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. "Howcouldyou?" 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 bed-robe 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 thathewas never afraid, while she sat there feeling her belly churn with dread.

She closed her eyes, but that didn't stop him from coining 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?"

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—"