One Perfect Rose (14 page)

“It's time, Rose,” he said quietly.

She burrowed closer. He was so warm and solid, so
present
. It was hard to accept that soon he would be gone. “I'll miss you,” she whispered.

“And I'll miss you.” He kissed the top of her head.

She raised her face and suddenly they were kissing with fierce intensity. The velvet night was heavy with the scents of champagne and flowers, with sensual secrets that shunned the light of day. Their arms locked around each other, and they sprawled back onto the grass, bodies twined full length. She loved the feel of his hard, commanding body, and the knowledge that she could stir such desire.

He cupped her breast, then stroked down the worn silk of the Amazon queen's gown. She inhaled sharply when his hand came to rest at the juncture of her thighs. Her pulse drummed throughout her body, and she wanted to yield utterly. But somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt the fear of looming love, as she had once before. Passion would bring such brief satisfaction, and cause such lasting grief.

He hesitated, sensing her withdrawal. Then Aloysius whimpered and shoved his cold nose between them.

When he gave Rosalind's cheek a wet lick, she began to laugh helplessly. “Oh, dear. This is turning from romance to farce.”

Stephen rolled away. “That dog has more sense than either of us,” he panted.

He got to his feet, caught her hand, and pulled her up. His hands brushed over her swiftly, smoothing her costume and soothing her jangled nerves.

Then he lifted her chin and gave her a swift, hard kiss. “Go back to the reception, and don't return until you're surrounded by members of the troupe. Otherwise, I may do something we'll both regret.”

He was right, of course. Leaving him the champagne and basket of food, she made her way rather dizzily back to the castle.

Yet she could not help wondering: if something
had
happened, would she truly have regretted it?

Haverford was more a village than a town, but the Fitzgerald Troupe had always done good business there, and the Green Man Inn was pleasant. Rosalind took her belongings to her tiny attic room. Then she came downstairs with tea on her mind. As she headed toward the private parlor, she saw her father talking to the landlord, Mr. Williamson. Frowning, her father gestured for her to join them.

“Williamson says that the tithe barn we've always used burned down recently. He has two suggestions of other places that might do.” Thomas handed her a slip of paper with directions written on it. “I'll check one, and you go look at the other.”

“The owners are willing to have us?”

“Aye, Mrs. Jordan,” the landlord said. “Farmer Brown and his family are busy bringing in the harvest, but until they do, the threshing hall will be available. He said to just go and take a look on your own, since everyone will be out in the fields.”

Rosalind scanned the directions, making a mental note to leave performance tokens for the farmer and his family even if the troupe chose the other barn. It was good of them to be willing to have players in, for the fee paid wouldn't be much compared to the nuisance.

Thomas said jovially, “Take Stephen, in case you get attacked by a lamb, or whatever lives in barns.”

She nodded. Any excuse to be with Stephen would do. The four days until Simon Kent would arrive had dwindled to only one. Tomorrow Kent would come, and the next day Stephen would go. The knowledge was a cold weight on her heart.

Putting on a determinedly cheerful expression, she went into the private parlor, where Stephen was tutoring her little brother. “May I borrow your teacher, Brian? Papa wants us to look at a barn.”

“Take him,” her brother said swiftly. “The needs of the troupe come first.”

“What you mean is that you haven't translated your Latin lines,” Stephen said dryly. “Be sure they're finished by the time I return.”

Brian gave a persecuted sigh and bent his head to his task. Stephen grinned and brushed the boy's hair lightly with his fingertips. “Just think of how you can use this suffering to enhance your acting.”

Brian brightened and started to pantomime a death scene, clutching his throat. Rosalind laughed as she took Stephen's arm and led him from the private parlor.

As they walked toward the front door of the inn, she saw his expression tighten. “Wait a moment while I get a drink of water,” he said.

He went into the taproom and talked to the landlady, who instantly complied. Rosalind thought dryly that women were always happy to indulge Stephen's requests.

Her eyes narrowed when she saw that he was using the water to wash down a pill. When Stephen rejoined her, she said, “Not feeling well?”

His face shuttered, and he gave a shrug. “Just a touch of indigestion.”

He so obviously didn't wish to discuss the matter that she said nothing more. They went out into the sunny street. It was a glorious day, autumn rather than summer. The first dry leaves were rattling crisply in the breeze.

Not speaking much, they followed the high street until it turned into a country road again. Their destination was just outside the village. There was no answer to a knock on the door; as Williamson had predicted, the family and servants must all be in the fields, taking advantage of the fine weather to bring in the harvest.

Rosalind glanced around the farmyard, which was enclosed by weathered brick buildings on three sides. “Where would we find the threshing hall?”

“On the left, I think,” Stephen said. “Next to the granary and opposite the byre.”

More proof that he knew his way around a farm. They entered the threshing hall through a pair of doors high enough to admit a loaded wagon.

Rosalind slowly turned, surveying the space with a calculating eye. Ancient gnarled trusses supported the roof, and high windows let in a fair amount of light. A hayloft stretched across the left end of the area. “We could perform under the loft, but there isn't really an area that could be used for the wings.”

“There's a door to the granary in the corner. Entrances can be made from there.”

They paced around, discussing how the space could be used. Finally Rosalind said, “It's a bit small, but it will do if Papa's barn isn't better.” Then she heard a high squeak and cocked her head. “What was that?”

“Probably a mouse being caught by an owl.”

The cry came again. “It's from the hayloft,” she said. “I'll go up and see.”

A sturdy ladder led to the loft. She climbed up cautiously, knowing, and not sorry, that she was showing an indecent amount of ankle. Stephen steadied the ladder for her, then climbed up himself.

The loft was sunny and fragrant with the distinctive grassy scent of fresh hay. If Rosalind were a child, she would have loved to play here. For that matter, adults could play here, too, though they would choose a very different game.

The cry came again, this time as a soprano chorus. She scanned the piles of hay looking for the source, then said with delight, “Look—kittens!”

She crossed the loft and knelt near the round depression that held four plump multicolored kittens and a wary tabby mother. “Don't worry, darling,” she said softly. “I won't hurt your babies. May I hold one?”

The mother cat did not look convinced by the sweet talk, but a black-and-orange kitten bounced toward Rosalind, barely able to move over the thick, springy hay. She laughed and put her hand in the kitten's path. It walked right onto her palm. “Look, Stephen, isn't he adorable? He just fits into my hand.” She stroked the kitten with a forefinger and was rewarded with a high, barely audible purr.

“She. Tortoiseshell cats are always female,” Stephen said in a tight voice.

She glanced up, surprised by his tone, and saw that his face was rigid.

“I'll wait for you below,” he said abruptly.

She frowned with concern as he turned to go down the ladder. He took two steps and staggered. She saw him fighting to retain his balance. Then his hands went to his abdomen, and he slowly folded into the hay with an agonized gasp.

Rosalind set down the kitten and darted across the loft. Stephen had curled into a tight ball, arms wrapped around his middle and his face glazed with sweat.

Horrified, she gasped, “Stephen, what's wrong?”

He shook his head and tried to speak but couldn't get any words out.

Hands shaking, she loosened his cravat so he could breathe better. His skin was cold and clammy. Jumping to her feet, she said, “I'll go for a doctor.”

“No!” he said, voice a thin rasp. “I'll…be fine.”

She had seldom seen anyone who looked less fine. “Can I do anything?”

He closed his eyes. “Water,” he panted. “Please.”

Rosalind bolted down the ladder and went outside. Where was the well house? There, at the far end of the farmyard. She raced to it. Inside was a windlass and a bucket. Hands shaking, she dropped the bucket into the well, then laboriously turned the crank to bring it up again. It seemed to take forever.

A large tin dipper hung from a nail on the opposite wall. She scooped it full of water, then returned to the threshing hall, wanting to run but having to walk to avoid spilling the dipper.

Though climbing the ladder was tricky, she managed it with only minor water loss. To her relief, Stephen was no longer knotted in that terrifying ball. He had straightened out and was lying on his back in the deep hay, one hand pressed to his abdomen. His eyes were closed, and illness was written on his painfully drawn face. How could she have missed seeing it before?

She knelt beside him and held the dipper to his lips. “Here. Drink.”

He raised his head, using one hand to steady the dipper. At first he sipped. Then he swallowed more deeply until the dipper was empty. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

“Shall I get more?”

He shook his head. “I'm all right now. Just give me…another minute. Then we can leave.”

Suddenly angry, she snapped, “Liar. There have been other signs of illness, but you've always shrugged them off, and I've been stupid enough to allow it. I should have dragged you to a doctor earlier. What's wrong?”

He looked directly at her. All of the green had been leached from his eyes, leaving them a pale, lightless gray. There was a long, long silence. She sensed that he was considering what lie would best mollify her.

She took his cold hand and gripped it hard as she stared into his eyes, willing him to tell her the truth. Her fierce need to know clashed against his exhausted resistance until finally, the words seeming wrenched against his volition, he said in a raw whisper, “There's nothing you or anyone can do.”

Her heart seemed to stop. “What do you mean?”

His eyes drifted shut. In a barely audible voice, he said, “I'm dying.”

It was the worst of all possible news, so horrifying that she could not get her mind around it. Dying? Impossible. He was too strong, too vital. Too alive.

Yet his flat words could not be doubted.

She pressed her free hand to her heart. The magnitude of her anguish revealed just how deeply she cared for him. She had denied that, even to herself, to mitigate the pain of inevitable loss.

But the pain of separation had been a mere shadow compared to this. She had known from the beginning that eventually he would return to his family and friends. Secretly she had hoped he would think of her now and then with affection, but she had genuinely wanted him to be happy. Not lying in the cold, cold ground.

So many things came clear. The darkness she'd sensed in him. The distance he'd maintained when passion and harmony of mind kept drawing them together. His insistence that he must leave. His loss of weight and the deepening lines in his face.

Her mind raced. The one thing she must avoid was burdening him with her terrible grief. Concentrating on keeping her voice steady, she said, “I don't approve. Your death will be a beastly, horrible waste.”

His eyes opened, and she saw that his pupils were enlarged. Probably there had been opium in that pill he took, which might explain why he had finally revealed what he had so carefully hidden.

“I think it's rather a waste myself.” His mouth twisted with ironic humor. “Still, we all must die someday. I am merely doing it sooner than expected.”

It was one thing to know that death comes for everyone. It was quite another to look across the table and see that the Grim Reaper had arrived for tea. Rosalind tried to imagine how she would feel if facing imminent death, and failed. Her grip on his hand tightened. “Is this why you were running away from your usual life?”

He nodded wearily. “After the doctor's diagnosis, I felt a powerful need to get away while I came to terms with the news.”

“Doctors can be wrong.”

The lines in his face deepened. “True, but the body doesn't lie. Every day I feel the disease advancing. It's just a matter of time—and not much of it.”

“What is your illness?”

“The physician called it a tumefaction of the stomach and liver,” he said tersely.

“And I thought that you might only be on holiday from a difficult marriage,” she said, hating herself for her lack of perception.

“I was married.” His gaze shifted to the wooden truss above their heads. “Louisa died a little over a year ago.”

The starkness in his voice implied that he had loved her very much. Softly Rosalind asked, “What was she like?”

He searched for words. “Beautiful,” he said at last. “A perfect lady always.”

No one would call Rosalind a lady, and she certainly wasn't perfect. But Stephen desired her, which meant that it might be within her power to give them a few brief moments of joy. And she might as well, because nothing they did together could make her hurt more than she did now.

She must take exactly the right tone, or he would retreat into his rigid self-control again. After a moment's thought, she said lightly, “It occurs to me that you have been very nobly keeping your distance for fear I would become all hysterical and difficult if I learned of your illness.”

His eyes snapped open and he stared at her. Then his mouth curved in a wry smile. “I didn't use quite those terms, but that's essentially accurate.”

“What a proud, foolish man you are.” She leaned forward and kissed his cool lips, hoping that he was not too drained by the attack to feel desire.

Lifting her head only a fraction of an inch, she murmured, “I'm not the least bit hysterical, or prone to unseemly emotion.” She buried her pain, thought of pleasurable things, and managed to create a teasing smile. “Since you will be leaving tomorrow, I would dearly like to give you a good-bye to remember. For both our sakes.”

For the space of ten heartbeats, there was silence as he gazed at her with piercing intensity. The green tone had returned to his eyes. It was so quiet that Rosalind could hear the mother cat's tongue as she washed her kittens.

Then Stephen slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her down into another kiss. It started where hers had ended, swiftly growing deeper and more demanding. She literally felt his temperature rising from coolness to normality, then to fever heat.

There had been a powerful attraction between them from the beginning despite their best attempts to deny it. Now his revelation had shattered their painstakingly erected barriers. They had been building to this moment since they met; every touch, every private glance, every theatrical kiss, and every real one had laid a stick of kindling on the fire. Now she had tossed on the match, and they both burned.

Their bodies molded together, her breasts crushing into his chest as he kneaded her back and hips. Her legs opened and slipped outside his, bringing their pelvises together with stunning intimacy. She gasped, shocked by her own unbridled response. There had been passion between her and Charles, at least at the beginning, but not like this. Not even close to this.