Authors: Colleen Quinn
“And how will you discover all that?”
Rosemary shrugged. “Griggs is outside, remember? And people talk while waiting in line. He’ll signal to me, and I’ll relay to you.”
Michael nodded. “Then the cards are a bunk, just as I’ve maintained?”
“Clara’s always been right. But seeing as you don’t have the ‘sight,’ we decided a little help was in order.”
Rosemary stifled a chuckle while he forced himself to concentrate on the cards. He needed her to trust him for his plan to work. She looked so beautiful and accommodating, he nearly regretted what he’d worked so hard to accomplish, but he couldn’t. Rosemary Carney badly needed to be taught a lesson, and he was just the one to do it.
A round farmwife entered, her face as full as the moon, and her hair braided in a no-nonsense style behind her ears. Taking a seat before Michael, she displayed her ticket and indicated the cards.
“I hear you’re the new reader. Paid fifty cents for this. I hope you’re good.”
“Lorac is the best, madam.”
Rosemary turned in amazement as she heard the voice behind her, obviously foreign with a soft, throaty, mystical accent. Even his tone indicated eastern imaginings and strange gods. Glancing at the farmwoman, Rosemary saw that she was properly awed and ready to believe anything this apparition told her.
After shuffling the cards with a gambler’s sure hand, Michael laid them out on the table in the Celtic Cross arrangement and glanced furtively toward Rose. His assistant, swathed in midnight black, held up one finger, then hid the gesture as the woman glanced suspiciously behind her.
“What—”
“You must be silent now, Lorac must concentrate,” Michael intoned, closing his eyes and producing a simulated trance that Rose found fascinating. “Yes, the cards foresee your future very clearly. I predict a marriage for you.”
The woman blushed, then glanced down at the lurid cards. “There is a miner who came back from Colorady when his claim ran out…”
“That is him,” Michael said softly, indicating a money card. “See the gold coins? That is the fortune that he was seeking. Now he will find his true treasure with you.”
The woman blushed and giggled while Rosemary rolled her eyes. He was enjoying this and obviously had a theatrical side she hadn’t previously witnessed. Reluctantly she was forced to admire him. They had thrown him into more pools, and the man refused to drown.
“Will we be rich?” The woman adored Michael now. Gazing at him shyly, she simpered as he turned over another card, pausing for optimum effect.
“I do not see lots of money, but you will live comfortably,” Michael said in his heavy eastern accent. “And it will little matter, since you will bear many children and find true peace.”
The woman giggled, then blushed even deeper at this intimate conversation. “I have had trouble in that area.” She touched her stomach lightly. “You’ve given my heart hope to know that I may one day have children.”
“You should stay off your feet when you have conceived,” Lorac counseled. “Only then will you become fruitful.”
Fruitful? Rosemary mouthed. Michael shot her a look, then shrugged. Lorac was from another culture, and he deemed it appropriate to use archaic language.
It was working for the woman. The reading finished, she rose from the table, then plunked an extra coin down on the cloth.
“You’re the best mystic I’ve ever been to,” she whispered. Passing Rose on the way out, she paused, casting her eyes upward. “He’s wonderful! Absolutely wonderful!” Then she was gone, and the next client hurried in.
After hearing the woman’s accolades, the people were willing to believe anything by the time they entered the tent, and Michael delivered. Rosemary watched in amazement as he contacted spirits from the dead, read the townspeople’s future, advised them regarding money and love matters, and listened to their whispered hopes and dreams. She saw nary a sneer or a scornful look when a farmer spoke of his cattle’s illness or a wife confided in their terrible loss due to drought. He helped them all, and by the end of the session Lorac had become one of Carney’s most popular acts.
The tent flat closed, and Rosemary turned to him, the twinkle in her eyes even brighter than before. “You have got to be one of the biggest charlatans I’ve ever seen.”
“What are you talking about?” Michael removed his turban. “I was the greatest. Did you hear them? Lorac is the new star of Carney’s.”
“You were good,” Rosemary admitted.
Those three words meant a lot to him, and it showed. After placing his turban on the chair, he ruffled his hair and gave her a warm smile. “I guess you have to go on now. Why don’t we go to town later and celebrate? I’ll buy the drinks. After all, tonight’s performance was found money. If I hadn’t stepped in, Clara’s act wouldn’t have gone on at all.”
Rosemary gaped, then recovered quickly, realizing that her mouth had practically scraped the floor. “You want to go out? With me?”
Michael shrugged. “Why not?” He indicated the brightly colored turban. “As Lorac, I’m a performer just like the rest of you. Doesn’t that make me acceptable?”
She was tempted, but she couldn’t let herself accept and couldn’t begin to explain.
Stiffening her resolve, she ignored the charm he was turning on her. She forced herself to forget that she’d enjoyed his company for the last two hours. The strange tension between them practically snapped, and she turned away from him, hiding her expression.
“I’m sorry, but I’m occupied tonight. Perhaps some other time.”
“Perhaps.” He was clearly disappointed, and it was all she could do to stick to her resolve. Yet, she couldn’t risk letting him get too close to her. He was beginning to pose much more of a threat to her as this kind, considerate man than he ever did as the mercenary banker.
The night was sultry, the Kansas moon full and bright. It had been hours since the clowns had come back from their nightly round of the taverns, and they were now settled in their tents, fast asleep. A hot summer wind stirred the grasses, bringing strange echoes of unseen gorges and dusty rivers, forgotten valleys and flat open plains.
Rosemary paced inside her tent, wishing she had gone with the clowns. A little whiskey might have helped her sleep, but instinctively she knew that nothing would have done much good tonight. Her mind was troubled, and as she flung herself down on a crate, avoiding the cot as she had all night, she thought once again of Michael Wharton.
He was usurping her place in the circus; tonight had proved that. The roustabouts no longer hated him the way they once had, and the acrobats were actually beginning to tolerate his presence. Even the trapeze artists ate supper with him. And for the clowns to offer to take him drinking—well that meant that they, too, were turning traitor.
She fumed, logically realizing that it was for the best, that if he had to stay, they should all try to get along. But emotionally everything in her rebelled. Especially since for a moment tonight she’d actually liked him.
That made her shudder, but it was true. Alone in her tent, surrounded by Sean Carney’s things and her own costumes, she could admit what she really thought. He’d gotten under her guard. He’d played Lorac with an enthusiasm that any circus performer would have to admire, and he’d handled the public with an understanding that she wouldn’t have given him credit for.
She had to do something. She stared out of the flap at the full moon, realizing that the real reason she had to get rid of him had nothing to do with the circus. He made her feel things, made her body turn to mush with little more than a glance, made her blood do crazy things when he smiled in that charming sort of way. Oh, he was a mercenary all right. Rose wasn’t totally deceived. But he got through to that hidden part of her that she couldn’t expose for fear of losing control, that feminine side that she didn’t understand and that had been asserting itself more and more often.
The veiled dress lay on her dressing table, shimmering in the moonlight. He’d been genuinely surprised tonight to see her dressed like a woman, and his reaction had been heady. Rosemary shuddered as she remembered that she’d bean secretly dreading walking out in front of him like that. Yet, he’d been approving, and even that was troubling. It meant that his opinion mattered, and it shouldn’t.
Frowning, her eyes wandered down to her nightgown. She had once found it in the costume trunk and couldn’t resist donning the lacy garment. The gown was pale ivory silk, fringed with lace, and cut seductively to reveal the slender shape of a feminine body. A single ribbon secured the neckline, tempting with the promise of what a tug would bring. It was the gown of a seductress, a woman who knew her way among men and was boldly setting a mood. Wearing it was her secret, the private feminine indulgence she allowed herself only in the seclusion of her tent.
Her hair unbound and glittering around her like a copper mantle, Rosemary slipped into bed for the first time all evening. It had been useless to try and sleep before. Her body still burned, and her mind taunted her with strange imaginings and longings. It was as if nature conspired with Wharton to provide her downfall, keeping her awake with lusty desires.
The sheets were cool and comforting to her heated skin, and her pillow felt soft and downy. Rosemary settled down, stretching in the luxurious nightgown, feeling the smooth slide of satin over her flesh. Her leg shifted to one side, then her eyes flew open as her toes touched something odd and unfamiliar.
It was cool and textured, like some kind of a hide, and felt like it was wrapped in layers against her bare feet. A warning went off in Rosemary’s head, but before she could reassure herself that she was simply imagining things, the band against her feet moved. Stifling a cry, she flew out of bed and fumbled in the darkness for a taper. Lighting the candle with shaking hands, she cautiously approached the cot and yanked down the covers.
A black snake lay coiled in the bottom of her bed, its flat eyes watching her, its body slithering in a sickening motion across the white sheets. A scream ripped from Rosemary’s throat, and she raced blindly from the tent, her flesh covered with goosebumps. The candle guttered, then fell from her hand, but she didn’t care, nor could she stop herself from screaming as she ran straight into Michael’s arms.
“Rose? What in God’s name is the matter?”
He felt warm and strong, his arms wrapping around her like a human overcoat, his body pressed reassuringly against hers. Rosemary tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. Horror filled her as she pictured the slimy reptile in her bed, and she pulled Michael even closer to her.
“My cot! It was…a…sssnake…”
Suddenly she realized that they weren’t alone. The clowns had all come forth at the sound of her cries, and Zachery, Biddle, and the newly risen Clara all stood gaping at her with odd expressions. Her face went from one onlooker to the next, at first unable to understand why they stared, then her eyes fell belatedly to her gown. She saw herself as if in a mirror, standing in the moonlight, clad in a dance hall girl’s nightdress, clutching onto Michael Wharton as if he was the answer to her prayers. Coppery hair spilled around her, shimmering, while the silk gown revealed every aching curve of her body. Hot shame filled her as she looked back up to Wharton and saw the stunned surprise on his aristocratic face.
Michael’s eyes went first from the ribbons to the soft curve of her breasts. Then, when he could look lower, he saw her well-shaped legs entrancingly displayed beneath French lace, and at the top of her thighs, the barely revealed shadow of her femininity.
As he glanced toward the clowns, Michael saw their own incredulity at the sight of the bold Carney revealed so completely as a woman. Biddle looked embarrassed, Griggs shook his head, Zachery smirked and stepped closer for a better look, while Clara clucked at them all. But no one could tear his eyes away. It was as if one of the men had suddenly transformed into a different creature entirely, a bewitchingly beautiful creature at that.
“Hem.” Biddle spoke first. “I think Rose has had a scare. What are you all looking at? Let’s get back to bed.”
No one moved. Her panic increasing, Rosemary couldn’t prevent the embarrassed flush that stung her face. She tugged at the gown, trying to wrap it more firmly around her, but the charming negligee simply revealed more than it concealed. Blushing hotly, she glanced up into Michael’s face. He looked properly concerned, but his gray eyes twinkled uproariously, and his mouth twitched as if it was a real struggle to keep from bursting into laughter. She suddenly noticed that he was the only one dressed, that the clowns and roustabouts all wore their red long underwear. Slowly the dawning suspicion became a reality, and she flew at him, punching his chest with everything she had.
“You! You did it! You put that snake in my bed! Why, you no good, rotten son of Satan!”
She struggled against him as he grabbed her wrists, his barely contained laughter spilling forth. The roustabouts glanced at one another in confusion, while the clowns, beginning to get an idea of what had happened, started to chuckle. They couldn’t help it; as much as they loved Rose, a joke to a clown was a joke, and their own mischievous natures overrode common sense. Laughter spilled forth like twenty tinkling bells, and Rosemary grew impossibly angrier.
“I’ll kill you for this!” she swore, struggling even harder as he scooped her effortlessly up from the ground and wrapped her in his arms. His body shaking with laughter, he nodded to the clowns, sharing in their mirth.