by Merry Farmer
Jack’s brow shot up. Isaac sent him a look designed to tell him to keep his mouth shut. Fortunately, Jack got the message. He tapped his nose and winked a second time, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth, then backed out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.
“I suppose everyone in an American western town spends time at the saloon, just as most people in England pass their time at the pub now and then,” Isaac said, seating himself after Rose was seated. “Although here in England, women only socialize at the pub on special occasions.” Or if they were a particular kind of woman. But he wasn’t about to insult Rose by saying as much. America must have been different.
Rose’s blush was as pronounced as ever, and she stared at the simple place setting Jack had arranged rather than looking at him. “I don’t think things are so very different here than they were in America,” she said, barely above a whisper.
Every fiber in Isaac’s body ached to know what she meant, to know what she was thinking. This was his chance, the chance he’d been waiting for to finally unravel some of the mysteries of Rose that had kept him fascinated since the day they’d met. At last, he had a chance to ask all the questions he’d laid awake at night wondering about. To figure out why he couldn’t get her out of his thoughts in spite of every conviction he had to leave her alone.
And yet, an impossibly long silence stretched between them before he thought to ask, “What made you decide to give up life in America to take up a position with the Bonds in Brynthwaite?”
If anything, Rose’s discomfort grew. She shifted in her seat—he could almost describe the motion as squirming—and seemed to find a particular spot on the table riveting. At last, she answered, “I needed a change.”
He let out a breath, as if he’d been waiting for a much worse answer. “We all need a change now and then.”
Her gaze lifted from the table to meet his. “Did you need a change after your wife died?”
His mouth dropped open as though she’d slapped him.
Her eyes filled with regret at her question. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, no.” He shook his head and did his own squirming. “It just took me by surprise. I wasn’t aware that you knew about my wife.”
Rose blinked, curious. “It’s not common knowledge?”
Isaac tilted his head to the side. “I suppose it is, but it happened almost a decade ago, and it isn’t something I like to talk about.”
Rose pursed her lips, but went on to say, “You must have been very young.”
“Twenty-three.” Isaac nodded. “New to marriage and new to practicing medicine.” And a failure at both. Which was why he never should have let Marshall Pycroft talk him into extending this particular supper invitation.
“Did she…did she die in childbirth?” Rose asked, looking both sympathetic and guilty, as though she knew full well she shouldn’t be asking the question at all.
But as long as they were both doing things they knew they shouldn’t be doing, Isaac reasoned there was no point in him not answering. “No. We were never blessed with children. Annabelle died of cholera.”
“Cholera?” Rose’s brow shot up, and she leaned back in her chair. She didn’t say anything else, but Isaac could practically hear her thoughts demanding, “But you’re a doctor. Why couldn’t you save her?”
Why couldn’t he indeed.
“I’m so sorry,” Rose went on. “That must have been very hard for you.”
Isaac lowered his head with a strained smile. “Death is hard for us all.” Especially when he should have been able to prevent it. He cleared his throat, wishing that Jack would hurry up and bring their supper, along with the strongest beer he had. “What is the American West like?” he blurted, ashamed for taking the coward’s way out of his own history.
Rose seemed to know exactly why he’d asked the question the way he had. Her shoulders relaxed, and a look of deep compassion filled her eyes, capturing his heart even more. “It’s certainly a lot hotter and drier than it is here,” she began. “Wyoming, where I lived for the past six years, is part of the high desert.”
“High desert?” Isaac threw his focus into the conversation, desperate to get away from the old wounds he’d opened. This was supposed to be a pleasant evening in which he and Rose could get to know each other better, after all.
“It’s a different kind of desert,” Rose explained, seeming to relax a little. “It’s not sandy, like the pictures I’ve seen of the Sahara, or rocky, like New Mexico Territory is supposed to be. It’s more…scrubby.”
“Scrubby?”
“There aren’t a lot of trees or grass or rolling hills and lakes, like there are here in Brynthwaite. Just a lot of low-lying bushes and stubby trees. Not at all like Boston either.”
“Boston?” He sat a little straighter.
Rose’s cheeks turned the deepest shade of red he’d yet to see. “I grew up in the Boston area,” she admitted, eyes downcast.
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, well, I don’t particularly like to talk about it,” she said. He understood completely, but she went on, dragging her gaze up to meet his once more. “I was orphaned, you see. My father was killed in the Civil War. The news that he was killed sent my mother into premature labor with my little brother. They both died as well, leaving my Aunt Millicent to raise me. She was ten years older than my mother, never married, and didn’t know the first thing about raising children. Or being kind.” Her gaze dropped again.
Isaac filled in the rest of her story from the things he’d experienced in his years as a physician. No doubt Rose grew up without love or joy. That thought tugged at his heart, making him want to take her in his arms and show her every happiness the world had to offer. He had no right to impose himself on her that way, though. No right to promise her things he couldn’t deliver. Hadn’t Annabelle’s final illness taught him that?
Instead, he asked, “How did you end up in Wyoming from Boston?”
Again, what he considered a simple question caused a wary reaction from Rose. She was spared having to answer right away as Jack reappeared, carrying a tray with two steaming plates of sausage and mash with him.
“Here we go,” Jack said, making a show of setting the tray on the table beside the one where Isaac and Rose sat, and serving them as though they were in a Parisian restaurant instead of The Fox and The Lion. “Brynthwaite’s finest sausages, and the best mash this side of Cumbria.”
Rose smiled politely, sitting straighter and making an “mmm” sound as Jack delivered her supper. “Thank you.” Isaac was instantly distracted by thoughts of what he could do to elicit the same response from her.
“My pleasure, miss.” Jack nodded, turning to fetch two tankards of beer from the tray. The reminder that they weren’t alone brought Isaac’s thoughts back in line. “There’s more where that came from if your appetite holds out,” Jack said, then rushed to leave the two of them alone once more. But not before sending Isaac a knowing wink.
“Tuck in,” Isaac said, smiling at Rose across the table.
She smiled back, and for one glorious moment, without words or stories from the past getting in the way, things were perfectly comfortable between them.
“This is delicious,” Rose said. “What kind of sausage is this?”
“I’m fairly certain Jack is supplied by the local farmers,” Isaac replied, launching into everything he knew about farming, sausage, and rural life in Brynthwaite.
It was the perfect topic to break through the impossible wall of everything they were each trying so hard not to say. Sheep and pigs were easy to discuss compared to complicated matters of the past. He was still curious about how Rose had ended up not only in Wyoming, but in Brynthwaite—how she ended up in his life as well. But after the way her whole body relaxed and her smiles became easier and the tension in her face eased, he didn’t dare ask. He liked this Rose, the sunny, if somewhat closed off, young woman who was finding her way in Brynthwaite.
This Rose was the one he wanted to stroll down sunset paths with, talking about nothing and everything.
It was the other Rose, the one who had secrets that glowed in her eyes, even when she deftly avoided speaking them out loud, the one that burned in silence, that he wanted to do other things with.
They were most of the way through their supper and in the middle of a discussion about the differences between types of cattle in Wyoming and England, when lively strains of piano music floated up from the main part of the pub. Rose stopped mid-sentence, cocking her head to the side. “What’s that?”
“You mean the piano?” Isaac asked.
“There’s a piano in this pub?”
A whole new kind of light had come to her eyes—one that was different from the shy sweetness or dark fire he’d experienced so far. “There is. Do you play?”
Her smile grew wistful. “I used to. Aunt Millicent insisted well-mannered ladies played the piano. She didn’t know that I learned just as much Stephen Foster as I did Mozart and Schuman.”
“I’m intrigued.” Isaac rested an elbow on the table and leaned toward her. “I never had time for musical lessons of any sort, coming from a hard-working middle-class family as I did.”
“That’s a shame. Music is wonderful.”
“Do you still play?” he asked.
Rose sighed, sagging back to the same, mysterious sadness that had accompanied the way she talked about her past. “Not since….” She bit her lip. “Not for a while.”
“Well, come on.” Isaac stood, stepping to the side and reaching for her hand. His move was impetuous and miles too bold for the nature of their budding friendship, but he was seized by an overwhelming urge to see more of the joy that had touched her so briefly.
“I…I couldn’t,” Rose said, rising and taking his hand anyhow. Her eyes betrayed an excitement that her words didn’t. “I’m not even sure I remember how.”
“I would guess that piano-playing is one of those skills that comes back as soon as one sits in front of the keys,” he said, leading her from the room, down the stairs, and into the main part of the pub. He held her hand rather than offering his arm. The way their fingers twined felt right. It sent his pulse soaring. Her delicate hand felt perfect in his.
Isaac was only slightly surprised to find Jason Throckmorton at the piano, tickling out a lively tune on the ivories. Marshall and Lawrence stood to one side, mugs of beer in their hands. The trustees of the orphanage would be livid if they could see the boys in the pub, but Jack and the rest of the Fox and Lion’s patrons enjoyed the young men’s company enough not to breathe a word to the authorities. And when the boys spotted Isaac and Rose joining the rest of the patrons around the piano, they raised their mugs in salute.
“Dr. Newsome. Fancy seeing you here,” Lawrence greeted them. “And the lovely Miss Rawlins.”
The sly looks that the boys shared hinted that they’d come to the pub that night specifically to have a front-row seat for Isaac’s tryst. He met their snickers with squared shoulders and a look that said he didn’t care if they had come to spy on him, he would enjoy his time with Rose anyhow.
“Rose heard the piano and informed me she plays,” he said.
“Miss Rawlins plays the piano?” Jason said, stopping in the middle of a musical phrase and swiveling on the stool to face her.
Rose’s cheeks burned bright, but she was still smiling. What was more, there was a cheerfulness in her eyes that he wanted to see more of.
“I used to play,” she told the boys. “A long time ago.”
“We need a demonstration,” Lawrence said. He pushed Jason off the piano stool.
Jason stumbled to his feet with the kind of balance and grace that only an adolescent boy could manage, then offered the stool to Rose.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Rose said. But the spark had caught fire in her eyes. In spite of her protest, she sat and brushed her fingertips along the piano keys. The hairs on the back of Isaac’s neck stood up at the swift touch. What would her fingertips feel like against his flesh? “What should I play?” she asked.
“Stephen Foster sounds about right,” Isaac said.
“You can play Stephen Foster?” Marshall asked.
“Mmm hmm.” Rose nodded.
“Let’s hear it, then,” Jason said.
Rose smiled at the boys, grinned at Isaac, rested her hands on the piano keys for a moment, then launched into a popular, lively tune.
Within minutes, everyone in the pub had left their dinners and conversations to gather around the piano. Rose finished her song and launched into another. The boys knew the words to that one and belted them out with enthusiasm. They suggested another song, which Rose also knew, and the entire pub joined in with that one. After that, Jason took another turn at the piano, teaching Rose several traditional tunes that, as an American, she didn’t know.
Through it all, Rose laughed and smiled. She blossomed like the flower she was. It was as if everything Isaac knew about her before was a mask she wore and this was the real Rose, the Rose he’d been able to catch glimpses of, the Rose he ached for. Most women would faint in embarrassment at all the attention she was getting, especially considering the pub was full of men, but Rose seemed right at home. She seemed to thrive on the attention. And, mad though it made him, he loved simply standing there, leaning against the piano, watching her come to life.
“For someone who didn’t think she would remember how to play, you certainly did well,” he told her as he walked her slowly up the lane toward Ivy Cottage later that night.
The sun had set, the air was filled with the sound of summer insects calling to each other in the grass, and the stars glinted at them from the deep, blue-black canopy above. Rose’s arm was looped through his, and although she’d regained some of her reticence, the glow of her performance still hung about her.
“You were right,” she said with a sigh. “It did all come back to me.” She tilted her face up to the stars. A hint of wistfulness tightened her features. It struck Isaac that her thoughts were as deep as the sky above them.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, unable to resist the lure of her pensiveness.
She lowered her head, sending him a sideways look. “You don’t want to know.”
He stopped, turning to face her. Ivy Cottage was in sight, a few lights on in its windows, but Isaac raised a hand to trace the lines of Rose’s cheek all the same. “I very much do want to know,” he said, just above a whisper.
“Isaac,” Rose said, blinking rapidly as she lowered her eyes.
He couldn’t bear to have her pull away from him, not after such an enjoyable evening. He wanted to make the magic of the way he felt with her last and last and last. And so, against his better judgement, he cradled her face with both hands and leaned in to kiss her.
From the moment their lips met, he knew that it wouldn’t be a quick, superficial kiss. He hadn’t realized how desperately he’d wanted to kiss her until he felt her sway toward him. She drew in a breath, parting her lips, emboldening him. He stepped into her, bringing their bodies into contact as he slanted his mouth over hers.
She was no innocent maiden. She didn’t tense or recoil as he tasted her, bringing them closer together as slowly as he could. She slipped her arms around his waist, brushed her tongue along his as he explored her, and made a sound of longing. That only fired his blood hotter, increased the ardor of his kiss. He tightened his hold on her, splayed his hand across her back, and let his passion run wild.
He knew what he wanted. She knew it too. He could feel the heat of her desire as keenly as he felt his own. And instead of being shocked that she knew what she was doing, had obviously experienced passion before, he was aroused beyond measure. His body stiffened with need, his cock hardening against her hip as he held her. And when she ground against him as if she knew what his reaction to her meant, everything it entailed, he groaned with pleasure.
Whether the unfettered sound he made was the cause or whether somet
hing else struck her, in a flash, Rose gasped and pushed away. Isaac nearly stumbled at the force of their parting.
“Oh, dear,” Rose whispered, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.” She took a few quick steps away from him, alarm and regret in her eyes.
“I’m not sorry,” he said, stepping toward her. “Unless…unless I’ve offended you in some way.” That thought froze him in his tracks.
Rose shook her head, a pained look in her eyes. “No, it’s not you. You haven’t offended me at all. It’s just…it’s just that I can’t let myself do this.”
“Let yourself….”
His thought was only half formed by the time she took another step back, then turned and bolted toward the cottage. “I’m sorry,” she called over her shoulder before picking up her skirts and fleeing.
Isaac stood where he was, mouth opened, too stunned—emotionally and physically—to comprehend what had just happened. His body still burned for her, and his heart ached. But she was gone, and he had no idea what he was going to do about it.
CHAPTER 5
“A nd if you’ll just bring that footstool over here, Rose,” Elaine called from the center of Ivy Cottage’s back garden. “We can pretend it’s the bow.”
Rose took the footstool from the selection of furniture that she and Elaine had carted out to the garden earlier, a smile on her face. She didn’t bother to voice her objections or tell Elaine how ridiculous her latest scheme was. The sun was bright and beautiful in the sky, a cooling breeze curled the leaves in the trees around them, and her heart had never felt lighter.
Even though it should have been horrified at everything that had happened the night before.
She’d kissed him. In spite of every warning she’d given herself, every rule she’d sworn she would follow, she’d kissed Isaac Newsome. Well, technically he had kissed her, but her reaction made her the guilty party. She’d melted into him, abandoned sense and propriety to feel his arms around her, to thrill to the sensation of his body coming alive against hers. They had been reckless and foolish, but not foolish enough for her to mistake what he wanted. She should have been scandalized, offended.
