Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  He seemed to take pity on her. "Your business is ailing," he said gruffly, calming down. "That's the real trouble. How do you expect me to help when you continually resist!" He came no nearer, but watched her, those keen eyes focused on her, as if reading her thoughts.

  "I am willing to wait," he said at last. He flashed her a faint smile, showing his even, pointed teeth. "But you understand an alliance between our houses will be for the best. I will give you three extra days to consider. Three days beyond the original betrothal. I will call on you that morning. Then we can repair directly to the church."

  Roz nodded, afraid to say anything. She'd got him to agree to three extra days. She had five days in all, though it wasn't near enough. Leaving the chair, she caught up the broom from the corner, began to sweep up the supper crumbs.

  "Of course I cannot help with your business until we are wed. At least not directly—"

  "Truly, we are doing much better," Roz insisted, concen­trating on her sweeping. She rushed into the new topic feverishly. "The ruined lace was paid for, and someone else bought the rest."

  Trenchard's face remained sober. Only his eyes changed. "All of it, you say?"

  "All," Rozalinde declared staunchly. Pulling out the bench, she reached her broom for the crumbs surrounding Angelica's place. "At any rate, we have the money from those sales, which has helped tremendously. Then there's one of my father's company ships due by week's end in London. Those have never been troubled, and we shall have a small profit from it, though most of it is for shareholders."

  Trenchard smoothed his soft leather jerkin across his broad chest. From the corner of her eye, Roz saw his left eyebrow twitch. It jumped queerly, making her pause in her work.

  "I did not know your father had ships putting in at London. That is good. Ah, and Rozalinde, I had meant to tell you. I have a betrothal present for you."

  "A present?" Roz put away her broom. "It isn't necessary."

  "Ah, 'tis no ordinary present." Trenchard's lips curled into a satisfied smile. "'Tis a pleasant piece of news. I've been made deputy lieutenant of Dorset by Her Majesty. I will work directly for the lord lieutenant of Dorset, Sir Christopher Hatton."

  Rozalinde looked at him, astonished. How had he acquired such a high position? Everyone knew most lord lieu­tenants were too busy at court to do their work in the counties. So their deputies wielded the power. And that power had to do with everything military in the county— recruiting men for service, handling money, making the Queen's proclamations and enforcing them, defending the country against invasion. The power—and the opportunity—was endless. "Such an honor," Roz said, trying not to show her surprise.

  Trenchard chuckled low in his throat, seeming to sense her amazement and liking it. "I told you I would rise, Rozalinde. Here is proof. This is just my first step up the ladder. Think how advantageous this will be to your father's custom, to be allied with the deputy lieutenant of Dorset. And with you the lieutenant's lady."

  Roz shook her head wonderingly. It was true. As wife to the deputy lieutenant, she could move in higher circles of society. She could meet hundreds of new customers in the curse of her husband's business, many of them knights and nobles. It was very tempting. But she was in no hurry to wed, she reminded herself. Power meant nothing to her. And her father's business could thrive without the contacts. She would go to Antwerp. Her mind was set.

  "I've told no one yet," he said in a confiding tone. "I wanted you to be the first."

  Solicitously he pulled out a chair, motioned her to sit. "I will divulge my good news to your father shortly. He, the lord mayor, and the parish priest will come tonight so that I can inform them." He placed one hand on each of her shoulders from behind the chair, began massaging, moving his hands in rhythmic motion.

  She was tired, and his big hands had a light touch she had not anticipated. They soothed her weary muscles, especially the ridge of tension at the base of her neck.

  Leaning back against the cushioned chair, she released her breath. She should not worry. He'd given her extra time, and she would put him off again in five days. By then it would be easier.

  "In my new capacity," he explained, "I will control the seas around Dorset. If your shipments are ruined, we can find out why. We will do all this when you are my wife, of course."

  She was feeling so languid, she wanted to relax. But his words made her think of their troubles. "I know you don't believe me, but our prospects are much better. They will continue to improve."

  "Rozalinde, you are optimistic. A worthy trait." Trenchard's hands moved on her tense shoulders. "But remember, things may not go quite as you predict. A woman managing a business alone is bound to have difficulties. Look at your present state of affairs. Under your care, your troubles grow worse."

  "It is not because I'm a woman!" She twisted around in the chair to confront him, arresting his hands in their motion. "You make it sound as if it's my fault."

  "I'm sure it is not," he consoled her, turning her around and resuming the rhythmic kneading through her smock. "But remember I have offered my aid. Of course until we are wed, I will be busy with the official duties of my position. I could not possibly post a special patrol unless you were my wife. If you were, it would be understood ..."

  He gave a final rub, then removed his hands from her shoulders and circled around to stand before her. "I must meet with your father now. Five days hence, Rozalinde, I will call on you in the morning. God willing, we will go straight to church. God-den, my love." His smile was smooth. "May you have pleasant dreams."

  With a last caress of her hand, he left the room.

  Roz sat for some time in the chair, leaning against the cushioned back, her eyes closed. His touch had surprised her. For a few minutes it had cast a spell on her, making her think it might be acceptable, to be wed to someone who could use his hands like that.

  But no, that was not a reason to wed. She preferred her freedom, with no husband to tell her what to do. Her father sometimes told her, but that was different. He loved her, so her needs and desires came first.

  From down the passage she heard a knock at the front door, which one of the footmen answered. The mayor had arrived, no doubt. Voices sounded in the entry. She could make out her father's deep bass as he greeted the visitors. The door to the best parlor creaked as the visitors and her father entered. Roz could hear the men talking, greeting

  each other, settling down to business. They must have left the door half open, she concluded. Rising from the chair, she went and looked into the passage. The door stood just as she had imagined it, only partially closed, shielding her from their view. Trenchard was speaking, telling the others about his appointment. They congratulated him, good-na­turedly jesting.

  She went back into the dining parlor, retrieved her candle. She might as well go to bed. For certs she was tired, and Trenchard would not expect her to wait.

  She was leaving the dining parlor a second time when Trenchard's voice stopped her.

  "We shall apprehend the Sea Beggars if they land again in Dorset. The queen says they put the nation at terrible risk. We must do our duty. Gentlemen, are you prepared?"

  She hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but she couldn't help it. At Trenchard's words, a violent shiver raced down her spine. Her heart unaccountably quickened. Freezing in her footsteps, she strained to hear.

  "Her Majesty has issued a royal proclamation promising King Philip of Spain there will be no safe harbors in England for the Dutch pirates. That is why if the Sea Beggars land here, with or without our consent, we can be accused of breaking our word. Such a thing could precipitate war with Spain."

  "That is unthinkable," interposed another whom Rozalinde recognized as the lord mayor. "England would never win such an encounter. You are right, George. We must catch these Sea Beggars when next they come to our coast. If we make an example of them, they will never dare come again."

  Roz heard the conviction in his voice. She started to tremble.

  "Precisely,
" she heard Trenchard answer. "I wish you to be the first to know that I have accepted the deputy's position from the queen for this very reason. I spoke with one of her privy counselors about it last week. It is my duty to enforce this ousting of the Sea Beggars from our ports."

  Roz heard the others congratulate him again on the splendid post.

  "The queen's counselors have confided their fears to me," Trenchard went on. "She is worried that if the Span­ish know of such goings-on along our coast, if they even suspect we grant safe harbor, they would use it as an excuse to attack. And where do you think they would attack first?"

  "Here, for certes." That was her father answering. "But the question is, what can we do? I appreciate your zeal for the problem, my friend, but the Dutch have not landed. At least not in recent years."

  Silence reigned in the room, and Roz could imagine her father, sitting pale and ill between these men who demanded his support. She could tell he was not fond of his role.

  "You are uninformed, Henry." Trenchard broke the silence with authority. "They landed a stolen ship here scarce a sen'night past. Did you not hear the gossip? I saw some of the goods myself. Spanish pepper, cloves from the Canary Islands—"

  "How do you know 'twas stolen?" queried the parish priest anxiously. "Might have been legitimate. I myself have a liking for fresh pepper—"

  "'Twas stolen, I tell you." Trenchard's angry voice bit through the other calmer tones. "They landed right here in Lulworth Creek, which they're plotting to use as a permanent base. They must revictual and repair somewhere, and they've chosen a place within my jurisdiction. I've set a watch at the creek, but I'll need your help. I expect funds, as well as men. I will also begin a patrol of the coast. The lord admiral himself has pledged me the use of a ship should I deem it necessary."

  A ship! Roz stopped listening while their voices droned on. For a second she stood paralyzed, an agonizing thought creeping into her brain. If they watched Lulworth Creek, if they patrolled the coast, they might well catch the man who had recently landed there. Her heart plummeted sharply as she thought of who that was.

  Making up her mind abruptly, Roz turned from the stairs and went down the passage. When she peeked into the kitchen, she could see the cook bent over the hearth, muttering to herself as she banked the coals for the night. The back door stood ajar, letting in the smells and sounds of night, and Roz crept silently toward it. Outside, the sta­blemen and lads would be about their business. They would come in only after the visitors were gone.

  Stealthily, Roz crossed the room, slipped through the door. Outside, she breathed deeply, glad the cook had not heard her. Raising her skirts to keep from tripping, she rounded the corner of the house, went down the garden path and out the front gate. As she dived into the shadows of the dark street beyond, her sense of foreboding grew. What was she doing skulking around her own house? She had duties to perform, yet here she was ignoring them.

  Behind her the front door of the house opened. Light flared. Roz leaped into a doorway, pressing herself flat against the wall. She could hear them—the mayor, Trenchard—conversing while they waited for the horses to be brought around. They had not seen her, she told herself breathlessly, listening to the wild throbbing of her heart. She could wait here until they passed. They could not know someone hid in the shadows. They would never suspect.

  George Trenchard felt conflicting emotions about his evening's work as he stepped through Cavandish's front door into the garden. The minute he did so, a warning sprang at him out of the dark. He whipped around, fastening his hawklike eyes on the street.

  All was quiet. He could see the neat houses of the chandler, the shoemaker, the other tradesmen, lined up along the road, casting their shadows on the hard-packed earth. Nothing moved save the wind in the trees, but still he stared, not knowing why. The stableman came with the horses, accompanied by lads carrying glowing lanterns. Ignoring them, he stepped out of the bright circle and into the darkness, squinted down the road.

  He could have sworn he saw something: a flick of a woman's skirt, a bounce of a loose braid disappearing into a doorway. Nothing more than that, but instantly his guard went up.

  Affecting congeniality, he turned back to his host, bid him and the others god-den, then heaved himself into the saddle. He would find out who hid there. His time with Rozalinde tonight had made him suspicious. He wasn't quite sure of what. But she had tried to postpone their betrothal, and that boded ill. He sensed a reluctance in her. Applying his spurs more sharply than necessary to his animal, he passed by the doorway and went on down the street.

  Hugging her arms around her, shivering from the night's chill, Rozalinde flew up the slope toward Lulworth Castle. As she ran, she examined the few lights visible and wondered which one was the earl's. She knew the castle layout, having been to a reception there over a year ago, given by the former earl. Her father had been invited and brought both Rozalinde and her mother. Now Roz entered the garden and began to count the windows. Fourth set in from the left tower—they had to be the ones. The earl's private rooms, where she could see a light burned. Something else burned—the blood, singing sinfully in her veins as she thought of him. Was she mad to come here. The mere image of Christopher Howard thrilled her. But that wasn't important. The task ahead of her was. She had to get him this information. Entering the castle gardens, she picked her way among blooming hedges and flowers, rapidly approaching the massive structure.

  Lulworth Castle wasn't medieval. It had been built earlier in the century by some Howard relative, so there was no moat around it, no cumbersome walls, not even a gatehouse. Only clean broad pathways and winding gravel walks leading through an intricate garden to the south. It was quite impressive, but Roz was in a hurry. Leaving the path, she headed for one particular window, drawn irresistibly to its light.

  The darkness outside, the illumination within, afforded her a clear view of the room's interior. Rows of books, a portrait against paneled wood, a great marble chimney piece—all glowed by candlelight. A huge silver sconce of candles dripped with hot wax on a draw table, and before it sat Christopher Howard. He was bent over some work, writing. As she watched, he stopped and leaned back in his chair, running his fingers through his hair, flexing the muscles of his shoulder and arm. Standing outside his window, she could see those muscles, rippling beneath the taut linen his shirt.

  A matching ripple ran down Roz's spine. She remembered the feel of those arms, how they ignited such alien feelings within her the other night. Once more she was at the cove, reaching for him, touching him like she'd never touched a man—in ways she'd never wanted to before. She had thrilled to the warmth radiating from his skin. He'd kissed her thoroughly that night, and to her surprise, she'd exalted in it, wanting him to touch her all over while she explored the wonder of his male body—letting her hands play across his chest, permitting them to twine in his hair.

  Christopher stopped stretching abruptly. He dipped the quill in the inkhorn and bent back over his work.

  Roz came back to the present. She must get down to business. With bated breath she drew closer, squashing several marigolds in her haste. Troth, she thought, surveying the plants grouped with artistic precision in the beds. Someone had planted a rosebush so it blocked access to the window. Getting around it would be a trick.

  Circling warily, she approached the window from the side, intent to pass behind the massive shrub. It sprawled in dense profusion, a fierce tangle of canes ladened heavily with buds. Their fragrance permeated the night, deceptively sweet. But as she tried to slide behind the foliage, flattening herself against the window ledge, thorns grabbed her kirtle. Digging into the cloth with insidious persistence, they hooked themselves fast.

  "Troth!" She swore audibly as the sharp points went through the cloth to pierce her skin. "Troth and damn." Why did this stupid bush have to be here? Most women liked roses. But she didn't. Furious, she glared at the bush. The blasted things were good for rose hips in winter, rose vinegar in summer, and
that was all, as far as she cared. And this one was making her life hellish. Given a spade, she would dig it up. Squinting in the dark, she tried to free herself, ignoring the beauty of the pale pink flowers. "Oh! Troth!" She groaned as a particularly long thorn thrust deeply into her skin. Determinedly she detached the thorns from her garments, forced them to release their hold. In the narrow space between the plant and building, she gripped the window ledge with both hands and pressed her nose against the mullioned glass.

  Kit gazed at a long inventory of tenants he'd visited that day. With a stroke of his quill he wrote the last name, then sat back to contemplate the list. The steward must compare these names to the rent roles tomorrow, to verify where each man stood. Some flourished, he noted. Others did not. He would work with those whose profits were poor, seek a remedy to turn them around.

  Satisfied, Kit let the quill drop on the table. He stretched again, flexing his right shoulder and shaking out the writer's cramp in his hand. What a day it had been. He'd ridden the entire estate with his new steward, learning everything he could—what crops were planted, where the estate sheep and cattle grazed. There was so much to know, so many details to oversee, and now it was evident his brother had been lax. He had delegated most duties to the old steward and gotten cheated in the bargain. But then Harry had always had a poor head for business, accepting whatever anyone told him as God's truth, never bothering to look beneath the surface. Kit looked beneath the surface—beneath people's often dissembling outward appearances.

  He'd begun this practice as a child, watched his mother, his brother, the servants, wanting to know why they did what they did. Most of all, he'd watched his father, studied him like a lesson—a painful one, resulting in agonizing awareness. His father wounded his family with his total indifference, his coldness. He set stringent rules and insisted on their enforcement. There were rules instead of kindness, rules instead of love. The servants suffered less, but they had their share of difficulty, being punished for every infraction. The Earl of Wynford cared nothing for his family. Discipline was everything. He established a strict regime throughout the day—a set time for rising and eating, a set time for prayer, a time for work or study, and a set time for sleep. This schedule was followed ruthlessly, and whenever Kit violated it, as he often did, he was punished.