"Why don't you come with me to London. I'll take you to Greenwich, introduce you to the queen." Courte whipped around to look at Kit. "In truth? Would
I really get to meet Her Majesty? I've not the proper court costume—"
"No matter. I'll buy you one when we reach London: a silk doublet to make the lasses stare and their fingers itch to take it off you." Kit chuckled as he gathered up his packed leather pouches and slung them over his shoulder. "I'll teach you the proper address, then you can help me convince Elizabeth that the Netherlands requires her aid."
"I-I don't know what to tell her," Courte stammered, happiness coursing through him. But he stopped, realizing he would probably be tongue-tied in the presence of the greatest queen in Christendom. "What should I say? I don't know what's in the communique."
"You will," Kit promised him, frowning. A shadow crossed his face. "And once you do, you'll be sorry you asked."
A minute later they parted, Kit striding to the stables of Lulworth Castle, Courte setting out on foot, as he had come. Turning toward his small house across town, he headed off in a hurry. He would gather a change of linen and alert the woman who did his cooking when he wasn't at sea. His heart soared with elation at the thought of his journey. London!
Kit saddled his favorite horse and headed toward the draper's establishment. He had one call to make before he left, though he wasn't sure it was wise. But he had decided earlier to stop at Master Cavandish's.
His thoughts seethed as he rode down the main street of West Lulworth. Unfortunately, he was attracting the attention of everyone in town. People saluted him as he passed, men raised their hats or bowed, women dropped curtsies so that their skirt hems dragged in the dirt. It bothered him, but not nearly as much as something he had discovered this morning—he had to see Rozalinde again.
The thought made him uneasy. No woman ever had such an attraction for him that he craved for the sight of her. But it wasn't that, he told himself vehemently. There was nothing behind the call save the need to warn this stubborn wench, once and for all, that she must stay in Lulworth and not go sailing for Antwerp. Christ's wounds, but her life might even be in danger. Certainly her business was. She should stay at home, where no one but this Trenchard fellow would trouble her, though that was bad enough. The man was uncommonly possessive, although if rumor told correctly, he had a right to be. He intended to wed her. Since the visit from the alderman, Kit realized he had best leave her alone.
But he feared for her safety that night, so he followed her through the tunnel, all the way back to her home. There he sat on the hill in the rain for two hours, trying to see in her window, looking for proof she was safe. She'd finally come to close the shutters on the south side of the house. He had seen her clearly, outlined against the light. Only then was he able to go home and sleep.
But not for long. He'd awakened toward dawn, troubled. If the lass sailed to Antwerp, she would sail straight into trouble. The fight between Spain and the Netherlands was serious business, and he was seriously involved. Furthermore, what little she knew was too much. All he needed was for her to get caught in the middle and they would be in a pretty coil. He would have to give her a strong warning. He rode on, trying to think of words she would heed.
As he neared the Cavandish establishment, he debated between the house and the shop. She might be either place. What should he try?
He decided on the house and went straight to the door.
The servant who opened it recognized him at once and sounded like a stammering lackwit, he was so shocked. The master, he tried to explain, was resting but he would summon Madam Cavandish. He then started to rush off to do so, stopped himself just in time.
Kit hid his smile as the footman recalled his training, summoned a boy to lead away his horse, then ushered him into the parlor and offered him food and drink, which Kit politely declined. His face red with excitement, the fellow hurried off to find Madam Cavandish.
The good dame came instantly, looking flustered and babbling nonsense. "Oh, your lordship, we're honored to have you." Her wide skirts swirled around her plump figure as she rushed to arrange her best cushions on a carved chair. "Have a seat," she urged him. "Have a drink of malmsey. Have a sugared rose." She extended a box of the confections toward him. "We made them fresh this morning, my eldest daughter and I."
Kit took a candied rose petal and spoke kindly, trying to soothe her. He seated himself gracefully, refusing to ask for Rozalinde. He waited patiently, knowing she would inevitably appear. The wait was not tedious. Madam Cavandish bustled off after several minutes, worried about her husband. She'd left him being arrayed, she explained. He'd been at his repose. With a promise to fetch him personally, she dashed out the door in another flurry of skirts. Rozalinde entered the room a second later. Of course she'd been told the earl had come. She had been teaching Lucina the satin stitch in the solar when the footman came panting in. 'Twas the last thing she'd expected—the earl in their home. How ever would she face him, after the other night? Thoughts of his burning kisses roared hot in her memory and she forced herself to squelch them. Crossing the strings of her starched apron with a yank, she tied them in a severe bow, then took herself downstairs. Kit had decided he would issue a strict warning, then be on his way. But when Rozalinde came in and shut the door, his heart rose up so joyously, like a flock of seagulls wheeling and turning in the dazzling summer sun, he found himself speechless.
"Why have you come?" she asked him abruptly, putting her back against the door. "My father will be here straight. He is dressing even now." Life flowed back into Kit's veins. He found himself moving forward, bending to kiss her hand. "What a pleasant greeting." He smiled. "Your manners are so refined." Rozalinde had the grace to redden. She snatched her hand away.
"I must leave today for London," Kit told her simply, refusing to release her gaze though she'd reclaimed her hand. "I require a word with you first."
"Whatever for?"
But he'd forgotten what for, because her velvet gaze unconsciously claimed his. He felt as if he were drowning.
"You're like to get yourself murdered," she insisted. "You should have a care."
"Murdered?" Her words jarred him out of his enchantment.
"By Trenchard," she said crossly. "Don't you realize how powerful he is? You should after the other night."
"You were the one who seemed to take him lightly," he countered, feeling his blood churn lustfully.
"I won't make that mistake again." She put her hands on her slim hips and regarded him heatedly. "I did not realize it at first, but now I see how it is. I am all but his betrothed, and by calling here, you challenge him. Do you intend to fight a duel?"
"I hardly think he will call me out."
"You are most likely right. He will try more treacherous means to be even with you. Watch what you eat or drink."
"You cannot be serious." Kit was in no mood for a warning from her. "I am not thinking of him. Only of you and me."
"And what can there be between you and me?" she asked indignantly.
He was silent, wondering the same thing.
"Nothing," she told him, letting the word form with cruel precision on her lips. "We are of different classes, as you well know. I have work to do. I pray you excuse me." She turned to go.
"I'll not excuse you." He caught her wrist as she reached for the door handle. "You kiss me one night, then pretend you care nothing for me when we meet again. This must stop. Confess you care."
She turned back to regard him. "Mayhap I do," she admitted, surprising him, "but it means nothing, nor can it ever. The truth is, we should never have met. We each have our duty, which takes us separate ways."
"And your duty lies in getting your father's ship to Antwerp?"
She nodded.
" 'Twill end in nothing but trouble," he warned her, coming to the heart of his visit. "I forbid you to go. If you leave this house, if you set one foot out that door with the intention of sailing to
Antwerp, you'll walk straight into danger. I absolutely forbid it. When I return in a two weeks, I expect you to be here."
"Give me one good reason," she challenged, crossing her arms across her chest.
"I'll give you a reason." He frowned, irked by her resistance. "Because I bid you remain at home. I shall come to pall when I return, to see you obeyed."
He was furious when it seemed his warning had no effect on her. In fact, it appeared she wasn't even listening. Instead, she stared intently at the door. Putting one finger to her lips, she gestured for him to be silent. He stepped forward, meaning to regain her attention, but she went to the door and gave the handle a sharp pull. Three small children tumbled into the room. Their guilty faces showed they had their ears to the door.
"Shame on you," Roz admonished, trying to sort out the squirming tangle of arms and legs on the floor. "Listening again. And after you promised not to. I should send you to your chambers straight."
Clearly that was impossible. The three latched on to her and refused to let go, scrambling and wiggling and making such a fuss they could not be ignored. Roz bent over them, trying to get them to hush.
"I was waiting for you, Rozalinde," the boy whined, hanging on her arm. "You promised to tell me a story. I'm tired of waiting. I want my story now."
"No," cried the oldest girl, whom Kit judged to be about six. The child latched on to Roz's other arm with the strength of a joiner's vice. "She's helping me with my sampler. You can have stories another time." With that, she threw herself into her sister's arms and began to bawl. Kit looked away impatiently.
The third child, a girl, remained silent throughout. She hid behind Roz's skirts with only her face visible, observed the earl with wide eyes and sucked her thumb.
"You must stop this noise instantly," Roz told them adamantly. "We have a distinguished visitor. You must remember your manners." She nodded toward the earl and the three faces turned his way. "Come now, Charles. Let us see you make your best bow to the Earl of Wynford. I know you can do it as Father taught you."
"This is unnecessary," Kit began, wanting to be rid of the children. He wanted to be alone with Rozalinde. "The children need not perform for me. Kindly ask them to le—"
"It is most necessary," Rozalinde admonished, shooting him a look of censure. "This is how they learn discipline.
Go ahead, Charles," she urged the child, steering him firmly toward Kit. "The way Father said."
Charles marched forward, seeming not the least intimidated. "Good morrow, your honor." He swept the earl a splendid bow. "I trust your health is excellent? But I suppose I should call you 'your lordship,' " he said, ruining his speech by abandoning his straight posture and pulling at his chin in the most comical manner, like an old man. "Your lordship," he amended. He bowed again, then smugly awaited his praise.
Kit felt Roz looking at him. Clearly she expected him to give an appropriate response. Feeling thoroughly disgruntled, he went down on one knee beside the boy.
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Cavandish. What have you here?"
Charles beamed with pleasure and pulled out the reed whistle that protruded from the pouch at his waist. "My brother made it for me. Isn't it a rare one?" He blew vigorously on the whistle. It let out a high, thin, shrilling sound. The two little girls covered their ears and began to shriek.
Their noise, Kit thought, was worse than the one made by the whistle. As he stood up, Charles retired to the door, grinning with satisfaction over his whistle. "I suppose," Kit gestured resignedly toward the girls, "they must make bows as well?"
"Girls don't make bows." The expression on Rozalinde's face suggested he was somewhat addlepated. "Kneel down again."
He gave her his most disapproving look. It always got him results, on his ship or with his servants at the castle.
"Do as I say," she ordered, not taking the least notice. Gathering the little girls close, she whispered in their ears.
There was nothing to do but obey. Kit felt ridiculous balanced on one knee, hat in hand. Not even the queen kept him in this position, waiting. At least not this long. He looked up sharply, put on his most frightening frown as the girls approached. He'd never been good with children and he wasn't about to learn how. The oldest one, Lucina, stopped in front of him a foot away.
"He looks cross," the child stated to Rozalinde, speaking over her shoulder. "Are you sure I should?"
"Quite sure, dear."
The girl turned back to regard him, her face solemn. Kit found himself looking into a pair of eyes the rich color of iris, so velvety, they reminded him of her elder sister.... His gaze leaped to Rozalinde and stuck there. He was so busy gaping, he missed Lucina's next move. Stepping forward, she clasped her arms around his neck. He froze in place as he felt her warm lips press against his cheek, just above his beard. The smaller girl followed suit, clasped him with chubby baby arms and assaulted his other cheek with sticky, peppermint-scented lips. Kit felt the blood rise to his face.
He jerked away from the children as Rozalinde burst into an astonishing peal of laughter. Clapping her hands, she called the girls to her and herded them toward the door. "It's all over. You can get up." Her mirth trilled delightedly. The girls giggled behind their hands.
"You can stop being jealous," Rozalinde told Kit, closing the door partway as the girls went into the passage. "You've had your share."
Kit regained his feet and regarded her with exasperation. He didn't even care that he'd made her laugh again. "I was not jealous."
"Of course you were." Rozalinde came back across the room toward him. Her laughter had made her pale cheeks bloom and her brown eyes sparkle. "You were green with envy when they hung on me. Did no one ever kiss you?"
"You are doing everything possible to change the subject." Kit threw her a severe look. "I'm telling you to stay put in West Lulworth or something unpleasant will happen."
All trace of laughter disappeared from Roz's face. "You will find, my lord, that I am not easily frightened."
"Mayhap you should be." He grasped her by one arm and forced her to look at him. "It might serve you best in the end."
A tap sounded at the door. Rozalinde pulled away from him, brushed off her sleeve and straightened her kirtle skirt with an indignant twitch.
Jonathan came into the room. Going straight to the window, he snatched back the drapery to reveal Charles, who grinned at him. "I knew it!" Jon grasped him by the wrist and hauled the lad from his hiding place.
"I must ask your pardon," Jon said to the earl, "for letting the young ones get in the way. My father will be here directly. Out with you," he growled at Charles, nudging him with one foot and jerking his head toward the door. "You, too." He whirled around and lunged, catching the smallest girl who had slipped in and was trying to hide behind Roz's skirts.
"Want Wose," she insisted in her stubborn baby voice as Jon picked her up. She leaned over Jon's shoulder as he went through the door, holding out her arms to Roz.
Kit turned back to Rozalinde, who seemed discomfited by what the child had called her. Then, too, they were alone again, despite the fact that the door stood open.
"At any rate, there's my message," Kit said gruffly, feeling uncomfortable also. "You are not to leave West Lulworth. I hope I've been clear. I shall be forced to do something unpleasant if you do."
"You make yourself clear," she answered, her face resuming its serene expression. "I hear your every word."
"But you don't intend to listen, do you?" He bent over to stare her in the eye. "After your dire warnings to me, I should think you would heed your own advice. Well, I intend to speak to your father. I'll tell him to keep you at home."
She looked back at him and lifted her chin slightly. "Tell him what you wish," she said with her usual maddening composure. "I wouldn't presume to interfere."
Just then her father entered, and the rest of Kit's visit was taken up with the proper formalities and pleasantries, talk of trade and pro
ducts, and other mundane things.
Kit left twenty minutes later, having issued as strong a warning as he dared. Master Cavandish had only chuckled, agreed he would be sure to guard his "bright jewel," as he lovingly called Rozalinde.
But for Kit that wasn't enough. He felt vastly uneasy about Rozalinde's safety. Now he wondered—would she stay at home while he was gone, or would she not?
The Cavandish grooms brought his horse around. He took his time checking the girth, then mounted. A strange reluctance seized him, making him sorry to be gone. Over his shoulder, he gave the house a last look.
He saw Rozalinde, standing at the window. Quickly he turned his back on the house, as if caught at something improper. He rode down the gravel drive.
Blast, but it was those Cavandish children. Their presence had unnerved him. And she'd let them interrupt. "This is how they learn discipline," she'd told him. Some discipline! It wasn't the sort he'd grown up with. And because of her insistence, he'd never even had a chance to give her a proper warning. But then if it hadn't been for the children, they might have quarreled, he realized. He had been so exasperated by her stubbornness, he'd wanted to exercise the kind of discipline he had grown up with— he'd wanted to give her a thrashing. Now the anger had subsided, and he had his other feeling to contend with— this strange, unsettled feeling deep in the pit of his stomach—the one that had threatened to overwhelm him when the children hugged and kissed him....
He twisted in the saddle, trying to banish the feeling, failing miserably. He'd liked those kisses, despite how foolish he'd felt when he received them. Why on God's green earth, he couldn't fathom, but there was something comforting in the idea of Rozalinde's little sisters liking him. More than that, he'd wanted something today from Rozalinde. And it wasn't that brusque admission of caring she'd given. On the other hand, he couldn't imagine her acting like the other women who'd wanted him—wearing seductive clothing, flirting with him outrageously, even planting themselves in his bed at night. No, that wasn't what he wanted. But by the good lord in heaven, she must concede to something more intimate. The woman knew about his tunnel! She knew about his priest's hole! She knew about his mask and his trips at night. And she had experienced his most intimate desires. He trusted this maid with his life, and he was longing for some word from her—any word at all.
Pirate's Rose Page 17
