Once Upon a Rose

Home > Romance > Once Upon a Rose > Page 17
Once Upon a Rose Page 17

by Judith O'Brien

Kit--I mean, the duke. She sent her own

  physician to him, and sat by his bedside until

  I could return."

  Deanie kept her head bent, not wishing to see

  the king's displeasure as she praised the queen. But

  Deanie felt it necessary. The king had no idea

  what kind of a woman fate and diplomacy had

  gifted him with.

  Slowly, she raised her eyes. The king wore

  an expression of mild befuddlement. "The queen?

  She nursed Hamilton?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty," Deanie hastened

  to add. "The queen has been most kind to both

  myself and the duke." Deanie wanted to elaborate,

  but she instinctively knew he was not ready to hear

  such lavish commendation. Perhaps the king could only

  tolerate a little of Queen Anne's praise at

  a time.

  The king frowned, and his black gaze slid

  to his wife. "We are most pleased," he

  announced to everyone in the hall, to Anne in

  particular. "We are most pleased

  indeed," he repeated. "I will visit

  Hamilton anon." Then he patted Deanie's

  hand and rejoined his wife.

  Even from across the vast hall, Deanie could

  feel the hatred blazing from Cromwell.

  She had waited long enough.

  That blasted bell-jingled clown of the queen's was

  tumbling across the floor, much to the rapture of his

  audience. Deanie ground her teeth, wondering when

  she could at last leave the hall for Kit's room

  below. Finally she was given the subtle nod from the

  queen. She could leave.

  She raced through the corridors again, much the way

  she had run hours earlier when she had heard of the

  king's arrival. Her slippers skidded on the

  corners, and she bunched her gown in a handful between

  her legs to get to Kit as soon as possible.

  Grabbing the archway of a door to prevent herself from

  slamming into a wall, she turned down the

  hallway. Still breathless, and puffing a wisp of

  hair away from her eyes, she entered Kit's

  room.

  "Whew!" she said, breathing hard and slamming the

  door closed. "Talk about a bunch of stiff

  shirts. Or should I say stiff doublets."

  The room was brighter than before, illuminated by at

  least a dozen thick yellow candles. Then she

  saw Kit.

  "Hey." She grinned, pleased beyond all

  reason he was sitting up. "Did the barbers

  finally leave you alone?"

  "Indeed, they have left us all alone,

  Mistress Deanie." The sonorous voice

  came from King Henry, who was seated in the same

  chair she had earlier abandoned.

  "Your Majesty," she curtsied, flustered by the

  unexpected presence of the king. She had seen him

  retire, leaving the Great Hall with a simple

  nod to his bowing subjects, and had assumed he

  was going to his own chambers.

  "Please, Mistress Deanie. No

  fanfare." The king gestured to the other chair.

  "We are amongst friends."

  With only slight hesitation, she ducked into the

  chair, her hands folded primly on top of her

  lap. The three of them looked at each other,

  sharing a sudden awkward silence as Deanie

  struggled for something to say.

  "How are you feeling?" she asked

  Kit. Simultaneously, Kit spoke:

  "I'm feeling much better."

  The king chuckled. "Mistress Deanie, can you

  hand us that piece of paper by your foot?"

  Perplexed, she glanced down. Beside the leg of

  her chair was a sheet of beige parchment, folded

  into an oblong shape. She reached down and passed

  it to the king.

  "Your Majesty, I do not think ..." Kit

  began. He had a strange tone to his voice,

  beyond the exhaustion of the injury and illness. Her

  eyes snapped to his, a questioning frown on her

  face.

  "Nonsense, Kit." The King laughed.

  "Has your cousin seen the trick? Mistres

  Deanie, this is most cunning. Show us again how it

  works. The duke can always find means of amusing us.

  Show us, Kit."

  He passed the parchment to Kit. For a moment

  Kit did nothing but lean back against the pillow and

  close his eyes. Suddenly Deanie was alarmed.

  "Kit, are you feeling ill?" She reached out

  her hand to touch his forehead, but his skin was cool.

  "Show us the trick," the king repeated, the note

  of impatience unmistakable.

  Taking a deep breath, Kit opened his eyes

  and stared at her for a few moments. He did not

  smile, but the hollows of his cheeks seemed

  to deepen, as if he were under a great strain. Then,

  without tearing his gaze from hers, he began to fold the

  paper, again and again, into slender triangles.

  "Ha! Now make it fly; Kit!" The king

  seemed like a child, his fat hands clapping together in

  delight. "What do you call it again? What was the

  word, Kit?"

  With a single motion, Kit launched the paper

  into the air. It soared above the bed, then looped

  down into Deanie's lap. She stared at it, not

  believing, her hands trembling.

  "It is called, Your Highness," Kit said,

  his voice flat, "an aeroplane."

  "Yes!" Henry thundered. "An

  aero-plane! Most ingenious."

  For a moment Deanie thought she was going to be

  ill. The color drained from her face, leaving her

  a deathly white. The only sound she could hear was

  the fierce pounding of her heart.

  "Mistress Deanie, fear not," said the king,

  noting her sudden pallor. "This is not black

  magic or sorcery. The Duke knows

  many feats of engineering, unparalleled in the world of

  science."

  "A paper airplane," she said numbly.

  The sound of a knock on the door pierced the

  air. One of the senior butlers entered the room,

  his face grave. "Your Highness." He bowed.

  "The earl of Essex requests your attention. It

  is a matter of the utmost importance, Sire."

  "Cromwell has sent for us?" The king was

  astounded, the paper airplane forgotten.

  "By God, I shall see him fall." Gone was the

  jovial monarch. The king in his fury rose to his

  feet, oblivious to Kit and Deanie, and strode

  from the room in two great bounds. The manservant,

  cowering at the king's heels, followed him through the

  door.

  Deanie was staring straight ahead, her mind

  reeling.

  "I was going to tell you, Deanie," Kit said

  gently. She did not respond, and he continued:

  "I was born in 1917, in Kent. My father was

  killed in the Great War, so my mother raised myself

  and my older sister, Caroline. Are you listening?"

  She swallowed. He reached over to her, and

  blindly she took his hand. She was still trembling.

  "How did you get here?" Her voice was

  strangely hollow.

  "Through the maze. Deanie, there is something
about the

  maze--it is a portal of sorts. I've been

  trying to get back to my own time. Every chance I

  get while I'm here at Hampton, I enter the

  maze, hoping to find the portal once more. When

  I met you I was trying to find my way back

  home."

  With a deep breath she looked at him. "What

  year are you from?"

  His callused fingers folded over hers. "I

  came here in 1940, and I've been in this time for

  ten years."

  Slowly, he drew her toward him, his good arm

  encircling her as she reached his side.

  Mechanically, she leaned against him, her arms

  folded against herself as if for protection. For a long

  time she said nothing and simply closed her eyes,

  her head tucked against his chest. He stroked her

  hair with a soothing, hypnotic rhythm.

  "How did it happen to you?" Her voice sounded

  more even.

  Her head rose slightly as he took a

  deep breath. "I was a pilot in the

  RAF, the Royal Air Force. I was to fly

  my last sortie, to keep the damn Luftwaffe

  from invading England. We were waiting for you Yanks

  to join us. You did, right?"

  "Yes," she murmured against his shirt. "But

  I was no whiz in history."

  "History?" She felt him smile. "Gad,

  but I feel old. Hitler lost, right?"

  "Oh, sure. He shot himself in a bunker at

  the end. He was a real nut by then."

  "He was always a nut." Kit looked up at

  the ceiling, the flickering shapes made by the candles

  against the wood. "Do you recall what year the war

  ended in?"

  Deanie thought for a moment. Kit's hand tightened

  into a fist before she answered. "It was 1945. There

  were all these fifty-year celebrations when I

  left."

  "My God!" Kit's arm tensed. "How did

  we survive? We were about done in by 1940."

  They remained silent, each lost in thought.

  "You were a pilot?" Deanie's question jarred the

  quiet.

  He nodded.

  "That must have been scary as all get-out."

  At first she thought he hadn't heard her.

  Finally he spoke, his voice was rough and low.

  "By the time I came here, most of my chums were

  gone. Chaps I'd gone to university with, good men

  all. I don't know why I survived, why I

  lived and they didn't. I still miss them. They

  haven't been born yet, and I miss them."

  He cleared his throat, and she remained silent.

  "That's why it was relatively easy for me when

  I came here. A joust is nothing compared with a

  duel in the sky. I suppose I attracted the

  king's attention because my style was even more reckless

  and foolhardy than his own."

  Deanie raised a hand to her eyes and rubbed

  them, as if trying to massage sense into her jumbled

  thoughts. "I knew you were different from the rest," she

  said at last. "Right from the first, you accepted my

  story of where I came from. Now it makes sense

  --at least the reason you were so kind to me."

  "If I was kind, it was because I understood what

  you were experiencing."

  "Oh."

  He smiled. "At first, Deanie, that was the

  reason. Almost immediately, it came to me that I--

  well, I had grown fond of you."

  She tilted her head up, her lips brushing

  along his jaw. "Really?" she asked, trying

  to keep the pleading tone from her voice.

  He turned his face to hers, and she closed her

  eyes, eager for the feel of his mouth against hers.

  Instead, he dropped a distracted kiss on her

  forehead. "Tell me, what happened exactly

  when you came here through the maze?"

  Startled, she opened her eyes and glared at

  him. "I thought I told you everything."

  "From the beginning, Deanie. Maybe we can

  figure out how to get back." His tone was eager,

  full of hope.

  "Okay ... let me see. We were filming a

  music video, and I entered the maze."

  "It was spring for you, but I came here on

  September 11, 1940." His brow creased in

  thought. "Perhaps the sun is the same distance from the

  earth in spring as it is in the autumn. About what

  time was it?"

  "Close to sunset. We were about to quit for the

  day, because we had already lost the best light."

  "The same with me," he said, his hand stroking her

  hair again. "It was time for me to leave for my

  mission, and the sun reflected off a pair of

  goggles in my hand."

  "And I was carrying the soda bottle," she

  added excitedly. "Did it make blue-white

  lines, like a triangle?"

  "Exactly! It was a prism, but it seemed

  to be almost alive."

  "I wonder if we go back there at sunset,

  whether the same thing could happen again."

  "You came in spring, I arrived in the

  autumn." He spoke softly, as if thinking

  aloud. "If there is some significance in the time

  of the year, the placement of the sun, we can only

  hope to catch the same alignment."

  "Then we need to hurry, Kit. It will be

  summer soon. If we miss it now, we might

  have to wait until fall to try again."

  "We can't wait," he warned. "The whole

  court will be on its ear by then, and we may not

  survive."

  Deanie raised her head. "It might work, you

  know."

  "But if it does, we have no guarantee that we

  would land in our time. I came from 1940, you are from

  a half century later. God only knows what

  year we would emerge."

  "Maybe we should just stay here," she wondered

  quietly.

  "Oh, hell," he muttered. "Cromwell's

  out to kill us, the king wants to make you his

  mistress, and at any moment either of us can contract

  the plague or be charged with witchcraft." He

  glanced down at his shoulder, which was beginning to throb

  with molten pain. "We have to leave England,

  Deanie. We cannot stay here--it has become far

  too dangerous. Perhaps you should flee to Spain

  alone. I could join you--"

  "No," she said with finality. "I will stay with

  you, Kit." He did not respond, and she

  suddenly felt embarrassed. "After all, you have

  been so, um, helpful. It would be rotten for me

  to duck out on you now."

  "You needn't stay from a sense of obligation."

  His voice was tight. "You are not required to pay

  me back."

  He had become still, no longer stroking her

  hair. The arm about her shoulders was tense, as if

  he was reluctant to touch her.

  She swallowed and looked down at her hand, her

  palm resting on his chest. Her fingertips were still

  callused from years of playing the guitar, yet she

  was exquisitely sensitive to his every movement.

  He seemed to stop breathing. Beneath her hand she could

  feel his heart bea
ting heavily, painfully.

  An overwhelming ache welled up within her

  throat, theatening to choke her with its intensity. Why

  was she acting like this? Why was she being so dishonest with

  Kit, with herself?

  "Kit," she whispered, her voice wavering,

  "I lied."

  She felt him glimpse down at her, but he

  couldn't see her face. "What did you lie

  about?" He spoke softly, his breath ruffling her

  hair.

  "I lied because I didn't tell you the truth."

  He sighed, a little of the tension flowing from him.

  "That is the usual definition of a lie, Deanie.

  What did you lie about?"

  Turning her face toward his chest, she inhaled

  the familiar scent of him, the feel of his shirt

  and the muscles of his chest, allowing his warmth to give

  her the courage to speak. "I don't want

  to leave without you because I love you."

  For a moment they both remained motionless.

  Deanie cringed, waiting for him to push her away--

  or worse, to laugh. Her hand clutched

  his shirt, gripping with all her might against whatever

  his reaction would be. Every second seemed

  exaggerated, a slow-motion agony of waiting.

  Slowly, hesitantly, she allowed herself

  to look up. His lips were tight, the hollows of his

  cheeks prominent, causing his face to take on a

  harsh, fierce appearance. His eyes gazed

  straight ahead, a burnished sheen reflected in

  the clear depths. She thought perhaps he had not heard

  what she said, and for a fleeting instant she was

  relieved. Then she saw him blink.

  A single tear escaped from his right eye.

  It traced a path across his lean cheekbone, and

  as he turned toward her, it slid onto her hand.

  His words flowed as a single breath. "My

  God, Deanie. How I love you."

  With that his mouth was crushed against hers, and she

  felt his hand fan out against her back. Startled,

  dizzy with a strange warmth that seemed to spiral

  through her abdomen, she relaxed against him.

  His mouth, those lips she had dreamed of touching

  since first she saw him, pressed against hers with a

  sweet, firm need. He shifted, putting most

  of his weight on his uninjured shoulder, and as he

  moved her tongue grazed his teeth. Through her

  exploding haze of passion she could feel the single

  crooked tooth, the gleaming imperfection that had

  haunted her every moment.

  He pulled away and stared at her. A strand of

  her hair fell across her face, and he gently

  pushed it back. "Deanie," he said softly.

  She opened her eyes, glazed with desire,

  unseeing.

  "Deanie, we can't."

  He too was breathing hard, and a glimmer of

  perspiration dotted his forehead.

  "What?" she answered groggily.

  He groaned, pulling her against him again. She

  reached up to kiss his glorious mouth once more, and

  he laughed.

  "Deanie, at any moment either the king or

  Cromwell may enter unannounced." He

  swallowed.

  That stopped her, and she was unable to repress an

  involuntary shiver. His hand caressed her arm.

  "It just doesn't seem important now,

  Kit. Cromwell and all those guys seem so very

  far away."

  "That's a dangerous way of thinking." His eyes

  slid to hers.

  "I just want to stay here forever." She sighed, a

  slight smile on her lips.

  "Please listen to me. Now, more than ever, we

  must decide what we are going to do. Perhaps we should

  escape tonight. If we flee to Manor

  Hamilton, we could buy ourselves some time. I have

  men there, servants who are loyal to me."

  "Are you well enough to travel?" Deanie cast a

  worried glance at his shoulder, and when she saw it

  she immediately jumped off the bed and reached for a clean

  cloth. Their embrace had caused the wound to start

  bleeding again.

  "I'm fine." His good arm remained in the open

  position, where she had just been, but he too frowned

  when he saw the shoulder. "Damn."

  She dipped the cloth into the water and pressed it

  against the wound to stem the bleeding. "How far away

  is Manor Hamilton?"

  "About fifty miles," he admitted.

  "Great. How will we get there? Fly in one of

  your paper airplanes?"

  He grinned. "If you only knew how

  marvelous it sounds to hear you say airplanes.

  Ouch."

  "Sorry."

  Then he stopped smiling. "You must leave first,

  Deanie. I can't travel just yet. It would be

  folly to attempt a journey of such length with this

  blasted shoulder."

  "No." She refolded the damp cloth. "I

  don't want to be separated from you."

  "Nor I from you. But it may be our only way

  out, barring the maze. And that may very well fail."

  "I just have this awful feeling that if we are

  separated we may never get back together."

  He thought for a moment. "I believe Suffolk

  knows a duke in Spain, and I am acquainted with

  some diplomats from Queen Katherine's court who

  have returned to Spain. I wouldn't want to slow you

  down, and with me bleeding all over the continent we

  couldn't get far enough to be safe."

 

‹ Prev