“We have supplies here, my lady. I do not think Sir Rolfe will like you taking from Pershwick.”
“My husband has no say in what I take from Pershwick, for Pershwick is mine,” Leonie stated firmly. “And since those herbs have not been in use here, I doubt that you have them in supply. I want the herbs today. The wormwood will help combat the fleas here. It must be strewn before the new rushes are brought into the hall, and afterward as well. The chamomile will curb the odors in the rest of the keep until all the rushes can be changed. I will not tolerate filth. Sir Evarard, and please do not question my motives when I give orders.”
“As you will, my lady,” he replied brusquely and turned away.
“I am not finished,” she said sharply.
He turned back reluctantly. “My lady?”
“How often do you hunt, Sir Evarard?”
“Every day. For sport as well as for the table.”
“You use the dogs or do you have hawks?”
“Hawks are too tedious to carry with us and we did naught but move from place to place before we settled here. My lord has not yet purchased good hawks. The few we have here bring down an occasional bird. I do not use them. I prefer the dogs.”
“Then I can assume the hunting dogs get enough exercise, and if not, that can be seen to outside the walls of the keep. Inside, they will no longer have free rein. And I do not mean just inside the hall. Their habits are too foul.”
“But they are fed in the hall.”
“No longer,” she replied, shaking her head with distaste. “Is there no master of the hounds?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell him to keep the animals penned at all times when they are not in use. If Crewel has no dog pens, he is to build some—adequately, so the pens can easily be cleaned daily.”
“The man will balk, my lady,” he warned her.
“Then you will replace him,” she replied smoothly. “And if there is no one else who qualifies, then deal with him harshly until he stops balking. Otherwise I will have to bring my own man here from Pershwick.”
“I will see the matter settled, my lady.”
He said it so quickly that it was comical. She supposed she could use that threat again if she had any more trouble. He wouldn’t be the only one at Crewel who would resent outside help. She’d do well to keep that threat in her arsenal, she told herself.
Chapter 20
HE could not stay away even for a week, was Rolfe’s thought about himself as he rode into the bailey at Crewel in time for dinner, five days later. He felt as much disgust with himself as he had when he’d found himself drawn back to Leonie the day after his wedding, when he hadn’t even known what she looked like. Still, there were reasons other than his wife for his early return.
The campaign at Wroth had come to a standstill. For the fifth time the tunnel they were working to get under the walls had collapsed. Rolfe could not afford this new delay. Time was working against him now. The remaining keeps that he had yet to win had been closed up for nearly seven months. They would be getting desperate, reaching a point where they would be forced to open up and fight. And if Rolfe was not there with the bulk of his force when one did open up…
He had a decision to make about Wroth Keep, but it was a decision he could make at home as easily as he could camp outside of Wroth—easier here, in fact, for once he took his wife to bed he could at last put her from his mind long enough to devote his thoughts to Wroth.
Rolfe had not looked forward to eating at Crewel, so he had eaten when he stopped at Kenil to check on the repairs in progress there. The food there was good, and he was considering moving the Kenil cook to Crewel. But on entering the hall at Crewel with Damian and two men-at-arms, he was greeted with a very pleasant aroma.
He had only a moment to wonder about it before his eyes fell on Leonie, and his sense of smell gave way to other senses. She was sitting at the high table, an ethereal vision in an ice-blue bliaut, her silver hair in two thick braids resting one on each breast. A short blue square of lace was her only head covering. Evarard and Amelia were dining with her, but seemed to be talking only to each other.
The hall was full and noisy, yet it seemed to Rolfe that there was only himself and Leonie. He gazed at her to his heart’s content, willing her to look at him. At last, sensing something, she did. Their eyes locked, and his desire for her rose hot and strong, stunning him with its force.
When she saw Rolfe, Leonie’s heart jumped into her throat. She took a deep breath to steady herself as, his expression intense, he moved toward her. A tight knot formed in her belly.
She was about to learn what he thought of the changes she had made in his home, and she found she wasn’t feeling at all brave. The rushing of her blood roared in her ears.
But Rolfe, whose eyes did not leave hers for a second, was paying no attention to his surroundings, and sudden hot color flooded her face as she realized what made him look at her so intently. She quickly bent her head and turned a little away from him as he approached the table. She was not going to acknowledge him—she couldn’t find her voice.
Many eyes watched Rolfe crossing the hall so purposefully, but he was blind to everything except Leonie. Wilda and Mary held their breath, fearing for their mistress, while Rolfe’s men grinned at one another. Amelia failed to keep the resentment from her eyes, though no one noticed her because the meeting between lord and lady held everyone’s attention.
Leonie gasped as her chair was pulled away from the table, and shrieked as Rolfe scooped her up and, without a word, started toward the stairs. Behind them, laughter erupted in the hall, and cheers, as the assembled company watched them disappear up the stairs.
Leonie was so mortified that she hid her face against Rolfe’s chest. Shame paralyzed her, and it was not until their door closed on the noise below that her voice returned. “How could you?” she cried, struggling against him.
Gripping her firmly, he answered innocently, “What have I done except to bring you where I want you to be?”
“Everyone knows exactly what you intend!” she stormed, mindless of all but her shame.
Rolfe chuckled, his eyes velvety brown with warmth. “You make too much of it, dearling. They might think I brought you up here to beat you. Would you be appeased if you returned to the hall with a blackened eye?”
“You make light of it,” she told him furiously, “but even animals show their mates some respect. I would be appeased only if I returned below immediately.”
He kissed her so forcefully that her thoughts disappeared like silken threads on the wind. When he finished, his kissing fired by passion, she was so bemused that she hardly knew he had set her on her feet.
“There,” he said. “With your lips swollen, everyone will think I only wanted to steal a kiss. So you may go below and be appeased now, Leonie.”
“You mean it?” She gasped.
“I want you, but if my keeping you here is going to upset you…Go quickly now, before I change my mind.”
Leonie lowered her eyes, her voice tremulous. “Thank you, my lord.”
“My lord,” he repeated disgustedly, sighing. “Finish your dinner. And please order me a bath and send my squire to me. Also, Leonie, have your maids come and take their things away now if they moved back here while I was away. But you must return here within the hour or you will again have reason to call me an animal.”
Leonie hurried out of the room. The tasks Rolfe had set her to made her feel almost like a real wife and she saw to them with a measure of pride. It was enough to obviate her embarrassment, and she even relaxed enough to finish her meal.
But as the time neared for her to return to Rolfe, her calm fled. Rather than delay and let her nervousness get the best of her, she mounted the stairs in a rush before she could succumb to the urge to find a hiding place.
He had finished his bath and was sitting in a chair by the hearth. He had moved the chair to face the door, and was staring at her as she entered. He wore a
bedrobe of fine yellow silk. It made his eyes a lighter brown. He wore it loosely, falling open to reveal the thick black hair of his chest. It was to this mat of hair that her eyes kept returning, and she blushed furiously when he caught her staring.
On the table beside him was her own soap and a thick woolen towel that she had told Wilda to give to Damian for Rolfe. The soap had been put back in its little wooden box to dry, and the wet towel folded.
Rolfe’s eyes followed Leonie’s. “Was there a subtlety in your offering me that sweet-smelling soap?” he inquired.
“No, my lord. For as long as I have known you, you have not smelled unpleasant to me.” He grinned at the unintended compliment. “The soap is made with oil of rosemary. I thought you might prefer it to the abrasive soaps I found here.”
“Is it costly?”
“Costly only in time, my lord. I make it myself.”
“Then I am pleased you offered it.” His voice deepened when he added, “But I would have been more pleased if you had found your way back here sooner.”
“I am not late.”
“You quibble with me when you know what it cost me to let you go?”
“I—I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps,” he replied softly, “but I think it more likely you do.”
Leonie had no answer for that. He was looking at her in a way that increased her nervousness so much that she darted over to the bed, praying that preparing it for sleep would distract them both. But the bedlinens were already turned down, and there was nothing for her to do.
She sat down on the far side of the bed, away from him, refusing to look at him any more. The picture he presented was all too masculine, corded muscle, virile strength, compelling handsomeness, all wrapped up in self-assurance. She would wager that he was never afraid, while she sat there feeling her belly churn with dread.
She closed her eyes, but that didn’t stop him from coming to stand before her. “Let me help you disrobe.”
“I can manage,” she whispered, and Rolfe tensed.
“Are you still sulking, Leonie?”
“I do not sulk. I never sulk. Children sulk! I am not a child.”
She rasped out each word, fighting with the laces at her side. He stood there patiently, watching her whip her bliaut off, then vengefully attack the laces of her chemise. Finally it was discarded, leaving only her knee-length cream-colored sleeveless shift. The garment was so thin that he could see her nipples. Rolfe caught his breath.
She was so incredibly lovely, this wife of his, even when she was bristling with anger. He had thought about her too much while they were separated, her image a living dream, seeing her eyes flash with silver fire, or soft with innocent confusion. Her hair was a glorious beacon, haunting him as he imagined running his fingers through the silver softness. Her body, the sweetly curving ripeness, was before him now in all its beauty—no longer a dream. This exquisite girl had yielded to him once. Would she again?
Leonie bent over to remove her slippers and stockings. Then, knowing she could not remove her shift, not with him standing there watching her, she folded her hands and was still, head bent, averting her gaze.
Rolfe gently removed the lace square from her head, lifting the braids and unbraiding them. Swiftly, he removed her shift and tossed it aside. Before she could protest, he took her face in his large hands and made her look up at him.
“Leonie, I did not ask your forgiveness for what happened at Pershwick. I ask it now. Do not be angry with me over that anymore.”
She was so surprised she couldn’t speak. But Rolfe wanted no answer, he wanted an end to her anger. And he desperately wanted her to want him.
He bent and kissed her, gently at first and then, as she began to respond to him, his kisses became more passionate. At last she moaned and he carried her to the center of the bed and lay down beside her, wrapping her hard against him. She forgot everything else and melted into him, enraptured, gloriously happy in his love.
Chapter 21
A SILVER moon peeked through swiftly passing clouds, and wind whipped over the parapets, foretelling a summer storm. The hounds howled in their confinement, and the horses moved restlessly in the stable.
Rolfe paced back and forth before the hearth, the single candle burning on the table near him casting his shadow against the walls. There were three hours yet before dawn, hours in which he must decide…
“My lord?”
Rolfe turned toward the bed. Leonie hadn’t closed the bedcurtains, and he saw her curled on her side, eyes wide with concern.
“I did not mean to disturb you, Leonie. Go back to sleep.”
It was the sound of his footsteps that had awakened her. A large man did not move quietly.
“I have much on my mind,” he offered with a tired sigh. “It does not concern you.”
Leonie lay quietly watching him, then spoke. “Perhaps if you speak of what troubles you, my lord, it will not seem so terrible.”
His eyes fixed on her and he shook his head impatiently. How like a woman to think there was an easy solution to everything.
Leonie was chagrined. A husband should confide in his wife. “There is nothing a man cannot tell his wife, unless he does not trust—”
“Very well.” Rolfe cut her off, her persistence irritating him. “If you wish to hear of war and death, then I will tell you. On the morrow many of my men can die, for I can no longer think of a way to take Wroth Keep without attacking. Talk of terms ended long ago.” He sat down and began elaborating. “The walls are thick and the tunnel it has taken so long to make collapsed once again. They are well supplied, it seems, for they taunt us from the walls and swear they can outlast us. My men are angry and impatient to fight, and in truth I can see no other way.”
“You will move war machines against the walls?” she asked.
“I dealt with Kenil Keep that way and now the repairs there are costing more than my army. I am not making war on an enemy, Leonie. I am only securing what is mine. I don’t want to take the keep by rendering it useless.”
“Can you scale the walls?” she asked, feeling silly for asking naïve questions. But it seemed she was not far off the mark.
“I am left with no other choice. I have three other keeps to win yet, and they are becoming desperate because they have been closed off so long ago. Any day now one or more could open their gates and try to escape. If so, they will find they have been tricked, because they are being held at bay by only a handful of men—not an entire army, which is what it looks like from inside the keeps.”
“Is that what you have done?” Leonie gasped.
He frowned. “I came here with only two hundred men. I hired more from the king’s army, but that’s still not enough to divide among seven keeps. Each keep believed I moved on it first. They each thought they had only to stay within their walls and wait, and help would come from one of the others. I let each keep see the whole of my army so they would think the odds were against their fighting before they had help. Later, I moved my men around to continue giving that impression. But if one of the remaining keeps should discover the ruse, they will be so enraged that every man I have camped there will be slaughtered.”
Leonie was shocked. “Would you yourself have to fight in the attack on Wroth Keep?”
Rolfe glowered. “I do not send my men where I would not fight. I lead all movements, as I have always done.”
“You have scaled the walls of many keeps?”
His expression became remote. “I have fought the wars of many men—including your king, who is now my king. I fought wherever I had to, in whatever manner was necessary. It is only recently, in this effort to secure what is mine, that I have used so much restraint. It is usually my way to see a thing done quickly, yet I have tried to destroy as little as possible.”
“But you say you must attack Wroth.”
“I must take the risk and I may lose men, but I can waste no more time on Wroth Keep.”
“Then leave it,”
Leonie suggested in all seriousness. “Move on to the next keep and return to Wroth last.”
“And have my men feel they are retreating? I told you, they have been angered by the taunts thrown down from the walls. They plead to attack.”
“How many of those men will die before you even breach the walls and begin the actual fighting? How many will break their necks when the scaling ladders are pushed away from the walls? How many will be roasted by hot oil and sand?”
Rolfe gazed skyward. “Why do I speak of war with a woman?” he asked in exasperation.
“Have you no answer for me, my lord?”
“The risks are known to us all,” he replied harshly. “War is not a game.”
“Oho,” she scoffed. “I have my doubts about that, my lord, for you men surely love war as children do their games!”
He scowled. “War does not concern you, wife, unless it comes to your own gate. Go back to sleep. You are not helping me.”
She let him sulk for a few moments, then went on. “Would the risk be less if there were fewer men manning the walls of Wroth?” she asked.
She thought he would not condescend to answer, for he had turned his back to her. Stubborn man, she was thinking when he finally said, “Wroth has been in constant readiness. They have not grown lax in their vigilance, and the vassal there is no fool. I regret he could not be won over.” There was real regret in his voice.
“But if there were only a few men to throw off the ladders?”
“A fool question, madame,” he replied curtly. “The risk would be less, naturally.”
“Could one man manage to get inside Wroth undetected?”
“That has been considered, but it would take more than one man just to open the gates, and the likelihood—”
“Not to reach the gates, my lord, to reach the water supply.”
Rolfe swung around, his face contorted with amazement. “You would poison them all? Even the servants! Damn me, I did not think you were cold-blooded!”