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.

Chapter 29

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.

The long garment with detached sleeves was easy to wear when she worked in the garden, wearing serge sleeves and overblouse and bliaut.

The style was equally easy to adapt to formal wear. The fact was, she didn't have many clothes because she didn't need many.

The note arrived just as they were leaving for London, handed quickly to Leonie by a village serf she did not know. She had no time to read it, so the note was forgotten, stuck into the tight sleeve of her chemise to read later. Catching sight of Rolfe having a private word with Amelia put the note further from her mind—and put her in a bad mood that lasted most of the day.

They broke their journey at a small inn, and Leonie retired early, wanting to be asleep by the time Rolfe joined her. As Wilda was unlacing her, the note fell to the floor. A frown creased Leonie's brow as she read it.

"It is from Alain Montigny."

"Sir Alain? But I thought you said he was in Ireland, my lady."

"Not any longer. He asks me to meet him at the pasture dividing the properties." Leonie's frown deepened. "Whatever is he doing here?"

"Will you meet him?"

"I would have, but he wanted to meet at noon today."

"I thought he was afraid of your husband."

"Yes, he is."

"Then what can he be thinking of, coming back to the Black Wolf's den?"

"Do not call him that," Leonie snapped.

"I—I beg your pardon, my lady."

Leonie's eyes widened. Sweet Mary, what was wrong with her?

"Never mind, Wilda. Get some sleep. It has been a long day."

As Wilda slipped out of the room, Leonie tossed the note into the fire, then crawled into the bed her maid had fitted with the sheets they had brought along. But she could not sleep. She couldn't stop thinking of Alain. What could he be thinking of, coming back to his home when he had sworn it would be worth his life to do so?

She began to wonder if that had been a lie. Everything Alain had told her that day about her husband had turned out to be either lies or fearful delusions. From all she had come to know, Rolfe d'Ambert was not the man she had cursed that fateful day. He had faults, but harsh vengeance was not in his nature. She herself could attest to that.

"Are you asleep, Leonie?"

How quietly he had come into the room! "No, my lord."

"Will you help me then? I have sent Damian on to bed."

She smiled. Lately he asked for her help so reluctantly, entirely different from his previously arrogant demands. She wondered if he regretted his earlier manner.

"Sit here, my lord."

She got up from the narrow bed that was so much smaller than their own and began to unlace his chausses. His heavy hauberk had been removed by Damian.

"I would like to check your wound," Leonie said. "To see if the ride today has opened it."

"That is unnecessary."

How tired he sounded. "Humor me, my lord."

"'Humor me, my lord,'" he repeated wearily. "You ask for much, but give so little. Humorme,my lady. Tell me why you will not give us a chance?"

She stiffened, then looked away. "You know why."

"Of course." He sighed. "I had thought your feelings might have changed."

She was genuinely puzzled. Why would he ask her that when it was he who was not allowing them a chance? She was then struck by the incredible thought that he might be keeping his mistress nearby because of her own coldness to him. She was so stunned that she froze where she stood, unmoving. Was he only waiting for her to warm to him before he renounced other women?

She was terribly confused. Should she let the subject lie, or ask what she wanted to ask? "Let—let me remove your tunic," she said quickly, bending toward him. In doing so, her linen robe slipped open and Rolfe's eyes fastened on her beautiful breasts. He took a long, deep breath, his eyes moving slowly up to hers. She saw great longing there, and realized that he had been celibate since his injury. He was tired from the journey, but that did not seem to matter.

Heat stole up her cheeks and she pulled her robe together. This was not the time for a return of his amorous attentions. How could she ask him about his disturbing question if he continued to look at her this way?