Читать книгу Vow of Deception - Angela Johnson - Страница 7

Sitting atop her black palfrey, Rose arched her lower back trying to loosen the painful knot, and groaned beneath her breath. Their party had ridden from dawn to dusk for two days straight with only brief breaks to rest and care for the horses. Despite Rand’s relentless pace, she did not dare complain.

They received a slight respite from the relentless sun when the road cut through a wooded area. The rhythmic creaking of saddle leather and jingling tackle created a gentle melody.

Rand rode in the front of the party beside another knight, Sir Justin. The auburn-haired knight was polite and respectful, but when he was not riding beside Rand he was flirting with Lady Alison. Rose’s attendant, with her brunette hair and vivid, laughing brown eyes, easily attracted the attention of the male species. But at that moment, Alison, riding on a mule behind Rose, grumbled in irritation.

Suddenly, a jagged pain shot down Rose’s spine. A sharp groan escaped her lips. Up ahead, Rand raised his hand and called a halt to the group. Rose stiffened when he turned around and came directly toward her.

Beside Rose, Alison murmured with evident relief, “Blessed Lady Virgin.” Then sighing loudly, she slid from her brown mule and rubbed her posterior.

Before Rand could help Rose dismount, she swung her right leg over Evangeline’s rump and, clutching the pommel of her saddle, wiggled down, her stomach pressed against her horse. In the process, her skirts bunched up, exposing her legs. She landed with a jolt and quickly rearranged her clothing. When she turned to greet Rand, he shot her a wide grin, his lips quirked in obvious humor at her ploy to avoid his touch.

Rose gritted her teeth. The buffoon. She did not appreciate his amusement at her expense. The man was incorrigible and had an unnerving tendency to goad her temper. She relaxed her tense shoulders and smoothed her face of irritation.

Having removed his gauntlets, Rand tossed them to a passing man-at-arms, and then ran his fingers back through his dark blond hair. With lighter streaks of gold threaded through them, his locks fell loose to graze broad, well-defined shoulders—shoulders that carried his suit of mail with apparent ease. Over his hauberk, or coat of mail, he wore a simple azure knee-length surcoate. His heater shield, hanging from a strap down his back, completed his accoutrements.

Sir Justin took her palfrey’s reins at a nod from Rand and led Evangeline and Alison’s mount to a small clearing off the road fifty yards away.

Gray-green eyes twinkling, Rand swept his arm before him. “After you, my lady.”

She shifted her gaze away from his and followed the others into the grassy clearing.

Rand kept his pace steady with her slower, measured gait. “I pray the journey has not been too taxing upon you or your attendant.”

Jolted, Rose met Rand’s gaze. His solicitous regard continued to surprise her, though she supposed it should not. Despite his flirtatious, irreverent wit, Rand was not unkind. But years of Bertram’s self-absorbed, self-indulgent behavior had engraved in her an expectation of wretched treatment.

“Aye. I have naught to complain about. Though I don’t understand what is so imperative about this audience with the king that we could not take an extra day to make a brief stop at Lichfield?”

“As I said yesterday, Edward instructed me to deliver you to Westminster with all due haste. It is not common knowledge yet, but in a few days he will be departing for his territories in France in order to raise troops and money for the upcoming war with Wales.”

Rose’s hand flew to the stone hidden beneath her wimple and gown. “So the rumors are true? We are to war with Llewelyn?”

Rand dropped his gaze to her, and his smile dimmed a fraction. “Aye. It would appear so, Rose. Since Edward became king, he has shown unusual restraint in his dealings with the prince. Numerous times Llewelyn was to meet with King Edward to pay homage for his principality, and each time the prince has not shown as promised.”

“You knew this was possible and you forced me to leave Jason behind? We have to go back for him.” Rose lifted her skirts and made to retrieve her horse. “I can’t leave him unprotected when war with Wales can erupt at any moment.”

“Rose, stop.” Rand caught her arm and pulled her around to face him. “Jason is in no danger. It shall be many weeks before Edward calls his council to discuss the merits of the war and get his magnates support for it.”

Rose shook her head, and clutched her hands in her skirts to keep a tight rein on her emotions. “I can’t take that chance. You cannot guarantee me that hostilities will not break out sooner. I need Jason with me. I must protect him.”

Rand crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze shadowed. “We are not going back for Jason, Rose. I have my orders and I will not disobey them. To set your mind at ease, though, I shall send two of my knights back to Ayleston for Jason’s protection.”

A bead of sweat rolled down Rose’s forehead. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. She exhaled slowly. “Very well. But I would complete this journey as swiftly as possible so I can meet with the king and then return to Jason.”

“Agreed.” Rand hooked his arm in hers and led her down the path.

Though Rose was anxious to have her audience with the king, the uncertainty of his intent was troubling. She could only surmise that King Edward had made a decision regarding wardship of her son’s estate. When Bertram had died over two years ago, Jason inherited the Ayleston title, and all the coin and vast lands it entailed. But until Jason reached his majority, Edward could grant wardship of the land to anyone.

As they approached the clearing where the others had already settled in the grass around a cold fire pit, Rand held back the low-hanging branches of a birch tree shading the narrow path. Rose gave Rand an absentminded smile of thanks. Deep in her thoughts, she did not see his startled look of pleasure.

After Rose settled on a log next to Alison, Rand sauntered away from the group and into a copse of trees.

Rose’s contemplation returned to her son. Last spring, as lady-in-waiting to Queen Eleanor, Rose gained the influence of the queen and finally won custody of her son. It was unusual, though not unheard of, for a woman to be granted guardianship of her son.

But the upcoming audience with the king complicated matters for Rose. She did not like the uncertainty that bloomed in her chest. She despised change and she had a feeling this change was not to the good of either her or her son.

Back near the shallow, rocky stream, in a daze, Rand crouched down and cupped water into his hands. A quiver of pleasure raced in his blood, thrumming in places he dared not think about, or he might embarrass himself. He took several deep drinks to soothe his parched throat, and then splashed some water over his heated face; neither sensation was the result of the unbearable weather.

Rose’s smile, rarely bestowed, touched him deeply. He chastised himself. It was just a smile, for God’s sakes, Rand thought, and one she did not even intentionally direct toward him.

Rand stood and wiped his hands on his surcoate. Sheltered by the trees, he gazed at Rose. Beside Lady Alison, who was dressed in amethyst silk, Rose looked drab in comparison, with her simple woolen brown surcoate and concealing headdress. But her garments, obviously meant to detract unwanted male attention, had the opposite effect on Rand.

The wimple and veil delineated her exquisite heart-shaped face, vivid blue eyes, and narrow, sloping nose. And her lips, plumper in the middle and turned up on the outer edges, were so temptingly kissable.

Throbbing heat shot to his shaft. He grumbled beneath his breath, pressing his erection down and willing it to subside. A warm breeze wafted across his face, carrying the scent of warm moldy earth and greenery.

The sooner he completed his assignment, the sooner he could return to his more pleasant duties, like hunting and fighting. Until then, he would stay as far away as possible from the beauteous Rose, given that close proximity in their daily interactions was necessitated by his duty to escort her safely to Westminster.

As dusk approached, the armored party and the two ladies they escorted on the ride southeast were sweaty, dirty, hungry, and exhausted. For two nights they had slept under the stars with only a small tent for the ladies.

Rand shouted back to those in the party, “Beyond the bend ahead lies a monastery! Tonight, we shall have warm food in our bellies and a roof over our heads!”

An exuberant shout went up. Rand, laughing, spurred his horse forward in anticipation of a hot meal and a soft pallet to rest his head upon. He pulled Leviathan up on the road before the gates and allowed the rest of the party to pass him. Sir Justin and young Will were in the rear, following Rose and Alison.

Rand surreptitiously observed Rose as she approached him. Her face was lined with fatigue and her shoulders drooped. Then, all of a sudden, a hare darted across the road in front of Rose’s horse. Evangeline reared up, kicking her white forelegs in fright. Rose slipped sideways. The mare came down with a hard jolt—Rose hanging precariously onto the saddle—and bolted past Rand before he could respond.

Rand’s heart plummeted to his toes, then bounced up into his throat. He spurred Leviathan, shouting to Justin, “I’ve got her!”

He bent over his gelding, his heart pounding in his ears as he galloped at full speed after Rose. He could just see her in the distance as the sun disappeared over the horizon.

If aught happened to Rose, he would never forgive himself.

Rand closed the distance between them. Rose still clung tenaciously to her speeding mare. His eyes bore into Rose’s narrow back, willing her to hold on a little longer. The fabric of her veil and full tunic skirts flapped behind her. Close enough now, Rand reached out to grab the palfrey’s trailing reins.

But at that moment her mare veered sharply to the right, throwing Rose. She screamed, the high-pitched sound a dagger thrust into Rand’s heart. She landed with a sickening thump. Rand jumped off Leviathan and rushed to her, feeling as though stone weighted his body down.

Rose lay crumpled facedown and unmoving at the bottom of the muddy roadside ditch.

“Noooo!” A scream of agony ripped from his throat.

He climbed down into the ditch, slipping in the mire in his haste. Falling to his knees, he lifted Rose into his lap and cradled her like a baby. She was not breathing. Nay, she was not dead, he would not let God take her.

Rand stared down at her pale, drawn face. There was a long shallow gash on her forehead. Blood poured down her temple, mixing with the mud covering the left side of her face. Rand slapped her cheek gently, but she did not respond. He called her name over and over and clutched her to him, willing his warmth and strength into her limp body. He prayed beneath his breath, his lips moving in fervent supplication.

“Help me! Someone, help me!” he shouted, his desperate plea echoing in the silent woods like a ghostly lament.

Suddenly, he was aged ten and three again, and was lying on the muddy bank of the river Garonne. His slender arms clutched his sister and he stared down at her face, a nearly exact though more feminine replica of his own. Her beautiful, long gold curls were matted to her head and her gray-green eyes stared blankly up at him in reproach.

She was so wet and cold and lifeless. But he kept holding her, refusing to let her go. Or believe she was dead.

Rand shook her hard, so hard her head snapped back, and called out her name over and over, “Juliana, Juliana!”

A great gulping inhalation seized her abruptly, making her chest rise and fall violently as she brought air into her lungs.

Rand, blinking, stared down as Juliana’s small face faded away and Rose’s eyes snapped open. A sudden euphoria filled him and made him light-headed with relief.

Rose’s clouded, pain-filled gaze searched his. Her voice scratchy, she asked, “Who is Juliana?”

Rand stiffened and shuttered his eyes to keep her from delving too deeply and discovering the pain he carried inside. But her eyelids drooped down and slowly closed. Her breathing slowed.

The pounding of hooves on the road behind him reminded him they were alone in the countryside at night. He needed to get Rose back to the safety of the monastery and have someone examine her. He had yet to know how seriously injured she was.

“Sir Rand!” Justin shouted and pulled his roan gelding up beside the other horses grazing alongside the road.

Rand lifted Rose gently in his arms and stood up, his mail clinking. “Over here, Justin. Rose took a spill from her horse and needs immediate care.”

Rand scrambled up the bank and handed Rose up to Justin so Rand could mount his horse.

Once mounted, Rand sidled up next to him. “Give her to me.”

Staring intently at Rose, Rand did not see Justin’s startled gaze at his leader’s possessive tone. Rand was oblivious to everything but seeing Rose safely into the care of the monastery infirmary.

Rand sat on the stool in the small austere cell and stared at Rose. She lay in the narrow bed, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. A bulky bandage was wrapped around her forehead, and her hair trailed loose down her shoulders.

Not again, he swore. It could not be happening again. First Juliana, then his mother, and now Rose, too?

He lunged up and swallowed a groan as his lower back twinged from sitting so long on the stool. He paced away, swung back and stared down at her. A single candle on the chest beside the bed glimmered on her pale complexion, and delicate eyelids. His gaze bore into her, willing her to wake, to move, to do something to assure him she was going to be all right.

As if hearing his plea, Rose moaned softly and her eyes flickered.

Rand took two steps to the door and called out, “Sister Margareta!” He ducked his head out the short, narrow door frame and hollered again, “Sister Margareta!”

“Hush, my son.” The rosy-cheeked sister hustled inside the chamber. “’Tis loud enough to frighten the dead.”

He turned back and gestured to Rose, his voice a whisper. “Lady Ayleston. She’s waking.”

Rose clutched her head, patting the linen bandage. She tried to sit up and then fell back on the bed with a groan.

Sister Margareta sidled around him. “Easy, milady.” The nun’s pale, slender hand gently touched Rose’s shoulder. “Don’t try to move. You took quite a blow to your head. We have been very worried about you.”

Rose murmured, “We?”

“Aye, your young knight. Sir Rand Montague.”

“He is not my—”

Rand rubbed his chest. “Rose, you are awake. God be praised.”

Rose stared up at him in bewilderment with her crystal blue eyes. “Oh, God, my body aches. What happened to me? Where am I?”

He frowned. “Do you not remember?”

“Nay.” Her dark red eyebrows dipped down in puzzlement. “The last thing I recall was eating a repast of bread and cheese when we stopped for dinner.”

“That was earlier today. We arrived at the gates of the monastery to stop for the night, when your horse bolted. I caught up to you but your horse threw you into a roadside gully. You must have hit your head on a rock or branch or something.” Rand moved to her side and touched her bandaged head. “How do you feel? Are you in much pain?”

Rose turned away from his touch. “My head is pounding, my eyes are blurry, and my body aches everywhere.”

Rand tried not to let her rebuff offend him. She had not always despised his touch.

“Any dizziness?” Sister Margareta chimed in.

“Aye. When I sat up.”

“It is as I told your young knight. The blow you received to your head shall cause you some discomfort and pain. I’d like you to rest for about a sennight before you resume your journey.”

A ripple of concern lodged in his chest. “I don’t understand, Sister. I thought you said she was going to be all right. Need I be worried? How serious is her injury if you wish to keep her here for a sennight?”

“I don’t believe there is cause for alarm, my lord. But just to be sure the blow to her head caused no serious, lasting harm, I would like her to remain here for a few days. Also, her fall caused severe bruising on her hip and shoulder. As soon as her headache and dizziness subside, and she feels well enough, you may continue on your journey.”

Rose whispered, “You need not worry I shall delay the journey any longer, Rand. I shall not give Edward a reason to reprimand you for failing to do your duty in a timely manner.”

When she made to rise, Rand gently eased her back down. He could not believe she thought his concern was because of the journey’s delay and not worry for her good health. “Don’t move, Rose. You are going nowhere till the good sister grants you permission to leave this bed. I’ll send Edward word of your injury. He’ll understand that our late arrival is unavoidable.” Rand understood her distrust of men, but Rose had known him for a long time and knew him better than that. How could she ever believe him capable of doing aught to endanger her welfare?

“I shall leave you to your rest now, Rose. As soon as you recover, we leave for Westminster.”

Rose looked so lost and vulnerable. Guilt reared its twisted, ugly head, mixing with Rand’s feelings of disappointment and regret. He wanted Rose, but it could never be. His duty was clear. Golan was soon to be her husband and responsible for her welfare.

Rose’s eyes blurred again, so the brief shadow she caught in Rand’s gaze must have been an illusion, for that roguish grin appeared, dimples deepening. Rather, two ridiculous grins, her vision doubling his image. She eased her eyes closed, her pounding head a misery she would not wish on anyone. Sister Margareta, bless her, gave Rose a hot chamomile infusion sweetened with honey for her aching head. Then the nun slipped out of the cell, leaving the candle alit on the table by the bed.

As Rose drifted off to sleep, a memory surfaced of Rand leaning over her, his voice agonized, calling out for a woman named Juliana.