Vow of Deception. Angela JohnsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
fifty guests who crowded into the chamber to get a glimpse of the happy couple. Her modesty was barely preserved by her waist-length red-gold hair, which she draped in front of her shoulders to conceal her small breasts. She covered her hair-covered groin with her hands as a chill gust of wind whistled through the shuttered windows. Goose pimples rose on her skin all over her body. She shuddered.
The bedding ceremony was a humiliation every virgin had to endure to prove to the groom he was getting an unmarred bride. Bertram, not looking at her exposed body, grabbed her chamber robe from one of the female guests, Lady Lydia, Rose realized. Lydia and Bertram exchanged a brief look, which Rose could not interpret, and then Bertram wrapped the robe around Rose’s shoulders. She smiled shyly at her new husband, grateful for his considerate gesture.
Since the day they had met at court last Christmas, his gallantry and charm had entranced her. He was ever spoiling her with his caring and generous heart.
Bertram quickly escorted the guests out of their bedchamber and poured her some wine to ease her fears. But her curiosity and excitement was greater than any virginal fears.
The spiced wine went down her throat in one smooth gulp. Then Bertram took her chalice from her hand and set both their cups on the bedside table. Without preamble he pulled her into his embrace and captured her lips with his mouth. His tongue delved deep and hot, probing her with lashing strokes. Rose whimpered, her lower body gyrating against the hard bulge of his desire. She grew damp, her nether lips tingling with swollen heat.
Bertram pulled back and said, his voice hoarse, “Take off your robe and lie down on the bed.”
In a blaze of desire, Rose did as he bid. She removed the robe and smiled when he turned away, no doubt wanting to preserve her modesty. She climbed into bed and pulled the covers up. An odd smile on his face, Bertram stared at the wall across from the bed, where a tapestry of a stag hunt hung.
“I’m ready, Bertram.”
He came over to the side of the bed and stared down at her. “And now I am ready too,” he said, his raspy voice a caress.
“What do you mean?”
He smiled slyly. “You shall find out soon enough.” When he dropped his robe, she caught a quick glance of his erect shaft; then he slid into bed and on top of her.
He kissed her again, his mouth and tongue ravaging her. Her desire became a tempest, his heat and hardness driving her hips to rise up to seek a connection. His shaft probed between her legs and slowly eased inside her.
“You’re wet,” he spat out, disgust tinging his voice.
“What?” Rose squirmed, prickly sensations making her feel like she was going to explode if he did not shove inside her and complete the union of their bodies.
His emerald green eyes, usually creased with laughter, burned with condemnation. “You are wet between your legs.”
Rose’s face flushed. “I’m sorry, did I do something wrong?”
“Only whores get wet. My wife is not supposed to enjoy what is meant for procreation purposes alone.”
Rose moved, trying to escape her humiliating predicament. But she was pinned beneath him.
Bertram groaned. “It’s too late. Just lie still and keep your mouth shut.” Then he pumped inside her, grunting and groaning until his body shuddered and he collapsed on top of her.
Hot tears of misery leaked from Rose’s eyes as she lay trapped beneath him. Her face burned with shame, yet her whole body felt as though it had been dunked in a cold stream.
She was reeling with confusion at Bertram’s sudden shift in mood. It was not like him at all, and she wondered if she were unnatural. Somehow she had ruined everything, and she didn’t understand how. She had enjoyed his initial intimacies, but when her body had excreted wetness, he had become repulsed.
“That was an amazing performance, my love.” A seductive feminine laugh echoed in the chamber.
Rose jerked and scrambled to cover her breasts with a sheet when Bertram left the bed to greet the woman who entered the bedchamber.
“Oh my God, Bertram. What is she doing in our chamber?”
Bertram just laughed, grabbed Lady Lydia to him, and proceeded to kiss her thoroughly. Without shame, Lydia kissed him back and reached her hand down to stroke Bertram’s shaft.
Rose shot up in bed, her heart pumping rapidly. A shrill scream in the back of her throat was cut off. As her chest rose and fell, her panting breath sounded loud in the darkened chamber. She looked around, realizing she was not in her bedchamber at Ayleston Castle. In bed beside her, Alison slept soundly, her soft snores penetrating the quiet.
A sigh escaped Rose, her eyes damp with unshed tears. It was just another dream. Beads of sweat coated her face and chest, making her shiver. Rose crept slowly from the bed so as not to wake Alison and moved to the washstand, where she splashed cold water on herself to rinse off the perspiration. With a clean linen towel she dried off, rubbing her face briskly to try to erase the lingering remnants of her dream.
That night of her wedding was just the beginning of one humiliation after another she’d endured at the hands of her husband. Later, she learned she was so physically repugnant to him that he could bed her only with the titillation of having his mistress or cousin observe them. Behind the tapestry was a squint in the wall for the lord of the castle to peer into the chapel to observe Mass in privacy. But Bertram had corrupted it for his perverse lecherous proclivities.
With time the memories had faded, but with her upcoming marriage her nightmares were becoming more vivid. Rand had sworn to her he would not expect her to share a bed with him as man and wife, but what real guarantee did she have? Once they were married, as her husband he could demand anything of her and she would have no recourse to deny him.
But first he must defeat Sir Golan in the lists. Rose shuddered at the thought of what would happen should Sir Golan win the joust competition. She returned to the bed, got down on her knees, folded her hands before her, and began to pray fervently that Rand would prevail this day.
Rose, Kat, and Lady Alison strolled among the makeshift booths set up south of the Abbey Almonry. Next to the practice field where the lists were situated, wooden stands had been hastily erected over the last two days. Rose was distracted, unable to enjoy various festive entertainments and merchant offerings. The joust between Rand and Sir Golan would be the last of the day and would be celebrated later that evening with a grand feast.
In front of a booth protected from the elements by a black-and gold-striped tent, Kat and Alison were looking at some brightly hued scarves spread out on a board. Kat chose a sheer yellow silk scarf with blue embroidered roses on it. As Kat paid the mercer for her scarf, Rose gazed north past the lists where twenty-some-odd competitors’ pavilions were erected. Banners and pennons flew from the top of the various round-and rectangular-shaped tents. She spotted Rand’s banner, a golden lion rampant on an azure background, waving in the brisk breeze.
When Rose turned back, she caught Kat staring at her with a speculative look in her eyes. But Kat did not say a word. She smiled, wrapped the scarf around Rose’s neck, and tied it loosely over the dark blue cloak she wore.
“Kat, ’tis a lovely scarf, but I cannot accept your gift.” She touched the delicately woven silk.
“Of course you can. Every lady has to have a favor to grant the knight of her choice so he may proudly display it during battle.”
“I had not intended giving anyone my favor.”
“I know. Why do you think I gave it to you? When Rand requests a token, surely you do not wish to embarrass him by denying him?”
Alison sighed and clapped her hands before her chest in girlish infatuation. “Aye, my lady. Sir Rand is so handsome and gallant and brave. You cannot deny him your favor.”
Rose rolled her eyes and answered Kat. “What makes you think Rand will