Blood of the Rose (29 page)

“Oh, Kit, your loyalty does you credit, but do you really think your child is safe with Rosalind’s monster of a grandfather and his Druid priests?”

“There is no child,” Christopher managed to force out.

“Ask your betrothed what the Druids plan to sacrifice this next Samhain night.”

“That is a ridiculous accusation.”

“Are you sure about that?” Anne shook her head. “You of all people know how it feels to be abandoned to your fate by your mother. Are you certain that Rosalind Llewellyn would not do the same to her child—out of duty, or love, for her Druid religion?”

“Have you finished?”

Anne’s smile was triumphant. “I believe I have.”

“Then I will bid you good day.” Christopher bowed and headed for the door. He kept walking until he found himself in a part of the palace he didn’t recognize. His breathing was so ragged that he had to stop, had to sit down, had to . . . He rested his forehead against the stone wall and closed his eyes.

No
.

Rosalind would never do that to him. It was disloyal of him even to think it. She
loved
him; he knew it. She wouldn’t . . . but she had been defensive when he’d asked her about her long absence from court, and recently she’d been keeping secrets from him. Had Elias told her that he knew about her child, and had she feared Christopher would find out?

As his stomach churned, Christopher struggled to take a deep, calming breath. He had to believe this was simply Anne’s last attempt to pit him against Rosalind. Logic and common sense demanded it. But there was still a part of him that wanted to weep. Rosalind had told him once that Druids didn’t practice human sacrifice anymore. Could she really have lied to him? Or mayhap she had no idea what her grandfather planned to do with the babe. A sudden coldness gripped him. Speculation was useless. He had to find Rosalind. Now.

Rosalind sat in the royal apartments and tried to concentrate on the embroidered slippers she was making for her grandfather’s birthday. It was hard not to think about what Anne might be doing with the potion, and how successful it could be. Rumors were already flying that Anne had succumbed to the king’s desires on the previous night. Rosalind hated the idea of giving Anne anything she wanted, but the practical, pragmatic side of her realized there was no other option.

“Lady Rosalind?”

She looked up to find Christopher in front of her. Her tentative, welcoming smile died as she contemplated the iciness of his blue gaze. “My lord?”

He bowed stiffly. “I wish to speak to you in private.”

Rosalind ignored the whispering from the other ladies and put down her sewing. Christopher didn’t bother to wait for her and was already disappearing through the door. Rosalind picked up her brown satin skirts and followed him out of the sunny room and into the darker recesses of the attached kitchens.

Christopher stopped by one of the large sweet-smelling storerooms that held preserving jars filled with last year’s summer fruit and flung open the door.

Rosalind followed him in. “Christopher, whatever is the matter?”

He stared down at the mud floor. “There is something I need to ask you.”

“Then ask.”

He still wouldn’t look at her. “I know I shouldn’t even have listened to her, but she was determined to tell me, and as Elias already knows . . .”

“Elias knows what? I have no idea what you are talking about.” Rosalind hoped she didn’t sound as defensive as she feared. Had he somehow guessed her secret? That might explain his anger. “If you wish to accuse me of something, please go ahead. I’m listening.”

He cursed softly and stared into her eyes. “Tell me about my child, Rosalind.”

She took a step back and flattened her hand over her stomach. “Why on earth would you ask me that?”

“Answer the question!”

Fright mingled with guilt gave her voice the snap she needed. “I need not answer you when you bark out commands to me as if I’m your dog!”

He took a menacing step closer. “Tell me.”

Rosalind swallowed hard. How had he guessed, when she had scarcely acknowledged the pregnancy to herself? And why was he shaking with anger? “I . . .”

“Why so reluctant to answer, my love? Aren’t you supposed to be pleased and eager to share the news of our little bastard? Most women want children, don’t they? Even my mother, I suppose, ‘wanted’ me—to use me as a bloody bargaining counter in her game of deceit.”

The venom in Christopher’s voice made Rosalind bite her lip.

“I am not like your mother.”

“Is that so? Because your reluctance to tell me about the babe makes me wonder if it’s even mine. Did you take a lover while you were so conveniently missing from my side?”

“Of course not!”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

Even as hurt shuddered through her, she met his disbelieving gaze. “I had my reasons.”

His mouth twisted. “I’m sure you did.”

Desperately Rosalind tried to reach through his blistering scorn. “I
wanted
—”

He cut her off with a decisive gesture. “Yet what
I
want seems to be completely irrelevant to you, does it not?”

Rosalind faced him then, her fists at her sides, her heart banging in her chest. “What exactly has Elias said? Or is there someone else involved? You said ‘she’—would that be the Lady Anne Boleyn? She scarcely has my best interests at heart.”

“Just answer me.” He lifted her chin with two hard fingers. “Did I get you with child?”

She had to fight to think up a reply that wouldn’t inflame his anger, but it was impossible. Rage flooded through her. Whatever Anne had said had tainted his view of their offspring. Would she be the only person glad to hold such a babe in her arms?

This wasn’t the way she would have chosen to deliver such important news, but she couldn’t lie to his face. “Yes. But as it seems obvious that the thought of me having your child is abhorrent to you, mayhap I did the right thing to conceal my condition.”

His face contorted and he recoiled from her. “By all the saints, Rosalind,” he whispered. “What have you done?”

She stepped out of his reach as dread curdled her stomach. “Nothing that need concern you. I promise you will never have to see the child.” It took all her strength to run from him then. She expected him to call her back, to demand that she face him and explain herself. But he didn’t come after her. He didn’t do anything to stop her walking away from him at all.

Rosalind kept running until she reached her bed, and flung herself down on it. She tried to think through the waves of anguish flooding through her. Christopher didn’t want this child—their child. Could he not face the idea of being a father to a babe whose kin were at one another’s throats? She’d thought better of him, thought he of all people would understand.

She rolled onto her back and pressed a hand to her stomach. Tears slid down her cheeks as she murmured a protective prayer over her child. What had provoked such an outburst from Christopher? And what on earth had Anne Boleyn said to stir the pot? The thought of Anne knowing anything about their child was terrifying.

Rosalind only became aware that something was not right when it was too late. Christopher’s palm was over her mouth and her hands were tied together. She tried to kick out at him, but only succeeded in hurting her bare feet on his hard thigh. When he gagged her and slung her over his shoulder, she could do nothing but endure the jolting down the stairs and pray she wouldn’t puke.

It was now dark outside, so she must have slept a little. Christopher wrapped her in his cloak and took her down to the silent stables. He paused long enough to show her a trussed-up Rhys in the corner of her horse’s stall being guarded by Christopher’s manservant. With the assistance of his servant, Christopher mounted his horse and tucked her in front of him. There was no possibility of escape, so she endured the ride in seething silence, imagining all the possible ways she could hurt him when he finally released her.

But would he release her? The possibility of being tossed into the River Thames haunted her. Surely he wouldn’t do that? She started to struggle against the stifling folds of the cloak, but he simply tightened his grip and kept her secured.

She could smell the river now, the unpleasant odor of dead fish and other even less agreeable refuse. Christopher halted the horse and got down, easily supporting her with one hand as he gained the ground. To her annoyance, before she could contemplate her escape, he immediately picked her up again, and walked forward into the foggy gloom. He paused to kick open an old oak door and she found herself inside a small church.

Christopher’s boots echoed as he marched up the center aisle. Rosalind could see nothing but the dirty red and brown tiled floor and the glow of candlelight before the painted rood screen.

“Good evening, Father.”

A quivery voice answered him. “Good evening, my son. Is this the lady?”

“Indeed it is, Father.”

Rosalind gulped as she was righted in one smooth motion and placed on her bare feet. She swayed, and Christopher wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

The priest eyed Rosalind, his kind face full of worry. “I cannot marry you if she is gagged, my son. She must consent.”

“As I told you, Father, she is a little simple in the head. She does want to marry me. Don’t you, my darling?”

Before Rosalind could shake her head, Christopher bent down to whisper in her ear, “Defy me and Rhys dies.”

She stared into his eyes and saw no hint of the man she loved, only a calm, cold desire to achieve his aim. He even forced his mind into hers so that she could gauge the sincerity of his deadly intentions.

Was this a nightmare? The sensation of the cold tiles beneath her feet assured her that she was indeed awake, and in some discomfort. Had Christopher been possessed by Anne Boleyn completely? But then why marry her? Surely Anne would have ordered him to kill her?

Christopher took off the gag, and Rosalind moistened her dry lips. “Why are you doing this?”

“To protect what is mine.”

“But why now?”

“Because this is how I wish it.”

Rosalind studied his all-too-familiar face for a long wrenching moment. “If you do this, if you force this wedding on me, I do not wish to see you ever again.”

“Have no fear of that,” he bit out. “Then you agree to the marriage?”

She thought of the babe,
his
babe that grew within her womb. Their child did not deserve to be born a bastard. Whatever was wrong between them, surely all she needed was time to solve it. And if he was indeed bewitched, she could deal with that as well. She took a deep breath. “I will agree—for Rhys’s sake.”

In the silent, sacred space his laughter was shocking. “Not for the sake of the child?”

She ignored him and turned to face the priest, felt Christopher’s dagger bite into the ropes around her wrists and free her. He took her left hand and she stared straight ahead, not willing to look at him, not willing to acknowledge him until she’d made her stilted replies, heard his, and become his wife.

They didn’t speak on the way back to Hampton Court, and Rosalind was glad of it. Misery engulfed her and she was no longer sure she had made the right decision. As Christopher left her at the bottom of the stairs and stalked away without a word, Rosalind finally allowed herself to cry.

Chapter 22

H
is last day on earth, and he was not only a married man, but apparently a father as well. Christopher groaned and closed his eyes. He had to face Rhys now instead of cravenly skulking off to bed to drown his sorrows in a bottle of fine Rhenish wine.

But if Christopher wanted to make sure he was given access to his own child, Rhys would have to be dealt with. Rosalind he couldn’t even bear to think about. He knew in his soul that she couldn’t have countenanced her own child’s sacrifice, but the rest of it . . . How could she abandon a babe like that? Christopher groaned. Maybe it was more common than he thought, or maybe he just attracted coldhearted women who wanted to rip out his soul.

His conscience whispered a protest. Rosalind wasn’t like that. She didn’t have a dishonest bone in her body. If she’d wished to betray him, she would’ve done so to his face and told him about it too, not by deceit. But she hadn’t denied the existence of his child . . . had, in truth, confirmed his suspicions quite readily.

He entered the stables and gestured for Roper to leave him with Rhys in the deserted tack room. Kneeling beside Rhys, he sawed through the ropes that bound him and removed the gag from his mouth. Before he could retreat to a safe distance, Rhys was on him, his dagger to Christopher’s throat, his knee lodged on Christopher’s chest.

“What in God’s name is going on, Ellis? Have you run mad?”

“If you’ll get off me, I’ll tell you.”

With a contemptuous shove, Rhys let him go and stood up, his color high and his hazel eyes radiating fury.

“What do you want to know, Williams?”

“I would’ve thought that was obvious. Why in God’s name did you set your servant on me and kidnap Rosalind?”

Christopher met his gaze. “You are an excellent liar, Rhys, but not that good.”

“I am not lying.”

“Are you trying to tell me that Rosalind, who trusts you with everything, didn’t tell you about the child?”

For a moment, Rhys looked completely baffled. “What child?”

“The babe she delivered while she was in Wales.
My
child, I assume, unless she is a whore as well as a witch.”

“Shut your filthy mouth!” Rhys demanded. “Has that Anne Boleyn finally turned you into her creature?”

“No child of mine will be murdered for the sake of your bloody religion.”

Rhys set his jaw. “Ellis, I fear you have lost your mind. There is no child—”

Christopher grabbed Rhys by the throat. “Just tell me exactly where her grandfather lives so that I can get the babe before it is too late.” Rhys tried to pull out of his grasp, but Christopher tightened his grip. “Tell me.”

Rhys stopped struggling and spoke slowly. “There. Is. No. Child. Whoever told you that was lying.”