Vow of Deception

by Angela Johnson

  “Aye, but he shall use every devious means at his disposal to claim retribution. This night is proof of his determination to do so.” Rand did not even know about the extortion threat she’d received. “And you can bet if he was to succeed, there would be no evidence to point to his involvement.” His thumb massaged her sensitive palm; her breath grew uneven.

  “Don’t worry. I am going to take care of Sir Golan. The man believes he is too clever by half. But I have a man looking at Golan’s wife’s death. I don’t doubt he shall dig up a witness or evidence to convict Golan. And if that fails, well, I have no qualms about disposing of Sir Golan by underhanded means in order to protect you and Jason.”

  Despite Rand’s assurances, Rose could not suppress the overwhelming feeling of impending doom that engulfed her. Without volition, she clutched him tighter. Heat radiated between them, stirring her emotions into a stew of fear, excitement, and longing.

  Rand groaned, long and deep. The vibration rippled through her breasts, peaking her nipples into hard nubs.

  She jerked, and then clutching the sheet to her chest, she leaned up on her elbow and caught his gaze. “I am sorry, Rand. Did I hurt you?”

  A bark of laughter erupted. “Nay. You did not hurt me.” He rolled over to face her. He traced the crease in her brow with his finger. “The opposite actually. Surely by now you must know the effect you have on me?”

  He took her hand in his and pressed it on top of the fur covering his groin area. He was aroused. The long, hard ridge of flesh seemed to burn into her palm. Her stomach quivered. With fear? Or could it be something more pleasurably elemental? Her heart wanted it to be more.

  But her instincts won out. She dropped her gaze and curled her fingers into a fist. He released her hand immediately. “I don’t understand why you desire me. My body is too slender and bony, and my chest too flat to appeal to a man’s carnal urges.”

  “Why would you ever think such a thing?” Rand growled beneath his breath. “Was that what Bertram told you?”

  “Bertram did not have to tell me so much as show me by whoring with Lady Lydia in my own abode,” she said bitterly. She despised how weak she sounded. No matter that Bertram was dead these many years, he continued to influence her thoughts and decisions to her detriment. Continued to make her feel small and unworthy.

  He stared into her eyes, his gaze darkening with lust. “Your husband was a fool for desiring Lydia over you. If I were your husband, I would not need to seek others to fulfill my desires.”

  Her heart jumped into her throat. “But you are my husband,” she said softly.

  Rand blinked at her wistful tone. In the months since they’d wed, did Rose have a change of heart? Did she now wish their marriage was one where they expressed their desire for one another without shame or regret? “Of course. I am your husband, but you must admit our marriage is not conventional in any sense. You wanted a chaste relationship, and I swore to abide by your desire.”

  With his forefinger, Rand skimmed down the side of her neck, dipped into the hollow where her pulse throbbed, and continued down her chest to the edge of the sheet she clutched. “Have you changed your mind in that regard? You need only say the word and I shall gladly show you how much my body aches to join with yours.” His voice thrummed with desire, and his member stiffened hot and hard.

  Rand held his breath, waiting—nay praying—Rose would give him a signal that she wanted more from their marriage.

  He watched as several emotions flashed in her big, almond-shaped blue eyes. Indecision, need, yearning, and finally, despair.

  She shook her head, misery in her voice as she said, “I can’t. I want to. But ’tis hopeless.”

  Rand reached up and tenderly brushed her red-gold hair back off her forehead. “I don’t believe that. Naught is ever hopeless.” The words shocked Rand, reminding him of the promise his mother had drawn from him before she died.

  Rose’s mouth twisted with bitterness and disbelief. “Do you truly believe that?”

  An ache deep in his chest flared; nay, he did not. Not in his case anyway. But he could not bear to disappoint her, or see the pain in her eyes, so he lied through his teeth. “I do. Now tell me. What is holding you back?”

  Indecision flickered in her eyes, then deep sadness. She dropped her gaze and lay back down. “You can never understand. How could you? You’re a man. Men wield all the power and never question or concede that that power should not be abused.”

  Rand clutched her fist on top of the fur. “You speak of your husband, Bertram. Not me. I, of all people, understand abuse of power.”

  “How? How can you truly understand? You have never been at the mercy of a man who has all the power, who has the physical strength to overwhelm any resistance you might dare to conjure, or who thrives on hurting the people you love because it hurts you—”

  At each revelation of Bertram’s cruelty, it felt as though someone twisted a dagger in his gut. He knew firsthand what kind of toll abuse took on a person, had experienced the fear and pain, along with the feelings of shame and unworthiness he could not dispel.

  That he’d done naught to protect Rose from Bertram shamed him.

  That night over three years ago when he’d returned to Ayleston to tell Rose of Alex’s death, he’d suspected something was not right with her marriage. It was not long before he began to see the signs of abuse. Bertram controlled Rose’s every movement, and kept constant vigilance of her during the visit. Additionally, the change in Rose from the spontaneous and open young lady she was when Rand left to go on the Crusade, to the listless and obedient wife when he’d returned was dramatic.

  The night Rose tended his infected knee wound was seared into his memory. She’d begged him to make love to her. It was obvious she wanted to wipe away the taint of her husband’s touch. But afterward she’d been unable to look at him, so totally ashamed of what to him had been beautiful and precious that she refused to see him again before he left. Angry and confused, he’d gone, and forever regretted leaving her to the merciless bastard.

  All these thoughts now sifted quickly in his mind.

  “Rose,” he interrupted her. “I do understand what it feels like to be powerless, to be the victim of someone stronger than you, more powerful than you. I understand exactly how you feel. I do. More than you can possibly know.”

  Beneath the words, Rand heard the pain and hurt he had tried to deny but had carried since boyhood. He never could understand why his father hated him. Perhaps it was what convinced Rose of his sincerity and had her eyes gazing at him with sympathy and understanding.

  His hand was still clutching hers, and she laced her fingers through his. “I see that you do understand. But how?” Her gaze was steady, and encouragement gleamed in her eyes. “Who was it who hurt you?”

  A huge lump formed in his throat. For so long, he’d hidden the pain so deeply inside him it was as if the abuse happened to someone else. He’d convinced himself it was better if the past remained buried and forgotten. But Rose deserved to know the truth.

  Rand swallowed. “I have never told anyone of this before. Never spoken of it to a living soul since my sister’s and mother’s deaths.”

  Rose said naught, but completely surprised him when she slid her arm beneath his neck and laid her head on his chest. The sheet remained a barrier between their bodies. “Go on. I am listening,” she said softly.

  Slowly, in stops and starts, Rand delved into the memories of the past and told Rose the tale of a father who despised his wife and children for their tainted peasant bloodstock. How that hatred and resentment metamorphosed into a violent, unforgiving man who emotionally and physically mistreated them. How Rand had tried to protect his mother and sister from his father’s fists but was too small and powerless to defend them.

  “The day my father disowned me and sent me to England, I swore that I would never become like him. That I would never let his hate and resentment infect me. I may have his blood running through my veins, but
my English blood, peasant stock though in part it be, is stronger than his precious Gascon blood.”

  “Nay, Rand. You are not your father.” Rose breathed against his neck; her warmth seeped into him, a balm to his ragged memories.

  Rand exhaled slowly. It felt as though an obstruction in his chest broke up and was released from his lungs with the exhalation. He breathed easier and felt lighter, less burdened by the pain of the past.

  But soon a heavy weight pressed on his eyelids. He could not keep his eyes open. Rose caressed his face and hair, the soothing motion lulling him asleep.

  “Sleep, Rand. You need your rest. Don’t fight it.”

  His eyelids fluttered open again. He wanted to finish their conversation, to discover if there was a chance she could ever let him show her how she deserved to be worshiped, body and soul. How he wanted to erase every bad memory of Bertram’s ill treatment with tender caresses and gentle devotion. But exhaustion tugged and blackness engulfed him.

  Rose stared down at Rand, a soft smile on her face as his eyes closed and his breathing grew deep and even. She’d never felt closer to Rand than she did at this moment. The shared experience of abuse enabled her to see beyond the portrait Rand wished to portray of himself and realize there were depths to him she wished to explore and plunder.

  With her forefinger, she traced his strong blade of a nose, nostrils slightly flared. She continued along his broad cheekbones and into the hollows created below them. His lips, top and bottom, had been perfectly sculpted by a sensual hand. The beauty of his face did not intrigue her half as much as the man himself who hid the painful memories of his childhood behind a genial mask.

  Tremendous sadness filled her as she formed a mental image of Rand as a youth craving his father’s love. It was not difficult, for the face she imagined was nearly identical to Jason’s.

  Indeed, Rose marveled that no one had recognized the resemblance between father and son. They had the same shapely lips, engaging dimples, and wide-set eyes.

  Though she wanted to explore more deeply the complex depths of Rand’s inner self, she realized it would be courting danger. She was becoming too emotionally attached to Rand. She could feel this growing need to confide in him. It was terribly tempting to unburden her conscience and tell him the truth of Jason’s paternity. To tell him of her culpability in Bertram’s death and, as a result, that someone now threatened to expose her.

  But she could not risk losing her son. She could trust no one but herself and, therefore, a true marriage with Rand was out of the question.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Before dawn was a glint on the horizon, Rose crept out of the chamber and down the passageway to the family’s private chapel. Ayleston Chapel was a three-story stone structure connected to the Great Hall. It consisted of a stone-vaulted, ground-floor crypt; the first-floor chapel for the servants; and the second-floor gallery for the family’s exclusive use.

  Hanging from her girdle, she carried the chatelaine’s ring of keys. She found the key to the private gallery entrance, inserted it in the keyhole, and turned it. The iron key scraped loudly in the wooden lock, and then she pushed open the aged oaken door.

  When she locked the chamber upon her husband’s death, she never expected to set foot inside again. It was her attempt to lock away the debaucheries Bertram had committed in his quest for an heir because he was unable to perform his husbandly duties without the titillation of having his cousin or mistress observe them. He’d taken a perfectly benign occupation, gazing through a squint from his bedchamber into the chapel to observe Mass in privacy, and instead used the secret spy hole for his illicit games. Rose still carried the shame and humiliation of having been forced to participate.

  But her degradation was in the past. Now, she inhaled a deep breath for courage and stepped into the back of the chamber. In her haste, she did not close the chapel door completely.

  Before her were two benches. On the wall to her right was a mural of a scene from the Bible, the paint peeling from the face of Jesus ministering to the poor. She remained in the shadows and waited in the hushed silence. Her gaze was riveted to the altar on the floor below, which was situated beneath the large carved crucifix hanging on the rood screen. Behind the pedestal stone altar and rood screen was the entrance to the family burial crypt.

  After Rand had fallen asleep, Rose had decided not to respond to the extorter’s threats. Doing so would only give credence to her guilt. Or it might be a trap by Sir Golan to get her alone with the intention of exacting vengeance on her. Instead, she had decided she would try to discover who the perpetrator was by observing the crypt entrance from the secret vantage point of the private chapel.

  There was no back entrance to the chapel, so whoever entered or exited the crypt would be fully visible from where she was watching.

  A whoosh and sudden scraping of wood erupted behind her. Startled, she clutched a hand to her speeding heart and spun back toward the door. The door was closed—a draft most likely had drawn it shut. More cautious now, she locked the door and returned to her vigilant post to catch the villainous culprit.

  As the first fingers of dawn beamed through the high round window opposite her, someone entered the chapel below. A slender figure wearing a hooded cloak approached the altar with slow, hesitant steps. But instead of passing the rood screen and heading to the crypt, he made the sign of the cross and knelt in prayer before the altar.

  Rose, afraid that the man would frighten away the extorter, sat in tense silence, waiting for him to rise and leave the chapel. She could not remain here indefinitely; she had duties that needed tending. Soon someone would begin searching for her.

  The man in the chapel suddenly rose to his feet. After crossing himself, he turned and started walking toward the chapel entrance. Rose was sitting in the shadows above him, but at that moment, he tipped his head back and stared up into the gallery. His hood slid back on his head, revealing Geoffrey. A flicker of surprise jolted her. A brief frown marred the boy’s face, but he continued walking and exited the chapel.

  Rose released her held breath and waited. And waited some more.

  Hearing the door to the bedchamber close, Rand woke suddenly. Rose was gone. He jumped out of bed and hurriedly dressed. Until he evicted Sir Golan from the castle, Rand did not feel it was safe for her to be roaming the castle grounds unprotected. With one boot on, he raced to the door, opened it, and looked down the corridor. She was not in the hall. Jumping up and down while he tugged on his other boot, he made his way to the stairwell. He was just about to descend the spiral staircase when he noticed the door to the private family chapel was cracked open.

  He pushed the door open farther and peered inside. Rose, her slender back to him, sat on a bench with her head dipped down in prayer. Rand could not help smiling. He’d missed her terribly and been on the verge of making an excuse to visit Ayleston before he’d received word of Sir Golan’s movements.

  Not wanting to disturb Rose at prayer, knowing she’d be safe for the nonce, Rand closed the door and went to check on Sir Justin and William. He had many questions that needed answering.

  William was still unconscious on the floor. Sir Justin was awake and alert, though his eyes were dim with pain. “Rand, ’tis glad I am that you have returned. Pray, tell me Lady Rosalyn is all right.” His voice quivered anxiously. “I hope she fares well with Sir Golan in residence.”

  “You may rest easy on that score, Justin. Rose nursed you through the night and is now at prayer in the chapel. But William is another matter. With you injured, he was posted at your chamber door last night to guard Rose and Jason. But someone managed to slip him a sleeping potion.”

  “Who would do such a thing? And why? Surely Golan would not be so brazen as to try to assault Lady Rosalyn when he was a guest here.” His eyes lifted up to the canopy above him in thought. “Yet, who else could it be?”

  “Aye, who else? I shall not rest till I discover the answer. One thing I know for sure, whoever it is
, he is very cunning. He managed to drug the very formidable Sir William—a man who does not trust easily.”

  Rand shifted his gaze to William, lying on the floor. His voice hardened. “’Tis past time I find out who.”

  He knelt down beside the still knight. At that moment, a narrow beam of sunshine penetrated an arrow-slit, and a flash of light flickered in the corner of Rand’s eye. He turned toward the source—the light glared off a metal object on the floor beneath the washstand.

  Curious, he reached beneath the washstand. His fingers grazed a leather-covered handle.

  “What is it, Rand?”

  He grabbed the weapon and rose to his feet. Standing over William, Rand stared in surprise at the dagger clenched in his hand. “’Tis a dagger,” he replied. He’d never seen it before. Mayhap it was William’s?

  “Eeeeck!” A screech like that of a wounded gyrfalcon reverberated in his ear. Rand spun toward the door. Edith stared in horror at the dagger and raised her arms before her as if to ward off a blow.

  William, rising onto his elbow, groaned and clutched his head.

  If possible, Edith screamed even louder. Her face became as white as a shroud and she made the sign of the cross.

  Rand tucked the dagger into his belt, realizing Edith thought he’d fatally wounded William. “Easy, woman. I assure you I did not harm William.”

  Rand grabbed William by the elbow and helped him to stand. The man staggered and Rand led him to the chest at the foot of the bed.

  William sat down and dropped his head into his hands. “Oh, my head. What happened to me?”

  “It appears you were drugged. Can you tell me what you remember?”

  William stiffened and shot straight to his feet. He winced in pain, then inquired, “Lady Rosalyn? Is she all right, my lord?”

  “Your lady is well. No harm came to her. But someone tried to force his way into the chamber last night. Had I not arrived when I did…” Rand could not continue. Rose had come to mean more to him than his own life.