Vow of Deception. Angela JohnsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
from neglect. I repaired the walls and outbuildings, reclaimed land for crops, and expanded the cattle grazing lands. There is still much I wish to do, but now Edward has declared I must marry. Once married, I shall have no say in ordering my life or the estate. My husband shall have all the power,” Rose said grimly.
“I understand why you did not wish to marry again after Bertram’s cruelty. But surely you don’t believe Rand is even remotely like your dead husband?”
“Of course not. But I shall be forced to—” Rose cut off her confession and lunged to her feet. “Oh, how can I explain my fears to you? You and Alex have an enviable marriage based on love and respect. You can never understand what I endured as Bertram’s wife.”
“Rose, I may not understand, but you know you can tell me anything and I would never think less of you. What is it you are afraid of?” Kat’s gray eyes beseeched Rose.
She walked a few steps away. “You know Lady Lydia was Bertram’s mistress, but there is much more I never told you.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Bertram forced me to do vile, despicable acts to please him. I dare not speak them aloud. But now I cannot endure the intimate side of marriage. The shame and humiliation is too much to bear.” Her voice cracked with pain.
Kat came up behind Rose and wrapped her arms around her. “Oh, Rose. I am so sorry. You are right. I can never know what it was like for you. But I care about you, just as Rand does. You must tell him what you told me. He will understand. With time I am sure he can help you overcome your fears, and you and he can have a loving relationship.”
“God forfend. I intend no such thing.” A deep shudder shook Rose and then she pulled out of Kat’s arms and spun around to face her. “If I am going to be forced to marry, I insist it shall be a marriage of convenience. Rand may continue with his affaires de coeur as long as he does not parade his mistresses before me. And I shall tell him so. If I can ever get him to stop avoiding me.”
That evening, on the night before the tournament, Rose sat at the dais table between Rand and Sir Golan. Her thoughts moved counter to the festive atmosphere that filled the vast lesser dining hall. Whenever Sir Golan “accidentally” brushed against her hand, or arm, or thigh, it sickened her and she inadvertently moved closer to Rand.
Keeping her head and eyes down, she avoided conversation and remained silent. A crisp white linen cloth covered the table, which was laden with meat, fish, and vegetable dishes along with wine from Bordeaux, Burgundy, and the Rhine.
She reached for her wine and, at the same moment, Sir Golan picked up his napkin and slyly stroked her wrist. Rose recoiled. Burgundy sloshed over the rim of her chalice. A dark red splotch of wine spread on the tablecloth.
She stared at the stain, her eyes growing wide with horror. Memories of the night her husband died flashed in her head. Oh, God, the blood was everywhere. It matted Bertram’s shining gold hair, while his vacant green eyes stared up at her coldly in accusation. Abruptly, Rose excused herself and climbed over the bench.
Rand turned from speaking with Edward just as Rose spilt her wine. She bolted as though she were a sinner fleeing a phantom from Hell. When he rose to follow her, he noted Sir Golan’s smug grin. Rand realized the knight had said or done something to disturb Rose. Before he left the table, he clutched the top of Sir Golan’s shoulder and squeezed it very hard.
With a smile on his face, Rand bent down to Golan’s ear and whispered, “Never, I repeat never, are you to say or do anything to hurt Rose again. Or I shall kill you. Do you understand?” When he didn’t respond, Rand squeezed harder. “Nod if you understand me.” Golan nodded. Rand released him. “Good. On the morrow, I am going to enjoy squashing you like the little bug you are.”
Rand left the candle-filled dining hall for the darker, torch-lit hallways. Directed by an observant palace guard, Rand followed Rose to an herb garden not far from the kitchens.
The stars were bright in the night sky, yet a light breeze brought with it the fresh scent of a recent rain shower. Rose sat on the edge of a raised planter bed, digging in the wet earth and removing weeds from the base of a marigold.
A look of sadness etched her face. She did not acknowledge him as he approached.
“Rose? What are you doing out here?”
She tugged sharply on a particularly stubborn root. “I enjoy digging my fingers into the earth, removing weeds and such. Nurturing plants and caring for them gives me great satisfaction.”
“Will you tell me what Sir Golan did to upset you in the dining hall?”
“I’d prefer not to discuss the cur.” She cocked her head, looking up at him. “Except…do I need to worry about the outcome of the joust? What are the chances he will defeat you on the morrow?” The weed gave at last. Rose yanked it from the earth, yet she pulled so hard that part of the marigold came with it. Consternation marred her brow as she stared at the plant in her hand.
Rand sat down across from her and eased the greenery from her white-knuckled grip. She did not resist. A look of surprise arched her elegant eyebrows as she stared down at her hands within his. Then Rand brushed the damp earth from her fingers and used the bottom of his surcoate to remove the rest of the sticky mud.
“I don’t want you to worry about tomorrow, Rose. Sir Golan is a worthy foe, but your father taught me well.”
She lurched up and stepped away from him. “Yet you cannot guarantee that you shall be the victor. What will happen to me if Sir Golan wins? I will not survive marriage to another brute like Bertram. I cannot do it. I simply cannot.” Hands shaking, she covered her face.
At seeing her so cowered, Rand felt a lump lodge in his throat. He lunged to his feet, withdrew her hands from her face, and locked his gaze on hers so she would see the fierce determination in his eyes. “I swear to you, Rose, I shall be the victor. Yet if for some reason I fail to win, I shall make you this promise: I will personally make sure you never marry Sir Golan. I vow it.”
“But—”
“Have I ever broken a vow to you, Rose?”
“Nay,” she answered, her lips barely moving.
Rand’s gaze riveted on the velvety flesh of her full lips, which were the color of strawberries misted with dew. He loved the taste of strawberries. His gut wrenched. His mouth tingled with the overwhelming desire to kiss her. But he did not want to frighten her. He needed to gain her trust so she would not fear him when it came time for them to marry.
He shook his head to recall what he had been trying to say. She was a distraction to his good intentions. “I have never broken a vow before, nor do I intend to start now. So I ask you, do you believe me when I say I shall never let Sir Golan have you?”
Chapter Seven
Rose stared into Rand’s eyes. At his intense regard, a shiver raced down her arm. It was not desire or pleasure she experienced. She was numb to such things. It was as though a reckoning was upon her that she could not control, and it frightened her. Unable to withstand his penetrating stare, she finally dropped her eyes.
Rand touched her pointed chin lightly, guided her gaze back to his, and repeated, “Do you believe me when I say I shall never let Sir Golan have you?”
She nodded. “Aye. I do believe you.” Shock rippled through her. She had not lied. She truly believed Rand would do as he said, in this instance at least. He would see to it that she never married Sir Golan. But that brought back to mind the weighty issue of what marriage to Rand would mean. She was terrified of the marriage bed. Where once Rand’s touch had thrilled her, Rose was cold to feelings of pleasure and felt only shame and humiliation at the act.
“I believe you, Rand.” Rose took several steps over to the next raised planter bed and plucked a sprig of rosemary from one of the plants. She pinched it, sniffing the sweet fragrance. With her back to Rand, she inquired, “But you still intend to marry me, do you not?”
“Aye, Rose.