In Honor Bound

by DeAnna Julie Dodson

  It's not in you ever to deceive me.

  Katherine's trusting words scourged him again, and he took his guilty arms from around Rosalynde's waist.

  I would have died to know someone else might hold you and kiss you and love you like this.

  Rosalynde leaned up to nuzzle his ear, and he had to fight the urge to shove her away.

  I should have died, Kate, before I let it come to this. Forgive me. Forgive me.

  You would never play me false?

  Kate, by my honor–

  She'll never have my heart, Kate, he swore silently. Never. I'll not be false in that.

  Rosalynde looked with adoration into his eyes, then she drew back, bewildered. He knew any tenderness, any passion she had seen in him a few moments ago was gone. She could not possibly know that the disgust she saw on his face now was directed not at her but at himself.

  She burst into tears and moved away from him to the edge of the bed, hiding under the coverlet again. He felt a twinge of guilt at those tears, but he shoved it to the back of his mind and reminded himself that he had never once spoken of love to her. She had no right to expect it.

  Still, he considered the intimacy they had just shared. A mixing of bodies, not hearts, he told himself sternly. Perhaps it meant more to a woman. He refused to care. Making love to her satisfied his body as well as his oath. If she wanted more than that, she would just have to be disappointed.

  With a quivering sob, her weeping stopped and she lay there beside him, wrapped in deepest humiliation. She had bared her heart and soul to him, offered him her innocence like a shower of precious jewels, and he had taken it from her with no more thought than when he took his falcon's hard-won prey. He clenched his jaw. Her choice, not mine.

  She sobbed again, the sound cutting through the static silence, then augmented by the rustle of sheets as he turned towards her.

  "My lady, have I hurt you?"

  More than you know, her brief glance told him, turning his twinge of guilt into a steady ache that was a little harder to push aside.

  "No," she said thickly, but she could not hold back a few more tears. Her gentle lover was gone and all that was left to her was a cold-eyed, cold-hearted stranger. Little wonder she wept.

  "Lady Rosalynde," he began formally, then his voice softened into weary resignation. "Please, my lady, do not cry anymore. If I have caused you any pain, please forgive me. They've done you cruelly wrong, marrying you to me. You should have been given to a man with a heart, one who could love you as you deserve."

  She turned towards him again, fervent longing on her tear-stained face. "I would not want anyone else, my lord. I love you."

  That startled a bitter laugh out of him, one that was cruel in its mirthlessness. "You do not love me. You do not even know me."

  "But when you were in Westered–"

  "That boy is dead. Let him have his peace."

  "But, Philip, I love you."

  "Never say that again. Not ever."

  "But–"

  "Hear me," he said with cold finality. "I promise you three things, Lady Rosalynde, and you will find me true to my word. I will not lie to you, I will not be unfaithful to you, and I will not love you. My heart is pledged already, and I am not a man to break an oath."

  For a long moment she looked at him, wounded pleading in her emerald eyes, then she hid her face in the pillow. He could tell from the silent tremors that she was crying again.

  He rolled onto his back and waited until he was sure she was asleep, then he let the pent up air seep out of his lungs, let it out so slowly that it seemed he did not breathe at all.

  Well, it was done. He had betrayed Katherine, prostituted himself, taken this girl's innocence and broken her trusting heart in doing it, all for his father's ambition. He felt irredeemably soiled. Where was the sweet purity he had felt after that first night with Katherine?

  He brushed the back of his hand across his temple, where Rosalynde had kissed him, and noticed her father's ring on his finger.

  Be good to her, the duke had asked and Philip had had to turn away from the gruff, pleading tenderness in his father-in-law's eyes.

  I will defend her with my life.

  It was not the pledge Westered had desired, but it was as much as Philip could swear to. He had given his word to Katherine, to take care of her. He would not again promise what he could not keep.

  He pulled the ring off and set it on the table near the bed, but he could still feel the weight of it, binding him, pressing him. Nothing was changed. Only death could free him now.

  Soundly asleep, Rosalynde took a deep, sobbing breath, and rolled over against him, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. Longing to atone, he put his arms around her and buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair, unable to tell by the dying firelight that it was dark and not fair.

  VII

  Philip went to his wife the next night because he knew it was expected of him. There were several unwritten rules for royal newlyweds, he was discovering, and among them was the undefined period of time during which they were supposed to spend every night together. He knew tonight would be awkward for both of them after the wounding words of the night before and the strained politeness of this morning, but it could not be helped.

  He found her sitting alone before her looking glass, pensively combing her long, dark tresses. She watched his reflection as he came up beside her, but she did not turn around.

  "Good evening, my lady."

  "My lord."

  There was a long silence, then he took the comb from her and began running it through her hair.

  "There is no need for that, my lord. I am ready."

  He looked into the glass, into the reflection of her eyes, and was strangely reminded of John as he lay on the ground at Tanglewood, bleeding inwardly.

  "I want to do it, my lady. Your hair is lovely." He stroked it with his hand. "You are lovely."

  She dropped her head and he saw big tears fall silently into her lap.

  "It will not take you long to find I am not worth one of those tears," he said gently, then he stroked her hair again. "I would never willingly hurt you, but you must face the truth and not expect more from me than is in me to give."

  She nodded, her delicate lips trembling, and he brushed a stray tear from her cheek.

  "Shall we go to bed?"

  Again she nodded, as if she were unable to trust her voice. He led her to the bedside and turned down the coverlet, then took the robe from her white shoulders, leaving only her thin shift between his eyes and her alluring body. Desire tore at him, but he checked it, refusing to use her any more than her vows and his required.

  He knew, despite her claims of love, that their marriage was no more her choice than it was his own. Regardless of her feelings, she would have been given to him for the sake of their fathers' alliance. He determined that the next time he touched her it would be because she wanted him to, not because she must.

  Giving her only a chaste kiss on the cheek, he tucked the coverlet over her and put out the candles, then he undressed himself and lay down next to her. He knew at once that he would find it difficult to sleep with her so close. Her presence was too tangible. Her scent, her very warmth beside him, was enough to keep the intoxicating memory of last night relentlessly in his mind.

  It seemed the more he fought the remembrance the more it hounded him and, just when he thought he had it mastered, he heard a plaintive whisper out of the darkness.

  "Hold me, Philip."

  Steeling himself, he put his arms carefully around her and she nestled close to him with a little sigh that ran through his blood like fire. He dared not move. She wanted tender comforting and nothing more, he was sure of it, and he felt he owed her that much without taking anything for himself.

  Her cheek was pressed to his chest, his heart pounding against it, and he could feel his restraint weakening with every breathless beat. Doubtless, she could feel the battle raging inside him. She clung closer. Still he did
not move.

  "Hold me, Philip," she whispered again, bringing her lips close to his. "Hold me."

  With no more thoughts of resistance, he let her sweet softness fill his senses and dull the everlasting pain.

  ***

  He was gone when she woke the next morning, but she did not mind that. The memory of him was still with her, the quick fire of his kisses and the burning sweetness of his touch and, more than that, his arms strong around her afterwards, cuddling her close until she fell asleep.

  She hummed to herself as she ate her breakfast and thought of him. He did not love her yet, she decided it was too soon for that, but she was sure she had brought him closer to it. Now it was only a question of time. She was confident she could make him forget whatever it was that had hurt him so badly and the pledge that had a strangling hold on his heart. All she had to do now was love him, and love him better than he had ever been loved before.

  She had her ladies dress her quickly, then she rushed down into the great hall to find him. He was not there. After several inquiries, she learned that he was in a council meeting and would likely be occupied for most of the day.

  Disappointed, she wandered back to her chamber and tried to occupy herself with her needlework, but finally she put it aside and watched one of her waiting women setting a hem in a new gown. Rosalynde always thought of hummingbirds when she was near this girl's bright busyness, and she thought of them now as she followed the darting flash of her needle.

  "What time is it, Julia?" she asked and the girl looked up, deftly pulling a knot in her thread as she finished the stitch.

  "It must be near ten, my lady."

  "I can see the clock tower. It has struck," Ursula said from near the window, then she stood and stretched her long limbs. "Might we not go into the garden this morning, my lady? My eyes ache at this work. Or we could practice that new dance Lady Ellison brought back from abroad."

  "You mean the one that made Lord Ellison so angry?" Julia asked, giggling, and Ursula nodded.

  "All the court was scandalized, my lady. 'I'll not have my wife flung about so wantonly!'" she mimicked and then she laughed, too. "I saw no harm in it. It seemed like flying to be swung so high into the air!"

  "It was not the dancing my lord Ellison objected to," Julia commented, "but her partner."

  The two waiting women began to exchange some of the juicier tidbits of court gossip and Rosalynde went back to her sewing wishing the night was come, wishing for Philip.

  It did not seem fair to her that they made him attend their tedious meetings all day. He had just been married. Surely there was nothing more important for him now than to spend time with his bride. Let the other men, the old ones, the ones who did not need so much to be cared for, let them plan this foolish war. She wanted her husband with her.

  She had already gone to bed when he finally came to her chamber. He did not strike a light, no doubt in consideration of her, so she lit the candle herself. When she did, she saw he had already removed his doublet and his shirt was halfway over his head. He looked surprised to find her awake.

  "I did not mean to disturb you, my lady."

  "I was waiting for you," she said with a shy, inviting smile. "I missed you today."

  He turned away. "This war makes many demands upon me. I have time for little else."

  The war. She noticed the scar that ran for several inches down his left side and wondered how he had gotten it. Like the one on his cheek, this one was well healed but not very old. She hated the war for daring to put such marks on him.

  "I had hoped we might at least have supper together," she said, trying to make it sound like an invitation and not a complaint.

  "I am sorry. It could not be helped."

  Her forehead wrinkled in bewildered disappointment. After last night, she had been sure that he would be eager to come back to her, that he would be much less distant. She was sure she had all but won him. Now he was no closer than when she was still in Westered.

  Bidding her good night, he put out the light and got into bed. She tried to cuddle up next to him, but he turned his back to her.

  "I am very tired, my lady," he said stiffly. "Good night."

  ***

  Her father and the other guests left the following day. The bridal celebration was over, and she learned over the next few weeks that this was to be the pattern of her marriage. When they made love, and even afterwards, he always held her close to him, expressing gentle tenderness with his hands and lips but never, never with words. And every moment of closeness, every embrace, every caress was purchased at the cost of his coolness towards her the next day or, worse, his absence from her altogether.

  He was usually gone before she woke each morning and, if she saw him at all during the day, he treated her as if there had never been any intimacy between them. He was unfailingly polite and showed her every gentlemanly consideration, but he made sure to keep a careful distance. He would not allow her to forget his merciless promise never to love her.

  It puzzled her still, the change in him since Westered. She knew he had lost his mother not so long ago and two of his brothers, one after the other, and thought that must pain him deeply, but that could have nothing to do with the oath that bound his heart. That did not explain why he was so fiercely cold to his father, the same father he had once so obviously worshipped. She decided she would have to be bold and ask him about it, if ever he seemed willing to speak of the past, if ever she found the right time.

  Several days later, when she heard there was a troupe of acrobats and jugglers coming to the palace, she hoped she had found her opportunity.

  Weary of war and knowing his nobles were, too, the king had sent for some entertainment and there was much excitement in the court when it arrived. All the nobility flocked into the great hall, eager to see if this troupe could live up to its reputation as the finest in all the kingdom, and Rosalynde was as eager as they. She remembered how the actors and clowns had delighted Philip in Westered. Now, sitting on the cushions between him and Tom, she hoped they still would do. It helped her cause that the king and his Lord High Chamberlain were too occupied with court matters to attend the fete.

  "They say they have a man who can breathe fire," she said as they first act was being prepared, "and swallow the whole length of a rapier."

  "All at once?" Philip asked dryly.

  "While speaking verse," Tom assured them with a grin.

  Philip did not smile, not really, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes, a hint of laughter in the set of his mouth that gave Rosalynde hope. As the performance went on, she saw him watching each demonstration of skill and daring, every inexplicable feat of sleight of hand, and she was sure she saw just a trace of the eager, boyish amazement she remembered in his eyes at Westered.

  "They are very good," she said, watching his face as the acrobats finished their tricks, and he nodded.

  "They well deserve the fame they have."

  "I wonder would they teach me that last trick," Tom mused, then, in one lithe motion, he stood up and flipped backwards to stand on his hands. "Or perhaps they would make me one of the company."

  Rosalynde clapped her hands in delight, but Philip merely looked at him speculatively.

  "I shouldn't wonder, Tom," he conceded. "Surely they are in need of more trained apes."

  "Then they should have place for you," Tom countered and Rosalynde laughed to see her husband casually tug at one of the cushions to topple Tom back to the floor. The two scuffled briefly until Tom yielded and sprawled back onto the cushions, breathless and laughing.

  Rosalynde caught a glimpse of Philip's rare smile, not the polite, stiff twist of his mouth that had passed for a smile since their marriage, but a real one, however brief, and she had to force herself not to stare. Tom caught her glance, looking pleased himself to see his brother relaxing his guard even just a little bit, and she smiled, too.

  ***

  "Have you seen enough for one night, my lady?" Phil
ip asked as the clock struck half past one, but Tom shushed him, and he realized Rosalynde was soundly asleep with her head on his shoulder, her hand tucked in his. The entertainments had gone on very late, and she had doubtless been asleep some while. He shifted her into his arms, to carry her up to her chamber, and was suddenly aware of her dainty softness. He was aware, too, of the scent that seemed always to surround her. It was saint's rose, he knew, in honor of Afton, but the delicate fragrance seemed especially suited to her.

  She must perfume her bath with it.

  The thought stirred him and he drew her closer. She was so soft.

  "'Night, Tom," he said, standing, and Tom looked up.

  "Sleep well," he replied, then he put one hand up to Philip's arm. "Be good to her."

  It was what her father had asked. Not love her. Not make her happy. Just be good to her.

  Poor gentle thing, surely she deserves kindness if nothing more.

  When he pushed open her door, he saw that her ladies had retired but the coverlet was turned down and a clean shift was warming at the hearth. He had meant only to bring her to her chamber and leave her there on the bed, but he realized that would hardly be comfortable for her. He could at least take down her hair and loosen the lacings of her bodice. That was little enough.

  He sat on the bed and, holding her against him, undid the clasp at the nape of her neck. Her hair fell down her back and over his hands, too, and the smell of saint's rose filled his nose. He breathed it in, drawn by the memories it brought, then, reluctantly, he remembered the task he had set himself. Freeing his hands, he laid her back on the bed and her arms went around his neck in a tender, sleepy embrace.

  "Stay with me," she murmured, lifting her mouth to his, and he kissed her softly.

  "It is late, my lady," he whispered as he slipped her shoes off her feet. "You will want your sleep."