Vow of Deception (13 page)

Now she could not help wondering, could his irreverent wit be a mask he used to keep people at a distance? Could it have anything to do with Juliana's death? Rose got the feeling there was more to his sister's death than he disclosed.

The shield she wielded to protect herself from being hurt slipped a little and her heart softened toward him.

The boy moaned on the bed, blinking, and opened his eyes. Rose left off her musings to assure him he was safe.

 

Upon returning to Strand House, Rand entered the bedchamber and quickly completed his ablutions. Afterward, he tossed his soiled sherte in the wardrobe, grabbed a clean one, and returned to the bedchamber. A feminine gasp brought his head up.

Rose stood at the foot of the bed, a hand to her throat, staring wide-eyed at his bare chest. “Forgive me. I didn't know you were in the bedchamber. I thought you were with Will in the stable.”

With a teasing wink, he spread his arms wide. “As you see, I'm here, hale and whole before you.” When he rose his arm too high, a streak of fire shot through his shoulder, and a groan escaped him.

Rose hurried to his side, a frown of concern on her flushed face. “Not so hale and whole. Where did you get these bruises and why did you not tell me you were in pain?” she asked as she examined his left shoulder, her soft hands gently probing the black-and-blue areas.

He stared down at her, her scent, her touch, her nearness enticing him beyond distraction. She bit her plump lower lip. His gaze drifted down to her lips. They were so near all he had to do was dip his head and press his mouth to hers. He wanted to thoroughly explore the delectable flesh with his teeth and tongue. He groaned.

“I am sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.” She went to the wardrobe and returned with a glass vial. He deliberately kept his back, and hence his scar—which rose a few inches above his braies—from her gaze. “You should have told me you injured your shoulder. Sit on the bed, and I can rub this oil onto it. It should help heal the bruises and ease your pain.”

Rand sat down on the bed and laid his sherte over his braies and his hands on top of the sherte to hide his embarrassing predicament. “'Tis just bruised. I did not wish to bother you for such a minor nuisance.”

Rose removed the glass stopper from the vial and poured a small quantity into her palm. He caught a whiff of clove. She closed the vial and handed it to him. Then she spread the oil over her hands evenly before she began massaging it into his bruised shoulder.

She shook her head. “I do not know why men insist on never admitting to any pain or illness. 'Tis not weakness to recognize a problem and seek help for it.”

“And women tend to coddle, fretting about every inconsequential bruise or ache. 'Tis any wonder men are cautious not to seek help unless absolutely necessary?”

A small smile curved her lips. “I shall concede your point, on condition you concede mine.”

His heart flipped, and he could not keep the smile from his voice. “Very well. I agree there is some truth in your statement. What is in the oil?”

“Saint-John's wort and arnica oil for healing the bruises, clove for the pain. I also use the ointment to reduce swelling of the joints and muscles. You never said how you got the bruises.”

“Jousting. When my lance broke on the last pass, I received the blunt force of Golan's lance blow to my shield. My shoulder received the worst of it.” He did not mention he suspected that Golan had tampered with his lance, that the tent fire was likely a diversion to accomplish the deed. He had naught but suspicions and did not want to worry her.

“I remember it.” She shuddered. “For a moment I was afraid you would not rise. That you were de—” she stopped, her big eyes wide, haunted.

Rand dropped the vial on the bed and clutched her smaller, more delicate hand in his larger one. “Rose, I am not so easy to kill. You may be sure I have no intention of leaving you vulnerable to Sir Golan. The bastard shall never hurt you again. Whatever it takes, I shall protect you.”

Rose looked into Rand's warm gray-green gaze, the amber flecks like tiny candle flames. Warmth from his calloused hand seeped into hers. He smelled of clove with an underlying essence unique to Rand, of warm skin, leather, and clean, fresh soap. Her hands still retained the imprint of his firm muscles and silky skin.

Nervous, she licked her lips. His eyes dropped to her mouth; amber flecks sparked and her lips caught on fire. Her heart constricted, making it difficult to breathe. Rand's mouth inched closer toward hers. He was going to kiss her. Panic fluttered in her chest, or was it anticipation?

Those beautiful, full sensual lips of his touched hers, a breath of a touch. A soft moan, hers, she thought. He brushed her lips again and again, the velvet caress melting her from the inside out. Her right hand flitted up and landed delicately on his chest.

With a hoarse groan, he tugged her into his embrace and slanted his mouth over hers with fierce abandon. His tongue flicked out, rough and wet, probing the sensitive inner recesses of her mouth. Tingling heat throbbed. On her lips, and shooting straight to her moist feminine center. She trembled in his arms, wanting to rub her loins against him and ease the ache.

Just as suddenly, shame engulfed her. She was weak, immoral. Passion had led her to destruction twice before, and she was blissfully following the path of old wanton behaviors with only a heated look and coaxing touch of his lips and tongue.

Chest rising and falling, Rose cried out and yanked away. “You kissed me.” She flung the words at him like a curse, breath heaving. “How dare you. You promised our marriage would be chaste.”

Rand stood up and Rose stumbled back farther. That wicked twinkle in his eye returned.
Blast him
.

“Indeed. But you can't expect me to abide by my promise when those soft blue eyes of yours were begging me to kiss you.”

Rose gasped, appalled. “I did no such thing. And I'll thank you never to kiss me again.”

Rand crossed his arms over his chest. Distracted, she dropped her gaze. She stared, enthralled at his bulging chest muscles. “Very well. I promise never to kiss you again. But heed me well. I will take whatever you willingly offer. Don't expect me to deny you when you weaken and want me to thrust my manhood between those beautiful thighs of yours to slake—”

Her eyes flew up. Her hand swung out. The slap rang out in the ensuing shocked silence.

The red imprint of her hand rose on his cheek.

“I made that mistake once,” Rose cried out. “But I swear by no means shall I ever do so again.” She flung away and stormed from the room, the crude boast repeating a refrain in her head. The man was an incorrigible rogue, lecher, libertine.

She could not believe how quickly she'd succumbed at the first touch of his lips. How easily the allure of his masculine scent and potent kisses had weakened her knees and drawn forth a passionate response from her. She'd thought she was no longer susceptible to the pleasures of the flesh.

The rhythm of her heart came in short, rapid beats, in time with her echoing footsteps down the outer stairs.

Rand had an uncanny ability to provoke her ire…She jolted to a stop. Blast the man. Once again she had let him goad her temper with his lewd boasts. He did it a purpose, she was sure now, when he wished to create a wall between them that in-depth feelings and emotions could not surmount. Rose whirled around and marched back up the stairs.

She swung the door open silently.

Rand stood where she'd left him, gripping the carved bedpost. A ripple of emotions swept across his face—an odd combination of desire and poignant regret.

A tender, indefinable feeling clutched her heart. “Why do you do that, Rand?” she asked, her voice a soft plea.

He jerked his gaze up. Rose stood not far away, her head cocked. Catching him unaware, her glare intent, she saw his pupils contract and then close off all emotion from her probing stare.

“Do what?” Rand straightened and tugged a dark green surcoate over his head.

“Every time it gets too emotional you say something to push me away. Why? What are you afraid of?”

She saw a pulse beat in his throat.

“I don't know what you are talking about, Rose.”

“I think that you do. And that it has something to do with your sister's death. That day in the garden, I heard the anguish in your voice. Your refusal to speak of Juliana and your hesitation to save the boy from drowning made me realize how deeply her death affected you.”

She took two steps and stopped. A hairsbreadth from him, she felt a sensual tension shimmer betwixt them. Rand grasped the bedpost once more, his white knuckles straining and jaw clenching.

She cupped his cheek, his whiskers tickling her palm. “By the river today you asked me to confide in you, and I responded thoughtlessly, hurting you, I believe, and then you lashed out. Deny it, but I know better now.” She stood on tiptoes, clutched his shoulders, and kissed him, gently, tenderly.

Rand's velvety soft lips clung to hers, his sweet breath mingling with hers for an instant before he clutched her waist and drew her against him. Cushioned against the heat and strength of his hard, muscled chest, her nipples throbbed and pulsed with desire.

Her soft moan merged with his deep groan. Someone rapped on the chamber door. Rose jerked away, startled.

“Enter,” Rand called out, voice hoarse with arousal.

Agatha entered. She glanced first at Rose, then Rand, an amused smile lifting her lips. “My lord, a messenger from court has arrived. The king requests your presence at court anon.”

“Thank you, Agatha. I shall leave straightaway.”

Rand turned to Rose, made a swift farewell, and beat a retreat. She stared at his departing back, unsure whether it was relief or regret thundering in her blood.

At the palace the following night, servants broke down the trestle tables to clear the room for dancing, while Rand stared across the dining hall at Rose. She leaned close, in an intimate conversation with the attractive, dark-haired Henry de Lacy, the Earl of Lincoln. Despite Rand's resolve to remain distant, a flare of jealousy erupted and his smile broadened as though he was amused. But inside ire clamored. His grip on his chalice tightened. Leaning against a column in pretend negligence, he caught her gaze, tipped his wine cup to her, and then took a fortifying gulp.

She turned from him and then laughed at something the earl said. Smile still in place, Rand tensed. That did it. He could not remember the last time Rose had laughed like that at anything he'd said or done. Rand lurched from the column, but a voice stopped him short.

“Never say that the man known for the legions of broken hearts he has left behind is jealous of the attention his wife's showing another man.”

Rand spun around and glared at Alex. If any other man had spoken thus to him, Rand would have laughed and acted as though the comment were in jest. But Alex knew him better than any other person and Rand did not bother to hide his disgruntlement.

“Your sister has the most unusual ability to twist me into knots despite my restraint.” After their interrupted conversation the other night when she'd delved uncomfortably close into his heart, he'd made it a point to return from court after she fell asleep. He'd made up a pallet on the floor again and left before she woke. He had to keep up the pretence of a real marriage, but he need not suffer the torment of forced intimacy when he could not touch his wife.

“Which is not a bad thing, in my opinion. But you are overreacting. Knowing Rose's previous marital woes, do you seriously believe her interest in the earl is of a prurient nature?”

Pausing to reflect, Rand realized Alex was right. “Nay, I do not.” His gaze returned to Rose. “But now my curiosity is piqued to discover what she is speaking to the earl so intensely about.”

Rose smiled up at Henry de Lacy. “My lord, I believe you will agree that my son, Lord Ayleston, would be an agreeable candidate as husband for your young daughter, Lady Alice. The parties are of the same age. But, more importantly, the honor of Ayleston goes back to the time of William the Conqueror, and is rich in titles, honors, and lands. Such a match would greatly benefit both Lincoln and Ayleston. Do you not agree?”

Rose tried to strike the right tone of flattery, yet not be deferential. She needed to reinforce the belief that they were equals, or he would see no benefit to the marital alliance.

“I agree it would be an excellent match for your son. Through my daughter, upon my death, he would inherit the title of earl and all its inherent lands, privileges, and honors.”

“The chances of that are very unlikely. You and the countess are still young and may yet produce a male heir. In which case, it stands to reason that Lady Alice, and thus Lincoln, shall benefit more from the alliance than Ayleston.”

Lord Lincoln waved over a servant carrying a flagon of wine. The slender young man refilled their chalices.

Lincoln continued once the servant left. “Lady Rosalyn, I cannot deny a betrothal would be financially more beneficial for Lincoln. But I have higher aspirations for Lady Alice. She is my sole heir and deserves no less than an earl or even a prince for husband.”

“Princes are few and far to come by. Lord Alphonso, King Edward's only surviving male heir, is already betrothed. And though there are two earldoms in England that your daughter could marry into, neither is as wealthy as Ayleston. Obviously you must weigh the merits of a title versus financial gain. But I believe if you were to see the details of the contract I wish to advance, you would agree that your daughter shall be amply rewarded.”

A new look of respect entered his dark brown probing eyes. “I see you have done your research.”

She allowed a small smile to grace her lips. “I have, which is why I know you wish to increase your presence and influence in Wales. An alliance with Ayleston would be advantageous in that regard with its backing and support.”

“You bring up an excellent point. But will not your husband have a say in the betrothal arrangements?”

“Lord Ayleston is my ward. My husband has no rights to arrange a marriage for my son. He will not be a factor in the decision process.”

Lord Lincoln crossed his arms and tipped back on his heels. “Of course. But with his recent wardship of the Ayleston estate, his decisions will have an impact on whether I wish to proceed with betrothal negotiations. As you pointed out I wish to expand my base in Wales. If Sir Rand does not approve of the match, he could deny material support of Ayleston.

“Is that not correct, Sir Rand?”

Rose jerked toward the direction of the earl's gaze. Rand swaggered toward them wearing an azure tunic decorated with black bands of silk on the square neck and wide cuffs. The sword belt cinched at his waist emphasized his powerful shoulders.

Rand stopped next to Rose and nodded to the earl in greeting. “Lord Lincoln, my dear,” he said, and proceeded to kiss her cheek as he wrapped his right arm behind her back and squeezed her shoulder in a brief embrace.

Rose cleared her throat in embarrassment.

Amused, Lord Lincoln winked at her. “Sir Rand, your lady wife and I were just discussing the possibility of a betrothal between Lord Ayleston and my daughter, Lady Alice. What are your thoughts on the matter? Is this a match you would support?”

“I am sure my husband has no opinion on the matter. He has little concern for the boy's welfare and can have no stake in the outcome of the negotiations. Am I not correct milord?” Rose smiled to soften the dismissal.

“Actually, as guardian of Lord Ayleston's estate, I am concerned with his welfare.”

“What concern is it of yours if I arrange a marriage for my son? Need I remind you, Jason is
my
ward?”

Though Rand was smiling, Rose noticed a small frown appeared on the bridge of his nose between his eyebrows. “I was not aware you were considering a marriage for Jason. If you ask my opinion, I think he's a little young yet for you to be making marriage arrangements for him.” He continued, turning to the earl, who was watching their byplay with fascination, “But of course, as guardian of the boy, my wife needs not my approval to conclude a betrothal agreement.”

Rose smiled up at Lord Lincoln. “There, you see, my lord. I hope I have erased all doubts you may have had, and you will consider my proposal.”

“Very well. I shall consider it. Have your steward's clerk send the documents to mine and I shall go over the proposed betrothal.” After handing his chalice to a passing servant, Lord Lincoln bowed and bid them good eve. “Sir Rand, Lady Rosalyn.”

The king's musicians, having finished setting up their instruments, began to play a lively country dance. Rand pressed his hand against the small of Rose's back and, leaning in, whispered in her ear, “Come, wife, let us dance,” then led her onto the dance floor.

Heat seeped through the fabric of her dress. Breathless from her negotiations, Rose assured herself. She acknowledged his bow with a curtsy.

Holding hands, they jumped, shuffled, and swirled in a circle, then parted to dance with other partners. When they met again, the shock of his warm hands swirled up her arms. Her face flushed. The fool just grinned and gave her a teasing wink. They repeated the pattern of dance steps twice more before the music stopped.

Rose, her chest heaving, could not help smiling, the excitement of the dance thrumming in her blood. She stared up at Rand, whose gray-green eyes blazed with desire. The heat in his intense gaze kindled her blood. He tugged her off the floor and out of the dining hall. She followed, unresisting, heart pumping excitedly. When he pulled her into a secluded alcove, her lips met his hungry mouth as it came down on hers.

Strong arms pulled her against his hard, unyielding body and molded them together chest to chest, thigh to thigh. His tongue thrust into her mouth, hot and wet and rough. He sought her tongue with bold slashes, sending shivers down her back, one ripple at a time, like waves upon a shore.

Silky breath shimmered across her neck at his whisper, “God, you make me so hot I want to rip off my clothes.”

He kissed her again, long and hard, slow and soft. Then his lips shifted, slowly trailing down the long column of her neck, and settling at the base, where her pulse leapt. He licked her there and then pressed his lips to her neck and sucked the soft flesh into his mouth. It tingled and throbbed, making her crazy with desperation.

Hooking her leg beneath her thigh, he wrapped her quivering limb around his hip. His hand gathered up her tunic skirt to her waist, skimmed up her exposed thigh, and gripped her bare buttock. A shivery caress shot straight to her core. She recoiled.

The combination of desire and shame made her stomach roil.

“Nay, this is wrong.” Her voice hoarse with desire, her plea came out too softly. She was weak, wicked, and wanton. Everything Bertram had accused her of.

She bucked against Rand to push him off, but he pressed harder into her and his mouth returned to hers, cutting off her denial. Her mind blanked all emotion. She went completely stiff and closed her lips tight.

Desire, thick and sluggish, pounded through Rand. His phallus was hard to the point of pain. But in his arms, Rose had stiffened and clamped her mouth shut. He dropped her leg and lifted his head to stare down at her in confusion.

The sudden cold withdrawal where once burned a seething inferno withered his desire like an unexpected early frost on the vine. “Rose, what's wrong?”

“Prithee, release me,” she mumbled, staring down at her toes.

Rand stepped back immediately.

“I am sorry. My behavior was wanton and I regret inflicting my licentious behavior on you. It won't happen again,” she said, her voice quivering. Her eyes flickered briefly to his. The big blue centers were glazed with shame and a glossy tear slid down her cheek.

Rand reached out to comfort her, to deny her contention, but she slipped away and headed toward the dining hall.

He fisted his hand and slammed it into the stone wall. Pain radiated through his knuckles, the skin scraped raw and bloody. Frustration coiled in his gut and gnawed at his innards. He felt useless in the face of Rose's emotional pain.

The depth of abuse she'd received from Bertram had been both physical and mental. Now he suspected it had been much more flagitious. What had the man done to her to so warp her thinking and repress her passions, her spirit for life? He must have derided her passionate nature as wicked and wanton. Her own words hinted at such.

Rand wanted to heal her and prove to her that her desires were natural and beautiful, not amoral and wicked. But he realized that was impossible. He'd have to be satisfied with the knowledge that with his marriage to her, she'd never have to endure again the physical intimacies she so abhorred.

 

Lady Rosalyn returned to the dining hall and slid along the fringes of the crowd to slump into a darkened alcove. But her attempt not to draw attention to herself failed. One man in particular followed her progress from the moment she entered the vaulted chamber. He'd been waiting for the opportunity to get her alone for days. Since the day she rejected him and humiliated him before the whole court.

Sitting on a bench, Lady Rosalyn stared down at her hands folded in her lap. Golan smiled with evil intent as he slipped into the alcove. Her head jerked up at his entrance, her eyes going wide with fear. Excited, his cock stiffened as straight as a pike.

When she attempted to get up, he blocked her exit and she was forced to remain seated.

“Lady Rosalyn, 'tis a pleasure indeed.”

“W-what do you want?”

“Like all women, you are corrupt and amoral. I merely wish to warn you that I shall take my due pleasure from you in good time.” He reached out and caressed his finger along her cheek. She flinched, drawing her head back to escape his touch. “You shall not always have a horde of people to protect you.”

“If you dare harm me, my husband will kill you. I know you have not forgotten the beating he gave you the last time you touched me. Your face still bears the marks of your insolence.”

Golan touched his bruised cheek. “Your
husband
,” he snarled, “will not be safe from my wrath either. I shall make you both pay for your impudence and cheating me of my rightful claim.”

He leaned down and pinched her chin between his finger and thumb. “I shall see you all pay. Even your precious heir shall suffer for your defiance.”

At the threat to her son, a hand squeezed Rose's lungs and cut off her breath. She pulled her chin free of Golan's grip and hissed, “If you harm my son, I'll cut out your heart and shove it down your throat.”

His hate-filled gaze burned into hers. “Tsk, tsk, you are a bloodthirsty wench. Mayhap the rumors are true and you did kill your husband.”

She gasped, her heart pumping with a mixture of rage and fear. “I suggest you leave.
Now!
Before I create a scene in front of the whole court. Then I would be forced to tell the king what precipitated it. Rand is his cousin and one of his most valued knights. Edward would not be best pleased to learn that you threatened him.”

“Go ahead, make a scene. I shall just tell the king you misunderstood me.”

“So be it. You leave me no choice.” Rose lurched up from her bench and opened her mouth to say loudly, “Sir Go—”

A young lord and lady who had their backs to the alcove turned their heads to stare.

Golan hissed, “Very well. I am leaving. But this is not over.” He slunk away quickly.

Rose plopped back down on the bench. Releasing a deep breath, she pressed her hands to her knees to stop them from knocking together in belated fear. Then a slow smile of satisfaction graced her lips and her chest puffed up with pride, for standing up to Golan, and not cowering as she'd done so many times in the past.