Crave the Rose

by Karen Kincy

I hug myself by the window. “You can see the Elizabethan knot garden from here.”

  Jeb stands by me. “18th century as well?” He scratches under his nose, like he’s not even slightly interested in this all.

  “It is.” I glance at him. “The yew labyrinth is two hundred years old.”

  “I’d like to take a look at the exterior, after we’re finished with the interior.”

  “Definitely.” Hope hops inside me like a cricket. Or maybe a cockroach, since nothing seems to be able to kill it yet.

  “This isn’t the best view.” Bram beckons us onward with a pantomime gentleman’s bow.

  We follow him upstairs, past his bedroom, to a much grander bedroom at the end of the hall. He whips open the curtains, sunlight glimmering on dancing dust. Tatters of pink silk cling to the walls like faded rose petals.

  I stare at the angels painted high above. “The ceiling must be ten feet high.”

  “Look,” Bram says.

  Jeb leans against the window. His breath fogs the glass. “Beautiful.”

  I stand beside him, my chest tight with excitement and anxiety. Rosebushes curl in ornate arabesques of pink and white and red.

  All of it gone if we can’t save the gardens.

  “This would have been the bedroom for the lady of the house,” Bram says.

  Jeb takes his phone from his pocket. “Mind if I take a few photos?”

  “Not at all.”

  When Bram and I share a glance, he gives me a hopeful smile I can’t bring myself to return. Jeb meanders into the hall, glued to his phone, snapping more shots. He peeks into a few more rooms before heading downstairs.

  “Where’s this labyrinth?” Jeb says.

  Bram looks to me. “Cassia?”

  “Right this way.” I try to smile like a tour guide, but my mouth falters.

  The hedges glitter with dew, every needle bejeweled, the grass silver underfoot. I lead them into the maze. Jeb’s camera phone clicks. In the center, a statue of Aphrodite clings to a scarf slipping from her naked breasts.

  “Well.” Jeb takes a photo of the statue.

  Bram clenches his jaw, his eyebrows bunching. “Well?”

  “Wolfenwold Hall might be just the thing for my client.”

  My stomach soars like an elevator going from the lobby to floor twenty.

  Jeb flashes a smile. “They’re rebooting an Edwardian drama, a television series about a baron who loses his fortune and his manor house in the Great War, and his heir who wins it back by gambling in the twenties. Of course, their ancestral home has fallen in disrepair, since they haven’t paid for servants or upkeep.”

  “Brilliant!” Bram says. “That’s perfect.”

  It sounds too good to be true, but I don’t say it out loud.

  Jeb tilts his head. “Now I still need to pitch the property to the producers, and they’ll definitely want to take a tour before committing to anything definitive. But you were right, Bram. Wolfenwold Hall has potential.”

  Bram’s grin almost erases the fatigue from his eyes. “I told you so.”

  When Jeb laughs, Bram shakes his hand with vigorous enthusiasm. The two of them hug in that manly way of theirs.

  “Cassia.” Jeb meets my gaze. “I’ll forward any inquiries regarding the gardens to you.”

  I smile and nod, afraid I’ll say something that will fuck this up spectacularly.

  Jeb glances at his watch. “I’m afraid I have to leave. What’s the best way out? I don’t want to get lost in the labyrinth.”

  We walk him out and watch him drive away.

  “He seemed nice,” I say.

  Bram swoops down and kisses me, fast enough that he startles a gasp from me. I catch myself by grabbing his shoulders.

  “We did it.” He leans back and grins. “We have a real shot at saving the gardens.”

  It’s not a done deal, but I don’t want to knock the smile from his face. I step out from his arms. “Where did you park?”

  He stares at me.

  “I’m driving you back to the hospital, remember?”

  Groaning, he rakes his fingers through his hair. “I forgot.”

  “No, you didn’t.” I poke his ribs. “You promised.”

  He gives me a pained look. “The Audi should be around back.”

  After we climb into the car, we sit in silence. A dragonfly perches on a side mirror as a breeze tosses the beeches.

  “Aren’t you happy?” he says.

  I start the engine and shift to drive. “Let’s take this one step at a time.”

  He frowns out the windshield. “We shouldn’t worry about what hasn’t happened yet.”

  “We shouldn’t hope, either.”

  “That’s bloody bleak.”

  “It’s better than getting hurt.”

  “Is it?”

  I grip the steering wheel and concentrate on navigating the narrow country lanes. We return to the hospital far too soon.

  Bram’s head drops back. “I hate this place.”

  “You promised.”

  “I know.”

  He unbuckles his seatbelt and kisses me. Not gently this time, his mouth hard, his stubble rasping my skin. His hand slides into my lap, his fingers resting on the inseam of my jeans. I clench my thighs together.

  When he breaks the kiss, his eyes smolder. “I can’t wait to be back in my bed.”

  “Before or after they start filming?”

  He wrinkles his nose. “This isn’t porn.”

  “You don’t know that,” I tease.

  He rolls his eyes and hops out. “Walk with me?”

  “Sure.” I jingle the keys in my hands. “So you don’t try to escape.”

  Bram laughs, but his eyes look haunted. He would run away if he could. I wonder if I’m the only thing keeping him here.

  “What’s wrong?” he says.

  “Nothing.”

  “You were frowning.”

  “For someone who had amnesia, you know me too well.”

  “Cassia, I’ll be fine.”

  I give him my best imitation of a smile before I kiss him goodbye.

  41

  Bram

  A hospital never sleeps, and I’m not sure I can manage it. Unblinking, I stare at the fluorescent lights above my bed. My head buzzes with static. I’m too tired to think, but too afraid of returning to an unconscious state.

  Before I can help myself, my eyelids close for good.

  I dream of Cassia. We’re together in a woodland glade of forget-me-nots, the blue flowers trembling in the wind. I remember this place—the countryside of Ireland, outside of Donegal, where I spent half my childhood. Before we moved to Dublin for business. Before everything became the family business.

  Cassia smiles and takes my hand. “Come with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  She tugs on my hand as I follow her through the flowers. Clouds blow across the sun and dim my sight. I taste copper on my tongue.

  Raw fear clenches my stomach. “Cassia!”

  “Bram.” She pulls me forward. “Bram, come with me.”

  My legs freeze, my eyes locked, my muscles defying me until I’m falling—

  I jerk awake with a gasp. Sweat glues my paper gown to my skin. I’m in the hospital. Darkness presses against the windows. Heartbeat hammering, I touch my tongue. I haven’t bitten it again. I haven’t had a fit. Have I?

  Sour nausea rising in my throat, I shove myself upright.

  I can’t remember. I can’t keep living in the shadow of fear.

  A nurse detours to me. “Sir, do you need anything?”

  I raise my hand to halt her and swallow hard, my mouth dry. “Did I have another fit?”

  “No. Why?”

  I stare at my clenched fists on the sheets. “I had a nightmare.”

  She checks the clipboard on my bed. “We would have noticed a seizure. And you seem to be responding well to medication.”

  “Thank you.” I let out my breath. “Sorry to trouble you.�
��

  “Try to relax.”

  She smiles at me with more than a little pity in her eyes. Or maybe it’s sympathy, and I’m feeling sorry for myself.

  Jesus Christ. There’s no point in being melancholy. I’m almost out. I’m almost better. And then I can work with Cassia on Wolfenwold Hall. I fall back onto my pillow and stare at the lights until my eyesight swims.

  When I sleep this time, I’m thankful I don’t dream.

  Morning brings the slop they call breakfast, followed by Dr. Kapur with my MRI results. “Mr. Winterbourne.” She stands by the edge of my bed, her hands clasped behind her back. “Good news and bad news.”

  I poke at the rubbery scrambled eggs with my fork. “Tell me.”

  “The swelling from the concussion has gone down significantly. But we’re seeing scarring in your temporal lobe.”

  The tines of my fork screech across the plate. “Scarring?”

  “Likely from the earlier seizure activity, before you relapsed.”

  Seizures interrupted my life weekly at Oxford, but I didn’t think there would be lasting damage to my brain...

  “We need to control your epilepsy,” Dr. Kapur continues, “before there’s more scarring we can’t manage with medication.”

  I push away my plate. “Understood. I’ll take my pills like clockwork.”

  “And try to minimize stress.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I force a smile. “Can I go?”

  “For now. I want you to return for an evaluation in a week.”

  I’m already halfway out of bed. “Deal.”

  The moment I’m free from the hospital, I phone Cassia. “Morning! I need a ride home.”

  She yawns. “You sure are bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

  “I sound like a squirrel?”

  “As chipper as one. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  I pace around the parking lot, startling a flock of pigeons. My phone buzzes.

  “Bram!” Jeb doesn’t wait for my reply. “They want to see Wolfenwold Hall this week.”

  I stop in the middle of the lot. “They do?”

  “Yes, but I’m at the airport. Have to catch this flight to New York. Can you handle them and tour the property for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Excellent, I’ll email you the details. Good luck!”

  Jittery, I call my mother, since I can’t do this behind her back.

  She answers on the second ring. “Bram? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” I clench my jaw. “God, do I call you with bad news so often?”

  “Often enough.” She sniffs as though offended. “Why are you calling?”

  Not for a pleasant chat, apparently. “I found an opportunity for Wolfenwold Hall.”

  Silence.

  “You remember Jebediah Bowden, from Oxford? He works as a location scout now.”

  “And?” She makes that one word sound as dry as dust.

  “His client wants to tour Wolfenwold Hall for the set of a television series. It’s a perfect fit, an Edwardian drama. And it’s easy money, from the sound of it. We wouldn’t even have to renovate the manor house.”

  A long pause. “Bram, those contracts were drawn up over a year in advance.”

  “But this would save us those considerable expenses. If the filming falls through, we continue with the renovations.”

  Mam clears her throat. “When would they start?”

  “They want to tour it this week.”

  Her fingers rattle on a keyboard. “Can they do this afternoon at one? I have an opening then, but I won’t for long.”

  “I’ll ask them and let you know. And Mam? Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Goodbye, Bram.”

  The silver Audi pulls into the parking lot. Cassia waves at me through the windshield, and I return her wave.

  I struggle to keep a straight face. “That wasn’t hard at all.”

  “What wasn’t?” She glances sideways at me, her eyes a bit bloodshot.

  I lean back in my seat. “They want to tour Wolfenwold Hall.” I read the email Jeb sent me. “Today, if we can manage it.”

  “That’s fast.”

  I ignore the skepticism in her voice and type an email to the producers. “We’ll see if they can make it at one o’clock.”

  “Hopefully.”

  We drive toward Wolfenwold Hall through a morning bright with possibility. She still doesn’t smile, her eyes narrowed.

  “Cassia.”

  “What?” She take a corner too fast, skidding in gravel. “Shit, sorry, I’m distracted.”

  She pulls over on the side of the road. A bus rumbles past and leaves us in silence. Hedgerows border rolling green fields dotted with sheep. It would be peaceful, if it weren’t for the tension thick in the air.

  “What’s distracting you?” I say.

  She grips the steering wheel in both hands, her stare resolute, and kills the engine. When she exhales, it’s shaky.

  I lick my lips. “Are you still afraid?”

  She closes her eyes, telling me what I need to know.

  I climb from the car and open her door. “Let’s take a walk.”

  We follow the road until we reach a low stone fence, which I help her climb over. Her hand grips mine tightly enough that I give her a squeeze back. We follow a footpath across the field as the sheep gawk at us.

  She stops in the path and stares at the ground. “Bram, I don’t belong here.”

  “Even if they film the television drama?”

  “Especially if.” She speaks in a monotone. “It won’t last forever.”

  “But it gives us more time to save the gardens.”

  “We’re living on borrowed time.”

  I can’t ignore the invisible fist clenching my heart. The sickness that I’ll lose her one day, and there’s nothing I can do to keep her. There has to be something I can say, something that will save the fraying bond between us.

  I run my tongue over the edge of my teeth. “What will you do?”

  She steps close and leans her head against my chest. I bend down and breathe in the lavender scent of her hair.

  “Stay until I know you’re safe,” she whispers.

  I pretend to stagger and clutch my chest. “I’m dying of a broken heart. Nurse me back to health? With sweet tender love?”

  Her laugh doesn’t chase away the shadows in her eyes. “You’re shameless, Bram.”

  “Damn.” I stand straighter. “It was worth a try.”

  She stands on her toes and kisses me, then twists her fingers with mine. “Let’s go.”

  42

  Cassia

  They want to film at Wolfenwold Hall.

  After they leave, Bram tells it to me three times, but I still don’t believe him. I huddle in a cracked leather armchair in the library and watch him pace as he talks on the phone. His eyes look as bright as a cloudless sky.

  God, I can’t do this. I can’t hope for him. Not when I know we’re going to get hurt.

  “Yes, Dad!” he says. “It’s all but a done deal.”

  Is it?

  “They fell in love with the place. Bring some beer if you want, but leave the dog.” He laughs. “All right. I’ll see you soon!”

  I dig at a hangnail. “He’s coming over?”

  “To celebrate.” He grins. “Mam and Grace might stop by for a bit later tonight.”

  Faking a smile, I push myself out of the chair. “Better get ready for a party!”

  He flicks his eyebrows upward. “Perhaps we can celebrate in private tonight?”

  “If you manage to seduce me.”

  “Haven’t I already?”

  Bram catches me and backs me into the chair. He drops to his knees and kisses me, his hands cradling my face. I arch against him, my body as tight as a bowstring about to be loosed. Heat rushes through my skin.

  I suck in a breath. “I’d better get dressed.”

  “I can help you undress.” His voice sound
s gravelly.

  I plant my finger on his chest and poke him back. “Bad Bram.”

  Smirking, he swaggers from the library. “Meet me in my bedroom, when you’re ready.”

  He’s so cocky. Not that it’s a turnoff.

  Back at my cottage, I find a red halter dress and a pair of flats. It’s not flashy, and I hope his family doesn’t expect a cocktail dress with heirloom jewelry. They probably won’t approve of me, no matter what I wear.

  Well, I won’t be around for long.

  “Relax,” I whisper to myself in the mirror. It’s just one party. It’s nothing serious.

  Walking to Wolfenwold Hall, I think not to think. Robins peep in the shrubbery and cotton candy clouds puff in the sky. Without knocking, I let myself inside and climb the stairs to Bram’s bedroom. I rap on the door.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m dressed. And don’t try to undress me.”

  Bram sweeps open the door, startling me. His blue button-down shirt makes his eyes even bluer. No tuxedo, thankfully.

  He tries to kiss me, but I dodge. “Won’t your family be here soon?”

  “Yes, but—”

  A bark echoes in the foyer. “See?” I say. “Sherlock.”

  “Christ.” He rubs his forehead. “I can’t get rid of that dog, can I?”

  I kiss his cheek as I pass. “You know you want to keep him.”

  Downstairs, I meet Fitz, who’s holding a six-pack of beer and a leash with Sherlock tugging on the end. The dog’s butt wiggles when he sees me. When I pat his head, I’m rewarded with a slurp of drool across my arm.

  “You look absolutely gorgeous!” Fitz whistles low. “I love your hair.” Blushing, I touch my ponytail. I didn’t do much, just shampooed it and twisted it back. “And your tattoos are exquisite. What do they mean?”

  I fold my arms, my cheeks burning even hotter. “Long story.”

  “I have plenty of time.”

  “Dad!” Bram bounds downstairs. “Are you flirting with Cassia?”

  Fitz widens his eyes with pretend innocence. “Not at all.”

  “He’ll flatter you to death if you let him.”

  Fitz hefts the beer. “You a fridge in this dilapidated mansion of yours?”

  “Sadly, no.” Bram takes the beer. “Which means we have to drink this faster.”

  “A man after my own heart.”

  When Fitz grins, I’m struck by how much father and son look alike. We bring the beer to the patio outside the dining room. Bram sets up a few camping chairs before sprawling in one and stretching out his long legs.