Vow of Deception (24 page)

“Rand, what are you doing?” She asked, her voice croaking.

His sherte came off next. “I intend to help. With both of us sharing our body heat, I imagine Jason will warm up quicker. Won't he?”

Her eyes gazed off into the distance as though deep in thought, then snapped back to him. “Aye, my lord, I had not thought of that.”

When he slipped his braies down past his hips, Rose stared at his groin, wide-eyed. Inexorably, his shaft swelled, pumping with blood. Rand swallowed, his tongue dry. Then suddenly, she darted her gaze away. A sigh of relief escaped Rand as he bent down and slid his undergarments off his feet.

He crawled quickly into bed next to Jason, facing Rose. He draped his arm over mother and son atop the blankets, and huddled up close to them. Long moments passed in tense silence.

At a scratch upon the door, he called out, “Enter.”

Edith arrived carrying a tray with a flagon and three chalices on it. Lady Alison trailed behind her, her gaze dipped down in maidenly shyness.

Edith set the tray on the table beside the bed and poured mead.

“My lady,” Alison said fervently, “by the grace of the Blessed Virgin Mary, I pray Jason will recover.”

Rose squeezed Jason and stared down at him with love bright in her eyes. “With God's grace—”

Jason opened his eyes and mumbled, “Mama?”

Rand's breath hitched in relief as the boy looked up at them with his blue-green gaze.

“Aye, son,” Rose said, her voice thickening with emotion.

“I'm thirsty. May I have a drink?”

“Of course, you may, darling,” she said with a laughing sob of relief.

Rand propped Jason up while Rose pressed the chalice—which Edith had handed her—up to the boy's lips. He gulped greedily until his head slumped back on the pillow.

Rand noticed the boy's body no longer felt icy cold. He was warmer and his eyes clearer. Hope bloomed in Rand's chest, but he tempered it until he could be certain the boy was going to be all right.

“My lady, will the little lord be all right?” Alison ventured.

Rose smiled. “I believe the imminent danger has passed, but we shall have to watch him over the next few days to guard against infection.” Her voice was cautiously hopeful.

Rand searched the boy's face. He
had
regained some color in his cheeks. The huge weight constricting Rand's chest lifted. He could not believe how quickly he'd become attached to Rose's son. Again, Rand marveled how his matted gold curls and dimpled cheeks were characteristics reminiscent of Juliana, his dead sister.

If Rose had not been pregnant when they'd made love all those years ago, he could almost believe Jason was his son. But the idea was preposterous. Unless…

Could Rose have lied to him? She'd claimed she was pregnant with Bertram's child; otherwise Rand would not have bedded her and risked getting her with child.

Rand frowned; Jason's natal day was October 12. The timing of his birth made it entirely possible if…Rose had lied about being pregnant, and instead Jason had been conceived the night she and Rand made love.

The thought that Rose had lied to him would never have crossed his mind before. But he now knew she was keeping secrets. The night Bertram died she'd been planning to flee him. And there was more to what occurred the other night than she told Rand, evidenced by the dagger he'd found that morning.

Rose looked up at Rand. His brow was wrinkled and his eyes appeared distant as if he were trying to work out a puzzle. Her heart fluttered with panic as she wondered what he was thinking. Rose stared down at Jason. His smile, his dimples were an exact replica of Rand's more masculine visage. Surely Rand could not possibly suspect Jason was his son?

A pounding set up at her temples.

Rose pulled the furs up closer around Jason. “You may go now Edith, Alison. Jason needs his rest. I intend to stay with him abed for the night.”

They left. It was just Rose and Rand now. Their eyes met, and held. Jason was asleep between them, his short even breaths testament to his strength and stamina. Her heart beat with an emotion she could not name. Rand smiled at her. Then leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers. It was a whisper, a breath of a kiss. Her lips tingled. Her pulse pounded.

The kiss lasted but a moment.

Rand slid out of the bed, the sheet wrapped around him. Taking his warmth and vitality with him.

“Are you leaving?” Surely that was not a plea in her voice.

“Nay,” he said, a smile in his voice. Light from the sconce glowed in his eyes, sparking the amber bits in his green-gray gaze. “I'm just going to sit over here in the chair while you and Jason get some rest.”

 

Later that evening, a knock sounded on the door. Rand climbed to his feet from the chair by the bed. When Lady Alison entered, he held his hand up for her to keep her voice low.

“My lord, may I speak with you outside for a moment?”

Rand frowned. What could the girl wish to speak to him about? “Whatever you wish to speak to me about, it can wait.”

“Very well, my lord. But I thought you would wish to know immediately. I have discovered some information concerning who drugged Sir William.”

“Go on, Rand,” Rose said sleepily from the bed. “There is naught you can do for Jason. And if Lady Alison has any information about who gave Sir William a sleeping potion, 'tis best we learn the truth now.” Her voice trembled as she added, “Geoffrey saved Jason's life. I am even surer of his innocence now.”

Rand wavered with indecision. He absolutely needed to discover the villain who had dared to try and harm Rose.

“Speak to Alison, Rand. If there is a traitor at Ayleston, 'tis imperative we know who.”

His gaze cleared. He nodded. “I will be back as soon as I am done.”

Rose inwardly sighed with relief.

She wrapped her arms tightly around Jason's narrow rib cage. His breath wafted across her face, his heartbeat a cadence that stirred her emotions: fear, love, guilt. Now that she was alone, the rush of emotions surged up inside her and erupted in tears.

She'd come so close to losing Jason. And it was all her fault. Had she found him a moment sooner she could have prevented him from going out onto the pond and falling through the ice. But she'd lost precious time when, for her own selfish comfort, she'd reveled in Rand's tender ministrations after he had freed her veil from the tree branch.

“You are going to be fine, son. Mama's going to make you all better. I promise,” she swore, voice ragged, a thicket of emotion clogging her throat.

Jason's eyes fluttered open. “Mama?”

“Aye, Jason. Mama is here.” She smoothed his drying hair off his forehead with a shaking hand.

“Where's Papa? He did come back for us, didn't he?” His dark blond eyebrows drew down in a frown, while his chin quivered. “Or was I just dreaming?”

A dagger of guilt stabbed at her heart. Air whooshed from her lungs. Depriving her son of the knowledge of his father was unforgivable.

Her relief that Jason was alive and cognizant was so great she did not correct his use of the word “papa”. “Nay, Jason. You were not dreaming. Sir Rand came back.”

His eyes filled with tears, and he heaved a great sigh. “I am glad, Mama. I missed him.”

The blade drove deeper; Rose paled. Jason loved Rand. And it seemed Rand cared greatly for Jason in return. She could not forget the tender care with which Rand had carried Jason in his arms, nor his deep concern for his son's health. The fact that Rand did not know Jason was his son made her love him even more.

She loved Rand? The stunning revelation reverberated inside her head like a drum beat.

She thought back over the last months since her marriage to Rand. She'd only agreed to the union so she would not be forced to marry Sir Golan, a man made from the same distorted mold as her first husband.

Once given power over her, though, Rand had never abused his dominion. In point, Rand was everything Bertram was not: a kind and considerate man who made her feel desired and worthy of love. He was not cruel or vicious, but understood the deep emotional scars she carried, for he too had suffered physical brutality at the hands of someone who was supposed to love and protect him.

Dazed with shock, Rose confessed in a breathy rasp, “I missed him, too, son.”

An odd combination of wonder and trepidation rippled along her flesh. Without even realizing it, she had fallen in love with Rand. But how could Rand ever love her, a liar and an adulteress? A woman who was afraid of the passion he coaxed from her with one seductive look, or tender caress?

Using the last of the bed ties, Geoffrey kept his gaze fixed upon the knight lying asleep in the bed as he leaned over and bound the man's right arm to the bedpost. A single candle flame illuminated the knight's handsomely carved cheekbones, square jaw, and cleft chin.

Geoffrey inhaled a whiff of the strong scent of ale on Golan's exhalation. He'd easily slipped into Sir Golan's chamber at the inn near Chester Castle. Occasional bursts of laughter floated up the stairs from the common room below and penetrated the thin walls of the bedchamber. Geoffrey reached for his dagger in his boot and drew the blade from its leather sheath. The resulting hiss sounded ominous in the lull.

Golan snorted and tried to roll over, but the bed ties drew him up short. His eyes popped open at the same time he lurched up in bed. “What the…” he sputtered. Reaching the limits of his silken bonds, he flopped back down on the mattress.

He opened his mouth to shout for help.

Geoffrey thrust the dagger blade against his throat. “Go ahead and call for help, Sir Golan, and it shall be the last thing you ever do.”

Golan gulped and nodded his compliance.

A sly, satisfied smile spread across Geoffrey's face. He held Sir Golan's gaze. “You have been very bad, Sir Golan. And I am just the person to punish you for your evil deeds.”

Golan's eyes grew fever bright. He licked his lips. “Who are you and what do you intend to do with me?”

“Don't be coy. You know who I am and what I am going to do to you.”

With a flourish, Geoffrey whipped the covers off. Golan jerked, the long, loose-flowing sherte he wore floated up with the gust of air and floated back down. His sherte covered him to his knees, with his arms and legs spread and trussed like a boar on a spit.

“Very good, Golan. I like obedience.” He slid the sharp tip of the blade down Golan's neck to his shirt opening. The pulse at the base of his neck fluttered, but he lay absolutely motionless. Eyes narrowing, Geoffrey growled, “Nay, I demand it.”

Switching the hold of the dagger to a downward grip, he grabbed the neck of the sherte in his free hand and slit the linen fabric from neck to groin.

Golan yelped, but the sound was quickly cut off. The knight's broad chest rose and fell rapidly. His upper lip beaded with sweat.

“Very good, Sir Golan. I shall have to reward you for your obedience.”

Geoffrey parted each side of the slit sherte with a casual flip of his hand. Golan was now completely exposed and vulnerable, exactly how Geoffrey wanted him. Next, in a slow, steady caress, his eyes trailed down Golan's bared body. The cold kiss of his dagger blade followed in the wake of his perusal. Not a breath stirred as the blade descended down Golan's broad, muscular chest and taut, ribbed stomach, then circled around his manhood. Hard and thick, the vermilion appendage distended from a curly nest of dark hair.

Geoffrey smiled a small smile of triumph, his voice softly enticing. “The danger rouses you. Good. It shall make things so much more exciting.”

He crawled atop the bed, straddling the bound knight's thighs, and knelt above him.

Golan's eyes narrowed and he tugged ineffectively at his binding. “You are playing a dangerous game. I do not like games.”

Geoffrey chuckled light and seductive. “You do not like my game? Verily?” He clutched Golan's erection and squeezed. Golan groaned in ecstasy. “Oh, I believe you shall enjoy the pleasure I shall wring from your lips.”

Geoffrey raised the dagger high and drove it down quickly, embedding the blade in the headboard above Golan.

The knight narrowed his eyes in warning, but Geoffrey ignored him. He knew he had Sir Golan exactly in his delectable power. There was not a man he could not seduce.

Then Geoffrey bent over Golan, wrapped his small lips around his erection, and sucked him deep inside his mouth. With his hands and legs tied, Golan lifted his hips off the bed violently to meet Geoffrey's up-and-down strokes.

Golan's panting groans filled the chamber, but Geoffrey released him before he achieved satisfaction.

A long groan of agony ripped from Golan's lips and his hips bucked up in violent appeal. “What are you doing? Finish what you started.”

“Oh, I'll finish. But not before I get what I want.” Removing all but his sherte, Geoffrey stood up on the mattress and, carefully balancing himself, straddled Golan's chest. Crossing his arms, he reached down and grabbed his knee-length, flowing sherte and tugged it off.

He was completely naked except for the thick woolen band of cloth wrapped tightly around his chest. Slowly, he unwrapped the cloth while holding Golan's desire-glazed eyes. A long sigh expelled from Geoffrey's, or more correctly, Lady Lydia's lungs as her heavy breasts flopped free of the constricting linen. With a flick of her wrist, the fabric fluttered to the mattress.

 

In Rose's bedchamber, Rand leaned down and added another log to the fire. The flames flared up, licking hungrily over the timber. The scarred flesh of his back suddenly itched as memories of the fire that killed his mother inundated him. He closed his eyes tightly and spun around.

In an attempt to block out the visions, he stared at Rose and Jason sleeping in the bed as peaceful as angels. Not for the first time he wished Jason was his son. So much so that he was crafting wild scenarios in his head for how it could be possible. But he knew better than to wish for the impossible.

He arched his lower back to alleviate the twinge of pain. It was a permanent reminder of what would happen to anyone he loved. The moment he'd weakened and contemplated a life of love and companionship with Rose, Jason nearly drowned. It proved his fears were justified—his love was a curse to anyone unfortunate enough to trust him to protect him or her from the dangers and ills of this world. This time Jason survived, but Rand dared not risk falling deeper in love.

The quiet breathing of mother and son settled into a slow, steady rhythm, counterpoint to his shuddering heartbeat. With an ache in his heart, he gathered up his few belongings and moved to the chamber at the opposite end of the hall.

 

Lady Lydia de Joinville raised her hands and cupped her large breasts. Holding Golan's eyes spellbound, she squeezed and massaged the globes of flesh, arousing herself till her nipples grew turgid. Releasing her right breast, she sucked her middle finger into her mouth, pulled out the glistening digit, and skimmed her right hand down her stomach. When she reached her blond delta, she furrowed her finger through her moist cleft and slipped it inside her sheath.

“Take me inside you. Now!”

“Patience. This is my game.” She pumped her finger in and out, enjoying tormenting him.

She loved having men in her power. They were so easy to manipulate and control. It had been almost too easy to escape the vile convent she'd been virtually imprisoned in by King Edward. The abbot had been long without the pleasures of the flesh. Lydia had employed her skills on the abbot with minimal effort, and in a short amount of time convinced him to let her escape.

She closed her eyes and licked her bottom lip in delicious memory of the enthusiastic…confessions she withdrew from the monk.

Another groan escaped Golan.

Lydia gazed down at him through her lashes, pouting. “You are a naughty boy, Golan. 'Tis time you atone for coveting your neighbor's wife.”

“That bitch. Rosalyn was mine. She is going to pay for betraying me. I shall see to it.”

Aye, Lady Rosalyn was going to pay for her transgressions. Lydia was convinced she had gotten away with murder. Lydia had been at Ayleston the night Bertram fell down the stairs in a drunken stupor. They had been lovers for years, and as much as she could love anyone, she had loved Bertram. Not only was he the most beautiful-looking man she had ever met, he truly knew who and what she was; he understood her and loved her for it.

That Lady Rosalyn was Alex de Beaumont's sister was an added benefit. No man had ever rejected Lydia until Alex had refused to break his betrothal and marry her. Alex had rejected her, just as Lydia's father had rejected her when he found her fornicating with a lowly peasant in the same bed her father had first claimed her body.

All she knew was betrayal from men. Now she used men for her own devices. She was the one in control, wielding her carnal favors in order to get men to do her bidding. Golan was no different from any other man.

Aye. He was just another pawn in her scheme to avenge herself on Rose for murdering Bertram. The woman was going to suffer the loss of someone she loved so she'd experience the pain and misery that Lydia carried around with her every day.

She shifted slightly, giving Golan a coyly seductive smile. “Aye. She'll get what she deserves. But for now, you are going to give me what I deserve. A reward, shall we say, for my help.” Lydia nodded at the dagger above his head. “Proof of my effectiveness as a spy within Ayleston Castle.”

“Where'd you get the dagger?”

“'Tis my dagger. I retrieved it from your squire's belongings. I left it as a warning to Rosalyn.”

He chuckled with evil glee. “Sir Rand gave it to me before I left Ayleston. He thought 'twas mine. But you would not have gained access to Ayleston without me. I killed the merchant couple so you could be ‘rescued' by Sir Rand's party.”

“Aye, and you shall get your reward.”

His arms twisted in the bindings. “Then release me. Now!”

“Soon, lover, very soon.” She retrieved her glistening finger, and supporting herself on the headboard, she leaned over and swiped it across his lips. His tongue darted out and sucked her finger into his mouth.

She pulled it out, then crouched down over him. Her slick portal was inches from his lips. “Take me with your mouth.”

His mouth closed over her nether lips and sucked the bud at her apex. Rewarding him, she reached around and pumped her hand up and down his cock as he licked her moist folds like a greedy child.

Having made him wait long enough, she moved back and slid down his manhood in one smooth stroke. She rose up slowly, then drove back down. She drew out the torture, increasing her strokes. Faster. Harder. Then changing the rhythm in slow, exquisite plunges up and down. Slow then fast, fast then slow, she rode him.

His groans mounting, Golan swore, “You are a witch, Lyla. Be done with it. Now!”

The fool did not even know who she was. She'd used a false name to protect her identity.

Smiling in satisfaction, Lydia raked her fingernails down his muscle-bound chest, creating red runnels. Golan, with a final thrust of his hips, roared his climax.

Excited by the power she wielded over him, rather than from any physical satisfaction, Lydia quickly followed, her inner walls quivering with her release.

Shuddering, panting, Golan licked his lips as he tried to regain his breath.

Lydia climbed off the bed, retrieved her dagger, and slashed the bed ties binding Golan's arms and legs.

Golan jumped off the bed, and in a sudden move, he jerked the dagger from her grip, shoved her onto the bed, and pressed the lethal blade to her neck. “What is to keep me from slitting your throat here and now?” His hot, fetid breath bathed her neck.

Pain shivered through her wrist. A clot of fear climbed up her throat, her heart and pulse pounding. Outwardly, Lydia gave him a seductive lift of her lips, all the while trailing her right hand down his arm and clutching his hand holding the dagger.

Lydia knew evil. She had seen and experienced it. But Sir Golan's smile encapsulated and surpassed even the worst depravity she'd seen and done in this cruel world.

“You won't kill me because the person you hate most in this world trusts me completely.”

“How can you be sure Rosalyn trusts you?”

“Because I saved her son's life.”

“You fool! Why would you save his life?” He pressed the blade closer, pricking her skin. A bead of blood dripped down her neck. It was a mistake he would live to regret. He continued, “I want the woman to suffer for humiliating me. Killing her son is only the first of the torments I mean to inflict on that bitch.”

“By rescuing the boy from drowning, Lady Rosalyn now trusts me with the boy's life. With the plan I have devised, using the boy as a pawn, you shall have your revenge on Sir Rand and his wife in one neat, tidy package.”

His eyes glittered with evil anticipation. “Tell me. What is this plan you have devised?”

“Give me the dagger,” she purred. “You want what only I can give you. Don't you, Golan?” She eased the dagger from his loosened grip and ran the sharp blade down his chest.

The member between his legs hardened and surged against her stomach.

“Ummmm. That's it.” She licked her lips as though in anticipation.

Lydia knew she had Golan exactly where she wanted him. And if her plan, God forfend, should fail, she could escape with none knowing of her involvement and leave Sir Golan to take the blame. And more importantly, suffer the consequences.

This time her machinations would prevail. Lady Rosalyn was going to regret murdering Bertram; and in particular, she was going to regret taking away the only person Lydia ever cared about and leaving her alone in the world.

 

As January advanced into February and then March, word trickled in to Ayleston that Edward's three-pronged attack in the southern, central, and northern portions of Wales was succeeding. The Welsh rebels, supporters of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, were pushed deeper into the prince's northern mountainous holdings of Snowdonia. Tensions amplified as stories reached them of fierce deadly raids on nearby settlements.

Rand had increased the garrison, along with guard watches on the castle walls, in order to give advance warning should trouble arise. The ground was thawing and the first shoots of flowers and winter wheat were sprouting in the fields and meadows.

Training on the open ground in the outer bailey, Rand grunted as he fought fiercely with sword and shield against a nearly recovered Sir Justin. As he parried and thrust, he shouted instructions to the group of newly recruited men-at-arms who formed a circle around them. The sun shone down on him; sweat dripped itchingly down his back beneath his leather gambeson, a padded knee-length tunic, while the slight chill breeze cooled his exposed face and head.