Vow of Deception (12 page)

Fear of discovery had been Rose's constant companion for many years. Swiping her arm over her moist forehead, Rose stared at Rand's broad back, noticing the subtle play of muscles beneath his dark red tunic as he gesticulated toward the
Argo
, giving Harwood instructions.

She'd thought her worries were over with the death of her husband's greedy cousin, Sir Stephen. Stephen had never guessed her deepest, most shameful secret, and fortunately, Bertram had never shared the knowledge with his cousin. Not that Bertram had had proof of the accusation he'd leveled at her the day of his death.

But now, with her marriage to Rand, her fears came rushing back like a river surging over its banks at flood tide. For Rand would never forgive her for keeping Jason's paternity from him.

She clutched Jason's stone beneath her bodice, shaking. It was for Jason's own protection that she had kept it secret. And she had protected him. From Bertram and his vile threats.

She remembered it as though it happened yesterday.

Ayleston Castle, Chester County
In the year of our Lord 1274, January 2
Second year in the reign of King Edward I

“Milady. I tried to stop him, but he made me leave him alone with the boy.”

Rose stopped outside her bedchamber. Her son's nurse was pacing before the closed door. “Who, Edith? Who is with Jason?”

“Lord Ayleston, milady,” she said, wringing her hands, her raisin eyes bright with fear.

Rose gasped in surprise. Not once in the two months since Jason's birth had Bertram shown an interest in his son. When he was born, Bertram simply inquired if the baby was the male heir he desired and returned to the bed of his whore.

Worried herself now, Rose rushed into her bedchamber. When she saw the room was empty, she entered the adjoining chamber. Her husband, his golden hair elaborately curled, stood over Jason's cradle, staring down at the sleeping baby.

Bertram's handsome, pale chiseled features were pulled down in a fierce glower.

A pulse jumped in Rose's throat. She moved subtly toward the cradle, her eyes cast down. “Milord, is there something you need of me?” She had learned well the role of docile, submissive wife Bertram required.

She reached into the cradle to pick up Jason, but Bertram shoved her aside. His milk-white slender hands, which she had once thought elegant and refined, grabbed the boy and lifted him to his chest awkwardly. Jason's head lolled to the side.

“Milord, his head. You must be careful to support his head.”

Dark ire flared in his jewel-green eyes. “Never think to instruct me as though I'm one of the castle pages.”

Rose dropped her gaze, nodding obsequiously.

But he did as she asked and cupped his hand around Jason's head, which had a strip of wispy blond curls on top.

“He does not look very much like me.”

“He is still too young to look like anyone.”

“His eyes are blue.”

“I have blue eyes.”

He grunted irritably.

“Milord, may I take him? 'Tis time for his feeding.”

“Not yet. Lydia mentioned that the boy was very big for a two-month-old baby born a fortnight early.”

“He's nearly three months old.”

Bertram clutched Jason tighter; the baby whimpered. “Correct me one more time and I shall deny you visitation of the boy for a fortnight.” His eyes narrowed with the threat.

Rose gasped. Lydia was a viper in the nest.

The ease with which Lydia manipulated Bertram was diabolical. Rose could not understand the hold the woman had over her husband. He treated Lydia with more respect than his own wife. Ensorcelled by Lydia, Bertram seemed willing to do any vile deed at her behest. Indeed, Bertram's marriage to Rose had been plotted with great care by Lydia. A vendetta for the perceived insult Rose's brother, Alex, dealt Lydia when he rejected her.

Yet Rose could never tell anyone of the humiliating situation in which she found herself. Married to a man who despised her, who'd wed her to please his mistress, a mistress who'd schemed to destroy Rose simply because she was Alex's sister. Lydia's vindictive tentacles could no longer reach Alex, for he was dead, buried in the rocky soil of Palestine.

Bertram put Jason back in the crib and began jerking the swaddling off the baby. Jason began to cry, his scrunched-up face turning bright red.

Her heart jumped into her throat, so her words came out as a croak. “Milord, what are you doing?”

His hands searched all over the baby, rolling him over, checking his back and bottom and limbs. “I'm checking your son for blemishes or marks of the devil or of witchery.”

Her heart stopped and a hand flew to her throat.
What nonsense is this?
“Milord. Prithee, have a care with your son. You are frightening Jason.”

He spun around and grabbed her shoulders. She winced in pain. A light flared in his eyes, his gaze intense, fevered, and held her frozen in its grip. “Is he? Is he really my son? I say I do not know.”

“Jason is your son and no other's.” Drawing Bertram's wrath upon her and away from Jason, Rose added, her lip curled in utter contempt. “'Tis all Lydia's doing. That whore put these ridiculous notions into your head. And you are a fool to believe that viperous slattern.”

Bertram shoved her hard. Rose fell to her hands and knees. Splinters jabbed into her palms and her hair flew down into her face. Unable to see, she shoved it out of her eyes and got up. But a long hard object struck her. Pain seared her back and she fell onto her knees again. She cried out, protecting her belly and face as repeated blows—with a broom, she realized—struck her back and buttocks. Her cries filled the room, begging him to stop.

Then the blows ceased. Bertram's heavy breathing smothered the air around her and her lungs worked like a bellows to staunch her fear.

“That disapproving bastard Sir Rand was here last year and could very well be the father. I saw the way his eyes followed you when he thought no one was looking. Did you let him touch you? Did you?”

Rose gasped and stared up at him, her hands clenched before her in supplication. “Nay. I have never let him or any man touch me. I have lain with no man but you.” She prayed God would forgive her for the lie.

He raised the broom again. “Liar.”

She gazed up at him, her eyes open, innocent. “Nay. I swear. You are Jason's father.”

His intense jewel, fever-bright eyes held hers. “Swear it on your brother's soul.”

“I swear on Alex's soul Jason is yours.” She cringed inwardly upon her blasphemy. But Jason's very life depended on her sacrilege.

Bertram's shoulders relaxed. “You'd better pray Jason begins to look like me. I shall be watching Jason as he grows. If it begins to appear the boy has even so much as a single feature of Rand Montague's…Well, know that I shall not have a bastard bear the Ayleston title and let you make a fool of me. There are many ways for children to, shall we say, languish in childhood, either by accident or by illness.”

Rose clutched her arms around her stomach as her entire body began to shake. “You would not dare do such a wicked deed as take the life of your own son.”

Bertram clutched her hair and snarled in her face. “I will do whatever it takes to ensure a child of my own loins. Either through you, or another wife, should you continue to defy me. Children are easily begotten till the mother either dries up or dies in childbirth. Wives are easily replaceable,” Bertram spat, and then, releasing her, marched from the room.

Rose jumped up, grabbed Jason from his cradle, and clutched him protectively to her. She rocked back and forth, soothing the infant, her mind reeling with anxiety.

Then a bolt of intense clarity shot through her like lightning and dispersed the fog clouding her reasoning. It was at that moment Rose decided to flee her husband. To seek the safety and shelter her powerful father could provide. Until this moment she had been too ashamed to tell her parents of her husband's abuse and perfidy. After all, it was her fault Bertram could not perform his husbandly duties without the stimulation of knowing others watched. It was her fault she was too passionate and spoiled and unruly.

Now Jason was in danger because of her weakness: her sinful passionate nature. So she must flee. Because she could not risk that Bertram would one day see Rand in the boy and retaliate.

London wharfs
In the year of our Lord 1276, October 22
Fourth year in the reign of King Edward I

“Rose…”

The sounds of the city by the river, shouts of seamen and rumbling cart wheels, seemed far distant as Rand tried to get Rose to answer him.

“Rose,” Rand said again. He knelt before Rose and patted her icy hand. She rocked back and forth, gazing through him as though he were a phantom. Her crystal blue eyes were dull with pain and her skin awash in a pale alabaster hue. “Rose, answer me,” he said sharply, his heart palpitating.

Her eyes cleared. She stopped rocking and gazed around.

They were alone. The porters and ship's crew had been discharged for the day and he'd sent Harwood to check the cellars.

“Rand, what are you doing?”

Rand cocked his head. “I was concerned for you, Rose. When I returned from speaking with Harwood you were rocking and humming softly beneath your breath. You stared blankly through me and would not answer me when I addressed you.”

Rose blanched, growing paler. She pulled her hands free and rubbed them up and down her upper arms. “I am sorry. I'm not mad, if that is what you think.”

“I do not know what to think. Obviously something was troubling you. You seemed distraught and fearful for no apparent reason. Care to tell me about it?”

“I am fine, Rand, verily.”

“You can talk to me. I know Bertram was a…a difficult man to be married to, but you can confide in me. I shall not judge you.”

“How did you know I was thinking of Bertram?”

“We have not spoken of it, but last night you had a similar spell. You cried out for Bertram not to hurt you. Obviously, you were not cognizant. You were locked in a nightmare where I could not reach you.”

Rand understood her demons more than she knew. He wanted her to confide in him, but how could he expect her to when he was not willing to reveal his own inner torment?

“Will you not tell me about it? You need not fear my censure. Unlike Bertram, I shall not condemn you for exhibiting an honest emotion.”

Soulful blue eyes evaded his. “What do you know of an honest emotion?” she said with a sad sigh. “You can charm a lady to do your bidding with your laughing eyes and seductive smile. But you have no deep feeling for her beyond animal lust.”

The insult cut deep. Rand stood up and stared down at her. He could not refute her accusation. To do so would reveal the means by which he allowed his emotions to be subsumed beneath a charming exterior in order to protect those he cared for.

Rand laughed. “You are right. I enjoy women and they know better than to expect me to fall in love with them. 'Tis good you realize that, because I would not want you to fall in love with me,” he said with a devilish grin.

Her gaze snapped, blue eyes glittering. Good. He much preferred her anger to her fear and pain. He felt helpless before her when she exhibited the effects of her abusive past. It brought back memories of his own ineffectualness to prevent his father from hurting his mother and sister.

“Help!” A terrified shriek pierced the sound of splashing water.

Rand turned and saw a black-haired boy bob in the river, his arms flailing as he tried to stay above water. Running toward the river, he watched the lad disappear beneath the surface.

Rand slid to a stop near the bow of his ship. Frozen, his heart pumped in agitation. A cold sweat broke out over his body.

Rose followed Rand to the river's revetment. She expected Rand to jump in and rescue the boy, but he just stood there staring, trancelike. “Rand, don't just stand there. The boy is drowning. Save him.”

He shuddered. Mumbled what she thought was “I can do this” and then tore off his tunic and boots.

Rand dived in and swam to where Rose last saw the child. His buttocks and feet surfaced as he dove down into the depths of the river. Twice he came up for air and went under again. Suddenly, Rand's head popped up, the black-haired boy held in his arms. He swam toward her with one arm back, grunting with exertion.

Harwood emerged from the cellar, and Rose turned at his approach. “The boy almost drowned.”

Gaze troubled, the shipmaster nodded and knelt down, then grabbed the unconscious boy from Rand's arms. Rose gasped. It was the beggar boy whom Rand had given a coin to earlier. Rose knelt over the child as Rand shoved up onto the revetment with both hands. She checked the boy's pulse. It was steady but weak.

“Is the boy going to be all right?” Rand flipped his dripping wet hair back, staring down at the lad, his eyes dark with fear.

His gaze moved to hers and Rose realized it had been a trick of the light. For his green eyes were clear and untroubled. It had likely been a shadow created by his thick, dark eyelashes.

“I believe so. Is there a bed where he can rest till he wakes up?”

“Of course. He can stay in the apprentice's bed off the kitchen. Harwood can show you where it is.” Harwood picked the boy up.

Rose followed Harwood through the back door and down the stairs to the kitchen. Before she descended the steps, she turned back. Rand, his fists clenched at his sides, stared out over the river, a lonely sentinel.

 

Rose sat on a stool beside the narrow bed situated along the fireplace wall in a small chamber off the kitchen. The boy now lay in a clean, dry sherte. As she waited for him to rouse, Rose could not help replaying in her mind Rand's hesitation to rescue the boy.

She had always considered Rand extremely brave and strong and afraid of naught. It reminded her of the afternoon at the abbey when Rand revealed his sister had drowned. Had he been there when Juliana died? Had he watched helplessly as she gave her last breath before surrendering to death?

Watching the boy struggle in the water must have brought back feelings from that day, causing Rand to hesitate. It was the only explanation for his odd behavior.

With sudden insight, Rose realized there was more emotional depth to Rand than he let show. Juliana's death had had a profound effect on him. Rose had seen the devastation and guilt etched on Rand's face when he'd spoken of his sister's death. Nor could she forget Rand's enraged defense of her in the chapel when Sir Golan assaulted her.

Then today, when he revealed his concern for her, she'd accused him of being a heartless womanizer, and he'd responded with a provocative quip and an irreverent laugh.

'Twas not the first time he had retorted in such manner. Always she had negated the emotion he expressed as an aberration, and pounced, perhaps unfairly, on his blithe rejoinders and infuriatingly glib remarks.