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.
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.
Chapter Nine
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 wou
ld 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.
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