Lavender Vows (3 page)

“Good morrow, dear son,” spoke Lord Harold Derkland, looking up at Bernard, but somehow managing to appear the taller. “And how fares your head this morn? ’Twould be what I’d expect from Dirick—such overindulgence—but not that I’d see from you.”

“Leave me be,” growled Bernard, brushing past his father on a mission to splash his face with water in hopes of washing the fog away.

His father chuckled, but followed along. They picked their way among the pallets scattered over the rush-strewn floor in an antechamber of the Great Hall, taking care not to tread upon any outstretched hand or foot of the snoring men. “I’ve found a wife for you, Bernard.”

By the time his father spoke the unwelcome words, Bernard’s face was inside a barrel filled with water so that he did not have the breath to bellow his discord. But when he pulled up, whipping his head back so that water sprayed even from his short curls, he turned to level a glare at Harold.

“Aye? I’ll find my own bride, I’ve told you.” He swiped the arm of his tunic over his beard, then passed his hand over the top of his head. More water rained down over his face, and he wiped it again.

“So say you, and you haven’t even looked at one yet,” Harold griped. “But the one I’ve found is all that you’d ask: well-landed, no history of ill-fated husbands, and quite easy on the eyes.”

“Father—”

“Maris of Langumont, she is. And her father is a good man. She’d make you a fine bride, son.”

Bernard drew in a breath and tamped back his annoyance. Father meant only for his good welfare…and he could not know that Bernard had already found the woman he wanted to marry. ’Twas not the fault of his father that she was already wed.

“
Father, I beg you. Please leave off—at the least for today.” He had to find Lady Joanna…he had to speak with her, if for no other reason than to see that she truly was the woman he believed.

Lord Harold allowed his son to take his leave, but only after wringing a vow that Bernard would sup with himself and Lord Merle of Langumont that evening.

“Aye,” growled Bernard. “Anything to remove the leech that is my father from my neck.” He stalked off, ignoring the grating chuckle that echoed behind him.

Out side of the keep, the sun shone hot and bright—enough to make Bernard wince and his head throb all that bit more. His feet took him toward the stable, and that was as good a destination as any. If luck was with him, Bernard would find Lady Joanna tending to her cat. If not, then he would visit with Rock and hope that Leonard would have some information for him.

Just as he was about to step into the welcome dimness of the stable, however, Bernard happened to glance toward the small herb garden that grew plentifully behind the structure. God must have caused him to do so, he thought, shifting his direction so that he was now walking toward the honey-gold head that bent over some small bush in the garden.

And God was indeed with him, for ’twas Lady Joanna who hovered over a growth of lavender.

She started and sat back quickly on her heels when his shadow cast over her task, and when she looked up and saw that it was he, she stumbled over her skirts, trying frantically to get to her feet.

“My lady,” he said gently, proffering a hand to steady her. “I mislike that I have only to step near you and you are falling about yourself to get away from me. ’Tis not the reaction I desire.” He spoke without jest, seeing the apprehension in her face. “Why is that so?”

“My lor—Sir, I—’tis only that—”

He stepped forward to grasp her small hand—which she had not extended toward his offered one, closing his fingers around her smooth skin. “You may call me ‘my lord,’ Lady Joanna. I am Bernard Derkland…and I am most delighted to know you.” And then, without giving a thought to her reaction, he slid his hand up her arm, pushing up the sleeve of her gown nearly to her shoulder. Rage surged through him anew at the sight of the bluish-green, black and purple mottles on her creamy skin.

“I would kill he who would do this to a woman,” he breathed through teeth clenched so hard that his head hurt. “Joanna, who?”

She had already jerked away, stepping on the fragrant lavender. Her determined actions and expression showed him that she was not the simple, cowering woman she appeared. “Leave your hands from me, and your interests thither, Si—Lord Bernard. Please. There is naught that you—or anyone—can do. And do not call me Joanna!”

“My lady, I—”

“Nay!” Her voice rose even as she pressed her hand against his chest. This movement stilled him, this first time she reached to touch him—though the message of the touch was naught but a rebuff. “Nay, my lord, your interference would serve only to incense him further…and make it all the more difficult for me.”

Then, as though realizing where they were, she whirled to look toward the stable and the bailey as if afraid they might have been seen. Fortunately, during the course of their conversation, they’d moved behind a cluster of raspberry bushes and were out of sight of anyone walking toward the stables. The scent of the crushed lavender hung in the air, along with the faint perfume of roses. “Please, Lord Bernard, if he were to find us…”

“Is it Ralf? Is he your husband? Is it
he
who lays his hand upon you thus?” Bernard reached, gently closing his fingers around her cleft chin, reveling in the warmth of her sun-drenched skin. He looked into her eyes, past the gray-blue color of her irises and into their depths. He saw fear and anxiety, but he did not see repulsion or anger. He breathed a mental sigh of relief. She was not afraid of him.

“Aye.” Her voice was but a breath, but it was all he needed.

“Then I will rid you of him. And you shall be free to wed with me.” His words were soft, steely, and deadly serious.

“You—but Lord Bernard, you cannot! Wed with you?” Her shock at the first part of his threat seemed to disintegrate as she fixated on the latter promise. “
Wed with you?
” Shock lined her beautiful, heart-shaped face as she looked up at him, hands raised in front of her as if to thrust him away. “Are you
mad
? I am wed, and—and you know naught of me to say that you will marry me.”

Bernard laughed in spite of the unhappy situation. She was so incredibly lovely. And she had a spine, she did, under the weight of the fear from her own husband.

If Bernard could indeed remove that fear from her eyes, she would make a fine wife…and a fine chatelaine for Derkland Castle.

“
Lady Joanna, I know as much as I need know that
you
are the woman I have waited to marry. My father has groused at me for over the last fortnight and now that I have found you, I will find a way to please him and marry you at the nonce.”

She sank to the ground, not as if in obeisance, but as though her legs could no longer hold her up under the weight of this conversation. Bernard knelt next to her, taking care not to tread upon her skirts, but arranging himself closely enough that he could smell the femininity of her scent.

“Lord Bernard, you truly know nothing of me. How can you? We’ve met naught but once….” She raised her face to his and his breath caught in his throat at the hunger in her eyes…the hunger, he saw, not for him as much as to know that there was something of herself that he should want.

Fury seized him at the thought of this beautiful creature being abused by the man who should have been her protector, and even her love…and the realization that she thought herself unlovable. He quelled the anger that rose inside him, taking care to keep his expression easy and calm. It wouldn’t do for him to give her cause to fear him as well.

“I know that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he told her quietly. Then, with the flash of jest, he added, “with the exception of my mother.” He pretended to think for a moment, then added, “Nay, you are even more beautiful than she.” Her smile came and went, leaving more than a trace of sadness in its wake.

“I have never met my mother, as she perished birthing Ava when I was but two summers.”

Bernard closed his fingers over her hand resting on the ground, feeling the warmth of her next to the cool moistness of the rich earth. Somehow he knew it was of grave importance to make her feel as beautiful inside as he found her appearance. “In our brief meetings, I’ve learned that beyond your lovely face and beautiful form, you are a kind-hearted woman who would put her own comfort and safety at risk for the life of a cat and her litter. I know that you speak well even to serfs such as the lowly stable boy Leonard. I know that you care for your sister and wished to spare her any angst that might have come her way on the night of her wedding. I know, too, that you are brave enough to stand up to a man when you are not trapped with him by marriage—which means that you are not foolish in your bravery, only prudent. And I know that my heart has been yours from the moment I pinned your thick, heavy braid into your hair last even, smelled the lavender water you must use, and felt the softness of your skin.”

He looked into her eyes—eyes that now held wonder—and said, “That is all I need to know, Joanna.”

“My lord….Bernard….” she breathed, her fingers twisting in his to cling to his hand. “I….”

“I vow to you, Joanna, on the life of my father and mother—and my own—that I will find a way to free you from the ties by which you are bound. And then, if you will have me, I will wed you and care for you and love you all of our days.”

The perfume of the roses about them touched his nose, mingling with that of the crushed lavender and Joanna’s own erotic scent. It was too much for him to resist—he leaned forward to taste her parted lips.

She trembled under him, and moved not at all but for that slight tremor, so he forced himself to barely brush against her mouth, taking care not to drag the bristles of his beard and moustache too harshly over her tender skin. Joanna’s lips were sweet and plump and warm, as he’d known they’d be…and she tasted of mint and strawberries—or something like them.

Or mayhap ’twas just her. Just Joanna.

When she began to pull back, he allowed her to do so immediately and took a deep breath to slow his racing heart. “And now that I know you taste like heaven,” he murmured, the intensity of his emotions coming out as a crooked smile, “I am thrice as indebted to my vow.”

Knowing they’d tested Fate long enough, and not able to trust that he wouldn’t put her to the test again, he pulled to his feet. “I must leave you now, Joanna. But know that you are not alone…nor will you be.”

III.

Joanna started when her husband strode purposefully into their chamber. She sat near the window-slit of the room that had been hers before she married and moved with Ralf to Swerthmoor, mending a rent in his garment by the dim light.

“What do you here?” Ralf said in his rough, grating voice as he slid his sword from the sheath around his waist. He took his time, allowing the steel to scrape slowly and deliberately over its metal casing.

The hair at the back of Joanna’s neck rose, prickling, and her breath quickened though she tried not to show it. “I but sew the tear in your tunic, my lord.”

He stepped closer, his booted foot ringing solidly on the stone floor and causing her stomach to churn. Joanna clamped her lips together as she continued to sew, her fingers clumsy with tremors as he stood, watching. “Have you spoken with your father betimes?”

“Nay. I—”

“Joanna.” His voice, dry and cracked as her throat had become, lashed into the room. “I want that map.” With a sudden movement, and a glint of steel, he moved, and the point of the sword slipped under her chin, resting there flatly.

Joanna swallowed, and felt the weight of the cold steel shift against her throat. She fought to keep her voice steady. “My lord, I thought to speak with him on the morrow—after the melee tournament. He is sure to be in a fine mood with the purses you will win as his champion.”

“A poor attempt at flattery will not turn my eyes from your disobedience, Joanna.”

She hated the way he said her name—the way the sounds came so gutturally from his mouth, twisting it into something mocking and ugly. The point of the sword pricked the soft skin under her chin and she did not move, barely breathing, focusing her thoughts on the leather placket still hidden in the stable…and the earnestness in Bernard of Derkland’s face.

Ralf would not kill her—at the least not until he got the map. But there would likely be pain to come and she steeled herself for it. She could—she would—endure it.