Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  SILHOUETTED AGAINST THE MISTY MOON

  She could see without mistake the swirl of black cloak and the broad width of his shoul­ders, the proud lift of his head, and the crown­ing touch—she could see he wore a mask.

  Across the distance, he sensed her presence. He turned and stared at her in return. Then he moved straight for her.

  She could feel the intensity of the moment as she waited, trembling. He came to a halt and looked her over, beginning at her feet and moving slowly upward. At last his gaze made contact with hers. His eyes glittered like dia­monds through his mask, piercing her soul.

  Suddenly he stripped away his molded leather gloves, reached for her, and pulled her into his embrace. The heat of his fingers shocked her bare arms. A shudder shook her as the truth flooded in on her. The secret—known to her and her alone—sprang on her in its entirety. The man who'd dared put a torch to her heart was the most dangerous pirate in England.

  In the late morning of a sunny June day, Rozalinde Cavandish heard the bell on the door of her father's drapery establishment jingle as someone came in. Kneeling on the floor before a huge wooden crate, she did not look up.

  "John," she called to her father's apprentice, "someone comes at the door."

  She must get this crate open. It was critical she check the latest shipment of goods from Antwerp. Wrinkling her brow in concentration, Roz worked her lever into an open­ing and pried. The lid groaned dismally but refused to come off. "Please, God," she prayed as she worked. "Let it not be ruined. Let me for once be wrong."

  The customer's footsteps echoed in the silence of the empty shop behind her. Someone in heavy boots, Roz thought absently, her gaze locked on the crate. "The ap­prentice will be with you straight," she called over her shoulder, sensing more than seeing the man at the counter just behind her. Jamming the lever into another crevice, she tried again.

  Still it wouldn't budge. Roz worked her way around the crate, searching for a weak spot in the lid. Once she wouldn't have done this sort of work. But these days she tackled any job that presented itself. Since her mother was again with child, managing the household fell to Rozalinde. And since her father's serious illness, he trusted no one but her with the business. Roz plunged into the work gladly, determined to show how much she cherished them. Finding a likely gap at last, Roz fit her lever in the space and flung her weight against it. The nails yielded with a loud crack.

  Inside the crate, ells and ells of precious lace nestled. There! she thought with triumph, scanning the contents.

  She'd had no reason to worry. It all seemed in order, it all seemed perfectly—

  She froze, her eyes riveted to one spot. A blackish stain covered the entire right side of the goods.

  A moan escaped her lips as Roz lifted the first layer of lace, then the second. Did the stain go all the way down? Plunging deeper, she burrowed head first into the depths of the big crate, one foot braced against the wooden side, the other stuck in the air, half out of her shoe.

  She straightened and stood a second later, spluttering from the lint. Ruined! Their ninth shipment in the last six months. This crate had cost them a hundred and fifty pounds, and there were six more like it in the warehouse at Poole. They would all be damaged, just like last time. The captain had let seawater destroy them.

  She piled the pieces back willy-nilly, her anxiety turning to despair. They couldn't take any more losses like this. Their profits were shrinking daily. Expenses were becoming hard to meet. The captain would have to be dismissed. She thought of going to the quay to confront him, willing to have it out with him on the spot, but John had not ap­peared from the back room.

  "Troth," she muttered, realizing she could not leave now, "where is John when I need him?" The customer still waited. Pushing back her thick brown hair, she righted the practical coif she had tied on earlier to keep out the dust. Her father usually drew the line at her serving customers. He had Master Gray for that, as well as John and the other apprentice.

  But they were not here, so she would do it. Resolutely she turned.

  Her "How may I serve you?" died an unexpected death half out of her mouth as she beheld the man before her— a man who commanded her attention. His black cloak hung by a silk cord knotted across his broad chest. A finely wrought, black doublet emphasized a tapering torso that narrowed to a trim, black-belted waist. Everything he wore was black: black trunk hose, black hat; even his beard and hair were black. No splash of white or any other color broke the solemnity of his imposing figure.

  Involuntarily, her eyes dropped to high leather boots that accented his muscular thighs, and to the gilt sword—not a useless, ornamental rapier, but a heavy one with a jeweled pommel—that swung in the hanger at his side. Done with her study, she let her gaze travel back to his face—a lean countenance, exquisitely modeled and thoroughly stern. He studied her intently in return.

  "God's greeting to you, little maid. At last you honor me with your attention." Doffing his Milan bonnet with its curling black plume, he drew together his booted feet till the heels clicked, saluting her with an eminently correct bow. "As to serving me, are you quite sure you can?"

  His blue eyes were so challenging, she looked away with irritation. She had enough problems to deal with, so let him get on with his purchase. "Why should you think I cannot?"

  "Well ..." He chose that moment to smile at her, baring astonishingly white teeth. Instantly his face changed—so dramatically that Roz almost gaped at him. Gone was the tern, lean profile, the look of hard command. She was so surprised, all thought of the lace evaporated. Her hurry to return to the house was temporarily arrested as his smile sent her its pure, dazzling warmth. "I was watching you examine that crate," he went on, sure that he had her attention, "when you up and dived into it headlong. I said to myself, 'Either 'tis something of vast import down there, or she has gone completely daft.' As I can see quite well you are not daft, I wonder what is in the bottom of that box?" His voice gentled. "Is it some­thing that troubles you?"

  "It does," she said, puzzled as to why he should care. "But I shall manage. I always do."

  "And the person who caused it?"

  "I shall manage him, too."

  She jumped when he laughed suddenly, throwing back his head and letting his mirth resonate through the shop.

  "Why do you laugh?" she demanded. Attractive men al­ways thought too much of themselves. He was probably just like the rest. Catching up a bolt of cotton frieze, she snapped the loose cloth tight. "I have managed far worse."

  "I do not doubt that you have. And I shouldn't wish to be in this man's boots when you, er, manage him. Deter­mined little lass, are you not?"

  "Yes." She banged the bolt back into its place. "And I am not so little."

  He stroked his beard. "I agree you are not. I should have said 'determined' and stopped there."

  His gaze stroked her body, lingering on her tightly laced waist, on the low-cut neck of her smock.

  Instinctively she tugged the smock higher, searching for a polite way to tell him to go. But none of the words pop­ping into her head were polite. There was nothing she could do short of walking out, and that would surely lose them a sale. "I am here to sell goods," she said brusquely, "so what is it you wish to buy?"

  He grinned at her, and she was surprised to find herself staring at his wide, attractive lips, thinking they were pleas­ant to look upon, so sensual ...

  She gave herself a firm mental shake. He was trying to provoke her, that was all, and she would not stand for it. She was mistress here. "I am waiting, sir." She put on an expression that showed she would brook no nonsense, but she couldn't help feeling curious about this man. What would he say next?

  He shrugged. "If you insist. I wish to purchase a fan. A lady
's feather fan, if you have some of quality."

  Roz caught up the keys from the ribbon at her waist and moved to the case where the fans were kept. Unlocking it, she withdrew two white ones. "These are our finest. The feathers are ostrich from the Americas to the south. But I see you are all in black. Is the lady, too, in mourning?"

  "She is. She has lost her husband, so I thought to cheer her with some pretty knack." He gestured toward the fans. "I know nothing of these trifles for ladies. Tell me, which should I choose?"

  Roz studied the fans she had placed on the case top, becoming caught up in the merchandise. Her father had told her all about the new fans when they first arrived. She knew more about them than any of the apprentices. "If she is a lady of quality—"

  "She is."

  "Then I would recommend this one." She turned again to the case and drew out another fan—a black one this time with a silver handle, the feathers spread elegantly, each one sprinkled with fine silver oes. Holding it before her to demonstrate, Roz waved it gently to and fro, making the oes sparkle as they caught the light.

  The man regarded her solemnly. "A beauty, for certain."

  Roz almost dropped the fan; his gaze was locked on her face. Did he mean her or the fan? His words, his vibrant blue eyes, filled her with an anticipation so great, so over­whelming, she could not understand it. Who could he possi­bly be?

  "I will take the fan, and can you wrap it well? I wish to present it to the lady this day."

  "Certes." Roz put away the other two fans and moved shakily toward the front counter. "Is there anything more?"

  "Mayhap ... some lace."

  She eyed him skeptically. "Ours is all ruined, and well you know it."

  "I did not know," he said gently. "Let me see."

  Wordlessly she led him to the back of the shop, showed him the crate. He studied the lace for several minutes, handling it with strong, capable-looking hands. Straightening, he turned. "I will buy it. The entire box."

  Rozalinde's jaw almost dropped. "But you cannot. 'Tis , all of it ruined, clear to the bottom of the crate. See." To show him, she burrowed down to bring up a blackened piece from the bottom. "So you understand you cannot—" She stopped, beset by an explosive sneeze.

  "You have lint on your nose, mistress." He extended a pristine linen handkerchief. "I will give you a hundred and fifty pounds. Are there more of these crates? I will buy them as well."

  "All of them?" Her eyes widened as she stared at him over the cloth clutched to her nose. " 'Twould be robbery for me to let you."

  "Come, come, I intend to buy at least this one. What should I pay?"

  She handed back the handkerchief and named a price or the one crate.

  "Too low," he argued. "You will make no profit."

  She shook her head adamantly. "We cannot expect a profit on ruined goods."

  "Then at least accept what you paid. Without profit, but without loss."

  Rozalinde wanted to agree. She struggled to get some word, any word at all, out of her mouth, but none came. She hadn't meant to let it happen. She'd fought it until now. But she was caught fast in the snare of his gaze.

  Apparently that wasn't enough for him. Now that he had her, the contagious curve of his mouth insisted she answer with a smile of her own. Slowly, she let the expression creep over her face.

  Christopher Howard took that smile willingly, gathering it to him like treasure, marveling at its sweetness. For a full minute he indulged himself, giving in to her beauty— the sweet tuck of her slender waist, the swell of her shapely breasts against the plain linen of her smock, the limpid depths of her autumn brown eyes. Cascades of curling brown hair escaped the coif she had tied on in a futile attempt to confine it. Oh, she was marvelous in form, with­out question. But it was something he saw in the perfect oval of her face, the quality of her smile, that made him want to stand all day and look at her.

  Of course it couldn't continue. Being made earl was a blasted nuisance. It claimed his time in ways he resented. Even now he was expected elsewhere, instead of here, feasting his gaze on this girl. Reluctantly he broke the trance.

  "I believe," he coughed, still smiling at her, "I am ex­pected to pay?"

  Mustering her self-control, Rozalinde snapped out of her stupor. Briskly she forced herself to walk to the front counter and set about wrapping the fan. Such weakness, wanting to stare overlong at him. What was wrong with her today? An ordinary man walked into the shop and the next thing she knew, she was acting like an idiot. Yet he wasn't so ordinary. He'd bought all that lace.

  "What will you do with it?" The words sprang unchecked from her lips.

  "What? Oh, the lace." Christopher pensively stroked his perfectly trimmed marquisette beard. "I shall give it to the lady who will have the fan—at least the good parts. The rest, well, mayhap the maids at Lulworth Castle will be better arrayed than most."

  The maids? Rozalinde's jaw almost dropped for the sec­ond time that day. "That is so generous ... of course 'tis not my affair," she corrected herself hastily. "But you will want to cleanse the damaged parts, which can be done with plenty of lye and hot water, only you must have a care it does not steep too long in the lye—"

  He waved at her to stop. "Do not trouble to explain." His voice soothed her. "Surely you have cares enough with­out more to add. You must scarce have time to think of yourself."

  She stopped wrapping the fan and looked perplexed. "But of course I do not think of myself. That would be selfish."

  "Not if you examine your soul. Or what you would make of your life. But I see you have little time left for such things. It is something we all lack."

  Rozalinde regarded him in astonishment. "I cannot think that you mean. My father provides well for us, and I lack or nothing. I examine my soul in church of a Sunday. No one is expected to do more than that. Besides, I have my duty. What else should there be?"

  He said nothing in return, but his gaze seemed to bore hole straight into that soul she had just named.

  She looked away quickly, put industrious energy into wrapping the fan. While she busily avoided his provocative eyes, she could hear the clanking of coins on wood as he counted out the proper sum.

  Suddenly, the sound of coins ceased. His warm presence loomed behind her. Turning her head slightly, she could see the solid barrier of his black-clad chest just touching her right shoulder. His hand reached out.

  For a split second Rozalinde thought he was going to embrace her. It was a mad idea, born out of nowhere. Inde­cent, even to think it. She sought his face with her gaze, wanting an explanation, and discovered again his eyes—as blue as the Dorset sea—locked upon her. As if in slow motion, his hand continued to advance ...... and captured hers. Fascinated, Rozalinde examined his fingers, covered with calluses from rapier practice. He turned her hand upright and, with a tinkling sound, show­ered the golden coins into her palm.

  "No," he agreed, " 'Tis not money you lack, but some­thing else." His voice was husky. "I'll tell you about it some time."

  Never had she liked a man's closeness, but this one smelled tantalizingly of musk and leather mingled with an exotic scent she couldn't quite name. The complex barrage of feelings that welled up inside made her stomach tighten as he closed her palm over the money, then stepped away.

  She clutched the coins, realizing her heart pounded with excruciating pleasure beneath her ribs. "Kindly explain yourself," she demanded, striving for her customary con­trol. "'Tis impolite to hint."

  Christopher tilted his head to one side and considered. What had he meant? Nothing he could utter in feminine company, of course: that she was ripe and unplucked as a new-formed bud, hidden away in the shop as if waiting for him on this clear June morning, a maid clearly unwed and uninitiated to the pleasures of love.

  He struck the thoughts aside. He had vowed to resist every female in the last year and he'd done it. But this one moved him, with her face like a solemn angel and her ru­ined crates of lace—they made him want to do things he co
uldn't begin to explain. "You are in the right," he an­swered finally. "But then I am seldom polite. I find polite­ness a useless trait." He shrugged apologetically. "My worst fault."

  At that, her lips longed to curve into a smile again. They tried, yet she refused to let them.

  "I'll vow you don't smile near enough. Nor laugh." He reached out to trace her brow with one finger. "When I first came in, I could see the lines of worry here."

  "I smile if there is something to smile about—"

  "And that is seldom," he finished for her. "A pity, for one so young."

  "I am not a child. You speak as if I were." She turned away from him and began counting the coins he had paid, letting each one rattle loudly into her father's little money box. "I am one and twenty," she said as she counted, her face feeling as stiff as the wooden box.

  "Are you?" His blue eyes drilled for where she hid her truths.

  "I ... well ... I shall be come fall." He chuckled at her amendment. "Your frown belongs to someone decades older. I think it is not yours. But your smile- ..." He allowed a pregnant pause. "It is all your own."

  Her gaze darted to him, suspicious that his statement would be followed by an avowal. She'd had too many men wear love within minutes of their meeting. But his face betrayed no ridiculous ardor—only that enfolding warmth. "Pray do not mock me," she said uncertainly. "I am not mocking. I only wish to see you happy." She stiffened. "You presume to know too much about me."

  "Don't be offended." He pulled one of her hands into his two big warm ones and chaffed it tenderly. "It's only that a person's face is an open book, if one cares to read."

  Rozalinde turned her head away, overcome with confu­sion. "Your words are not of reason."

  "You mean you think I am a rogue and you shouldn't trust me. Yet I have done nothing untoward."

  She had no idea what to say. She, who was never at a loss for words.

  "Trust me, mistress," he coaxed.

  "Trust you to do what?" She jerked away her hand and began to tidy the counter. "To be a knave, like all men? You speak in riddles, and I am not in the mood for riddles today. Why will you not go away?"