you," was all he would say. And no one refused the king what he wanted, she reminded herself bitterly.

Rolfe was not well enough to travel, so the day of departure was set for a week hence.

That week flew by. Leonie prayed her nervousness would not bring back her old rash, prayed, too, that she wouldn't make a fool of herself.

So many years had passed since she had been at court. Would she remember how to behave?

Rolfe understood and did his best to ease her anxiety. He told her amusing stories about the king and his barons, pointing out that she might even meet some of her relatives there. She wasn't sure whether that made her feel better or worse.

They were sleeping in the same bed, but he wasn't well enough for lovemaking. She spent nearly all her time reading to him, eating with him, being on hand if he wanted to dictate a letter. They talked a great deal, Rolfe telling her about himself, forcing her to talk as well.

In all ways he tried to please her, except in the way that mattered most and always stood between them— Amelia. Every time she attempted to speak to him about his mistress, pride kept the words bottled up. If only he would send Amelia away. If only. But she dared not ask. She feared his refusal, which would tell her only too plainly what she didn't want to know. Did he love Amelia? She tortured herself over the question time and time again.

She reined her feelings in, maintaining a distance that was necessary for her defenses. She could not afford to relax with him, laughing easily and teasing him, as was her nature. She might then find herself hopelessly in love with him, and that she must guard against fiercely.

The morning they were to depart for London would be the first time Rolfe would leave their room. He left all preparations for the journey to Leonie, even his packing. She enjoyed this wifely duty.

Her own packing caused a dilemma, however, for she owned only two fine bliauts. So Wilda labored long and hard to make a third one from a length of Spanish wool Leonie had been saving.

Leonie was an expert needlewoman, and had embroidered many altar cloths and christening robes. She spent little time on her own clothing, however, finding the current style easy to adapt to whatever need arose.