When Love Awaits

by Johanna Lindsey

  “What has she done?” Leonie insisted.

  “She—she took something. She said it was to make everything right again.”

  Leonie paled, understanding at once. “God’s mercy, this is my fault. I had such bad feelings about the child because of the mother, and—”

  “My lady, will you come?” Janie begged again, and Leonie shook herself. This was no time to indulge in remorse.

  “Wilda, get my medicines, quickly.”

  To Leonie’s surprise, Sir Evarard was waiting outside Amelia’s door. He looked very unhappy.

  “There is something seriously wrong with Amelia?” he asked dejectedly.

  “You are fond of the lady, Sir Evarard?” She had no idea what else to say.

  “Fond? I love her!” he said emphatically.

  Leonie smiled at him. “I will do all I can.”

  “Will you?” he asked more anxiously than diplomatically. “I know you have no liking for her, nor she for you. And she can be childish and petulant, but—but she is not all bad, my lady.”

  “Sir Evarard,” Leonie said gently, “please go below. If I can help Amelia, I will. You may believe that.”

  Amelia’s quarters were larger than Leonie had expected, and cluttered with objects, most of which reminded her of Alain. He had always liked ornate things, and he had left most of his possessions behind when he fled Kempston.

  The room reeked of sickness. The sheets had been changed recently, but the bloodied ones were left in a pile in the corner.

  With just a glance at the gaunt figure in the bed, Leonie’s suspicions were confirmed. The face was a sickly gray, and there were huge dark circles under her eyes. Amelia’s body was racked with pain, and in her half-conscious state, she thrashed around, whimpering and moaning, while the two maids standing near the bed looked at Leonie helplessly.

  Leonie pulled down the sheet. Amelia was lying in a pool of blood. With the maids’ help, Leonie changed the linens once more and cleaned Amelia, packing her with bandages to staunch the flow of blood. She then forced Amelia to drink a syrup of marsh woundwort, hoping that would stop the hemorrhaging.

  In a vial on the candlestand beside the bed was the decoction Amelia had taken, which Leonie had known would be spurge laurel, commonly used to aid the bowels and known to cause abortion. Too large a dose could violently flush the body with vomiting and bloody stools, and often proved fatal. The vial was nearly empty.

  Amelia’s eyes, when she opened them, were wild with confusion. She saw Leonie standing beside her bed and whispered, “What are you doing here?”

  “How much of this did you take?” Leonie asked, holding the vial up.

  “Enough. I have used it before, but—but always when I first suspected. Never this late.”

  “Why, Amelia?”

  The older woman was startled by Leonie’s obvious concern. “Why? What do I want with a child? I detest children!”

  Leonie’s sympathy began waning. “So you would kill my lord’s child?” she asked in disgust. “If you never wanted it, then why did you wait so long.”

  “I needed it to…but with you gone…oh, leave me alone!”

  “I am tempted to do just that and let you die from your own foolishness!” Leonie’s voice crackled with emotion.

  “No, please, you must help me!” Amelia cried. “I have lost the child already, and now he will send me away.”

  “Are you so sure of that?” Leonie wanted to know.

  “Rolfe did not want me after he wed you,” Amelia moaned. “I thought he would, but he didn’t.”

  “Explain yourself, Amelia.”

  “I did not want to return to court,” Amelia gasped. “You don’t know what it’s like there, do you? Having to compete with younger women, always having to—”

  “Tell me about Rolfe,” Leonie insisted, her voice rising.

  “I lied to him,” Amelia said. “I told Rolfe there was a child when there was not.” She looked Leonie full in the face and told her the whole truth.

  “The child is not Rolfe’s, but Evarard’s. I used him to conceive the child in case Rolfe took too much time growing tired of you. I really thought he would. When he came back here and didn’t go to Pershwick after you immediately, I was sure that was the end of his love for you, so I no longer needed the child as an excuse to stay here.”

  Leonie warned herself not to react, keeping her features set. Her rival’s revelation had fired her love for Rolfe anew, made her want to rush to him and throw her arms around him. But she would not allow Amelia to know how much those words meant. There had to be, when all was said and done, some dignity left to both of them, so she told herself not to permit any show of emotion.

  Deciding a swift change of subject was the only route, she said, “Evarard is terribly upset. Fool that he is, he loves you.”

  “Love?” Amelia replied bitterly. “What is love? My first husband loved me too—until he wed me. Then only other women interested him. Why do you think I was so sure Rolfe would want me after you married him? Men have no care for their wives.”

  “I do not think that is always so, Amelia.”

  Amelia sighed. “Rolfe certainly cares for you.”

  “And perhaps Evarard would care for you, if you gave him a chance. He is not blind to your faults, but he loves you. Did he know about his child?”

  “No. I would have told him, yet let him think it was Rolfe’s. I kept putting it off, because I did not really want to hurt him.”

  Amelia had had no such hesitations about hurting Rolfe and her, Leonie thought wryly. But she began to believe she could be forgiving in light of what she had just learned.

  “Then I see no reason for him to know too much about this,” Leonie told her.

  “And Rolfe?”

  “I am not so impartial where he is concerned. I will not tell him. You will.”

  “But he will kill me if he knows how I have lied to you both!”

  “I think not, Amelia. I think he will be relieved to learn the truth. But if you do not promise to tell him, I will leave you here to…”

  “You are cruel, Lady Leonie.”

  “Not so. I simply love my husband and will not have him grieving over a child he thought was his.”

  Chapter 48

  THE little boy was beautiful. Leonie saw him the moment she came downstairs after leaving Amelia’s bedchamber. Rolfe was standing near the boy. The child had thick black curls, and the darkest brown eyes, which regarded her shyly as she approached him. He was an eight-year-old replica of Rolfe.

  She turned a questioning gaze on Rolfe, and he said, “Before you reach the wrong conclusion, he looks like me because he is my nephew.”

  Leonie smiled. “How could I have thought otherwise?”

  Frowning, Rolfe introduced her to Simon d’Ambert, then pulled Leonie aside. “I sent him to Lady Roese these last few days because I was in no mood to have him with me. But now you are here, so—”

  “But you didn’t tell me he was coming to visit.”

  “My brother is dead,” Rolfe said simply, “and the child is not here only to visit. My brother and I had no great love for each other, but that is neither here nor there,” Rolfe went on gruffly. “His widow was concerned for her children’s welfare, and she sought me out. She left Gascony when my brother died and took refuge with a friend in Normandy. That is where I have been this last month, Leonie.”

  Her eyes widened. “Then that is why…I did wonder why it took you so long to come to Pershwick. So all that time you did not even know I was there?”

  “Not until I returned to England. Sir Evarard sent messengers, but they didn’t find me. My brother’s widow was near undone with worry. She trusted no one. She feared that powerful lords around Gascony would attempt to take control of her children or her in an effort to rape my brother’s holdings.”

  “Was that likely?” she asked softly, glancing over at the child.

  “No. The family lands in Gascony were held directly through the q
ueen, and therefore through Henry. She need only have applied to Henry for a guardian.”

  “Or contact you.”

  “Yes, well, I have in fact agreed to take on the responsibility. I sent my three nieces back to Gascony with their mother, but I decided to keep the boy with me for a time. My brother had little time for him and he has been around women too long.”

  “There are women here, my lord,” she teased.

  “I want to get to know him, Leonie,” Rolfe said brusquely. “Do you object?”

  Leonie looked down at the floor, hiding her smile. “Of course not, my lord.”

  Rolfe shook his head. What had brought about this change in her? Where was the hot-tempered woman of only that very morning? She was so subdued, so agreeable.

  He continued warily, “I must find a man I can trust to send to Gascony to oversee the estates and keep a watchful eye on the widow and my nieces until they are ready for marriage.”

  “Might I suggest Sir Piers?” Leonie offered. “He is the perfect one to supervise a household full of women. He might even take a liking to the widow and think of marriage.”

  “Piers? Think of marriage? Never!”

  “You never know, my lord. But now, please, leave Simon here in my care while you visit Lady Amelia.”

  Rolfe frowned. “I will tell her soon enough that she must leave here. You need not think I have forgotten, Leonie.”

  “I did not think it, my lord. But she is—ill. I have warned her to stay abed for some days, perhaps a week.”

  He looked shocked, and before he could speak, she said firmly, “Go to her, my lord, for she needs to speak with you. But when you are finished”—she paused here—“come to me, for I have much to say to you.”

  Rolfe was so confused that he decided not to argue. He turned and went toward the stairs, and she watched him.

  Leonie sat in the hall with Simon, talking gently to him. He was shy, and spoke very little. She tried to make him feel at ease, but that was awfully difficult because she was so jumpy herself.

  Rolfe returned to the hall thirty minutes later, his temper nearly beyond his control. He said not a word to Leonie as he grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the hall and all the way to the garden. There he let her go, and actually kicked at the dandelions at his feet.

  “Do you know how much I resented this garden of yours when you took it in hand?” he stormed. “Amelia told me you could not be bothered with the running of my household, yet you could waste time here! Many times I thought of setting my horse loose on these blasted plants!”

  Leonie nearly choked on her laughter. “Your horse would have gotten very sick, indeed, if you had, my lord.”

  He glowered. “Do not jest, Leonie. Why did you think I asked you to clerk for me when I could have managed myself? I thought it was the only thing you could not refuse to do for me. You had refused everything else. And when it would have meant the world to me to know that you had made my home livable, you let her take the credit! Why, Leonie, why?”

  “Well, you were fool enough to believe she was capable of putting this place to rights,” she said archly.

  “I a fool, madame? What does that make you for believing the absurdity that I would not want you to run my household?”

  “Another fool,” she said.

  “Damn me, I find nothing amusing in any of this! Why did you never once mention to me the nonsense she was telling you? She would have been proven a liar if you had spoken to me, and then you might have believed me when I told you I did not love her.”

  “I could ask you the same question. You believed her nonsense as much as I did.”

  “That is beside the point!”

  “Is it?” She moved closer and hesitantly placed her hand on his chest. Eyes soft and luminous, she asked, “Why are you so angry, my lord?”

  He lost himself, gazing into those eyes. “Because—because I finally believe you love me…yet you have never said so. I have told you I love you—”

  “When did you tell me?” she cried.

  “That night in London.”

  “You were drunk,” she insisted.

  “Not so drunk I can’t remember that. And I asked you if you could love me as well. It—it is your answer I cannot remember.”

  Joy washed over her, glorious waves of joy. “I said then that it would be very easy to love you,” she said softly. “And so it was. I love you, my lord.”

  “Rolfe,” he corrected automatically, even as he gathered her into his arms.

  “Rolfe.” She sighed breathlessly, and then her husband kissed her with all the warmth and love he felt.

  He picked her up and carried her back through the hall and up to their chamber. Everyone who watched them pass smiled, but no one spoke. It was time to stop gossiping about the lord and his lady.

  As Rolfe swept her up the stairs and into their room, she held him tightly and smiled, thinking how stubborn he was—as she was—and how gentle he was, yet how strong. Later, she would tell him about their child, and about the foolish pride that had kept them at odds for so long. Later.

  For the time being, she wanted to think only about their love, and show him how deeply and passionately she loved him.

  Enter the World of Johanna Lindsey

  Welcome to the world of Johanna Lindsey, and enter into a fantasy of your choosing. Immerse yourself deep into times when men were warriors, tamed only by very special women, and romance reigned supreme. Whether it is against the backdrop of glamorous Regency England society, the pageantry of a medieval court, the wild wilderness of the American West, or any other you can imagine, Johanna Lindsey knows how to make a love story come alive. Enjoy!

  Captive Bride

  Johanna Lindsey touched deep into the soul of her readers with her first romance. The world realized a new star was born with this tale of an arrogant Arab prince cut down to size by a strong-minded English miss.

  Philip Caxton saw Christina as soon as she entered the room. She turned away with contempt when she saw him. Well, he didn’t expect an easy conquest. She had seemed to hate him last night.

  He sighed, cursing the lack of time. But perhaps Christina Wakefield was just playing hard to get. After all, young women came to London to look for husbands. And he wasn’t such a bad catch. But still, with only one day’s acquaintance, the odds were against him. Damn, why hadn’t he met her sooner?

  Anne Shadwell drew Christina toward Philip. “Miss Wakefield, I would like to introduce—”

  She was cut off abruptly.

  “We’ve met,” Christina said contemptuously.

  Anne Shadwell looked startled, but Philip made an arrogantly graceful bow, took Christina’s arm firmly, and walked her out onto the balcony. She resisted, but he was sure she wouldn’t cause a scene.

  When they reached the railing, she whirled to face him defiantly.

  “Really, Mr. Caxton! I thought I made myself quite clear last night, but since you don’t seem to understand, let me enlighten you. I don’t like you. You are a rude, conceited man, and I find you quite intolerable. Now if you will excuse me, I am going back to join my brother.” She turned to leave, but he grabbed her hand and pulled her back to him.

  “Christina, wait,” he demanded huskily, forcing her to look into his dark eyes.

  “I really don’t think we have anything to say to each other, Mr. Caxton. And please refrain from using my first name.” She turned to leave again, but Philip still grasped her hand in his. She faced him once more, stamping her foot in fury.

  “Let go of my hand!” she demanded.

  “Not until you’ve heard what I have to say, Tina,” he answered, pulling her closer to him.

  “Tina!” She glared at him. “How dare—”

  “I dare anything I damn well please. Now shut up and listen to me.” He was amused at the disbelief written on her lovely face. “Tina, I want you. I would be honored if you would consent to be my wife. I would give you anything you want—jewels, beautiful gowns, my estates.
”

  She was looking at him in a most unusual way. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words wouldn’t come out. And then he felt the sting of her hand across his cheek.

  “I have never been so insulted in my—”

  But Philip didn’t let her finish. He gathered her in his arms and silenced her words with a deep, penetrating kiss. He held her tightly against him, feeling her breasts pressed against his chest, crushing the breath from her body. She was struggling to free herself, but her efforts only increased his desire.

  Then, unexpectedly, Christina went limp in his arms and threw him off guard. Philip thought she had fainted but winced when he felt a sharp pain in his shin. He released her instantly to grab his leg, and when he looked up, Christina was running into the drawing room.

  He should have known better, Philip told himself.

  He should have gone to her home in Halstead and courted her slowly. But that wasn’t his way. Besides, he had never courted a woman before. He was used to getting what he wanted immediately, and he wanted Christina.

  A Gentle Feuding

  Sheena Fergusson is the most prized beauty in Scotland. Every man wants to possess her—except for Jamie MacKinnion, the avowed enemy of her clan. But when the proud laird finally lays eyes on Sheena, his warrior’s heart is conquered by the ethereal magnificence of this woman.

  James MacKinnion moved slowly. An enveloping mist still clung to the dewy ground, and he was sopping wet from crossing the second of the two Esk rivers. He was tired from lack of sleep and the rough ride south. There was something wrong in all this, but he didn’t know what it could be.

  The mist swirled and parted before him in a gentle breeze, revealing for a moment a wooded glen not far ahead. Then the mist settled again, and the vision was gone. Jamie rode for it; the trees were a pleasant change from the barren moors and heather-clad hills.

  He had never been this far east on Fergusson land before. He had never raided Lowlanders in the spring before, either.