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 toDamian 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 thathewas 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
ASILVER 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?”
