His cock surged hard and erect. The sherte tented embarrassingly, and he prayed she would not look up and notice.
“There is no need for panic,” he said. “Edward is sending the Earl of Warwick immediately to secure Chester and begin raising an army. But the bulk of the troops shall not advance into Wales and fight Llewelyn till next summer. We will leave for Ayleston in a day, two at most,” he said adamantly.
She straightened, turning and pulling a wisp of loose hair from her mouth. Like a tug on a string, his gaze shot up from her bottom to her pinkened, wet lips.
“Naught you say can sway me. I am leaving tonight.”
Entranced by her lips, the soft curve of the corners, the plump, fleshy sweetness, he did not hear her words at first. Then she slammed the chest shut and turned the key on the lock.
His jaw clenched at her stubbornness, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “On the morrow, I am to meet with Harwood to give him some final instructions before the Argo sets sail with the evening tide. Meanwhile, preparations for the journey to Ayleston are already under way. We leave the day after tomorrow. Together.”
“I understand you must stay. But—”
“Nay, you do not understand. You are not going. You’ll only endanger yourself, and I will not allow it.”
A stubborn glint lit her crystalline eyes. “I’m going. You cannot keep me here.”
“I can and I will.” He lifted the chest and carried it into the wardrobe. He returned to the bedchamber. The room was empty. The door was open.
Swearing, he ran after her. She dashed down the stairs, her chemise billowing out behind her in full sail. The silvery glare of the moon illuminated her like a ghostly specter. He grabbed for her and clutched her linen shift. She screamed. He reeled her in, lifted her in his arms, and carried her back to their chamber.
“What is wrong with you, Rose? Where do you expect to go in your nightclothes?”
She flailed in his arms, shrieking, “You don’t understand! Jason is there alone without me! He is in danger and I must go to him!”
Rand set her down and dropped the bar over the door. “You cannot go to him in naught but your chemise, without an escort. You are acting like a lunatic.”
She flipped her hair out of her eyes and tugged her nightdress down to straighten it. She glared, her eyes narrowed, and her breath coming in pants.
“You are right,” she gritted out between her teeth. “I am sorry. But you don’t know what it’s like to have a son whom you love so much you will do anything to protect.”
A fist to the gut knocked the breath from Rand. Envy and sadness rocked him to the core. Rose’s selfless defense of her son brought to the surface a well of emotions he kept buried. He envied Rose her son. If he had a son, he would be a loving and protecting father, the kind of man his own father had never been.
The old Lord Montague insisted his son marry the heiress who would bring her wealthy dowry of Bordeaux wine estates to the marriage. But Rand’s father was a proud and vain man. When his peers ridiculed him for marrying a woman who came from peasant stock, despite her royal father, he became resentful and hateful as the years passed. That hatred manifested itself into an emotionally and physically violent man.
Now Rose and her son were his family. The fear of failure was a burden that weighed heavily on him. He despised his weakness but could not relinquish the doubts that assailed him. He felt like that helpless adolescent who’d let his sister drown because he saved himself, then a year later watched his mother burn to death as he lay trapped beneath a collapsed beam. Yet he hid his fears from Rose.
Rand skimmed his fingers through his hair, pushing it back off his face. “I understand you wish to protect Jason. I commend you for it. But we must proceed rationally. Though we cannot leave for another day, I’ll send a messenger immediately to Ayleston with instructions for the castellan to increase the castle guard and check everyone entering the castle gates. Jason will be safe until our arrival.”
“You cannot know that. Anything could happen to him. Children are susceptible to all kinds of illnesses and accidents.” Rose began to pace, her hand clutched to her throat.
The truth of the statement cut Rand raw. He winced inwardly, his guilt over Juliana’s death never far from his thoughts.
Outwardly, he exuded confidence. “That is even true when we are not at war, Rose. Let us not borrow trouble,” he said and clutched her shoulders to still her agitation. “I do not suspect to see unrest in the northeastern Marches for weeks yet, but it can’t hurt to be cautious if it will help ease your mind. I will go now and send a messenger on his way with orders for the castellan at Ayleston to make the changes we discussed and to inform him of our imminent arrival.”
Rose nodded her acceptance, even as a residual murmur of disquiet echoed within her. Rand could not know of her fears that Sir Golan intended harm to them all, including her son. The threat of hostilities with the Welsh increased her anxiety twofold. It was stressful and worrisome because, despite his assurances, Rose could not put her trust in Rand. Rand was the only thing standing between Sir Golan’s intent to retaliate and Rose. She knew better than to put her faith in anyone other than herself. No one had protected her from Bertram, and her brief, sinful liaison with Rand had only endangered her more.
In the end, she had protected Jason. And she would do so again. At first light, she would send a message to her steward to put a guard on Jason.
Rand need never know the truth. What was one more secret when she’d already kept from Rand the devastating facts surrounding Bertram’s death and her son’s paternity?
Shivering, Rose crawled into bed and pulled the bedclothes up. She drew Jason’s necklace off over her head and stared down at it, rubbing her fingers over the smooth, oval brown stone. And prayed Rand never discovered he was Jason’s father.
She could not bear his hatred.
Chapter Twelve
The following evening, Rose opened the spice cupboard with a key from the chatelaine’s ring of keys hanging from her girdle. A variety of long boxes lined the shelves. She opened the lid on a box containing saffron and measured out a small amount. She gave the cook the spice and precise instructions on how to prepare the sauce for the fish. Her family would be arriving soon for supper to bid them farewell before she and Rand departed for Ayleston on the morrow.
Everything had to be perfect. She did not want her family to know of the unusual arrangement she and Rand had made to keep their marriage chaste. By serving them a wonderful meal and keeping up an appearance of a normal marriage, she hoped to prevent her parents from worrying about her happiness. After Bertram died, she’d revealed hints about their marriage difficulties, and she knew her father especially blamed himself for agreeing to the marriage.
But Rose knew where the blame truly belonged. It was her impulsive, reckless, passionate nature that had led to her disastrous marriage. The moment she’d laid eyes on Bertram, she had wanted him for her husband. Her father’s one true weakness was in loving her too much. So much so that he had given her everything she ever wanted. And that included Bertram.
“Milady. ’Tis late. Your guests will be arriving soon and you have yet to dress. Go, now. I promise everything shall be prepared exactly as you ordered,” the cook said.
Rose looked down and saw a splatter of grease on the tip of her slipper and a caking of flour on the skirt of her work dress. Her hand fluttered to her headdress. It was askew and wisps of hair had come free. “Oh my, you are right. I must go and clean up.”
She rushed out of the kitchens and up the outer stairs to her bedchamber.
Rose stopped abruptly at the threshold. Rand sat on a bench at the foot of the bed pulling on his boots. Dressed in a calf-length surcoate of a green hue found in peacock feathers, he glanced up at her entrance.
The back of her hand flew to her cheek in embarrassment. “Good Lord, I must look afright. I pray you will pardon me while I dress in proper attire to receive our guests.”
Without saying a word, Rand walked loose-limbed, predator-like the short distance to her. His eyes, holding her transfixed, appeared extremely gray against the green of his tunic. In a slow, melting caress, his gaze moved over her face, down her breasts, hips, and thighs, and then returned to her face. A rush of heat settled in her cheeks.
He tapped the end of her nose with his forefinger, brought his finger to his mouth, and licked the white substance that had transferred from her nose to his digit.
“Hmmm.” An amused yet tender smile quirked his lips. “Flour.”
Reaching out his hand, he pushed a strand of hair off of her face. Strong, masculine fingers grazed her cheek. A shiver curled down her spine.
His smile slipped, and an odd light appeared in his gaze. “For what ’tis worth, I think you look absolutely lovely as you are. But I understand you would wish to refresh yourself before your family arrives. I’ll go now so you may dress.” He walked around her and opened the bedchamber door.
“Rand,” she called out before he left the room.
He spun around, his hand still holding the latch. “Aye, Rosie, what is it?”
For the first time the hated nickname felt like a caress rather than a childish endearment.
She had no idea what she meant to say. There were so many things she could say.
That she was sorry he was forced to marry her. Sorry that she was not like normal wives who willingly bedded their husbands to bear children. That he deserved a bride of his choosing—a woman whom he could love, admire, and respect.
Instead she blurted out, “Thank you.”
His brow puckered. “For what?”
“I never thanked you for preventing my marriage to Sir Golan. Though you didn’t wish to marry me, you did so to protect me. You even braved battle with Sir Golan to accomplish it. I know I’ve seemed ungrateful for the sacrifice you made, but I do thank you.”
“I do not deserve your thanks. I should have done more, so much more, and a long time ago. I shall never forgive myself for that.” A fierce frown on his face, he closed the door behind him as he left.
Rose ambled into the wardrobe puzzling over Rand’s enigmatic words. He should have done what and how long ago? The comment was very vague. What could he possibly be sorry for? Surely he was not referring to her marriage to Bertram? Rand was in the Holy Land when she met and married her first husband. And after Rand returned from the Crusades there was naught he could do.
Without thought, she plucked a surcoate and tunic off a peg and selected a matching pair of slippers. She returned to the bedchamber and tossed them onto the bed. She removed her outer garments and washed her face, chest, and hands at the washstand as her thoughts returned.
The Church considered marriage sacrosanct. A husband had authority to do what he would with his wife. Even beat her for any reason. He was lord and master. And though some churchmen might abhor wife beating, a marriage could not be dissolved on such grounds.
Furthermore, a woman who left her husband could be dragged back to him unwillingly and without recourse. Rose’s powerful father could have protected her. But she had been too afraid to leave Bertram until he threatened Jason.
So there was naught Rand could have done. As such his comments made no sense to her.
She changed into a clean chemise and stared down at her choice of gown. It was the only colorful one she owned. The light blue surcoate was embroidered with red rosebuds at the flared cuffs and rounded neck. She refused to consider that she had unknowingly chosen it to please Rand.
It was the perfect choice to convince her parents she was content with her new marriage. She had changed her dull widow’s attire for that of a happily married bride. They need never know the marriage was a pretense and, therefore, there would never be children from the union, or at least none that they knew of.
She squelched the tremor of guilt that rattled her and began dressing.
Savoring a glass of wine, Rand sat in one of two chairs in the corner next to the fireplace. Alex was sitting beside him in the other. When Rose entered the Great Hall, his friend’s voice faded to a distant hum. Rand blinked. His eyes grew wider at the loveliness of his wife. She wore a shimmering surcoate of a bright blue hue akin to a clear summer sky, which made her almond-shaped eyes brighter. Embroidered red rosebuds around the cuffs and neck enhanced her delicate wrists and long, graceful neck.
But what shocked Rand the most was that Rose had decided to forego the hated wimple and veil headdress. Rose’s vibrant reddish-copper hair hung down to her waist and was held back with a simple veil and circlet. As she made her way to the dais table, where Kat, Lord Briand, and Lady Briand conversed, she waved to him and Alex, with a brief flutter of her hand.
Rand was so stunned he could do naught except nod his head, to the back of hers, because his reaction was slow. The glow of the chandelier highlighted shimmering streaks of gold in her hair.
How fanciful of her! She was never fanciful. Mayhap farcical, but never fanciful.
“You might want to close your gaping maw, friend. You look utterly ridiculous.”
Rand snapped his jaw shut, jerked his head around, and glared at his gloating friend.
Alex chuckled, a huge grin on his face. His black shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a leather thong. The hand not holding a chalice moved to his chest and patted over his heart several times. “My, my. I believe thou heart is smitten. With my sister, no less.”
“Absolutely not,” Rand said. “You cannot possibly surmise such a thing.”
Alex waved his hand at Rand’s head. “’Tis writ all over your face.”
Rand’s hand flew to his face. He searched his facial features—wide-set eyes, bold cheekbones, dimples, and lopsided grin in place—naught unusual there.
Alex chuckled again. “You won’t find the truth of your heart in that way. ’Tis the way you look at Rose with your eyes.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I cannot describe it except that as you stared at her, ’twas as though you were pouring out your soul to her.”
“Do not be absurd. You simply read pleasant surprise in my eyes. ’Tis nice to see her wearing more flattering attire rather than her usual drab widow garb.”
Alex scoffed. “Does your heart beat rapidly out of control whenever Rose is near you? Do you find your thoughts inexplicably drawn to her during the day when your mind should be on the important duties you must fulfill for King Edward? Does she frustrate you and challenge you at every turn, yet your heart still misses a beat whenever you see her smile, or laugh, or cry?”
Shock held him still, and then he blurted out, “How could you know all that?”
Alex stared at him with a look only a friend could muster that said, “Did you really just ask me such a stupid question?”
“Forget I said that. But your relationship with Kat is different, your—” Rand could not even tell his best friend that his marriage was not consummated and he never intended to copulate with his bride.
“Aye, you were saying?”
Rand shifted in his chair. “You and Kat love each other. Neither I nor Rose ever intended to marry, yet duty on my part and sheer desperation on Rose’s has bound us together forever in holy wedlock.”
“Certes. But I did not love Kat when we married. Our marriage was arranged, like that of most other couples of our station.” Alex turned his gaze to his bride. Kat threw back her head and laughed at something Lord Briand said. A besotted smile spread across Alex’s face. “Now I cannot imagine my life without her.”
“You are missing the point. Rose and I both vowed never to marry, for reasons you are very well aware of. ’Tis not an auspicious way to begin as man and wife.”
Alex swung back to Rand. “I understand why Rose never wished to marry again.” His eyes narrowed. “But surely you did not intend to punish yourself for your mother’s and sister’s deaths for the rest of your life?”
Rand took a deep draught of wine. Alex could not know that it was fear more than a
ught else that kept him from making theirs a true marriage.
Alex persisted despite Rand’s silence. “There is naught keeping you from having a fulfilling marriage with Rose now it is a fait accompli. You just have to find a way to persuade Rose to trust you, to convince her that you are the man she needs despite her bad experience with Bertram.”
But how could Rand persuade Rose to trust him when he did not trust himself to protect her? ’Twas better for all concerned that their relationship remained chaste and loveless.
After supper, Rose sat with Kat by the fire. A great clap of masculine laughter rang out in the Great Hall. Rose’s gaze swept across the room to the dais table. Rand, grinning, sitting at the table opposite Lord and Lady Briand, shoved his fingers through his hair and pushed it back off his cheek. His dimples twinkled at her like distant stars in the northern sky. The tugging sensation low in her belly caught her unawares and took her breath away.
In the chair beside Rose, Kat murmured, “Good God, you love Rand.”
Her head jerked back to her friend, whose gray gaze was open wide in disbelief and pleasure. “I do not love Rand. What would make you say such a thing?”
Rand’s handsome goldenness was a constant distraction despite her attempt to ignore him. But she certainly did not love him.
“I have never seen you look at another man that way before.”
“What do you mean? How do I look at Rand?”
“’Tis difficult to explain, but your eyes light up like candle flames when you look at him.”
“How remarkable. I’ve never known you to be so poetical. Whatever you think you saw, ’tis certainly not love. Love is a manifestation of the poets that men use to their advantage and to the detriment of women.”
“So you do not believe in love? Then you must believe that Alex does not love me, nor I love him.”
“I believe you and Alex love each other. And that Mother and Father love one another. But you’re the exception. The love I have to give is completely reserved for my son.”
Vow of Deception Page 14
