Vow of Deception (17 page)

He lifted his head from her breast, his sensually molded lips damp with desire. Gray-green eyes, as deep and fathomless as the sea, caught and held her gaze. “What I have yearned to do for the last three seemingly endless years. I cannot live without you.”

Shock gripped her. During the same three years, Rose had believed Rand had indulged his lust in her willing body and then left her to her shame with no more feeling for her than for a slattern walking the streets. Could he truly not live without her? she wondered.

His mouth came back to hers. He kissed her, deep thrusts of his tongue, even as he lowered her onto the fur before the fire. He tasted of Mediterranean wine, seductive and full-bodied. On his knees, he removed his sword belt and set it against the wall next to the fireplace.

Then lying down beside her, he bunched up her skirts in his hands and pulled them up past the garters holding her hose at her knees. The golden glow of the fire flickered over her pale, slender thighs. He stared down at her lower body, his eyes blazing with desire. Rose shivered at the intensity of his need. The same need pounded inside her.

As he gazed deep into her eyes, he skimmed his hand up her leg and spread her quivering thighs. She licked her lips, breathless with anticipation. When he entered her with one finger, she moaned. Adding a second digit, he stretched her, swirling around her inner walls with delicate brush strokes. The intensity of his eyes enthralled her. The desperation of his need endeared her. The thrust of his hand seared her.

Teasing, taunting. Tormenting. His hand moved with exquisite strokes in and out. All sensation concentrated between her thighs. The pressure built, expanding, coiling, tightening. She clutched his back, holding on to him for dear life as she approached the summit. The sensation was too intense; she could not prevent her hips from lifting to meet him as his hand thrust to the hilt. In a sudden onslaught, pleasure washed over her feminine folds in a hot tumult. Tingling heat suffused her damp delta. In ecstasy and torment, a hoarse cry tumbled from her lips. His mouth covered hers, swallowing her cry.

Rose stared up at Rand. She was stunned, unable to think of the repercussions while she tried to regain her breath. His own gaze was a combination of tenderness and pained desire.

Rand fumbled with his braies, unlacing them. When he shoved them down, his shaft sprang free. He slid on top of her. Instinctively, her legs spread and she cradled his body between her thighs. He groaned, his hard ridge sliding persistently against her core heat. Her breath hitched, his shaft slickened with her wet arousal.

As though doused with cold water, her senses returned. Her heart began to pound harder, this time with panic. She should have realized where all this was leading. A latent shame at her wanton behavior burning her face and clutching her heart, she shoved against him.

He was drunk, out of his senses, and looking for a willing receptacle to assuage his lust. Any woman would do; she just happened to be the easiest at hand.

“Get off me! I'll not be your vessel for lust again. Once was more than enough!”

Rand, panting heavily, stopped his mouth just inches from hers. His voice a hoarse caress, he said, “Aye, you are right. This is wrong.” He rolled off of her and flopped onto his back.

Rose lay there, trying to calm her rattled nerves, her heart aching at his easy capitulation. Oh, she was perverse. She wanted him to want her, but when he acted upon his desire she condemned him.
What is wrong with me?

After a long silence, she looked over at him. His eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and even. He was asleep, or so she thought.

Suddenly, he rambled, “I told myself…to stay away. I've wanted you for, umm, foorever. I sswore…when Mother died—” A great choking sob burst from his mouth. “'Tis my fault she is dead.”

Shocked, Rose leaned up on her elbow and stared down at him. “Rand, what are you talking about? Your mother died in a fire. How is that your fault?”

His eyes blinked open; dark gray shadows lurked within. A single tear pooled in the outer corner of his right eye. Rose brushed it away with the pad of her right thumb.

Rand swallowed visibly and clasped her hand in his. His thumb stroked her palm, a tender, gentle caress that melted her heart. “'Cause sshe came into the burning barn…to saave me. I survived. She didn't.”

“Oh, Rand. I am so sorry. How awful for you. But you cannot blame yourself. I am a mother. I would make any sacrifice to save my son. I know your mother in heaven rejoices that you are alive and does not begrudge her sacrifice.”

“And Juliana? Is her death justifia…ble? I had her in my arms…but let her droown to save myself. I was weak. Nay, I should be dead…not Juliana. Sshe was the good, dutiful twin.”

He closed his eyes, shuddering. His face twisted with misery and guilt.

Tears blurred Rose's eyes. He hid such a great well of sadness because he did not want to appear weak; her heart bled for him. She was glad Rand survived drowning and the fire. If he had not, Jason would never have been born. But she could not tell Rand that.

“Swore…never to love you. I'm cursed.” Here leased her hand and turned his head away. “Don't want to hurt you. Like everyone elsse I've l…lo—”

Her heart jolted, then beat uncontrollably. Surely he did not mean that he loved her? “Rand. What were you about to say?” No answer.

She brushed back his hair from his face. His eyes were closed. “Rand, can you hear me?” She nudged him.

A loud snore was his response.

Rose groaned and collapsed onto her back. Unable to stop thinking about what his muddled words meant, she stared at the beams of the ceiling. He said that he was cursed, that he'd sworn never to love her. That he did not want to hurt her like everyone else he ever loved.

Like he loved her?

Of course not, she answered her own question. It was ridiculous to think he could ever love her. What was there to admire in her? He may desire her, but he had no deeper feelings for her.

Oh, what did it matter anyway? Rose wondered. Hot tears slid slowly down her temples. Angrily, she swiped them away with the heels of her hands. Even if somehow he did love her, she could never lie with him as man and wife. Not when she was incapable of getting past her feelings of shame and humiliation at her lewd desires.

Sunlight penetrated Rand's closed eyelids, waking him. At the sudden sharp pounding in his head, he groaned. His buttocks and back ached where he'd lain on the hard floor all night. He rolled onto his side and awkwardly got to his knees. He glanced down. His braies and hose were bunched around his knees. Sudden images from the night before flashed in his head—of him storming into the solar, taking Rose into his arms, and kissing her. Of her convulsing in his arms.

Dropping his head into his hands, he groaned again. This time at the drunken fool he'd made of himself. He did not remember everything, except Rose had stopped him from making a colossal mistake with only moments to spare. He prayed he had not said anything too revealing.

He rubbed his hands over his face. His stubble was rough, his mouth was rank, and he smelled of stale wine. He did not want to contemplate what the stains were on his tunic.

Carefully, he eased to his feet, pulling up his braies, and tying the laces at his waist. He went to retrieve the sword and scabbard he'd removed last night, his movements slow as he tried to loosen the stiffness in his muscles and joints. Buckling his sword belt, he headed for the bedchamber he intended to share with Rose, at least for the first few months of their marriage, to allay any suspicions it was not consummated. Later it would not seem odd if they did not share a chamber. It was not uncommon for married people of their rank to live separately. Marriages were arranged by parties who were interested only in dynastic purposes and did not consider whether the couple even liked one another or whether they could live peaceably together.

Now he needed to freshen up, shave, and change his clothes. The coming days and weeks would be hard and grueling and there was not a moment to linger. He had to start by gathering up all the males in the village between the ages of ten and four, and three score. It was imperative they receive extensive combat training so they could defend the manor from Welsh raids when the large body of Ayleston knights was absent fighting. Not only that, but Rand had to recruit more knights to increase the castle guard. It was a temporary situation, and he'd hire mercenaries for that purpose.

Those were the responsibilities he owed Ayleston as its guardian. But the king had also charged him with raising paid troops from the western regions of Chester County for when the major offensive began next year.

The door to Rose's bedchamber was open. Rand entered and closed the door behind him. Never having been inside her bedchamber before, he looked around, curious. Except for the massive, carved canopy bed, he saw Rose's feminine touches everywhere. The counterpane was gold and cream damask and the bed curtains were a matching gold silk. Tapestries of garden scenes hung on three walls. A delicate, painted pitcher and basin stood on the washstand.

Rand leaned forward and pressed his nose against the in-substantial linen nightshift hanging on a peg. Closing his eyes, he took a deep whiff. Lavender and rose inundated his senses, entranced him with the delicate fragrance of Rose.

A giggle and a splash shattered the quiet. Rand jumped in embarrassment. He jerked his head left and right, sheepish. He gazed into the shadows by the bed. Empty. Then he checked behind a carved screen in the corner opposite the hall door, but all he saw was a large empty bathing tub. No one was in the chamber.

That left only one other place to check. As he was moving toward the curtained doorway of an adjoining chamber, more exuberant splashing came from inside it. Rand shoved the curtain divider aside, and peered into the room.

Rand jerked back in surprise. Next to a narrow bed in the far left corner of the small chamber, Jason sat naked in a round, shallow tub. He was giggling and splashing in his bath water. Edith, kneeling beside the tub, was trying to rinse the last of the soap off the squirming little boy's shoulders.

Jason looked up from his play and saw him. “Papa, Papa.”

Rand's heart twisted at the word “papa.” It was difficult to describe what he felt each time he heard it, but he was positive he did not wish to acknowledge the sensation.

“Good day, Jason. Edith.” He nodded to the nurse. Edith must have been some two score summers old, and had a streak of gray running through her dark black hair.

“Have you come to play with me?” The boy raised his arm, dripping with water. In his hand he held up a small object for Rand to see.

It was the carved ship he'd made for Jason.

“Oh, my lord. Praise be you are here,” Edith said, brushing back a strand of hair from her face with her arm. “Jason has not stopped talking about his boat. I always give him some time to play in the tub after his bath. But I forgot to get the lad's clean garments from the laundry. Can you show him how the boat works while I go below stairs for a moment?”

Rand glowered, a look he reserved for recalcitrant squires in need of a scolding. “I am not a nursemaid, Edith. I only came for a change of clothes.” He indicated his soiled, smelly tunic, and then crossed his arms over his chest.

She did not even glance at him as she climbed to her feet. “Of course not, my lord. I have already bathed him. You need only keep him occupied with the toy you gave him till I return.”

Rand turned to Edith when she passed him and headed for the hall door. “Wait. I don't know how…What…do I—”

“Just make sure he does not slip and hit his head, or let an accident of the like befall him. We do not want the little lord drowning.”

Rand blanched and his stomach dropped to his knees. She opened the door and hurriedly left, and so did not see his reaction. Rand glanced at the open door, his entire body tense, yet vibrating with the urge to bolt after her.

He'd not asked for, nor ever wanted, the responsibility as Rose and Jason's protector. He had a terrible record of failure in his role as such. He'd failed to protect his sister, his mother, Alex, and even Rose, when he made love to her four years ago, then left her to the mercy of her cruel, vindictive husband. But as always, he knew where his duty lay.

Warily, Rand glanced back into the chamber.

“Papa, it floats. Look.” Jason put the ship in his bath and held it as he hollered, “Raise anchor, mates! Unfur' the sail!” Then he gave the ship a slight push and it floated to the other side of the tub. Rand smiled at the lad's mispronunciation.

Could he deny the child's simple request?

Rand had sworn to never let his own father's abysmal treatment and hatred toward him influence how Rand treated others. He could never resent Rose and Jason, or blame them for his own deficiencies.

So despite his initial instinct to flee, he could not leave Jason without supervision.

Footsteps hesitant, Rand made his way to the tub, wiping a bead of sweat from his upper lip.

“It's sailing, Papa. It's sailing.” A huge grin became evident on Jason's face, a shallow dimple appeared in the boy's cheek.

Despite his apprehension, Rand chuckled at the child's enthusiasm. “Aye, Jason, you are sailing it. You would make a wonderful shipmaster.”

“One day I wanna sail a ship like you.”

“I do not sail the
Argo
, Jason. I just own it. Master Harwood sails it for me, shipping cargo from all parts of the world.”

Jason slapped his arms in the water, spraying droplets into his face. He giggled. “I shall own my own ship, then.”

Rand ruffled the boy's hair. “When you are older, certainly you can. Now then, let me show you something.” He knelt down beside the tub, plucked the boat from the water, and pointed to the back of the miniature cog. “Do you know what this is?” A thin, nearly rectangular piece of wood extended straight off the back of the stern like a dolphin's fin.

Jason nodded his head up and down vigorously, gold curls bouncing against his cheeks. “A rudder. Mama told me.”

“Very good. Now, the rudder helps steer the ship. And this lever is the helm, which moves the rudder back and forth, allowing the rudder to maneuver the ship in the sea.” Rand pointed to the appropriate parts of the carved ship as he gave each term. “Would you like to see how?”

The boy's blue-green eyes, the color of the Mediterranean Sea, shone brightly. “Will you show me?” He clapped excitedly, splashing water over the tub's edge.

“Certes. But first you should know a few terms. Now then, the front, back, and both sides of the ship each have special names. The front of the ship is called the bow and the back of the ship is the stern.” Again pointing to the parts of the ship. “And when you're on a ship facing the bow, the right side of the ship is starboard and the left side is larboard.”

Rand stopped and looked up. The boy stared at him, his eyes wide and engrossed in his instruction. But Rand realized he did not know if Jason knew his left from his right.

“I didn't think, but do you know the difference between right and left?”

Jason scrunched up his nose, offended. The gesture reminded Rand of the boy's mother. “Of course. I am very smart. Mama taught me. Right. Left.” He held up his right hand, then left hand for emphasis.

Rand laughed. “My pardon, Jason. Shall we test how smart you are? Can you tell me what the front of the ship is called?”

He grinned from ear to ear. “The bow.”

After Rand pointed to the parts of the ship and Jason answered correctly, Rand showed the boy how to shift the rudder with the helm. The toy rudder was attached to the ship's sternpost by bowstring to allow the rudder to shift slightly from side to side.

Rand commanded, “Helm astarboard.”

“Helm astarboard,” Jason repeated, then shifted the helm to starboard, the rudder moved opposite, and the lad put the toy in the bath. The boy's smile lighted up as he watched his toy ship “sail” in the water, veering left.

Jason clapped excitedly. “Once more. Can I? Can I?”

“Go ahead, Jason. How 'bout we try turning the ship in the other direction?”

Jason laughed and scooped the ship into his palms under the water beneath the hull.

“Helm alarboard,” Rand ordered in a stern, shipmaster voice.

“Aye, sir! Helm alarboard!” he gleefully shouted. After pushing the helm larboard, he put the ship in the water with a shove. They watched as it floated, veering right this time.

Rand continued to play with the boy, his anxieties forgotten in the moment.

Until…Rose suddenly came storming into the chamber breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed. “Rand…I pray you…forgive Edith her impertinence. I shall see to Jason now. I promise you shall never be burdened with the care of him again.” In her hands she held a stack of folded garments.

Rand got to his feet. “'Twas no burden. Jason and I are having a fine time.”

“Mama,” the lad spoke up, “Sir Rand was showing me how to sail.”

Startled at the formal address, Rand gazed back down at Jason. The lad's expression did not alter, but a conspiratorial gleam lit up his eyes. A burst of laughter escaped Rand at their secret.

A frown marred Rose's brow. “Would you care to share with me what you find so humorous?”

No, he would not. Rose would not be amused that her son was disobeying her command not to address Rand as “Papa.” Rand did not understand her stubborn insistence that the boy not call him so because she wanted Jason to honor the memory of his father. It made absolutely no sense, for she'd despised the man. It made more sense that she'd want Rand to fulfill the role of father to Jason. It was obvious the boy desperately wanted a fatherly presence in his life. Not only was he constantly seeking Rand's attention, but he was as stubbornly persistent about calling him “Papa” as Rose was that he should not.

Rose laid the clothes on the bed and retrieved a linen drying cloth. “Bath time is over, Jason. Sir Rand must be about his duties now,” she said, coming around to the side of the bath next to Rand.

Nose wrinkling, she stared purposely at his chest. He glanced down. A dark greasy stain smeared his tunic, and he smelled odorous—reminding him he still wore his clothes from last night.

'Twas not all he remembered. A sudden disturbing memory of his drunken confession in the solar lashed him.

It all made perfect sense now.

She knew his deepest fear and failings and did not believe him capable of being a good father to her boy, or of protecting him. She'd seen deep into his heart and judged him lacking. Just as Lord Montague, Rand's dead father, had.

Raw disappointment, rising thick and virulent, stuck in the back of his throat. Rand stumbled back, giving her room to finish Jason's bath.

Rose held up the large towel, and when Jason got out of the tub, she wrapped it around him and rubbed his whole body vigorously.

The mundane chore sparked a memory from when he was a child that he'd forgotten. But it returned vividly back to life, menacing him like a skeletal specter refusing to stay buried…