Still Star-Crossed (21 page)

She shook her head. “And did you never consider that I might prefer to be compelled by such kindness than by that jade’s trick the night of the feast?”

“No,” he admitted. As usual when he thought of that night, a great wave of shame and confusion overtook him. “Canst thou forgive me for what passed that night?”

She stood and moved away from him. “I remember little of it. How can I know whether to forgive?”

He drew a deep breath. “I brought you to my study,” he said. “We drank some wine.”

“Some wine.” Her arms were crossed.

“A great deal of wine,” he allowed. “Virtuous thing that you are, I had to give you enough to keep you still.” Her eyes went wide. “That is, to persuade you not to return to the ball.”

“What then?”

“We spoke of our days together,” he said. He took a step toward her. “Of our childhoods, before there were such troubles in the world.”

“I had thought you had forgot all.”

“Never, Lady Thorn.” He took another step.

Silently, she mouthed the old nickname. “What then?” Her eyes were locked on him, big and green as the sea.

“I danced with thee,” he said. “We danced beneath the moon, and I wished that we might never cease.” He was close to her now, and her lips parted as though to prompt him again, but no sound issued from them. “Then we stopped, and thou told’st me—” And here he could go no further.

But there was no need, for Rosaline knew, and covered her face with her hands. “Oh God.”

“No, no, ’tis no matter—”

“No matter! To drunkenly confess my greatest shame? Oh
God! To my
sovereign
. Your Grace, I pray, if you have any friendship left, leave me, let me no more show my face to you. You cannot have any wish to be reminded of this foolish passion I allowed to grow above my station.”

His heart grew sore as he listened to her panicked babbling. “If thou dost wish it so, I’ll quit thee, but,” he said, gently drawing her hands from her face, “I would not desire that.”

Hope and fear warred in her eyes. “Your Grace?”

He stroked a curl back from her face. “Passion cannot be shameful if its object shares it.”

He had her for an instant. Then her face hardened and she fled him again, going to lean against the window’s sill. “This is some trick.”

“Thou art too cautious, maiden. Shall thy proud heart never soften?”

“No, never, and certainly not for you, for you will not use it honorably. You think of naught but
Verona
.” She spat their city’s name like a curse.

“Not today,” he said. “In truth, though this treachery of Benvolio’s pains me, I cannot help but rejoice that thou canst not wed him. I swear, my love, I’d throw my crown away and tear Verona stone from stone if it would win thy heart.”

At last his arrow hit its mark. She turned to him, the anger that had been in her eyes since the feast now replaced with shock. He was just about to fly across the room, to take her in his arms, when—

“Your Grace, the watch are here.” Lord Capulet stood in
the doorway, looking quite ignorant of what he’d interrupted.

Escalus fought the urge to shove him backward and lock the door. “What news?”

“There’s no sign of young Benvolio, but horses are gone from his stables. They think he’s fled the city.”

Oh hell. Could not the city stop disintegrating for five minutes? “Then they’d better search the countryside. Bring the captain in. I’ll give him his orders.”

Rosaline, who had been frozen in place since her uncle had barged in, put her head down and hurried for the door. “My lady Rosaline,” he blurted.

She turned. “Your Grace?”

He was all too aware of the curious gaze of her uncle. “I shall have more to speak to you anon.”

She made him a curtsy. “I am ever at Your Grace’s command.” Her eyes, though filled with confusion, were considerably warmer.

“Good. Tomorrow, then.” He kissed her hand and let her go.

Livia felt as though she might run mad.

She had arrived in her uncle’s house just a few hours before, and already she felt ready to scream. Living alone with Rosaline had made her accustomed to silence and solitude, both of which were now in short supply. Every niece, nephew,
aunt, and cousin had descended on House Capulet, sealing themselves within its walls. Her uncle’s home was large, but even his household groaned to accommodate so many. In the parlors, the women clung together in bundles of two and three, weeping for Gramio. In the courtyard, the young men practiced endless passes with their swords, making dark promises to each other of death to the Montagues. The nurse ran from one room to another, striving to meet demands for food and drink and handkerchiefs.

In short, the house was so full that Livia could not safely steal away to see Paris. She was dying to tell him all that had happened, but every time she turned around, some infernal cousin was underfoot. She tried to seek out Rosaline’s company, but her sister was shaken by Gramio’s death. Livia would have thought her sister would be pleased, at least, to have broken her betrothal for good. Livia certainly was. But when she’d said as much, Rosaline had merely nodded absently. She’d hidden herself away by a window, and made only distracted answers when Livia tried to talk to her, choosing instead to sit frowning at the Montague sash, which she’d taken from their uncle.

And so Livia wandered the house, sullen and irritated, as the day wore on. Gramio’s mother was nearly mad with grief; a half-dozen older wives and mothers had ushered her to a private bedroom, from whence issued from time to time heartrending wails. Livia shivered late in the afternoon as yet another cry broke the air. How many such had reverberated through House Capulet’s walls over the years? The weeping of feud-widows and newly sonless mothers must
have watered the foundations of the place. She found herself on an upper landing on the back stair, and she leaned out of the window, looking down on the courtyard below. Her uncles were carrying something out, a long, dark shape. They laid it on the cobblestones. Gramio’s coffin, for his entombment on the morrow.

Enough. She had to speak to Paris. Below, she could hear the servants summoning everyone to supper. That ought to give her enough time to slip up to his room.

She went up the stairs. A group of girl cousins passed her. “Come you to sup, Livia?” asked little Jessica.

“By and by,” she said. “Go on.”

They nodded, heading downstairs without another thought. Their noise died down, and she was alone. Livia stole down the corridor and around the corner, to the little door that led to the wing where Paris was hidden.

“Whither goest thou?”

She whirled around to find Duchess Francesca standing behind her. “Your Grace,” she gasped. “I—I—” She covered her confusion with a curtsy.

Her great aunt ignored it. “Why, ’tis young Livia,” she said. “Why art thou here, my ward? Beyond that door lie only rooms unused for years.”

“Is’t even so?” Livia asked, in what she hoped was a carefree tone. “The nurse bade me go and fetch Cousin Giacentio and his children for supper. That is not his chamber?”

Her great-aunt regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Nay. They are to sleep in the north chamber, on the second floor.” She reached out a hand to the doorknob and Livia’s heart
leapt into her throat, but she only gave it a rattle. “See? ’Tis locked.”

God bless the nurse. “I’ve been so little in this house these last few years I’ve quite forgot my way. Your pardon, Aunt.” With another curtsy, she went back the way she had come. A glance over her shoulder revealed the duchess still staring at the closed door.

It seemed Livia would not see Paris any time soon.

In Juliet’s chamber, Rosaline slept not.

Beside her, Livia’s slow, even breaths counted away the minutes. Livia had objected to sleeping in Juliet’s bed, fearing her shade might still haunt the chamber she’d occupied in life—the chamber where, they said, she’d consummated her love to Romeo. But for all her fear, Livia had quickly fallen asleep, untroubled by their cousin’s ghost. Rosaline was glad that Livia, at least, could rest, since she’d been restless all day. She’d been badly rattled by Gramio’s death, which made sense, since she’d spent so much of her time of late at the Capulet house, tending to their aunt.

A strange occupation, since they’d never been terribly close before. But Livia sometimes fixed odd ideas in her head. Perhaps she was trying to insinuate herself in the Capulet inner circle—not the worst idea, if she was to find a husband. Of late Rosaline had been too occupied with her own troubles to speak much with Livia; she promised herself that on the morrow she would.

She shifted, shielding her eyes from the moonbeams streaming through the doors to the balcony. Faith, how had Juliet ever slept with so much light pouring into the room?

Thoughts of the living, not the dead, kept Rosaline awake. Could Benvolio really have done what they said he had? True, he’d had no love for the Capulets—but Rosaline had been so certain that he was an honorable man. The thought that she could have been so wrong about him made her feel as though the ground had dropped away beneath her.

But then how came his sash and his sword on Gramio’s body? That was damning enough to hang any man. Who slew Gramio, if not he? And, if he was as innocent as her aching heart wished he was, why had he fled the prince’s men?

And what was it about that sash that kept niggling at her mind?

She sighed into her pillow. Thoughts of Benvolio and Livia were a welcome distraction from what weighed on her most: what had passed this afternoon with Escalus.

She had longed for this day to arrive since she was a little girl. For her beloved prince to look at her and say she was not alone, that he returned her ardor. She could not count the number of times she had pictured that moment. When she was a child, and even during the long, lonely years after her parents died, she used to lull herself to sleep imagining it. She had never thought it would actually arrive.

Was it that shock that accounted for her uneasiness? Was it lingering anger at how he’d tricked her the night of the feast? Her fury at that had faded since she’d learned how he’d saved her and Livia. And yet, his confession did not
warm her as much as the pleasant dream that used to carry her into sleep had.

She rebuked herself for her foolishness. Her family was in the midst of a crisis. Her friend stood accused of murder. His city stood on the brink of civil war. Of course Escalus’s confession of love had not been exactly the stuff of romantic dreams. Besides, he was right: She was inherently cautious. It was difficult for her to enjoy any good fortune.

She closed her eyes. Forget the Capulets. Forget Livia’s odd behavior. Forget Benvolio’s troubles. Escalus loved her. What said she to that?

There was only one thing she could say. He was her prince. Her savior. His love was a dream come true, and when she thought of the soft, anguished pleading in his eyes, her whole body shivered with an emotion so strong she could not put a name to it. Oh God, Escalus. Her Escalus at last. If, when he returned tomorrow, he asked for her hand, she would grant it.

“Rosaline!”

Rosaline sat bolt upright in bed, heart pounding. She was sure she’d heard a voice whisper her name, but there was no one there. Surely the chamber was not haunted after all?

“Rosaline, I say!”

The voice came again, and this time she realized it came from outside. Slipping quietly from the covers so as not to wake Livia, she hurried out to the balcony.

There, clinging to the ivy that mounted the balcony railing, was Benvolio.

“Benvolio!” she hissed. “Why art thou here, Montague? If they find thee here, they’ll kill thee!”

“I’m here for thee, Rosaline.”

Rosaline swallowed and took a step back. “What mean you, sir?”

“I need thy help. I know not where to turn. House Montague’s barricaded, our young men arming themselves, the prince’s men seeking me in the streets.” He hoisted himself over the railing, dropping onto the balcony. Rosaline flinched, drawing away.

“Why draw you back, lady?” He stepped closer, trying to meet her eyes, but Rosaline dropped her gaze, her heart pounding so that she thought it might burst through her chest.