Roz climbed after her, emerging at last onto a flat shelf cut in the hill. Before her yawned a black, gaping hole. With a shudder Roz examined it. Sure and the woman had not gone in there! Dark and dirty it looked, and heaven knew where it led.
But the woman had gone in, Roz realized with a stab of fear. She stood there, frozen, not daring to follow. Panic gripped her, and suddenly she felt four years old again—tiny and alone in the nursery, frightened because a storm had blown up and the nurse was gone, leaving her alone to face the roaring dark. As a child the dark had immobilized her. Now fear came back with clarity—she felt like that little girl cowering in her bed, praying for light of day.
Stop this instant! Taking a firm grip on her fears, Roz cast about with her gaze and found the moon. There was light here, and she was a woman grown, not four years old. She would handle her problems and not be afraid of them, as she'd once been afraid of the dark. Turning back to the cave, she extended both arms and prepared to feel her way. I will go in. I must know. Trusting blindly, she took a deep breath and crossed the cave's threshold, giving herself up to the all-engulfing dark.
Instantly she halted. Just beyond the entrance huddled a mass of people, standing and sitting, pressed tightly together in the cavern of rock. She felt rather than saw them in the pitch blackness, the minute sound of their breath, their pungent, warm smell.
"Sit," someone whispered, touching Roz on the arm. Roz plunked down where she was bid and leaned against the chilly clay wall.
Hours might have passed. But for Roz, time stood still; she was suspended in unreality. All day she'd fought to banish the earl from her mind. Now she ceased her struggle. His mystery beckoned, and she gave in to it like a ship guided by the wind.
Around her the presence of many people crowded close, and she felt tension leave her body. She, who was never a dreamer, drifted, escaping from what was real, inviting what was not. A sense of unspoken kinship hung on the air among these people who gathered for an urgent purpose. Amid their warmth, Roz drowsed. Her eyes grew heavy, almost closed.
"He's come!" The two words, spoken in no more than a whisper, reverberated through the crowd, chanted over and over. "He's here. Hurry."
Rozalinde's eyes snapped open as people scrambled to their feet, groped for the way out. She scrambled, too, getting her legs under her as they began to move, taking her with them. Emerging into the open night, Rozalinde inhaled deeply of clean, wet air and looked around. Towed by longboats, a ship approached, its great hull touched by the many whispering tongues of the creek.
Swiftly she glanced around her, seeking a hint of what she should do. Men hurriedly descended the hill, wading out into the water knee deep to launch small boats and row them to the ship. Around her she recognized the poor from both West and East Lulworth.
"We wait here." A different woman behind her spoke. "The men'll bring the stuff and we'll help cart it off. There's many as'll eat tonight who've had naught the week long."
"We'll not be caught?" Roz asked. This was piracy, and though she'd heard of it, she'd never given it much thought. In the past she was not interested in the stuff of high romance.
"The aldermen would like to catch us," a man chimed in as he passed. "And the queen's customs men. Because o' the Spanish, Her Majesty's had to pretend we don't like the Sea Beggars. She forbids 'em to land i' our ports, and the aldermen must enforce her word."
The Sea Beggars? Roz almost blurted the name aloud, she was so taken aback. "Sure an' he's wrong," she remarked to a girl waiting beside her. "That is no Low Countries ship."
"You're right, but ye're also wrong if ye think 'tis English ..." The girl chuckled low in her throat. "I heard 'twas Spanish, but the men be from the Netherlands. Hark and ye'll hear."
Roz listened. The sound of Dutch speech, mingled with English, floated to her across the water. The Sea Beggars were here on English shores although she'd told everyone they wouldn't come.
But she hadn't long for contemplation. The first ladened boat pulled near, followed by another, and another after that, their oars dripping as they were shipped in their locks. All along the steep, slippery banks, people surged forward to answer, reaching out to take bags and bundles, small casks and crates. Roz moved with them, watching them take up their burdens and hurry away. She could see sugar in bags and casks, he could smell pungent spices, pepper and cinnamon brought from the New World. She had just selected a bag to carry when a voice rang out.
"My friends, here are more goods. Sell them and give the profit to the sick and the needy."
Roz spun around, looked urgently for the speaker. The familiar magnetism of the sound made her heart skip in her breast, then race urgently ahead. Searching the boats, her gaze was drawn and held by a tall man who beckoned to the others nearby.
Two burly men came at his summons, began taking the bags he handed off. They were followed by a stream of others coming to do his will. Each took a burden and hurried away, then returned to await his direction in other tasks. She felt herself drawn closer, all the while noticing how naturally he commanded, giving a word of encouragement here, a correction there, though his English was sprinkled with words from the Dutch. Unable to take her eyes from him, she stared, mesmerized.
For an instant his straight form was silhouetted against the misty moon. She could see without mistake the swirl of black cloak from the broad width of his shoulders, the proud lift of his head, and the crowning touch—she could see he wore a mask.
A shiver ran through her body, tingling all the way down into her toes, shaking her to the very core of her being. There was no mistaking who he was.
"Aye, he be something to look at." A saucy wench flounced by Roz with a huge gammon of bacon on her shoulder. "But I'd rather touch, if you take my meanin'."
"Who is?" Rozalinde spun around, pretended not to understand.
"Why, him." The girl stopped to poke Rozalinde in the ribs and gestured at the pirate. "You're not the only one to stare tonight. 'Tis more than a year since he set foot in West Lulworth, but we don't forget him, the way he gives everything he has to others. All because he was once robbed of his own. For that alone we love him." She sighed hugely.
"Does he give his favors so freely, then?" Roz asked resentfully of the girl, who had put down her burden to tuck her skirts higher out of the way.
The wench laughed softly as she displayed plump calves. "'Tis said he has a way with women." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "But none of us would know. We can't get close enough, neither man nor woman. He's careful o' that."
"But he must go to other parts of Dorset. Doesn't he stop at Poole or some of the other towns?"
"Nay, only Lulworth," the girl insisted, taking up her burden again. "He never went anywheres else, but here he came oft. At least he did some years ago. Now he's back, which proves the old legends right. They say he comes aseeking his lost love."
With that, she moved off. Rozalinde stood, people swirling around her as they hurried about their tasks. She trained her gaze on the creek below, staring at the dark-cloaked figure alone on the shore, apart from the others. Slowly she moved toward him, her heart protesting. No, it cried, he cannot seek another. He seeks me. By light of day, it was an absurd thought, but tonight, by the light of a mystical moon, it became the stuff of logic.
She edged closer, pretending to look over the goods, deciding which item to carry. When she was within several yards of the pirate, she stopped and let herself gaze at him. The real world receded, with its cares and problems. The dream took her tightly in its grasp.
Across the distance, he sensed her presence. He turned and stared at her in return. Then he moved straight for her.
Activity around Rozalinde ceased as the Beggar King approached. A hush fell over the crowd. Every eye fastened on Roz—she could feel the intensity of the moment as she waited, trembling, for the Beggar King. He came to a halt and looked her over, beginning at her feet and moving slowly up. 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. The heat of his fingers shocked her bare arms. The blossom of delight swirled in her belly as he pulled her into his embrace. A collective sigh went up from the women in the crowd as he leaned over and placed his mouth against hers.
Inside Rozalinde, joy bloomed. Life quickened in her veins, awakening the thrill inside her. His lips did a slow, sensuous dance against hers, much different from his earlier kiss at Lulworth Cove. Now he probed, seeking answers. Her body softened, gave in to his magic. Stretching luxuriously, she reached up to lock both arms around his neck.
Too soon it was over. The Beggar King released her, stepped back and saluted her with a bow, a gesture of his hand. In a whirl of black cloak he moved toward his ship, leaving Rozalinde alone. The empty feeling from the cove assaulted her. Tears welled in her eyes.
People stirred, gathered up their burdens. The last goods were handed off, and the crews arranged themselves in the longboats, preparing to tow the galleon back to open sea.
Quickly Roz caught up a sack and puffed her way up the hillside, realizing she was thoroughly tired from her long day. As she climbed, her bodice stained with sweat and her feet ached. The others stayed at a respectful distance. She was charmed tonight. She had been singled out by the Beggar King.
Only when Rozalinde reached the top of the hill did she stop and drop her burden in the waiting cart so the apprentices holding the traces could take it away. Still breathing heavily from her climb, she looked back at the ship as it moved on the dark water, heading out to sea.
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— the man who was the Earl of Wynford—was secretly the Beggar King.
Rozalinde slept poorly that night. She tossed and turned. Everything was changing in her life, and she was haunted by dreams of the Beggar King that robbed her of precious rest.
Things looked different with morning. Reality bore down on her. Rising early, Roz directed the last cleaning up from the revel. Amazingly, she had little to do. Jon had handled everything the night before. Breathing a silent thanks to him, she hurried to her father's cabinet and began to cast accounts. Later, she would praise Jon for his efforts, but just now she must see how a shipment of wool broadcloth would offset their losses.
By the time her father came seeking her, she felt only a little better. The magic of the night had dissipated. Again she had to face the truth of their difficulties. If she could convince her father to approve her journey to Antwerp, they might see some profit. She would have to persuade him. Once he saw the books, he was sure to agree.
"Come in, Papa." Rising from her seat as her father entered the chamber, Roz threw down her quill. "You must look at the latest accounting. Even with the lace I just sold, we are in terrible straits."
"Well, well, child, Trenchard will handle it. You mustn't worry." He lumbered in and took the chair across from her. His face was pale except for dark smudges beneath his eyes. "You did go to bed last night?" He stretched across the table to cup her chin in his hand.
Rozalinde cast her gaze down guiltily, knowing he had heard her come in late, that she'd kept him awake worrying about her. "I—I couldn't sleep, Papa. I went for a walk." It was a lie. They both knew it. Yet he said nothing. His hand dropped away.
"Papa, I have been thinking," Roz began hesitantly. Dared she hope he would agree? "You must let me sail with the next shipment of goods to Antwerp," she continued more boldly. "No one would dare harm our cargo with me on board." There. She'd said it. Roz squared her shoulders and waited for his response.
"No! I cannot permit such a thing," he snapped. "You belong here, at home." The words had no sooner left his mouth than he seemed sorry for his harshness. His tone softened. "Rozalinde, I'll not have you going all the way across the Channel and the North Sea by yourself. We have ever traveled together, you and I, and in such circumstances none would dare dishonor the master's daughter. But alone, you invite all manner of trouble."
"But, Papa, we need the profit. Our goods are still being ruined by this captain, who is a complete bungler." She stopped for a second, aggrieved by the extent of their losses. "And we have the London cargo expected within a sen'night. Will it be ruined, too?"
"I don't know." Her father groaned, put one hand over his eyes. " 'Tis every bit as bad as you say, but we must rely on George to correct it. He will take action ..."
"You must let me discharge the captain," Roz urged. "I can do that. He won't be surprised, Papa. Say you agree."
Her father shook his gray head heavily. "You should not be doing these things, Rozalinde. I should do them myself." He paused, put one hand to his chest. "But I don't feel my best today."
"Why did you not say you were ailing?" Wresting aside her own fears, Roz hurried around the table to him. "You must rest, Papa. Don't pretend you are well if you are not."
He leaned against her tiredly and let her fuss over him, seeming grateful for her concern.
"I thought you were better of late," she said tenderly, bending to kiss his balding head. "You looked well last night."
"That I was." He caught her hand, gave it a quick squeeze before releasing it. "I wanted to be well. This revel meant so much to your mother and the children. I wanted to be well for all of you. But there are so many troubles."
Roz started to protest, to say she would handle them, but he quieted her with a look. "Nay, it's my duty to care for you and I have not done it. I said it unkindly at table yesterday, but only because I am ashamed of not doing my part. Do not mistake me. I'm grateful to you, Rozalinde."
She was down on one knee beside him, and he put his arm around her shoulders to gather her close. "I trust you more than anyone I know. But it's time for you to fulfill your role as a woman, time for you to wed."
"I still don't wish it," Rozalinde said softly, trying to hide the burning fear that ground deep in her stomach when she thought of marriage.
He shook his head ponderously. "You're a woman grown, and dear as you are to me, we must look to your future. You must wed, and George—"
"—is not in that much of a hurry," Roz interrupted firmly. "I spoke to him last night and we came to an agreement. He's in no haste."
Her father drew back so he could see her face better. "He seemed so to me last night when he insisted on a betrothal date. He wanted it a sen'night from today."
"A sen'night?" Rozalinde sucked in her breath. "Are you sure? It makes no difference," she hurried on, not wanting to hear his answer. She roused herself instead, went to the small table by the fireplace. Briskly she mixed wine and water in a tall flagon. "I will ride to Poole tomorrow to prepare the next shipment. You must drink your wine. The physician said a little in the morning would strengthen you."
Her father took the flagon obediently and began to sip. "What shall we sell this time? I'd thought of cotton—"
"Wool broadcloths," Rozalinde interrupted crisply as she caught up the little broom and began tidying the hearth. "The prices are excellent just now in Antwerp. I have calculated the cost and the expected profit. It is our best choice."
" 'Tis exactly what Trenchard advised me last night." Her father nodded approval over his wine. Roz turned to face him, broom in hand. "Trenchard may have given me the idea, but he offered another as well. I decided on the wool. I have planned the purchase and how we'll advance the funds. I've also got a captain in mind. His ship is large enough to carry a goodly cargo so we'll make the profit required."
"Hmm, 'tis well." Her father nodded, sipped his wine, then stopped. A spasm crossed his face, causing his expression to contort.
"Are you in pain, Papa?"
"A ... a passing twinge. It's gone now." He raised his head and smiled at her. "I meant to tell you—I sent for the lawyer early this morning and had him revise my will. He did it on
the spot and I signed it. The guardian I've appointed will be your husband, which will be settled as soon as you're wed."
Roz turned away. She didn't want to think of his death. She must distract herself, think of something else. Busily she swept the hearth. It was a small one compared to some people's—Trenchard's, for instance, who had built himself an ostentatious new house in the center of town. She didn't much care for it, but she would have to live there. His fireplaces were so huge they more befitted a castle, with chimney stacks to match.
A sharp crash startled her. Rozalinde whirled just in time to see her father slump in his chair. The flagon had fallen from his hand and shattered into a million pieces on the floor.
"Papa!" Flinging down the broom, Roz rushed to him and grasped his hands. They felt cold and lifeless to her touch. With heart in her throat, she pressed one finger against his neck, searching for his pulse. A faint flutter moved beneath her fingertip.
"Margery!" she shouted. "Come quickly. Bring the footman."
The maid ran into the cabinet, her face white and scared. Everyone in the Cavandish household feared this sort of summons, knowing what it meant.
"Send the spit turn for the physician," Roz ordered the footman who appeared. "Then help Margery fetch a pallet from the bedchamber as fast as you can to make my father comfortable. Hurry!"
Margery and the footman jumped to obey. Rozalinde bent over her father, chaffing his wrists and dabbing his face with a damp handkerchief.
"Hurts .. " Her father moaned, stirring.
"There, there, 'twill be all right, Papa. We're going to lie you down in a minute, and you will feel more comfortable,"
Roz soothed, speaking clearly so he could understand her. "Don't fret yourself. You are going to be fine. Like last time."
Margery and the footman entered dragging a pallet and the other footman hurried in to help her. He was followed by her mother, who took several shaky steps into the room, then stood with eyes big in her terrified face. "Is he ..."
"Come, Mama." Rozalinde held out her hand. "Hold him steady while I ready the pallet. Someone has gone for the physician."
Pirate's Rose Page 10
