Still Star-Crossed

by Melinda Taub

  “Yes.”

  “ ’Tis very far from Verona.”

  “Yes.”

  For a long moment, Livia stood frozen. Then, for the first time since Paris had died, Rosaline’s sister burst into tears.

  The prince stepped forward in distress as Rosaline took the sobbing girl in her arms. “My lady—we did not mean to give offense—”

  “I do not believe you did,” Rosaline said, patting Livia’s shuddering back. “Hush now, Livia. He thinks they’ve upset thee.”

  “Arragon,” Livia sobbed. “I can go. I can leave.”

  “Yes, dearest.”

  Livia pulled back, swallowing her sobs in great gulps. “No. I cannot. How can I leave thee?”

  Now Rosaline was close to crying too. “You can. You must, if you cannot be happy in Verona.”

  “Oh God, never,” Livia breathed. “I cannot stand the sight of this accursed city. I mean no offense, Your Grace.” Escalus nodded gravely.

  “So thou wilt come?” Isabella asked.

  But Rosaline shook her head. “No, wait. Livia is still too weak to make this journey.”

  “How now if she make it with a kinswoman?” the Duchess of Vitruvio asked. She had joined the prince at the base of the stairs.

  Rosaline and Livia looked at each other in surprise. “Aunt?” Rosaline asked cautiously. “We could not ask you to accompany her—”

  The duchess waved this off. “Please. Even were she hale and well, I’d not allow her to go unchaperoned. Secret elopement, consorting with traitors, wandering about dressed as men—Capulet maids are turned terribly wanton of late. Besides, the young lady’s right. Verona is intolerable. My wits are grown soft as pudding here. I knew my daughter was up to no good, but I said nothing. Travel will sharpen me.”

  Livia gasped. “That is why you were trying to get into Paris’s chamber.”

  “Aye.” Her sharp gaze turned on Rosaline. “This one thought I was behind it, I’d wager. I should have told thee, girl, when thou cam’st to see me, of my suspicions. If we’d been less deceitful, we might have saved a great deal of strife.” She sniffed. “But thou hadst that Montague with thee.”

  Rosaline laughed in surprise. “You cannot still think the Montagues to blame.”

  The duchess sniffed again. “You cannot deny that where they go, trouble follows. But no matter. Shall I relieve thee of this sister of thine or no?”

  Rosaline opened her mouth to refuse, but she looked at Livia and was surprised to see a glint of her old mirth lurking deep in her eyes. “I thank you, Aunt,” Livia said. “I believe I shall find it most amusing to travel with you.”

  Rosaline hid a smile. She foresaw barrels of wine in her aunt’s future. No prospect could have pleased her more. “Very well, Aunt.”

  “Come, ladies. Let’s discuss thy gowns. Fashions are rather different in Arragon.” With a sly look at Escalus, Isabella swept the duchess and Livia upstairs, leaving Rosaline and the prince to stand in awkward silence.

  He clasped his hands behind his back, turning a circle, taking in the new furniture. Some had been gifts from him; some she’d bought with her new allowance; a few had even been sent by House Montague, who could not choose but be grateful that she’d saved their heir. Altogether, the cottage was much grander than it had been. His servants stood unmoving at attention, for all the world as though this were his house, and Rosaline an interloper. The majesty of his person made the finery Rosaline was so proud of seem shabby by comparison.

  Then he grinned at her, and Rosaline felt ashamed of her momentary resentment. “Beautiful,” he pronounced. “The finest home in all Verona.”

  Rosaline shook her head, even as a pleased smile grew unwilling on her lips. “You flatter yourself, for any beauty is due entirely to you—as is the fact that the roof no longer admits rain.”

  “To my aid, perhaps, in persuading the Capulets to give you your due. But if my men could produce such beauty under mine own direction, the palace would be a much more welcoming place. So lovely an abode requires a woman’s touch.”

  Rosaline smiled her thanks. An awkward silence fell once more. Rosaline found her hands twisting in her skirts and forced them back to her sides. The prince turned, admiring a shelf of small statues he could not possibly care about.

  “May I offer you something to eat?” she offered, casting her mind wildly into the kitchen, trying to imagine what she might serve that was worthy of royalty.

  He held up a hand. “No, no. There’s no need.”

  “As it please you.”

  They lapsed into silence again, and Rosaline wondered what in the world he was doing here. It occurred to her how few conversations like this Escalus must have—not to hear a complaint or issue a command, but simply to talk. That disquieting, awe-inducing air of majesty he wore about him discouraged easy conversation. How lonely that must be.

  “I’ve a gift for thee,” he said.

  Rosaline shook her head. “No, please, Your Grace has already been too generous—”

  He waved a dismissive hand at the finery that now bedecked her house. “No gifts they were, but well earned, for you saved the city.” He took her hand, tugging her toward the door with a smile. “Now, this—this is a gift.”

  He opened the door and she gasped when she saw what waited outside. There, tied at her door, was a stunning white mare—a far finer horse than even her father had ever owned.

  “By this day, she’s beautiful!”

  “She is thine.”

  She turned to Escalus. “No, no—”

  “Yes. By order of your sovereign. Take her.”

  She ought to refuse. He had already been far too generous.

  Oh hell. “What’s her name?”

  Escalus grinned. “Tomasina, and a prettier piece of horseflesh there never was. Come, wilt thou ride with me? The day is fair for a gallop through the hills.”

  Wildly tempting, but Rosaline shook her head. “Your sister, and Livia—I cannot.”

  “They will be all right. Please, I crave thy company.” He gave her his most charming smile, but when he saw that she still wavered, he added, “Perhaps thou think’st I’ve not done penance enough for the trouble I have caused thee? Thou think’st not right, for look.”

  Taking hold of Tomasina’s bridle, he drew her aside, revealing his own stallion. Rosaline clapped a hand to her mouth, but could not restrain a laugh. The poor horse’s mane had been shaved.

  “Since there were no small maidens about to teach me my lesson, I did it myself.”

  Rosaline shook her head, stroking the embarrassed horse’s neck. “You will be the silliest-looking prince in all of Italy till it grows back.”

  “ ’Tis worth the humiliation, if it makes thee smile, sweet Rosaline.” There was an unaccustomed warmth in his eyes.

  “Let me don a clean gown,” she said.

  They rode south and west, along the river. Once they were out of sight of the city walls, Rosaline gave him a saucy look over her shoulder and tried to scandalize him by throwing Tomasina into an unladylike gallop, but he merely gave a boyish whoop and came racing up behind her. At last, laughing and windblown, she reined Tomasina in on a ridge overlooking the forest. Escalus drew up next to her, blowing out a breath.

  “By this day, I hope no one saw that,” he said.

  “Always so proper.”

  “We cannot all go flitting about the countryside in disguise.”

  Rosaline shuddered. “I hope I ne’er again have cause to do so.”

  “Come,” he said. “Let us walk awhile.”

  He dismounted before offering a hand to help her down too. After all that had passed, it felt strange to be treated so gently. Benvolio had been chivalrous to a fault, but he’d treated her as a comrade. Escalus made her feel as delicate as a bit of porcelain.

  He kept hold of her hand and threaded their fingers together. For a few minutes they walked in silence as the horses grazed nearby. Rosaline let her eyes drift over the countryside below them. S
ummer was ripening into fall, and the farms and fields were rich with crops soon to be harvested. Strange to think that all she could see owed fealty to the man beside her.

  “I thank you,” she said finally. “For Livia. ’Twas your idea to send her with Isabella, was it not?”

  “I hope thou wilt not mind.”

  Rosaline shook her head. “I shall miss her desperately, but I knew not what else to do for her here. I think if she stayed, she would pine herself to death.”

  “We’ll have no more of that,” the prince said fervently.

  “Amen.”

  “That night you fled,” he said. “You left no sign of where you were going. Left me no sign.”

  His voice was as calm and polite as it always was, but she could tell he had been thinking about this. “I am sorry for the pain I caused you,” she said. “More sorry than I can say. I should have woken Livia, or left a note, but I had to leave in all haste—Benvolio was pursued, and we knew not how much time we had before he was discovered.”

  He smiled to himself. “Benvolio.”

  “Your Grace—”

  But he put a finger to her lips, just as he had the day of the battle. “Sweet, I have not asked thee what passed between thee and Signor Benvolio, and I never shall. But I confess I have thought much of that night in these weeks since. Why didst thou need to go at all? Why not come to me?”

  “To thee?”

  “Just that afternoon I swore I loved thee. Why not come to me for help, when Benvolio sought thee out?”

  It was just the question she had asked herself of late. But the truth would hurt him, so she kept silent.

  But Escalus had already arrived at it. “Thou didst not trust me.”

  “Thou didst force me to broker my freedom for my virtue,” she snapped back before she could stop herself.

  “I know. And if thou wilt forgive me that transgression, I’ll forgive thee thy flight.” He stopped, taking both her hands in his. Escalus took a deep breath. “Verona must return to peace and quiet. To do that, my people must know that my reign is stable. I believe ’tis time I took a wife. Rosaline, you are one of Verona’s most eligible daughters. Your beauty, your character, and your lineage are all beyond reproach. What is more, you are well known to me, and I know you will occupy my mother’s throne with the utmost wisdom and delicacy. Your loyalty has proven itself a thousand times over.” He drew another shaky breath. “And you know well how I love you. I do not believe another could make me happy. Sweet, I do love you. I hope you will believe me this time.”

  He smiled at her, nervous but sincere, and she remembered how gingerly he’d patted her little back as she wailed over his abandonment when they were children. She knew Verona’s prince, inside and out, as perhaps no other soul could claim to. This time he meant every word he was saying. Framing her face in his hands, he leaned in and kissed her, slowly and delicately, like a sunbeam kissing the face of an upturned flower. Rosaline sighed against him.

  “Well, my love?” he asked, taking both her hands in his and pressing them to his chest. “Will you be mine?”

  Rosaline gazed at the expectant face of her sovereign. The man she’d longed to marry for most of her life. Finally, the turmoil she’d felt for so long whenever she thought of him was calm. She knew her answer.

  “Nephew, are you quite sure that you must go?”

  Benvolio winced internally as he looked at his uncle’s pleading face. The old man stood next to him at the city gate, one restraining hand at his elbow. He knew that he was being dreadfully irresponsible as House Montague’s heir. He ought to stay in the city, let one of his cousins undertake this long trading journey.

  But with all Verona telling him that the prince was on the point of announcing his betrothal to Rosaline of House Tirimo, he knew he could no more stay at home than he could stab himself in the heart. “Right well you know that House Montague has need of a champion abroad, Uncle. Our fortunes at home in Verona have suffered a grievous blow. We must do what we can to augment our properties elsewhere.”

  He worried that his uncle would order him to stay, but the old man only sighed and shook his head. “Very well. Write when thou canst. I hope to see thee before a year is out.” He nodded beyond Benvolio’s shoulder. “Look, here’s another to bid thee farewell.”

  Benvolio turned around to find none other than Rosaline, mounted on a fine white horse and wearing a sour expression. Benvolio turned back to his uncle, planning to avoid her gaze, but his uncle gave him a dry look and a bow and withdrew, heading back into the city.

  “Good morrow, Montague.” She slid from her horse. “So ’tis true. You aim to quit Verona.”

  He nodded to her mount. “Pretty. A gift from your prince?”

  “He is your prince too, unless you’ve turned the traitor you were once believed to be.”

  He had not been so close to her since the day of the battle. It had been even longer since they’d conversed privately. The weeks of recovery had done wonders for her. She was arrayed in a fine gown of pale green—another gift from the prince, surely—with matching ribbons in her hair, just as she’d been the day they were betrothed. He had seen many women in similar hues of late—Rosaline, it seemed, was setting Verona’s fashions. Not surprising, in a future princess. But it was not just her new finery that made her look so lovely. The strain that had marked her face during their travails was gone; the weight she’d lost had returned. She was as lovely as a breeze off the water on a summer day. He turned away, preoccupying himself with Silvius’s bridle. “Wherefore are you here, my lady?”

  “Merely to bid you adieu. You saved my life. I’ve not had the chance to offer my thanks.”

  “ ’Twas thanks enough when you saved mine in turn.”

  “Still, you deserve to hear it.”

  “Very well. I am thanked.” And he shut his jaw with a snap. They stared at each other in sullen silence, but she did not move to leave.

  Rosaline bit her lip. “Why came you not to see me?”

  He barked a laugh. “Why should I wish to do that?”

  “Bare courtesy, perchance?” she muttered, then fished about in her sleeve. “Here. I made this for you. ’Twas finished weeks ago. I should have known better than to expect your attentions when you had no further need of me.” She thrust a scrap of cloth at him. “Here.”

  He took it. It was a handkerchief, embroidered with the Montague crest. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Go choke on it.”

  What did she expect from him? Was she so vain as to demand he hang about and pine for her as she made ready to wed his sovereign? He went to shove the cursed thing to the bottom of his saddlebag, but her hand shot out and seized his wrist. “It is customary, when a lady makes you a gift, to wear it upon your person,” she said icily.

  God in heaven, she would be the death of him. He gave her a mocking bow, then took the handkerchief and began to tuck it into his sleeve. He tried to turn his back slightly, but when he drew his sleeve up she drew in a sharp breath. Benvolio closed his eyes. Caught.

  Her fingers were gentle now as she turned his wrist over and brushed his sleeve up to reveal that he already carried a handkerchief—one embroidered by the same hand. She stayed like that, dark curly head bent over his hand, fingers tracing the stitches she herself had worked. Benvolio clenched his jaw against a shiver.

  “I knew ’twas thee who had it.” She raised her face, her big green eyes clouded with hurt and confusion. “Why didst thou keep it?”

  “Thou knowest right well why.” He turned away, fussing with Silvius’s buckles again until the horse nickered in protest.

  “Then wherefore hast thou in all outward behavior seemed to hate me?” she cried. “How have I fallen so from thy favor?”

  He whirled on her, incredulous. “What claim to my favors hast thou when thou art to wed the prince?”

  She frowned. “Wed the prince? Who told thee so?”

  “ ’Tis all Verona speaks of.”

  �
��As usual, Verona speaks not right.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “Rosaline. He has scarce been seen out of thy company for a fortnight.”

  She ducked her head, a blush staining her cheeks. “He—he asked me,” she admitted. “I had to refuse him.”

  His chest began to fill with shaky hope he hardly dared to feel. One disbelieving hand drifted up to her shoulder, then hesitated, hovering without touching her. “Refuse him.”

  “Aye.”

  “Why?”

  A slight smile graced her lips. Her eyes darted up to his. “Thou knowest right well why.”

  He swallowed hard, and gripped both her shoulders. “Rosaline. Please.”

  “I could not wed him when I love another,” she said. Her eyes were tender now, softer than he’d ever seen them, as she shook her head and mouthed, “Benvolio.”

  “Oh thank God,” he said as he drew her to him.

  If he had been asked before this moment, he would have said that nothing in this world or the next could improve upon the previous kisses he’d stolen from her. But he had to admit that subtracting rain and mud and mortal peril from the equation was even better. She was eager and soft and sun-warmed in his arms, and he felt that he could quite happily live out his life right here, running his fingers down her spine and feeling her sigh and smile against his lips, with only the hoots of passing peddlers to distract them.

  They continued that way for quite some time, until Benvolio pressed her a little too enthusiastically against Silvius’s side and he shied away in protest, sending them both stumbling. Laughing, he grabbed her waist to right her, and she pressed her forehead against his.

  “If I once more broach the subject of marriage,” he murmured, “wilt thou scream to the heavens and march off to a nunnery?”

  Rosaline laughed. “After thieving through Montenova in your clothing, I am quite certain no decent nunnery would have me.”

  “Good,” he said, and kissed her again. “Friar Laurence will have another Montague and Capulet to marry, then.”

  “Montague and Tirimo.”

  “Of course.” He bent to kiss her once more, but she drew back.