Crave the Rose

by Karen Kincy

  Crave the Rose

  by Karen Kincy

  Crave the Rose – copyright © 2015 – Karen Kincy

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (or any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Crave the Rose

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  More by Karen Kincy

  Acknowledgments

  Author Bio

  “But he that dares not grasp the thorn

  Should never crave the rose.” – Anne Brontë

  Before...

  1

  Bram

  God, she’s gorgeous.

  By the River Cherwell, a book forgotten by my feet, I watch a tattooed brunette boating downstream. She stands on a punt, fighting a pole twice as long as she is tall. If I leaned over the riverbank, I could touch her arm.

  Roses and ravens, ferns and thorns. Tangled in a garden of ink.

  I clear my throat. “Need any help?”

  The girl lowers the pole and wipes her sweaty forehead with her wrist. “Dude, I’ve got it.” She has an American accent. The boat wobbles underfoot, but she finds her balance and grabs a phone from her pocket.

  “Are you sure?” I say.

  “Yes.” She rolls her eyes. “Smile.”

  I blink before laughing. She snaps a shot of me and turns her phone sideways to photograph the bridge ahead.

  A breeze ruffles the pages of my book, opening it to deadly dull business statistics.

  Damn, I should study. It’s only the second week of Michaelmas term, and I’m already falling behind on my classes.

  “Shit!” She stares at the water. “I dropped my phone.”

  The perfect excuse for me to play the hero. I abandon my book, kick off my shoes, and pull my shirt over my head.

  “Back in a minute, miss.”

  I jump into the river. It isn’t deep enough for diving, which lessens the dramatic effect, but it’s murky enough that I’m forced to grope in the mud. Lungs burning, I pop up to the surface and gulp a mouthful of air.

  She leans over her boat and stares at me. “Are you crazy?”

  Grinning, I lift her phone. “You’re welcome.”

  As I climb from the river, she punts to the bank and steps onto the grass. We touch ground together. Water streams from my hair and patters at my feet. I’m still grinning despite shivering in the cold of October.

  I return her phone, our fingertips touching, and feeling her skin on mine jolts my nerves. She’s a head shorter than me. My gaze flicks to the ivy tattooed on her collarbones, but I’m too polite to stare at her cleavage.

  When she smiles, she’s infinitely more beautiful. “Thank you, insane Irishman.”

  I laugh. “My name’s Bram.”

  “Bram. I owe you a drink.”

  My mouth does feel dry. “I don’t know your name.”

  “Cassia.”

  “That’s unusual.”

  “And Bram isn’t?” Cassia smirks. “Like that dude who wrote Dracula.”

  “He was Irish, too.”

  “Were you named after him?”

  I shrug. “No, after my great-grandfather.”

  “Cassia is the species name for Chinese cinnamon. Cinnamomum cassia. And surprise, I’m studying botany.”

  “Here? At Oxford?”

  “Yes.” She flicks her eyebrows upward. “Magdalen College.”

  “Brilliant!” My cheeks start to hurt from smiling so much. “I studied Modern Languages and Linguistics at Magdalen.”

  “Past tense?”

  My smile falters. “I’m working on my MBA now.” At my family’s insistence, but I decide to omit that detail.

  Cassia whistles. “Fancy.” She glances at her phone. “It’s alive!”

  “Tough little blighter.”

  She sighs. “My boyfriend texted. He’s lost. Again.”

  Boyfriend? My stomach plummets to the region of my toes. But clearly a girl this amazing would be taken.

  I’m afraid my grin looks like I’m baring my teeth. “He’s a student here, too?”

  “No, he’s a musician.” Cassia smiles at her phone, not even looking at me. “God, he has such a shitty sense of direction.”

  Regrettably, her boyfriend isn’t lost forever. He swaggers over not two minutes later.

  She waves at him. “Spencer!”

  Of course he would be named Spencer. He’s a scruffy unshaven wanker with jeans so skinny he must have to peel them off. His bowtie and vest look utterly ridiculous with the tattoos scrawled over both his arms. Even I can tell he’s the kind of boy most girls find pretty, which makes him even more repulsive.

  Spencer looks me over and jerks his chin at me. “Hey.”

  I force a smile. “Afternoon.”

  “This is Bram,” Cassia says. “He rescued my phone from the river.”

  Spencer slings his arm around her waist and drags her closer. “Baby, I told you to wait. Did you leave without me?”

  She kisses his cheek. “I wanted to meet you halfway.”

  A sour taste rises in my throat. Spencer. His name, tattooed on her wrist.

  Bloody disgusting. I can’t stand here smiling at them while they grope in public. I grab my shirt from the grass.

  “I tried to text you first,” Cassia says, “but I dropped my phone.”

  Spencer snorts. “Wow.”

  “I’d better go.” I drag my shirt over my damp skin. “Nice meeting you both.”

  Which is of course a lie. I would give anything to have met her alone, before she ever found this bowtie-wearing idiot.

  As I walk away, she calls, “See you around!”

  I hope I don’t.

  2

  Cassia

  We drift down the Cherwell, silvery willows shimmering in the wind. Salix alba. I lean back as Spencer stands behind me, jabbing the pole into the river. He’s pretty terrible at punting, but I don’t want to start a fight.

  I take out my phone and stare at the photo I took.

  Bram has a wolfish grin, way too many teeth for one smile, and aquamarine eyes brighter than the sky. The hint of stubble on his cheeks looks copper. His hair is darker, more like bronze, with a bit of ginger sneaking in.

  “Who was that guy?” Spencer says.

  I swipe away the photo before he sees it. “Just a student at Oxford.”

  “You know him?”

  “No.”

  Spencer grunts. “He seemed like a total douche.”

  I laugh. “What? Why?”

  “Preppy clo
thes and a snobby accent.”

  “Since when was an Irish accent snobby?”

  “Since I met him.”

  Spencer lets the pole drift behind us like a rudder. The boat veers sideways, and I wonder if he knows what he’s doing.

  “He was hitting on you, wasn’t he?”

  I roll my eyes. “What, are you jealous?”

  Like he doesn’t flirt with everybody. Sometimes he’s too charming for his own good.

  Spencer kneels by me, straddling my legs, and smirks. “You’re way out of his league, baby. And you’re all mine.”

  When he kisses me, my words melt away. I arch beneath his body, the muscles in my thighs tightening, and stroke his cheek. His short beard rasps under my fingertips, and he tastes like cinnamon and cigarettes.

  Spencer leans back, his dark eyes sparkling. “I love you, Cassie.”

  “I love you, too. You have a mouth made for kissing.”

  He laughs. “Really?”

  “The lips of an angel and the smile of a devil.”

  “Can I steal that for lyrics?” He pretends to scribble it down on air.

  “Sure. You owe me.”

  He kisses my neck. “Let me pay you back.” One hand cradles my ass as the other traces the curve of my thigh.

  I grab his wrist. “What if somebody sees?”

  “Turn off your brain. Think with your pussy.”

  I don’t think he’s joking, but I laugh until he makes me moan.

  3

  Bram

  I unlock the door to my flat and step into the tiny foyer. My roommate stares at me the moment I’m within sight.

  “What?” I shrug. “I went for a swim.”

  Jebediah pushes his black-rimmed glasses up his nose. “In your clothes?”

  “A girl dropped her phone into the river.”

  “Bram.” Jeb shoves his homework away. “It’s not worth it. Not even for a pretty girl.”

  I know what he’s talking about, but I don’t want to think about it. I walk to my bedroom and grab a change of clothes.

  “She wasn’t even single,” I say, loud enough for Jeb to hear.

  “What?”

  I lean around the doorway as I dress. “She wasn’t single.”

  “I heard you the first time.” Jeb grabs a tin of soup from the cupboard. “Why did you dive into the river if she wasn’t single?”

  “Because I didn’t know. Her boyfriend arrived right afterward.”

  “Brilliant timing there, Bram.”

  I glare at him. “Bugger off.”

  “I would, but I haven’t had any luck with boyfriends, either.”

  “Hilarious.”

  I sit at the table and stare at Jeb’s papers. He’s studying graduate-level History of Art, and he’s on top of his coursework. I lean on my elbows and rake my fingers through my hair. Bloody hell, I’m so far behind.

  I don’t know how I’ll tell my parents they’re paying for me to fail.

  “Want any soup?” Jeb says.

  “What kind?”

  “Cream of tomato.”

  “I—”

  Copper fills my mouth, the taste of a dirty penny on my tongue. No, please, not again. I shove my chair from the table.

  “Bram?” Jeb’s voice sharpens. “Bram!”

  I would reply, but I’m falling sideways and I can’t fight the darkness.

  ***

  I’m lying with my cheek on the linoleum. Dust clumps under the refrigerator. Really should buy a broom and sweep that.

  “Bram.”

  My thoughts snap into focus. I shouldn’t be on the floor. What the hell happened? I struggle to sit, but Jeb holds my shoulder.

  “You had another fit,” he says.

  “What?”

  “A grand mal seizure.”

  My cheek aches from me biting it yet again. There’s blood on the floor, and on my sleeve when I wipe my mouth.

  Shame scorches my face. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Jeb touches my arm. “Should I call 999?”

  “No.” I push myself upright, my muscles burning. “I’ll be fine.”

  I always have been. Epilepsy and I are old friends.

  “Bram, you almost banged your head on the table.” Jeb glances at his watch. “And this one lasted at least a minute.”

  I’m groggy, my bones heavy with fatigue. “Let me sleep it off.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He helps me stagger to my feet. “Thank God for the luck of the Irish.”

  “That was lucky?”

  “You could have drowned before.”

  I stare at my toes as we walk to the bedroom. There’s nothing to say, because it’s true. I’ve been a right fool.

  My laugh sounds rusty. “Would’ve saved me from exams.”

  “You’re an idiot. The smartest idiot I know.”

  “Thanks.” I sprawl on my bed and drape my arm over my eyes. “Jeb?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t tell anyone.”

  He sighs. “I know the drill.” The door clicks shut behind him.

  4

  Cassia

  I doubt I’m good enough to go to heaven, but I hope it looks like the University of Oxford Botanic Gardens. Halfway through Michaelmas term, maidenhair trees glimmer gold in the November sun. Sorbus sargentiana, a rowan native to China, outshines the other trees with blazing red leaves and orange berries.

  I’m on my knees and dirty when I see Bram again. Not in a sexy way, either, unless you have a fetish for compost.

  He strolls across the lawn, his eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses, and stops at the edge of the grass. I brush my gloves together, knocking clods of dirt onto my shoes. A speck lands on his battered boots. My gaze travels along his faded jeans, over the black tee clinging to his lean chest, and up to his face.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” Bram says.

  God, his accent is dangerous. Listening to him read the phonebook would turn me on.

  “I still owe you a drink,” I say.

  “Don’t worry about it.” When he pushes back his sunglasses, he reveals dark shadows under his eyes. “But thank you.”

  I arch my eyebrows. “Not even a cup of coffee? Or are you a tea snob?”

  “Hardly.” His smile shows just a hint of teeth. “If it’s caffeinated, I’ll drink it.”

  “Decaf is the work of the devil.”

  That gets a laugh out of him.

  “Dude,” I say, “you look exhausted.”

  “Do I?”

  “You need coffee.”

  “Fine.” He holds up his hands. “I surrender.”

  I smirk. “Was that so hard?”

  I’m rewarded with a wolfish grin. Bram is nothing but trouble with an Irish accent, but I’m tired of being a good girl. Spencer has been too busy for me lately, though he’s never too busy to flirt with busty English blondes.

  Time to take off the gloves. Literally. I shove them in the back pocket of my jeans.

  “Where to?” Bram says.

  I glance at my dirty fingernails. “Hold on.”

  At the nearest faucet, I scrub my hands, splash water into my face, and gasp at the bracing cold. It trickles into my mouth with a sweet metallic taste, and I wipe it away with my hand. I yank out my ponytail and shake my hair back and forth like a shampoo model. Bram’s mouth quirks, not quite a smile.

  “Do I look decent?” I say.

  His smile widens into something real. “More than decent.”

  “How about the Gilded Lily?” It’s a trendy little café on High Street.

  He slides down his aviators to hide his eyes. “Sounds good.”

  We walk there together, since it’s not too far on a sunny day. The Gilded Lily’s golden walls shine through its windows. Bram holds the door for me. I thank him with a nod and step into a haze of coffee and conversation.

  “I haven’t been here in a millennium or two,” he says.

  “You d
on’t look a day over a thousand.”

  “I credit bathing in the tears of unicorns.” He grins before walking to the counter. “A medium macchiato, please.”

  The barista glances between us. “Together or separate?”

  “Together.” Bram doesn’t even hesitate.

  “Hold on.” I rummage in a pocket for my wallet. “I’m buying you a drink, remember?”

  “Spencer won’t mind?”

  I’m surprised he remembers his name. “It’s just coffee.” I slap a few pounds on the counter. “I’ll have a small mocha.”

  Bram tries to sneak his card across to the barista, but I swat his hand away. His mouth twists into a bemused smile.

  “Never had a girl buy you a drink?”

  He shrugs. “I try to be a gentleman.” I can’t tell if he’s sarcastic or sincere.

  “Where do you want to sit?”

  “Wherever you want.”

  I find a table by the windows while he fetches our drinks. He folds his long legs under his chair and sets his aviators by his saucer. His fingers are long, too, curled around his cup. Damn, he’s too hot for his own good.

  “What were you planting?” he says. “In the garden?”

  “Broken tulips.”

  He hesitates. “How does one break a tulip?”

  “The tulip breaking virus.” I sip my mocha. “Potyviridae is a family of plant viruses that infect tulip bulbs. When the tulip blooms, the virus breaks the flower’s colors into variegated patterns. The Dutch paid a premium for broken tulips, during Tulipmania, but the virus ended up killing off most of those varieties.”

  Bram meets my gaze. “Are they beautiful? Despite being broken?”

  “You can see for yourself this spring.” I’m not sure why he’s looking at me so intently, like the question matters. “I’m studying the Absalon tulip, which survived over the centuries with a more benign form of the virus.”

  “I would love to see it bloom.” He looks at his coffee. “If I survive until next spring.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His thumb traces circles around the lip of his cup. “This MBA might kill me first.”

  I smile, though he isn’t. “Hey, this is my first term at Oxford. You already got your undergraduate degree here.”

  “By the skin of my teeth.”

  “Isn’t Oxford supposed to kick your ass?”

  Bram’s mouth bends between a grimace and a smile. “My ass has been kicked enough, thank you very much.”