Briar Rose

by Alexandra Benedict

  BRIAR ROSE

  BY ALEXANDRA BENEDICT

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  KINDLE EDITION

  BRIAR ROSE

  Copyright © May 2018 Alexandra Benedikt

  Cover Photo Copyright © prometeus/Bigstock.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  www.AlexandraBenedict.ca

  BRIAR ROSE

  England, 1801

  “Who ‘ere wants this black witch? She’s yours fer a shilling? A farthing? Come now! She’s a cold fish in bed, but she’s a hard worker.”

  The villagers howled with laughter.

  “Look at her hands, gnarled like an old hag. And she’s got the strength of ten men, I swear.”

  With each demeaning pitch, Dawn’s husband jerked her rope halter and lead, parading her around the town square. She cast her gaze downward, never wavering from the muddy ground, and maintained a stiff spine. Not a tear filled her eye or throat, nor even her belly. She was cold indeed, impervious to the humiliation after a ruthless marriage to her cruel husband.

  A part of her was grateful he’d decided to sell her to another man. The circumstances were humbling, but she was certain anyone was preferable to the swine she’d been shackled to for the last miserable year.

  “Is there no one who will take her? I beg you! Work her like the dog that she is.”

  “One pound,” came a steely voice from the crowd.

  Dawn bristled. A pound was more money than her current husband would see in a lifetime; and after the heinous way he’d treated her he deserved no such riches. Who dared award him for his wickedness?

  After a moment of startled silence, the brute at her side shouted, “Sold!”

  The throng parted, whispering, and Dawn soon saw mucky boots approaching her.

  At last she lifted her gaze.

  A spasm in her breast. It was her first real emotion in ever so long. She wasn’t even sure what kind of feeling it was but sensed it was a good one.

  The man who advanced was a farmer, she supposed. He had broad shoulders, a worker of the earth. He was dressed in simple yet clean attire: brown britches with a white shirt and an unbuttoned vest. His hair was chestnut brown, his eyes a pale green, rather unearthly.

  He sported no whiskers, and she viewed the firm contours of his jaw and lips, his straight nose and rugged brow. Was he handsome? She wasn’t quite sure. Dawn had stopped looking and thinking of men in such terms long ago. That the thought had even crossed her mind was unexpected, at least. He seemed about thirty-years-old, two years older than her. Still, she was apprehensive. She was relieved to be set free from her current husband. But who would be her keeper now?

  When the stranger handed her former husband the satchel of coins, she girded her muscles, fuming with injustice, but the exchange was complete and her feelings mattered naught.

  “Congratulations, sir,” said the lout. “You’ve bought yourself a hard-working wench.”

  He then slapped her on the rump to the delight of the rabble before handing the lead over to her new husband, making the ceremony of divorce complete and the re-marriage legal.

  As soon as the farmer accepted the lead, his pale eyes fell upon her and in a rough yet tender voice, he said, “I’ve been looking for you for so long.” He tugged at the halter. “Come.”

  Dawn buried her confusing thoughts at his unusual words and followed him through the town square as customary, sealing their marriage, making a public show of their new union.

  It was only after they had reached the village border that her husband stopped and removed the rope halter, tossing it into the tall grasses beside the road.

  Dawn massaged her chafed throat. “Who are you?” she rasped.

  There was a horse tethered to a nearby fence and he unfastened the reins. “Rafe.”

  She frowned, the name unfamiliar. “Do I know you?”

  He said he’d been looking for her yet she had no memory of him.

  “Aye, you know me, Dawn.”

  She started. He knew her name. But he wasn’t a member of her village. How had he learned her name? Had he asked someone in the crowd during the auction?

  Rafe steered the horse toward the center of the road, then mounted the black beast. She was prepared to walk behind him, as she had with her former husband, but Rafe reached his hand toward her.

  She wasn’t sure what to do, truly. Was this a ruse? A genuine offer? She had no experience interacting with a gentleman. Was Rafe a gentleman? A gentleman farmer?

  He flicked his fingers, beckoning her.

  Dawn finally took his hand.

  A charge of heat shot through her veins. In one easy swoop, he pulled her into his lap and positioned her side-saddled. The intimacy was unnerving. She could smell his skin, the scent like herbal tea. She could even feel the pounds of his heartbeat through his muscular chest. Why was his heart thumping so hard? So fast?

  Gooseflesh spread across her body. Her thigh rubbed against his erection, and she started again, even more unnerved. The horse whinnied, sensing the tension between them.

  “Easy,” he whispered.

  To her? Or the horse?

  As her own heart hammered, her breathing hastened. What was happening to her? Her nipples tightened, pressing against her bodice, the sensation discomfiting … perhaps pleasurable? She wasn’t sure which; mayhap it was even both. Yet how were such contrasting feelings possible?

  “Let’s go home,” he said.

  Home. It sounded so right. But the inexplicable sentiments toward her husband? What did they mean? she thought.

  Rafe flicked the reins. Together they trotted down the country road. And all the while, Dawn struggled with the arousing sensibilities stirring her back to life.

  ~ * ~

  Rafe nudged her. “We’re almost there.”

  A startled Dawn pinned back her shoulders. Had she fallen asleep? Impossible. She never allowed her guard to fall, not even at night. She had always slumbered with an eye on her old husband, making sure he didn’t overpower her and accost her in bed. How had she drifted off to sleep on a horse? In a stranger’s arms?

  As the sun slowly set behind a hilltop and cast a shadow over her, Dawn glanced upward—and seized.

  Rafe pulled the reins and brought the steed to a standstill.

  “What is it, Dawn?”

  She was without words.

  Her gaze traveled over the “hill” covered in thick, tangled briars. The thorns jutted like short iron daggers, the vines so twisted light wasn’t able to penetrate the bramble.

  A shiver wracked her spine. Such a monstrous creature, she thought. And then she spotted a stone tower and spire roof, the only structure jutting from the unholy burrs. There was a single arched window, the glass broken.

  She found her voice at last. “What is it?”

  Rafe watched her with intent. “An ancient castle from the Middle Ages. It’s called Briar Rose. Have you ever heard of it?”

  “No,” she whispered. “But …”

  “Yes,” he encouraged her.

  “It’s fascinating.”

  “That it is.”

  His gaze still fixed on her, she wondered if he meant the castle or her.

  A tingling warmth s
pread from her belly to her limbs. Once more, he unsettled her with the low timbre of his voice, his sturdy embrace, even the ethereal shade of his penetrating eyes.

  She lifted her breasts, taking in a swell of air. Words deserted her again. But after a while, she murmured, “Why is it called Briar Rose?”

  “According to legend, a single rose lives in the tower. It is powerful. And whoever wields it will be a king … or queen.”

  “How can that be? How can a rose survive for so many centuries?”

  “It’s an enchanted rose. In the days of old, many knights tried in vain to penetrate the briars and seize the rose but all failed; they were swallowed by the cursed vines.”

  “Why is the castle cursed?”

  “After losing an epic battle with the rightful ruler, a witch cast a spell in revenge, putting all to sleep.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  “It is a fable.”

  “Do you believe the fable?” she wondered.

  “I do,” he returned without hesitation.

  “Why?”

  “I suppose every lore is rooted in truth.”

  She looked into his pale green eyes, so passionate. “Have you ever tried to reach the rose?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said with feeling. “I’ve tried many times.”

  “How is it you’re alive if the thorns swallow all men?”

  A soft smile touched his lips. “Perhaps I am the right one to break the curse and rescue the rose?”

  She gathered another much-needed breath, his expression heated. “Then why have you failed?”

  “Alas, it takes time to break a cruse.”

  “How do you break a curse?”

  “With an act of sincere love.”

  Her heart spasmed. “What will you do with the rose if you retrieve it?”

  His eyes lingered on her for a moment more before he clicked his tongue and set the horse in motion, leaving her question unanswered … and that unnerved her most of all.

  ~ * ~

  It was dark by the time they reached her new husband’s home—her home. A full moon, high in the heavens, cast a milky glow across the land.

  Dawn spotted a wide house with limestone walls and a thatched roof. Lamps burned in the front windows. There was a round water well in the center of the courtyard, flanked by outbuildings: a barn and stable. And between them, a wood shed, chicken coupe and outhouse. The setup was clean, charming. And she released a sated breath.

  It was then she noticed the smoke wafting from the chimney. Was someone else at home? Her muscles tensed at the thought.

  Rafe reined in the horse and helped her descend the beast. “Go inside, Dawn. I have to put Winnie in the stable for the night.”

  She rubbed her arms, a brisk chill in the air, as she watched him lead the horse toward the outbuilding. She glanced at the house again, the firelight in the window, the smoke puffing from the chimney, and resisted approaching the door. What would she find inside? Who would she find inside? Another wife Rafe had purchased?

  But she couldn’t stand in the courtyard all night, either.

  She headed toward the front door and knocked.

  There was no response. She tested the latch. Unlocked. With a fortifying breath, Dawn opened the wood door and stepped inside the dwelling.

  “Is anyone here?” she queried.

  Silence.

  Her gaze rounded the room. There was a bed with quilted cover in one corner, fit for two bodies, and her heart jumped at the intimate sight. She quickly looked away and scanned the rest of the space, finding a table with chairs and a folding partition made of strips of wood. A tin tub was positioned behind it, the water inside still steaming, and her bones ached at the refreshing sight, though she was sure it was not for her.

  A heap of charcoal smoldered under an iron cover, and she went to work, removing the protector with a wool cloth and stoking the still hot ashes with a poker. As soon as a small fire took, she added more wood to the flame until she had a toasty blaze.

  The heat quickly filled the house and spread the aroma of stew. A small pot dangled from the iron arm. She lifted the lid with the wool scrap and inhaled the hardy scent of pottage. There was enough for a couple to dine, and she found two wood bowls and prepared the table.

  When Rafe entered the house, she stood beside the set table, her hands crossed over her lap, and offered him a shaky smile. “Are you hungry?”

  He returned the smile, a welcoming gesture. “Famished.”

  As soon as they settled at the table, Dawn devoured the stew. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until Rafe quirked a brow. Should she apologize for her ill manners? It didn’t seem like the best way to start their new union. Instead, she wondered, “Do you have servants?”

  “I have two helpers,” he said. “They sleep in the loft above the barn.”

  “The house is quaint,” she praised. “They keep it very tidy.”

  “I will pass along your compliments.”

  As soon as he finished his supper, Dawn grabbed the bowls and headed for the wash stand, rinsing the dishes in the large ceramic tub. Was Rafe going to undress and take a bath? Was he expecting her to perform her wifely duty in bed tonight?

  Her heart throbbed with such intensity, her temples ached under the pressure. She had flitted around the house, drying dishes, wiping down the table, putting away the bowls until there was nothing left for her to do except stand there and confront her husband.

  Rafe still sat at the table, watching her with unsettling intent.

  “You look tired,” he said softly.

  She was anything but tired, she thought, her nerves on edge, her bones trembling ever so slight.

  His pale eyes still pinned on her, he murmured, “I think it’s time for a bath.”

  She twisted her fingers. Did he want her to scrub him, like her former husband had demanded? The task had repulsed her then, but now … well, the idea wasn’t so unappealing.

  How strange! She even wondered what it would feel like to touch him … to see him without his clothes.

  She shuddered at the arousing thought.

  When he lifted from the chair, she turned on her heels, giving him privacy. She heard several movements behind her back, each confusing, and she flexed her fingers over and over again.

  “Dawn,” he beckoned.

  Her name on his lips sounded titillating, and she turned toward him with a heavy breath. Her eyes widened. The wood partition cradled the tin tub. A lambent glow fell upon the still steaming water. He had set a towel on one of the chairs, a bar of herbal soap with the faint scent of citrus, and a pitcher of water. There was a wash cloth hanging over the side of the tub. The scene was so inviting. She hoped she might use the bathing water after he had finished with it.

  “Come here, Dawn.”

  Slowly she moved toward him, her legs unsteady. He remained motionless. She was about to reach for his vest, to remove his clothes, when he ordered, “Turn around.”

  She stiffened.

  “I said turn around, Dawn.”

  She obeyed. He might not want her help to undress, she mused. Perhaps he just wanted her to stand near the tub and pass him the soap and pitcher?

  She sensed his fingertips at the back of her dress.

  What was he doing?

  She seized as he unfastened every button, right to the small of her back, then spread apart the garment at her shoulder blades.

  In rough strokes, he then loosened the stays of her tight corset. She detected the urgency in his fingers … but he soon regained his composure and stepped away from her.

  Her heart lodged in her throat. Did he expect her to bathe with him? Impossible. The tub was large enough for only one person.

  Rafe rounded the partition, leaving her a mess of tangled emotions, before reappearing with a neatly folded pile of clothing. “Here,” he said with a noticeable strain in his voice. “This is for you.” He set the fine garments on the other chair. “I think I’ll go for a strol
l.”

  And he quietly left the house.

  Dawn stood still, confounded. At length, she concluded he wanted her to take the soothing bath. She had never been offered such a privilege. The courtesy disarmed her and tears welled in her eyes. Tears. She had not cried in forever, it seemed. Her new husband was gallant beyond words … or perhaps just polite? Had he offered her the bath because of her unsightly appearance?

  Her cheeks burned with shame. Was that the real reason for the scented soap and new dress? To remove any harsh odors? After all, he wasn’t likely to bed a smelly fish, even if she was a cold one.

  She swallowed her stinging tears and disrobed, settling into the tin tub. Why had she even dreamed up such a stupid notion? Rafe had bought her at a public auction. He wasn’t a gentleman, courting a lady. He was a farmer in need of a wife, a slave.

  She snatched the wash cloth and soap and rubbed her skin until it was raw. The clean water soon soiled with oil and dirt. She then lathered her black hair and scrubbed until her fingers ached, pouring the pitcher of water over her head to rinse away the grime.

  She twisted her locks, squeezing the water from her tresses, and stepped out of the tub, toweling her body. She slipped into the chemise and night rail, leaving the dress for the morning, and then searched the house for a comb, slamming cupboard doors and ramming drawers.

  “Dawn?”

  Having made so much racket, she hadn’t heard him come into the house. “Aye?”

  “Is there something I can help you find?”

  She crossed her arms over her breasts. “A comb.”

  To unravel the rat’s nest on my head, she thought, but pinched her lips instead.

  Rafe walked over to the mantle and opened a small box. He removed a comb. He then took a chair and positioned it beside the hearth. “Sit.”

  She walked across the room, reached for the comb, but he pulled it away from her grasp.

  “I said sit.”

  He ordered her about like any other husband, and she chastised herself for even entertaining the dimwitted thought that he might be different from other men, that life with him might be different.