Vow of Deception (11 page)

Very lightly, he kissed the healing gash on her forehead. “Sleep peacefully, my wife.”

He removed his sword belt and surcoate, but kept on his sherte and braies. If Rose awoke, he did not wish to alarm her.

Once he lay down on the pallet, he began to notice his throbbing shoulder. He shifted the opening of his sherte and stared at the black-and-blue bruises, realizing he must have wrenched it again when he lifted Rose. Mayhap she had an ointment to ease his bruised muscles, though he would not count on it after this disastrous eve.

He had only wanted to protect her. But no matter how hard he tried, he always ended up hurting those he loved. He sat up, startled at that thought. Nay, he did not love Rose. She was just his best friend's sister, someone he cared for very much. But in love with her? A scoffing laugh escaped his lips.

That ridiculous notion settled in his mind, Rand laid back down and closed his eyes. And dreamed…

Rand jerked awake, a deep groan echoing in the chamber. He looked around, disoriented, unsure where he was. He lay upon a disheveled pallet in the bedchamber at Strand House. It was his wedding night. And he'd just woken from a dream, a memory from the past so vividly real his skin still hummed with quiescent pleasure and his aroused cock throbbed painfully. He'd dreamt of the night he had made love to Rose. When she'd pushed her way into his bedchamber at Ayleston Castle so she could tend the knee wound he'd received on the Crusade that had festered.

Pulling up the right leg of his braies, he idly smoothed his fingers over the three-inch-long jagged scar above his knee. After Rose had dressed his wound, she'd begged him to remain at Ayleston a few days until it healed. He'd stared down at her, her body cushioned between him and the bedchamber door. Her soft blue eyes and erotic scent had lured him beyond his resolve. Her lips were a hairsbreadth away. A moan, a sigh, a whispered plea wafted. Then she'd kissed him or he'd kissed her. No matter who started it, he'd finished it, their breaths shivering with delight, their bodies pounding hot and heavy with a desire that could not be denied.

Moments ago, at his remembrances, a long, deep animalistic groan had erupted from his chest.

Disquieted, he surged up from his pallet. The sound of bedclothes rustling drew him to the bed. Rose was asleep, restlessly shifting beneath the blankets.

Her exquisitely molded lips parted, expelling a soft moan.

His cock twitched. He groaned again. This time in carnal frustration.

Disgusted, needing to exorcise his demons in mindless physical exertion, Rand dressed, gathered his sword and scabbard, then exited the chamber.

Rose gasped, waking from a dream—a dormant memory from her past. Her lips tingled. Her femininity was engorged and quivering. She touched her mouth in shock. She had forgotten what passion and its aftermath felt like and marveled at the sensation.

Then her recollection of last night returned. Rand. The last thing she remembered was Rand laying her down on the bed. Her heart beat a painful staccato. Had it only been a dream, or something much more sinister? Surely Rand had not violated her while she had been senseless?

She peeked beneath the coverlet and saw that she was fully dressed. Nor did she feel a sticky residue between her thighs. Relief rushed through her tense body and she relaxed.

She gazed around the room. Light shone through the partially opened shutters. She was alone in the chamber. Rubbing her puffy eyes, she wondered where Rand was.

She fluffed the pillows behind her back and reclined against the headboard. As she noticed the gray fur blanket, her thoughts returned to last night. The fur had not been on the bed then, for she had perused the room thoroughly. Had Rand covered her with it after she blanked out all sensation and thought? It was a mechanism she had learned to use in order to escape the painful degradations her first husband had forced her to endure.

What must Rand have thought of her violent reaction, and her subsequent spell? She could not bear that he had seen her in such a state. He must think her a raving lunatic or perhaps possessed by demons. She had no idea how she was going to face him again.

But face him she must, Rose thought, as she climbed from the bed to ready for the day.

 

Returning from court, where all the talk was of the inevitability of war with Wales, Rand looked around at the peacefulness and beauty of the garden with a greater appreciation for nature. The musical call of birds in the trees was a reminder of halcyon times romping in the vineyards on summer days with his sister.

He found Rose seated on an exedra. The U-shaped bench overlooked a bend in the river's winding course. Her lips were curved in a soft smile as she watched the boats traveling up and down the Thames.

“Positively breathtaking.”

Rose jerked in surprise, her willowlike torso snapping upright. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she gazed up at him. “Rand, I'm sorry I was not waiting for you in the Great Hall. I'm afraid the hour advanced without my knowledge.”

She made to rise, but Rand motioned her to sit and sat down opposite her. “You need not apologize.”

“But you must be hungry.”

“I am hungry and the weather is mild, so I asked Agatha to serve the midday meal in the garden. I hope that meets with your approval?”

“Of course, whatever you wish.”

“But do you wish it so?”

Surprise registered in her eyes and she cocked her head. “Do you truly wish to know my desire?”

“Of course. Why would I ask you what you wanted if I did not care to know the answer?”

Rose looked down and rubbed her thumb over a wrinkle in her gown on top of her thigh. “I am sorry. Our marriage is new and 'tis difficult to know what to expect from you. My only experience is with Bertram, and he cared for naught but his own wants and desires. 'Tis a surprise you would defer to my preference.”

Rand raised her chin with his forefinger so that she looked him in the eye. “I am naught like Bertram at all. The bastard is where he belongs. I'd never hurt you the way he did. I made a vow to protect you, and I mean that in every way.”

Even from myself
, he thought.

Rose nodded her understanding. “The day is lovely. I would be pleased to dine alfresco with you.”

Rand waved to the housekeeper waiting at the kitchen door for Rand's order to serve them dinner. Two servants brought a trestle table and sat it between him and Rose. Then Agatha and two servers brought out a trencher for them to share, a number of hot meat dishes and vegetables, a basket of bread, and a flagon of wine, then set the meal before them. Rose remained silent while Rand filled their chalices with an excellent burgundy he specifically chose to have stocked at Strand House.

When Rose drank from her chalice, his gaze dropped to her throat, once again covered by her wimple headdress. But his imagination conjured up pictures of her bared throat, the supple muscles working as she swallowed, a pulse beating at the base of her neck. He wanted to press his lips there, to feel the throbbing beat beneath warm, silky flesh.

His lips tingled at the thought.

“Oh, God, that is absolutely delicious.”

“Whaa…?” For a moment, the seductive images merged with Rose's words, and he thought she was referring to the imaginary kiss.

Rose gazed at him oddly, her eyebrows pitched upward. He took hold of his wayward sensibilities.

Rand cleared his throat and tried again. “What's delicious?”

“The wine. It tastes wonderful.”

“I am glad you like it. I stocked Strand House's cellars with several casks, along with the white wine we had for dinner last night.”

“'Tis obviously a very high-quality wine. You always did enjoy an excellent vintage.”

Was that a slight smile he detected? he wondered.

“Indeed. I enjoy my wine. I don't mind paying an exorbitant price for such quality.”

Rand took another bite of his lamb. “How do you like the gardens? I hope they meet with your approval?”

She put down her spoon and knife. “I have never seen more beautiful gardens,” she said, using her hands to express herself. “The kitchen garden has a number of herbs I would like to take and plant at Ayleston Castle. The townhome's former owner must have been very knowledgeable of the healing herbs.”

A quiver of excitement emerged in her words, triggering Rand's memories of when she was younger—vibrant and full of life.

“I bought it for you. For its privacy and because I thought you would appreciate the beauty of the magnificent gardens.” He took a gulp of wine.

“Thank you,” she said softly, touched by his thoughtful gesture. He'd always been kind and considerate to her, despite his infuriating teasing. And unlike her first husband, Rand had never treated her cruelly, so it was unfair to continually expect Rand to behave in such a manner. It would take time to adjust, to accept her new position as Rand's wife.

To that end, she wanted to learn why he was the man he was. She clutched the stem of her chalice and cocked her head. “Your older brother inherited the Montague vineyards, did he not? Tell me about growing up in Gascony.”

Rand leaned his forearm on the table. The sun behind his head created a glow around the edges of his long blond hair. “When I was a lad, Juliana and I would sneak away from our nurse to traipse about barefoot in our family's vineyards. We always played with the tenant's children, building forts and exploring along the banks of the river. Mother always bemoaned the fact that she could not tell us apart from the peasants whenever our nurse dragged us back home.”

Rose's heart did a flip at the image he presented. She could easily imagine Rand as a mischievous youth, getting into one scrape after another, his adoring twin sister gamboling at his side, eager not to be left behind. She was touched that he shared a glimpse of his life before his sister died.

She sipped from her wine to wet her suddenly dry mouth. “'Tis where your love for a good wine flourished, if I am not mistaken?”

A huge grin spread across his face. “I have business in London that I must see to, and I would like you to accompany me.”

Her heart beat uncontrollably. Confused, she said more sharply than she intended, “Surely you don't need my presence to conduct your business?”

Rand merely quirked his brow; the crease between his eyes deepened so much it appeared as though a sharp V was carved there. “Come, I want to show you something very few people know about.” He stood up and reached out a hand to help her to her feet.

Never a slave to curiosity, like her friend Kat, Rose felt an odd tremor of that very emotion shimmer through her.

Without hesitation, she placed her hand in his.

Rand's gaze widened with surprise and pleasure as he stared at her hand clutched in his. Shock held her immobile. For the first time, she reacted without forethought and voluntarily touched Rand. Warmth flowed from his bronzed hand into her smaller, more delicate one, his pleasant scent enveloping her, enticing her.

Rand smiled with gentle reassurance. His eyes—more green than gray, with gold flecks—softened. She shook her head to regain her senses and followed him down to the water stairs.

 

After debarking from the barge, Rose clutched Rand's forearm as he guided them off the lane and heading east crossed the wharves behind the stone buildings that fronted Thames Street.

“Have you ever visited the wharves of London before?” Rand inquired, a half smile on his face.

“Nay, I have only seen the riverside from coach or boat.” Her gaze darted back and forth at the teeming wharf.

“This is the ward known as the Vintry. 'Tis mainly inhabited by wine merchants and their families. The vintners live above the warehouses and cellars where their wines are stored.”

Raucous shouts of mariners vied with calls coming from the handful of cookhouses interspersed among the buildings and warehouses.

“See those ships?” Rand indicated with a sweep of his arm.

Several ships lined the wharves, which swarmed with activity as ships' cargos were discharged onto the quays and revetments along the riverbank.

“Aye. What are in those sacks and barrels being laded onto the vessels?”

“Grain, wool, and salted herring mostly. Many of the ships are bound for Bordeaux, where their cargos will be traded for the new vintages, which in turn will be brought back to England in time for Christmas.”

A beggar dressed in rags, a boy not much older than Jason, reached out a dirty hand to them. Rand's muscles tensed beneath her hand, the strength and heat of him reassuring.

Rose's heart contracted at the poverty and misery of such an existence. She was grateful her son would never know such degradation and was touched when Rand retrieved a farthing from the purse hanging at his sword belt and tossed it to the boy.

The black-haired child grinned at them, revealing two missing front teeth. “Thank ye, milord,” he said and then rushed off to the cookhouse nearby to purchase hot food with his recent fortune.

“That was generous of you, Rand.”

Rand shrugged, his cheeks reddening at her praise. “I have seen many such scenes at every port and city I have ever visited. I would never wish such an existence upon a child, especially not a child of my own.”

“You do not regret you will never have a son?” Rose cringed inwardly. The words came out unbidden. Perhaps she wanted to torture herself with imagining the impossible. For she had secrets, secrets she could never share with anyone, and
especially
not with Rand.

Rand shrugged. “If you will allow, I would be honored to stand in as father to Jason.”

Rose swallowed, her eyes rounding.

“Do not answer that now. Give it some thought,” he said gruffly.

He hooked his arm through hers and they continued walking.

A cart loaded with casks containing pitch and tar trundled past them. Her nose wrinkled at the sharp odor. A gust of wind off the river whipped her skirt around her legs, drawing her gaze out to the ships anchored in deeper waters. River traffic was brisk, with the smaller oar-powered fishing boats and cargo boats giving way to the larger, single-mast, square-sail cogs, keels, and hulks. The ships' colorful banners flying from their sterncastles identified their owners.

At the fourth building along the wharf, Rand stopped and Rose released his arm. Less than a hundred yards away, the door to the back entrance of the large, two-story stone house was open. Not far from the door was a bench beneath a grapevine-covered arbor. A gravel walkway led down to the waterfront, where porters were loading sacks of wool and grain into the open hold in the middle of a large cog. A forecastle rose upon stilts at the ship's bow and at the back of the ship a sterncastle was built right into the hull. Rand's banner, a gold lion rampant on an azure background, flew from the sterncastle.

Rose glanced up at Rand, curious. Slowly, it began to dawn on her where his wealth came from—she guessed it was connected somehow to the vineyards his family owned in Bordeaux.

A plump gray-haired man, who had been supervising the loading of the ship, approached them. “Sir Rand!” he shouted, waving as he weaved his way past several dockworkers.

Rand smiled at the man. “Harwood. Have any trouble on the voyage back from the Baltic?”

“Nay. Storms delayed our departure for five days, but otherwise the journey was uneventful.”

Rand slapped him on the back. “Glad to hear it. Your timing is impeccable. The first vintage this season promises to be very profitable.” He turned to Rose.

“Harwood. I want you to meet my wife, Lady Rosalyn. Rose, meet Master John Harwood. Harwood is my factor here in England and Bordeaux and master of my ship, the
Argo
.”

Rose blinked, startled by the name of Rand's ship. The
Argo
was the ship sailed by the mythical hero Jason in his quest to retrieve the Golden Fleece, which Rose had read about in the Greek epic poem
Argonautica
.

Could it be…?

Harwood bowed deeply. “My lady. I'm honored to make your acquaintance.”

The raucous caw of a gull blared above Rose's head. Spikes of fear shot down her lower limbs. Suddenly her knees buckled. She grabbed hold of the bench and lowered herself before she fell flat on her hindquarters.

As Rand spoke to Harwood, she worried her lower lip, wondering if the ship's name had any special significance. But there was no way Rand could suspect…Surely he had no idea of the secret she had nearly died trying to protect.