Vow of Deception (5 page)

He turned back and gestured to Rose, his voice a whisper. “Lady Ayleston. She's waking.”

Rose clutched her head, patting the linen bandage. She tried to sit up and then fell back on the bed with a groan.

Sister Margareta sidled around him. “Easy, milady.” The nun's pale, slender hand gently touched Rose's shoulder. “Don't try to move. You took quite a blow to your head. We have been very worried about you.”

Rose murmured, “We?”

“Aye, your young knight. Sir Rand Montague.”

“He is not my—”

Rand rubbed his chest. “Rose, you are awake. God be praised.”

Rose stared up at him in bewilderment with her crystal blue eyes. “Oh, God, my body aches. What happened to me? Where am I?”

He frowned. “Do you not remember?”

“Nay.” Her dark red eyebrows dipped down in puzzlement. “The last thing I recall was eating a repast of bread and cheese when we stopped for dinner.”

“That was earlier today. We arrived at the gates of the monastery to stop for the night, when your horse bolted. I caught up to you but your horse threw you into a roadside gully. You must have hit your head on a rock or branch or something.” Rand moved to her side and touched her bandaged head. “How do you feel? Are you in much pain?”

Rose turned away from his touch. “My head is pounding, my eyes are blurry, and my body aches everywhere.”

Rand tried not to let her rebuff offend him. She had not always despised his touch.

“Any dizziness?” Sister Margareta chimed in.

“Aye. When I sat up.”

“It is as I told your young knight. The blow you received to your head shall cause you some discomfort and pain. I'd like you to rest for about a sennight before you resume your journey.”

A ripple of concern lodged in his chest. “I don't understand, Sister. I thought you said she was going to be all right. Need I be worried? How serious is her injury if you wish to keep her here for a sennight?”

“I don't believe there is cause for alarm, my lord. But just to be sure the blow to her head caused no serious, lasting harm, I would like her to remain here for a few days. Also, her fall caused severe bruising on her hip and shoulder. As soon as her headache and dizziness subside, and she feels well enough, you may continue on your journey.”

Rose whispered, “You need not worry I shall delay the journey any longer, Rand. I shall not give Edward a reason to reprimand you for failing to do your duty in a timely manner.”

When she made to rise, Rand gently eased her back down. He could not believe she thought his concern was because of the journey's delay and not worry for her good health. “Don't move, Rose. You are going nowhere till the good sister grants you permission to leave this bed. I'll send Edward word of your injury. He'll understand that our late arrival is unavoidable.” Rand understood her distrust of men, but Rose had known him for a long time and knew him better than that. How could she ever believe him capable of doing aught to endanger her welfare?

“I shall leave you to your rest now, Rose. As soon as you recover, we leave for Westminster.”

Rose looked so lost and vulnerable. Guilt reared its twisted, ugly head, mixing with Rand's feelings of disappointment and regret. He wanted Rose, but it could never be. His duty was clear. Golan was soon to be her husband and responsible for her welfare.

Rose's eyes blurred again, so the brief shadow she caught in Rand's gaze must have been an illusion, for that roguish grin appeared, dimples deepening. Rather, two ridiculous grins, her vision doubling his image. She eased her eyes closed, her pounding head a misery she would not wish on anyone. Sister Margareta, bless her, gave Rose a hot chamomile infusion sweetened with honey for her aching head. Then the nun slipped out of the cell, leaving the candle alit on the table by the bed.

As Rose drifted off to sleep, a memory surfaced of Rand leaning over her, his voice agonized, calling out for a woman named Juliana.

Five days later, Rose sat on a bench in the monastery's ornamental garden. Flowers of every color filled the garden with their heavenly aroma. The musky scent intertwined with sweet-smelling honeysuckle, which hung on a lattice on the garden wall at her back. Rand sat opposite her, propped against a bench made of a grass-covered earthen mound. An illuminated book lay open in his lap.

At Sister Margareta's instigation, Rand was practically forced to keep Rose company by reading to her. The nun chose a French romance from the scriptorium about a brave knight who rescues his ladylove—a woman he has loved from afar for many years—from the tyranny of an evil baron.

Other than the occasional birdcall, Rose heard naught but the husky timber of Rand's voice. The deep, vibrating tenor resonated within Rose like a forgotten caress. Enthralled, she searched his face. His firm lips moved in a breathless whisper, his high cheekbones prominent with the intensity of some strong emotion.

An ache surged up inside Rose's chest, yearning for what could have been. The heroic story and Rand's reaction triggered in her a memory of the girl who once adored him. Before he left for the Crusade and she met and married Bertram Harcourt. Before her husband revealed his true depraved nature and shattered her innocence.

Now only bitterness resided within her heart. There were no gallant knights in this harsh world, such as the fictional Sir Lance in the story Rand was reading. Women were mere chattel to be used by greedy, ambitious, lecherous men. Except men treated their chattel better than their easily expendable wives.

Rand was an example of the lechery of men. He used one woman after another in the pursuit of his lusty appetites. A secret part of her realized she was being too harsh, but then she'd have to acknowledge her own complicity in succumbing to a night of temptation in Rand's arms.

Rand's voice in the background, Rose drifted back into the past. It was several months after her marriage, and Rand had returned from the Crusade to inform her Alex was dead—though later it turned out Alex was instead imprisoned in a Mamluk fortress.

She was devastated at the news, and still numb from learning her husband's true evil nature. Feeling lost and vulnerable, she desperately wanted to discover what it was like to be cherished as a woman. And Rand was there for her, their shared grief a bond that only drew them closer. They made love, one night of passion and surrender. But there was no love involved, only grief and animal lust.

As she returned from her reverie, her eyes alighted on Rand. They never spoke of that night. But she did not doubt that, to him, she was just one more of his countless conquests, like the pretty servant at Ayleston Castle. Rose's face heated as she remembered his torrid embrace of Lisbeth the night before their departure.

But what of the other woman whose name he called out when he pulled Rose from the ditch? The agony in his voice had been palpable.

“Who is Juliana?” The question slipped out before she could contain it.

Oh, God. I pray you did not hear me,
she thought desperately.

Rand stopped reading and slowly closed the leather-bound manuscript. He cocked his head. “What do you know about Juliana?”

Since she had awoken from her fall, Rose had been unable to stop thinking about the woman. Surely it was not jealousy that tightened in her breast? Nay. The feeling was simply curiosity.

Rose shrugged. To keep from twisting her hands, she clutched the seat of the bench tightly. “You called out for her the other day when I tumbled from my palfrey. Do you not remember?”

He did not answer but asked her another question. “How can you remember aught when you were rendered insensible?” His right eyebrow arched in lazy inquiry.

“I don't know. The memories are hazy. But I remember feeling as though I were watching from a distance as you held me in your arms and cried out for Juliana. So who is she?”

Rand leaned back against the grass seat. “Mayhap it was just a dream.”

“Nay. It was not a dream. The memory is too vivid to be something I conjured in my dreams.”

Rand stared at her, not answering, his gaze speculative.

For some reason Rose persisted. Normally she avoided confrontation and used cunning to get what she wanted. “Why do you avoid answering my question, Rand? Are you embarrassed for some reason? Is she a woman you bedded?”

Rand flinched as though shot with a barbed arrow, and his voice was as sharp. “Enough, Rose.” She watched his green eyes dim to a muted gray. “You know not of what you speak. Juliana was my sister.”

Rose gasped aloud in horror. “Oh, Rand. Forgive me. I did not know. I mean, Alex told me you had a twin sister who died. But I never knew her name, or the circumstances of her death.”

She reached her hand out to touch Rand's arm in commiseration, but she caught herself and dropped it back to her side.

With his free hand, Rand pushed himself up from the bench and stood. “Alex told you about Juliana?”

Uncomfortable with Rand looming over her, Rose lurched to her feet. Only a slight twinge in her hip indicated her bruising was nearly healed.

She lowered her lashes, hiding her gaze. “Not exactly. It was many years ago. It was the first visit you made to Briand Castle with my brother. Curious to know all about you, I pestered Alex until he told me about you and your family.” She jerked her gaze up when he chuckled.

His mouth curved up, smile rueful. “I remember how persistent you were when you wanted something. So what did Alex tell you?”

Chagrined, Rose felt a slight flush heating her cheeks. As a young girl she had been spoiled and indulged, so she usually got whatever she wanted, be it a pretty silk dress for a celebratory feast, or extra sweet pudding for dessert, or intimate details about her brother's handsome best friend. Her voice dropped, soft with sympathy as she replied, “He told me how your mother and sister died a year apart shortly before your father sent you to foster with your grandfather in England. Alex mentioned Lady Montague died in a fire. But he never spoke of how your sister died.”

Rand stared down at the top of Rose's head. The wimple and veil he despised were gone, destroyed by the slimy mud. Parted down the center, her hair was braided. The warm afternoon sunshine shimmered within the silky red locks, creating copper and gold streaks.

“You never speak of your sister. Will you tell me how she died? Was it illness?”

He did not know why, but suddenly the words were torn from him. “Juliana drowned.” The anguish of his loss seeped into his voice without volition. Grief for his mother and sister surged to the surface.

Her questioning eyes softened, a warm glow of sympathy alighting upon him. Unable to bear her gaze, Rand turned his back on Rose and paced away. He did not deserve her sympathy. If not for him, Juliana would be alive today, married with children of her own and chatelaine of her own household.

It had been his idea to go to the river that summer day six and ten years ago. They were playing near the riverbank when Juliana lost her footing and was swept out to deeper waters. Rand jumped in to rescue her, but he was tugged underwater with her and nearly drowned. So he let Juliana go to save himself.

He should have died that day instead.

It was his duty to protect her, but he had been careless and inattentive. They were extremely close and practically inseparable, as if being twins they had been of one soul. With her death, he had felt as if a piece of it had been ripped from him and lost forever.

No amount of penance could relieve him of his guilt.

Rose's soft voice penetrated his reverie. “Rand, I am so sorry. Would you care to tell me what happened? How she drowned?”

Rand could feel an internal struggle, wishing to confide in Rose. But he could not bring himself to reveal his secret shame and see the pity or, God forfend, accusation in her eyes.

Rand fixed his countenance in his usual teasing grin and spun around. “There is nothing to tell, Rosie, truly. It happened so long ago.” He tweaked her chin. “Now, I need to check on my men and make sure they are ready to resume our journey. We depart for Westminster at dawn. I'll see you in the refectory for supper.”

He turned around and walked jauntily away.

Rose slumped her shoulders, disappointed Rand did not wish to confide in her. Something did not feel right about his glib response. To lose his sister in a drowning accident when he was ten and three, then his mother in a tragic fire a year later, must have had a deep impact on one so young.

As Rand neared the garden gate, he began whistling a ribald tune. Oh, what was she thinking? This was Rand. He much preferred the flippant attachments of loose women and could not be bothered with expressing deeper emotions of substance. He was a shameless rogue to the core.

 

Six days later, Rose sighed in relief when Rand halted their party at the top of a hill north of Westminster. In the wide valley below, men in short braies and long shertes were busy cutting fields of wheat, barley, and rye, with the women and children following behind gathering the grain into stalks. Beyond the fields lay Westminster Abbey and the adjoining palace. The muddy serpentine Thames River hugged the palace to the south and east and glimmered with the last rays of the rapidly descending sun.

Rand proceeded forward, and a while later they entered the north gate of the palace. Several castle attendants approached to take their horses. Before Rose could dismount, Rand came to her side, clutched her waist, and lifted her from her palfrey.

A sudden breathless sensation quickened in her chest; confused, she frowned. Rand released her and stepped back.

Sir Justin led Alison away to give Rose and Rand privacy.

“Rose, I shall give you my leave now. I doubt I shall see you again before you leave court and return home.”

Her heart thudded. “You are leaving?” Rose bit her tongue to still a sudden rush of nervous blathering.

An awful sensation of being abandoned shuddered through her. Which was ridiculous, because Rand was only doing his duty. Yet during the journey, she had felt oddly safe in Rand's protection. Now, fear of the unknown would not release its grip on her. She clutched Jason's stone, her son never far from her thoughts. She would endure whatever the king had in store for her—for Jason's sake.

“I assumed you would stay long enough to discover what the king intends of me. Are you not even a little curious?”

His eyes shone with an emotion she was unable to interpret. Was it regret? she wondered. Disappointment?

“Of course,” he said, his voice oddly strained. “But I have other business that I have been neglecting that needs my immediate attention. Sir Justin—”

The clatter of horse hooves erupted as a party of brightly dressed ladies on horseback entered the courtyard. One woman with hair the color of flame, dressed in a jewel-toned blue silk surcoate, and riding an elegant bay mare, left the group and approached them.

Lady Elena Chartres held her arms out for Rand to help her dismount, drawing attention to her voluptuous bosom. “Rand, my dear, I am sooo glad you are back. Court has been a veritable desert without your delicious presence.” A smile of seductive promise graced her lips.

Rand hurried to her side like an excited puppy. His strong, masculine hands clasped her waist and lifted her from her perch. The woman blatantly leaned into him and, her breasts cushioned against his arm, whispered into his ear.

Rand threw back his head and laughed, glints of sunlight catching in his dark blond hair. “Elena, you need not flatter me. You are not a woman to remain lonely for long.”

Rand made no move to extricate himself from the woman's possessive hold.

“You reprobate. You know me too well.” A slender finger caressed his cheek.

Flushing with embarrassment, Rose clenched her fists in her gray wool skirt. “If you will excuse me, Rand.” She took a step to go around them.

Elena turned to Rose, her gaze arch. “Why, Lady Ayleston, welcome back to court. 'Tis always a pleasure to see you.”

Rose spun back to Lady Elena. “Likewise, I am sure.” The woman's patronizing tone irked. Her gaze shifted to Rand. “If you will excuse me, I have
business
that needs tending,” she said mockingly.

Rose did not doubt Elena was the “business” Rand had been neglecting. She flounced away and headed toward the residential ward of the castle, a three-story building with round towers at each corner. Alison and Justin, deep in conversation, stood before steps that led to a large double-door entry.

“Rose,” she heard Rand call out a moment before his strong grip caught her arm and stopped her headlong flight.

She shook his arm off. “What more is there to say, Rand? I believe we've said our farewells.”

Crossing his arms, Rand caught her gaze. “Before Elena arrived I was saying that Sir Justin is staying at court. If you have need of me for anything, inform Justin. He will know where to get word to me.”

She harrumphed. “I shall have no need of your help.”

He bowed, his eyes shifting away. “I wish you well, Rose. Till we meet again.”

Did she detect a shadow of regret in his gaze? Nay, it was probably a trick of her imagination.

“Sir Rand. Lady Ayleston.” A tall, distinguished man with gray-streaked brown hair came down the stairs and stopped before them.

The king's household steward bowed to her. “I see you have recovered fully from the fall from your horse, my lady. The journey was not too taxing, I hope?”

Rose lightly touched the gash on her forehead below her wimple. “Aye, my lord. My headache and dizziness have subsided. I have no lasting effects from my injury.”

He smiled with relief. “The king shall be pleased to hear it. He was quite concerned for your welfare. If you will follow me, I shall escort you and your attendant”—he nodded to Alison—“to your chamber so you may refresh yourself before supper. After supper, I'll take you to an audience with the king.