Vow of Deception (10 page)

His unconscionable actions today proved his unworthiness. The memories of the cruel deaths of his loved ones would haunt him forever—and remind him of the dangers of loving anyone.

 

Rand grabbed his destrier's reins and vaulted into the saddle.

Across the lists, Golan raised his great helm in mock salute, his lips twisted with contempt. Rand ignored him and put on his gauntlets, helmet, and shield. Will handed a lance up to him. Rand tested it, frowning. The balance of the lance felt distorted. But it was too late to check it; the first horn blew, signaling them at the ready.

A second blast of the horn sounded and Rand spurred Leviathan forward. The thunder of the crowd echoed in his ears, his gaze intent on Golan. The tip of Rand's lance slammed against Golan's shield and shattered as easily as a brittle stick. The force of Golan's lance jarred Rand's shoulder, excruciating pain shot through him, and he flew backward off his horse. Rand landed on his back, the breath pushed from him. White spots danced before his eyes. His vision blurred.

Rose screamed. Rand had landed with a sickening thump on the packed earthen floor, his head bouncing with the impact. Hands over her mouth, she watched in horror as Sir Golan dropped his broken lance, dismounted from his destrier, and drew his sword, all while Rand lay unmoving in the middle of the lists. Leviathan nudged his fallen master, and Kat slipped her arm around Rose's shoulder. They huddled together, shaken and in shock as Sir Golan approached him. “Rand!” Rose shrieked.

Suddenly, Rand groaned, then rolled away before Golan could press the sword to his throat. He staggered to his feet, bringing up his shield to block Golan's downward strike. Quickly recovering, Rand went on the offensive and landed several strong blows to Golan's shield. Their grunts echoed in the palpable silence pervading the field. Rand slashed at Golan's unprotected legs. The knight jumped back.

Engaging once more, they fought back and forth across the lists until Rand caught the larger knight off guard. He rammed his shield into the knight, swung his right leg behind the man's legs, and shoved the larger, unwieldy knight over, tripping him so he fell backward.

Chest heaving, Rand thrust his sword at Golan's exposed neck. “Cry craven,” he bit out.

When Golan did not answer, Rand pressed the sharp point to his throat. “Yield, I say.”

“Craven,” Golan's voice came thick with fear from behind the perforated steel helm.

Rose released a deep breath she'd not known she was holding. It felt as though a great energy was sucked from her body, draining all her pent-up fear for Rand since she'd learned of the trial by battle.

Rand untied his helm and removed it. “Did you hear him, my lord?”

“Aye, Sir Rand.” Edward rose from his seat and proclaimed, “Sir Golan, with your defeat, God has judged your claim to the betrothal of Lady Ayleston invalid.”

Rand is the victor. Rand is the victor.
The voice inside Rose's head repeated the refrain over and over as relief flooded her senses. Golan could never hurt her again. She was safe at last.

Rand sheathed his sword and backed away from Sir Golan. The knight rolled to his feet, removing his helmet and revealing his disgruntled, red-hued mien.

“On the morrow, Lady Ayleston and Sir Rand Montague shall be joined together in Holy Matrimony.” Edward's tone had turned jovial. “Come, all”—he raised his arms up to encompass the crowd—“to the hall, where we shall feast and dance to celebrate the conclusion of the joust, a most worthy and chivalrous affair.”

Rose's thoughts inevitably switched to marriage with Rand.

Would Rand keep his word and not demand his marital rights? Could she truly put her trust in someone who kept so much of himself hidden behind a lethal charm that easily persuaded women to his bed with but a smile and a kind word?

She knew firsthand of his persuasive abilities. Had not his intriguing dimples and sensual lips once proved irresistible to her? Did he not exude a wicked charm that had coaxed her to sinful fornication?

But she was immune to such carnal temptations now. Her humiliating experiences with Bertram became so unbearable she learned to remove herself from all feeling when he bedded her. Eventually she became cold to sensual stimulation. But that happened after she spent one amazingly passionate night with Rand.

Now, she knew better than to let base passions rule her ordered existence. Surely she and Rand could find a way to coexist as man and wife so they could both be satisfied. 'Twas how most dynastic marriages were conducted.

Rand, still wearing the mail coif over his head, shifted his gaze to her. A slight, though enigmatic, smile curved his lips. Then, with a wink, he flicked the scarf tied around his arm and dipped his head in her direction.

Blushing, Rose looked away, to see Kat studying her. Her gaze warm, Kat squeezed Rose's hand in encouragement.

Edward held his arm out to Eleanor. The queen, a gracious smile on her olive-tinted face, rose as her ladies straightened her trailing green sarcenet skirt.

Rose popped up from her seat, not making eye contact with anyone. The curious, probing stares of the scandal-hungry court would get no concession of weakness from her. The royal couple left the stands for the palace. Rose and her companions followed in their wake.

 

Rose could not believe this moment was upon her. It all seemed unreal even as heat from numerous candles and frank-incense smoke swirled around her in a dreamlike eddy.

Rand's nudge jolted her back from her thoughts. The priest, in his red-trimmed chasuble, repeated, “Rosalyn Harcourt, Lady Ayleston, do you want this man?”

She swallowed, moistening her lips to speak. “Aye.”

Rose had slept poorly. When she had woken, the mirror above her washstand had reflected the lavender shadows beneath her eyes.

The priest continued, “Do you wish to serve him in the faith of God as your own, in health and infirmity, as a Christian woman should serve her husband?”

“Aye.”

“Sir Rand Montague, do you wish to serve her in the faith of God as your own, in health and infirmity, as a Christian man should serve his wife?”

“Aye.”

Lord Briand took her gloved right hand and transferred it to the priest's, who then placed it in Rand's, saying, “On this condition, I give her to you.”

The warmth of Rand's larger hand seeped through her glove.

Rand received the blessed ring from the priest, a beautiful gold band engraved with runes. Reciting the Trinity, he slipped it over her thumb, then index, and finally middle finger, where it remained. “With this ring, I thee wed, this gold and silver I give thee, with my body I thee honor, and this dowry I thee give.”

She looked up into his eyes, which darkened to green with calculation. What was going on behind those dark orbs? she wondered. Did he now regret rescuing her from the clutches of Sir Golan?

After the priest gave the Raguel blessing, joining them together, Mass began. Rose was lost in a sea of thoughts. Hot, her face flushed, she lifted her collar in an attempt to cool herself.

When Mass concluded, the priest blessed the couple and a common cup, from which they then drank. Rose shuddered at the finality of the ceremony. The dark red wine slid down her gullet. Rand stared at her neck as she swallowed. Feeling exposed, vulnerable, she fluttered up her hand, and clutched her bare throat. At Kat's insistence, she had dispensed with the wimple and veil, wearing the more traditional linen barbette and fillet headdress. A rapid pulse beat, hot and hard, in the hollow at the base of her neck. A shivery sensation surged in her blood. 'Twas just anxiety, she told herself, not…

The small party in the chapel surged forward toward the altar before the carved rood screen and congratulated Rand and Rose. Lord and Lady Briand embraced her first.

Her father clutched her face with both hands and kissed her forehead. The creases at the corners of his dark blue eyes deepened in concern. “Rand is a good man, Rose. He will treat you with respect and decency. I pray you will give him a chance to prove it.”

Alex, blue eyes nearly as dark as their father's, approached next. A tall man with long black hair, he hugged her and whispered into her ear, “I love you, sprite. Rand's a very lucky man. I hope together you find the love you deserve.”

Rose's gaze moved to where Rand was talking to his cousin. He smiled down at Kat, shaking his head, his hands on her shoulders. The priest had proclaimed Rose and Rand joined together forever in Holy Matrimony. But Rose felt as though shackled, the weight of the marriage yoke a burden that could not be broken except by death.

Rand turned. Their gazes collided. Green-gray orbs flickered with interest. One corner of his mouth lifted in a wicked grin, though, for the first time, she realized it did not reach his eyes.

Frowning, she prayed she had done the right thing for herself and for her son. She desperately missed Jason and could not wait to return to him. Her heart fluttered in sudden distress; she clutched Jason's stone. God forfend Rand discovered the truth about the boy. The truth Bertram had discovered the day of his death.

 

It was Lady Rosalyn Montague's wedding night. Lady Rosalyn now, not Lady Ayleston. She exhaled loudly, pacing before the massive canopy bed in the center of the room, which was illuminated by several sconces.

Rose sat on the edge of the bed and crossed her arms. The bed was covered in lush red-and-gold brocade bed curtains and coverlet, and stacked with a bolster and gold pillows. An elaborate carved washstand, a large mirror above it, was situated across from a window. Agatha, the housekeeper, had told her it overlooked the ornamental garden the previous lady of the house had nurtured and cared for until she became too old to tend it. Rand had bought the house, which was situated on the Strand not far from court, when he'd learned they would wed.

Now, Rose tapped her foot on the floorboards, restless. She surged up from her seat, unpinned her veil and barbette chin piece. She tossed the headdress and strips of linen onto the washstand, then moved across the room to the window and opened the shutters. Cool air inundated her senses and soothed her flushed cheeks. She exhaled and began unbraiding her hair, combing through it with her fingers and massaging her aching scalp.

The long red tresses fell over the front of her shoulders, rippling slightly in the breeze. She closed the shutters and turned toward the washstand.

Rand stood at the foot of the bed, gazing at her, his expression rapt.

She let out a gasp as her mouth dropped open in horror.

She clutched her collar, her pulse pounding at her temple. “Rand, what are you doing here? You swore we would not share a bed as man and wife. Are you not a man of your word?” Accusation hung heavily in the air.

His cloudy gaze cleared and he propped himself against a laurel leaf–carved bedpost. “Aye, 'tis true I agreed we would not have carnal relations. And I shall keep my promise. But it would be best if we shared a bed so there will be no undue gossip.”

“Nay.” Her voice was shrill. “I shall not spend a single night in the same chamber, let alone same bed, with you.”

Rand sat down on the bed and tugged off his boots. He spoke slowly as though to a child. “Be reasonable, Rose. If it became known we did not consummate our union, we would be forced to do so, or our marriage could be overturned. I know Sir Golan would seize any chance to thwart me and have you in his power once again.”

His tone infuriated her. Men were vile, selfish creatures who were quite capable of lying to achieve their dastardly ends.

All she could think of was the humiliation and torment she'd suffered at Bertram's hands. She watched Rand's lips move, but could not hear him. Her ears buzzed as images from the past began to flash before her eyes. Of Bertram, laughing at her for naïvely believing for a moment he wanted her boyish body; kissing and fondling the voluptuous Lady Lydia; striking Rose for anything he perceived as defiance of his authority.

With a cry of despair, she dashed past him to the door. She lifted the latch and tugged, but it did not budge.

She spun around. Bertram loomed over her, his arm poised to strike. She screamed and crouched to the floor, her arm raised to ward off his blows. “Don't hurt me, Bertram. I beg you, don't hurt me. I promise never to defy you again.” Her entire body shook with fear and her heart pounded as she waited for a blow to fall.

Rand gazed down at Rose, his heart in his throat. A boiling rage welled up inside him at the bastard who had reduced the once spirited and cheerful Rose to a quivering woman fearful of men. His fists clenched till his knuckles whitened. If Bertram were alive today, Rand would hurl the man down the stairs himself.

Relaxing his fists, he reached down and gently lifted Rose into his arms. Surprisingly, she did not resist. Her eyes were blank, appearing opaque, as though she were in some sort of trance. He placed her on the bed and removed her slippers. She lay rigid, her arms straight down at her sides as he pulled the brocade coverlet over her.

He stared at her—lost in a world he could not reach. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. Tears slowly seeped from eyes stark with torment.

Rand rubbed the back of his tense neck. His temples pulsed with pain as frustration gnawed at him. He desperately wanted to heal the wounds the monster had inflicted on her and continued to haunt her despite the bastard's death. Yet he was unsure how to reach her, to prove to her he was not remotely like her first husband.

He shoved his hands through his hair and paced away. Discovering a brazier in the corner beside the bed, he added some coals and stoked the fire to warm the suddenly chill room. He found extra blankets and a gray fur throw in the wardrobe. After he covered Rose with the fur, he made up a pallet beside the bed for himself.

When he turned back to check on her, her eyes were closed and she was snoring softly. The tight knot in his chest loosened as relief flooded him. Reaching out, he stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. Her skin was exquisite, its texture velvety soft, and her complexion delicately luminous. Ethereal.