Johanna Lindsey - When Love Awaits

As far as Rolfe was concerned, ladies were silly creatures, good only for sewing and gossiping and making trouble. His mother and her ladies had taught him that. All women used sex to get what they wanted. He had watched his mother work her wiles on his father for years. He had seen the same in every court he had been to. He made it a rule, usually, never to grant a woman anything she asked if she asked it in the bedchamber.

When Rolfe finished with Amelia, she was forgotten. Without the distraction of Amelia, his mind returned to what was troubling him so badly. In a rage, he had decided he wanted Leonie of Montwyn. Another rage had taken him to the king to secure her. Now that the rages were past, he was filled with dread.

He did not want a wife he could feel no pride in and would never love. He planned to confine her to Pershwick, and he told himself it was because of the ills she had caused him, but it was really her reputed ugliness that worried him. Already he was feeling guilty over that. It was not her fault she was ugly. Perhaps her appearance was what caused her to be such a spiteful woman.

Rolfe was sick at heart for what his fool temper had gotten him into.

His honor would not let him try to squirm out of the situation, and his guilt mounted each day, thinking of the girl and her expectations. The poor creature was more than likely overjoyed to finally have a suitor, even one she had been doing battle with. Why shouldn't she be pleased?

What prospects had she ever had before this one?

His guilt rose to choke him. Perhaps he wouldn't send her away.

There was an old tower at Crewel. She could have that for herself. He would not have to see her, and she would not have to bear the disgrace of being sent from her husband's home. Still, her expectations for a child, for a normal married life, would be crushed. He came back to wondering again if he could bed her, whether the sight of her would turn him cold.

Every man wanted an heir and he was no different in that. But if the sight of her made it impossible . . .

For a man whose nerves were usually like steel, these were very uncomfortable feelings. On the morrow, he would have to bed her, at least for that one time, for her parents and the other guests would inspect the wedding sheets the morning after, as was customary. He might choose to forgo some of the customs, such as the bedding ceremony, but there was no way he could avoid the inspecting of the sheets which confirmed the girl's virginity. There was no way to escape it. He would have to bed her or face more jesting taunts than his temper would stand for.

LEONIE came to at the sound of Wilda's startled cry. She could have cursed the girl for rousing her to the pain.

"What they did to you, my lady!" Wilda wailed. "Your face is black and swollen. May they roast in the fires of hell! May the hand that dared touch you rot and fall off! May—"

"Oh, hush, Wilda!" Leonie snapped, trying to move her jaw as little as possible. "You know how easily I bruise. I am sure I look worse than I feel."

"Truly, my lady?"

"Bring me my mirror."

Leonie tried to grin to ease the girl's anxiety, but her jaw and her cracked and bloodied lips hurt too much to manage it. The polished steel mirror handed her confirmed that she looked like something trampled under the hooves of a great war-horse.

One of her eyes was swollen tightly shut, the other was a mere slit.

Blood had dried on her lips and chin and beneath her nose, but it was hardly noticeable against the deep blue-black bruises surrounding the whole of her face. She was loath to imagine what her chest and arms looked like, for Richer had not confined his blows to her head.

She was clothed as fully as she had been when Richer left her. And someone had kept Wilda from coming to her last evening, so she had not disrobed at all. She had, she guessed, lapsed into unconsciousness soon after Richer left, and not wakened since.

"I think I have looked better," Leonie said, setting the mirror down. "I thought he had broken my nose, but now I think it will mend—along with the rest of me."

"How can you jest, my lady?"

"Because it is better than crying, and that is what I will do if I think of what this beating accomplished."

"You will marry him then?"

"You know about it?"

"My lady, the horses are saddled and waiting. Everything is prepared and ready. . . except you."

Leonie would have given anything to stop this, but now that she had given her word, sworn on all that was holy as well as her mother's grave, she would have to marry Rolfe d'Ambert. It did not matter that the vow had been beaten out of her—she had said the words and she would have to abide by them.

Oh, how she wanted to cry. She had been so sure she could withstand Richer's hands, but she was wrong. He had slapped her again and again, and when, her cheeks scarlet, she did not cower or beg, he began using his fists. She had borne as much as she could, believing that the beating could not be worse than whatever the Black Wolf planned for her. But when she realized that Richer would kill her if he was not stopped, and that there was no one to stop him, she had given up. If her father could let this happen, he would not save her.

No one interfered. No one came, even when she screamed. She knew then that there would be no help, and so she did what she had to do.

Sir Guibert would kill Richer for her, but what good was that? The scum was only following her father's orders. And although she was choking in sorrow and hatred for her father, she did not wish for more violence. Therefore, she would have to conceal what had been done to her.

"Bring me my medicines, Wilda, then find me a suitable gown to be married in. I care not if my husband knows I was forced to wed him, but no one else is to know. Do you understand? Find me a veil, a dark one, and gloves, I think. I have had a recurrence of my childhood rashes, and there is no time to make the ointment to relieve it. Do you hear? That is what you will go and tell my aunt and Sir Guibert."

"But you outgrew those rashes."

"I know, but it is not impossible that I became so nervous about meeting my future husband that the rash reappeared. And it is also understandable that I would wish to hide it. Just make sure Sir Guibert believes the story. Do that now, then return and help me dress. And carry my medicines along to Crewel. I will have more need of them later."

Alone, Leonie put her head in her hands and sobbed. This day was going to be one horror after another.

For the swelling and bruises she applied a mixture of the marsh mallow root and oil of roses. For her nerves and the overall aching she drank a sedating syrup made from chamomile flowers. She would have taken a mixture of white poppy, but she didn't think she should fall asleep during the wedding ceremony.

By the time Wilda returned, Leonie was already feeling the effects of the sedative.

"You told Sir Guibert what I bid you?"

"Aye. He was most sympathetic and said he would himself explain to your husband the reason why you will be veiled. And your aunt began to cry. She wanted to come to you now but Lady Judith has kept her busy through the night and all morning. Why, I don't believe she has had any sleep."

"It is just as well. I do not want her to see me like this." Looking at her young maid squarely, she said, 'Tell me something, Wilda. Have you ever had a man?"

"My lady! I—"

"I will not scold you, Wilda," Leonie quickly assured her. "My mother died without preparing me, thinking she would have time for it later.

And I could not ask Aunt Beatrix about these things. I want to know what I will face today. Tell me."

Wilda lowered her eyes, speaking softly. "It will be painful the first time, my lady. It is the tearing of your maidenhead that causes the pain and the bleeding that will be displayed on your sheets the next morning.