Judith was finding it difficult to hide her increasing fear. "What is it you want with my husband, my lord?"

Rolfe's black eyes fixed on her. "That is not your concern, madame."

"But—but you cannot simply—"

"No?" he interrupted, his voice low. "Perhaps you like having a sot for a husband?"

"Of course not." She managed to appear most affronted. "I have tried to stop his drinking, but he cannot function without it. I have been unable to help him."

"Then you will thank me for taking a hand. I will soon see him functioning well and understanding me perfectly. Now please lead the way. I would begin this distasteful duty immediately."

Panic mounted in Judith and grew steadily worse as days passed and Rolfe d'Ambert stayed doggedly at the task he had set for himself. She even considered killing the arrogant lord, or killing William, but the former was impossible and the latter, well, if William died, Leonie would inherit everything. Judith would be cast out, penniless. Leonie would do her no good, that was certain.

If only she knew what it was that had brought the lord of Kempston there, but he continued to ignore her pleas to explain. Richer insisted she worried for nothing, but why was Rolfe d'Ambert so angry, and why did he have a ruthless determination to see William coherent and sensible?

The lord of Montwyn was bathed and sheared and bathed again countless times despite his curses and attempts to ward off his persecutors. He was stuffed with food, only to retch it up. He was denied all but milk or water to drink. He was ignored when he screamed for something more potent, ignored when his body shook uncontrollably.

And all the while d'Ambert's anger was a palpable thing, held in check only by heaven knew what.

Judith could only stand by helplessly and watch all that she had accomplished over the years being undone. Her only hope was that William was too far gone to remember any of the recent past, and that once d'Ambert left them alone, William would run back to his drink.

Chapter 41

ROLFE rubbed his face wearily. He was sick of this room, sick of the pathetic man who had drunk his life away.

"If you meant to kill me, why couldn't you do it quickly?"

Rolfe had heard that lament a dozen times in the last grueling days.

William of Montwyn was feeling deeply sorry for himself, and hurting miserably. But his hands no longer trembled quite so much, and his nightmares had begun to lessen.

Rolfe decided he had waited long enough. He finally replied, calling across the room, startling Montwyn and his servants, Rolfe's men, and Lady Judith. "Because, my lord," Rolfe drawled, "I want you to know why I wish to kill you."

The voice was so emotionless that William did not quite credit the statement. His eyes, still slightly streaked with red, fastened on Rolfe. He had been fully dressed that morning despite his protests, and forcibly seated at a table where a feast of wholesome foods awaited him. He ignored them, staring hard at the man responsible for his miserable condition.

"Do you, indeed, Sir Rolfe?" William asked sarcastically, his voice cracking. "Be so good as to tell me why."

"William, no!" Judith rushed forward, alarmed. "Do not provoke him!"

"It is you who provoke me, madame," Rolfe said harshly as he rose and came forward. "Out, all of you," he ordered, nodding to Sir Piers to indicate that Judith would need help in leaving.

"You take too much upon yourself!" William blustered, but he did not even rise.

Rolfe waited until the door was closed before his eyes pierced William. "You know me now?"

"Of course I know you. I just married you to my daughter. God's pity for that."

"Just?"

"What do you mean, sir?" William demanded.

"It has been a full three months since I wed your daughter. Do you know that?"

"Three?" William deflated. "Where has—the time gone?"

"Do you remember the wedding?" Rolfe's voice was coldly menacing now.

"Well, most of it."

"And before?"

"You signed the contract."

"Before that," Rolfe hissed, leaning across the table. "Before you came to Crewel."

"Now, see here." William sighed, exasperated. "If you have something you want to say, then say it. Do not keep prompting me. I am very tired."

"I want to know exactly what you remember doing to your daughter!"

Confused, William rubbed his temples, trying to think. What could he have done to so incense his son-in-law?

"Ah, yes, I do recall she was very upset with me, and with reason," William admitted frankly.

"Upset?" Rolfe growled. "What you did merely upset her?"

"I make no excuse for myself," William said contritely. "I gave her no warning about the wedding because I did not remember it myself. In truth, I still have no memory of receiving the king's order that insisted she marry you."

"Damn me!" Rolfe shouted furiously. "You speak of trifles after the brutal beating you gave her!"

William came slowly to his feet, his fact mottled with rage. "What knavery is this? How dare you suggest—"

"Shewasbeaten, my lord, forced to marry me, as she has finally admitted to me. I did not know it myself, but God knows everyone else did."

The crimson turned to pallor. "It is impossible."

"Impossible that you do not remember, or that you did the despicable deed?"

William shook his head. "I tell you, whether I could remember or not, I would never hurt that child. She is all I have left of my Elisabeth. I could not hurt her. I love her too dearly."

"Love her?" Rolfe was truly astonished. "You love her so much you banished her from here and forsook her for years?"

"What lies are these?" William demanded. "I . . . sent her away for a time, in the agony of my grief, yes, I remember that. But not for long. I could never be long away from my only child. She was—" He pressed his palms to his temples, trying to remember. "Judith swore . . . Leonie was busy . . . I . . . Judith swore I . . . God in heaven!" He moaned. "I did not recognize her that day at Pershwick!I cannot rememberseeing my Leonie grow up!" He looked at Rolfe, stupefied, as though expecting some clarification from him.

Rolfe frowned. Something was not right. The man's anguish was genuine.

"What are you saying, Sir William?" Rolfe asked carefully. "That in your drunkenness, you thought Leonie was still here with you?"

"She was." The voice had weakened to a whisper.

Rolfe sighed, disgusted. "If you had been sober when I came in here, I would have killed you for the pain you have caused your daughter. Now

I can feel only pity for you." He turned slowly and moved toward the door.

"Wait! I do not know who has told you these lies about my Leonie, but Judith can tell you—"

Rolfe swung back around, eyes flashing. "Fool! It is Leonie who told me."

"No! God's mercy, no! May my hand be struck off if I ever hurt her. I swear—"

"Let me think!" Rolfe bellowed, and William subsided.

"Who else was with you when you told Leonie she must marry me?"

Rolfe asked.

"I can barely remember being there, and you expect—"

"Think, my lord!"

"There were servants . . . Leonie's man Guibert . . . my wife."

It made no sense. Leonie's people would not hurt her, and Judith wasn't strong enough to do Leonie harm. Sir Guibert wouldn't have hurt her.

"What did Leonie say when you told her the news? Did she attempt to leave Pershwick?"

"I have already told you she was upset. She said not a word to me but fled to her room. If she came out before the next day, I do not know."

"You didn't even try to talk to her?" Rolfe demanded. What was wrong with this man?

William dropped his head abjectly. "Judith felt it would do no good, after my unpardonable forgetfulness had caused Leonie's dismay. She insisted I leave the matter . . . to her." William's voice faded again. "She pointed out that I would be in the way of the preparations. She had Guibert amuse me with a hunt. You see? I am beginning to remember things."

Rolfe stepped to the door and called for Sir Piers. "Where did you take Lady Judith?"

"Below."

"Bring her back—quickly." To William he said, "She is a woman. What man here would do her bidding without question?"

"All," William admitted. "I am ashamed to say I cannot remember the last time I dealt directly with my people for anything."

"Do you tell me your wife has had full control of Montwyn for a matter of years?" Rolfe asked incredulously.

"I . . . she must have," William whispered.

William's mind was still very slow, but one thing was becoming crystal clear. If he could believe all that his son-in-law had been telling him, then Judith was not simply guilty of tricking him into marrying her—and yes, he did remember that—but she had also kept him separated from his daughter. He didn't know how she had done it, but she had.

Leonie's husband was enraged over the pain inflicted on her because of the wedding, but William was devastated by the pain she must have borne thinking her father had abandoned her for so long. And he had abandoned her, in truth, abandoned her to his grief, to his weak will, and to a woman who manipulated and lied to him so easily, for so long.

He was remembering too many things all of a sudden, and the blackest rage engulfed him from deep within himself. He was to blame.

He had let it happen, let his scheming wife take over his whole existence.