Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  Of course he hadn't gotten it. She'd given him no tender speech like the other women in his life. What if she did give it? What then? Would he use and discard her, just like the rest?

  He shook his head, realizing that was unacceptable. She was a respectable merchant's daughter. There could be nothing between them. And as he turned his horse toward London, he told himself it was definitely best to leave things as they were.

  Rozalinde left the window after Kit's departure, wanting to laugh and curse at the same time. Troth, but he was domineering, with his orders and warnings. He said she mustn't leave Lulworth. She wasn't to sail on her father's ship. She didn't like him after all, she decided. He expected to control her, and it made him thoroughly dangerous, a man who coaxed one moment, controlled the next.

  But then her mouth had to quirk up at the corners. Re­membering his face, she leaned against a chair in the pas­sage and burst into another rare laugh. He'd looked so comical, with the girls kissing him. She was wicked to tease him, something she rarely did, but he'd gotten no more than he deserved, being so possessive, wanting her all to himself. She'd had to show him her freedom was not to be trifled with.

  Then, she thought soberly, there were his manipulating ways. He was so beguiling, ten minutes by the clock alone with him and he might have her agreeing to anything. She'd been wise not to risk it. Her ploy with the children had been the right choice.

  Then again, today was the sixth morning. Any minute now Trenchard would arrive, and she was ready. The en­counter with the earl had helped prepare her. She felt strong. She would put him off. Another two days and she would be gone, and then Trenchard couldn't force her to wed. Not until she returned, and by then, their profit would be made and she wouldn't need him.

  Stretching languidly, Roz regarded her slippers and re­hearsed the words she'd chosen to put off Trenchard. When the bell rang, she stood up calmly. That would be him.

  But when Jack opened the door, a tall, thin man entered, covered with dust from the road, his face sunburned. Roza­linde blinked with surprise. The man tendered a sealed let­ter to Jack, then stood back to wait.

  "For the master." Jack brought the missive and laid it in her hand, bowing. "From London, the messenger says."

  "Please guide him to the kitchens, Jack," Roz instructed, taking the letter and motioning them to go ahead of her. "Bid Cook give him refreshment. He has come a great distance." She nodded in friendly fashion to the messenger, who looked thoroughly exhausted. "Then you must find my mother. She will pay him."

  Roz did not bother to watch them go to the kitchens, as would have been polite. She was eager to read the news from London. Holding the thick letter, she hurried back to the parlor. They needed good news from London, and this would be about their latest ship.

  Without closing the parlor door, Rozalinde tore past the seal she knew had been stamped by the chief clerk of the Company of Merchant Adventurers. She scanned the letter quickly. Her expression changed. With a small cry, she dropped the paper, let it flutter to the floor.

  Trenchard found her five minutes later, face buried in her hands, shaking with silent sobs. He came into the room without a word, stooped to retrieve the fallen letter, scanned it.

  "My poor Rozalinde. I am so sorry."

  His hand came to rest on her shoulder.

  "My father's company ship," she sobbed. "Lost. We'll never make up the debt. My father's shareholders' money was invested in that ship. Now the whole ship's gone."

  "Serious trouble," he agreed, sitting down across from her on a stool and taking her hand in his. "Did it say how?" He reached for the letter again.

  "Pirates," Rozalinde said wearily, wiping his eyes. She felt utterly defeated. Here she'd prepared for battle with Trenchard, readied herself with all manner of arguments and witty words to trick him out of his intention to wed her. But this—this was too much.

  "Which ones?" When Rozalinde didn't answer, Tren­chard referred to the letter again. "What the good year, the Sea Beggars!" He looked up, his face shocked. "This is appalling. Rozalinde, you must let me help you." He stood, raised her to her feet. "You have lost an entire ship, along with your goods to these villains. I must stop these Knaves before they undo you further."

  "And must I wed with you to have your help?" she asked dejectedly. She hadn't meant to ask so bluntly. But she was too heartbroken to engage in clever argument with him. It was no use anyway. She knew what he wanted.

  "I am willing to overlook your one indiscretion," he said softly, massaging her hand in his two large ones. "Provided there are no others."

  She shook her head as she stood there, limply submitting to his ministrations. He had seen the garter. But it didn't matter. The earl was no longer worth caring for. Even if it wasn't the Beggar King himself who'd stolen her goods, his men were responsible.

  She sighed despondently, noticing how the sun struck Trenchard's broad back through the window. With a twinge, she realized he was wearing his good brocade dou­blet, the one he'd worn to their revel. His best green, prob­ably for good reason. His next question confirmed her suspicion.

  "Are you ready to repair to the church?"

  Rozalinde turned toward the door. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest. "You will wish to wed?"

  "There is no doubt in my mind that we are meant for each other, my sweet." His voice was soothing. He reached up to caress her cheek. "Could you possibly doubt my sin­cerity? I wish to care for you, Rozalinde. Come, after we repair to the church, I will send some money to London to hold off your shareholders. They will be most angry when they learn about their investment."

  Rozalinde nodded, realizing she had to accept him. Not only did they owe hundreds of pounds to the shareholders of the company, but the one man she'd trusted, the earl, had betrayed her. He'd robbed their ship, probably not even knowing it belonged to her father. Not caring, either. Her instinct had been wrong about him. He'd seemed an honest man who had confided in her his secret. Now she knew he was nothing of the sort. He was a thief. And he wanted her to stay at home—to keep out of his way so he could carry on his ugly business of robbing innocent folk.

  And here was Trenchard, who knew she'd slipped out of the house at night to warn the devil, still willing to accept her. "You must think poorly of me."

  "Nay, sweetheart." He silenced her gently with his hand. " 'Tis no longer of import."

  "I would rather care for my business myself."

  "A woman should not have to manage alone. I won't let that happen to you."

  No, he wouldn't, she thought glumly. It hurt her pride tremendously, but she put her hand in his. "Let me change my gown," she said, her voice absent of joy. "And call my mother and Jonathan. Then we may go to church."

  The vows were said de verbis futuro, which made the betrothal nonbinding. Rozalinde insisted on that. She had felt so discouraged when she left the house, she almost didn't bother. But Jonathan had scowled at her all the way to church, glared at her with accusing eyes. It made her think. Could there be some tiny chance she wouldn't have to wed? Small though the hope was, Rozalinde seized on it. Find another way, Jonathan had said to her. What was wrong with her? Was she a lackwit, that she couldn't solve this problem?

  Once back from the church, she dismissed the others, went to her father's cabinet. Trenchard would be her insur­ance, her last resort if nothing else worked. But even he couldn't guarantee a solution to her problems. No, some­one would have to confront the Sea Beggars, and she would do it. Her resolve renewed itself. She would go to Antwerp after all.

  The next day she moved up the ship's departure date by a full week. It meant backbreaking work getting ready, but she set to it with a vengeance. No arrogant earl or Beggar King or whoever he was would stop her from supporting her family. She would do exactly what was required, and if she encountered him during the voyage, then heaven help him. She intended to let him know exactly what she thought of him, and if he dared rob her after that, then Trenchard could deal with him.
r />   In the days that followed, she concentrated her energy on the necessary preparations. The many goods to be traded were bought and delivered to Poole and stowed safely on the ship she had hired. The ship had to be revic­tualed and final repairs made. The last crew members were hired and put to work. She pushed everyone relentlessly, from the captain to the cabin boys. She pushed herself hardest of all. And throughout her work, she said not a word about sailing to Antwerp. In outward appearance, she readied the ship only. And everyone, even Trenchard, be­lieved her. Everyone, that is, save Jon.

  "What are you doing, Rozalinde?" On the day before the ship's departure, Jon put his cheerful face around the doorway to Roz's chamber and leaned in.

  Bent over a trunk, Rozalinde glanced up guiltily. "Just tidying." She hurriedly added a thick book to the pile of things in the trunk and slammed down the lid.

  Jon sauntered in and picked up another book from her dressing table, thumbed idly through its pages. "Indeed? Tidying?" He bent over suddenly and grabbed the lid of the trunk, thrust it open and took a good look inside. "I think not," he said, his nonchalance fading as he saw what it held. "I'd like to know what you're up to."

  "Nothing," Roz said curtly. She slammed shut the trunk lid, all but catching his hand.

  "I think it's more than nothing." He made his voice stern, purposely imitating their father. "I think you're plan­ning something, Rozalinde Cavandish. I'd lay a wager you're going to Antwerp."

  Roz backed up against the trunk. "Why would you think a thing like that?"

  "I can tell by what you're packing." Jon broke into a smug smile. "You can't fool me, sister mine. I know you better than you think." He stared her in the eye, hands on his hips, daring her to deny it. After a minute she dropped her gaze.

  Immediately he felt an urgent desire to banish the frown that appeared on her face. "Don't be afraid I'll tell on you." He reached out, gave her a reassuring pat on the arm. "I promise I won't. I know you're doing it for the best."

  Roz didn't seem to believe him. She had tensed all over and gripped her hands into fists. "You'll not tell Father or Trenchard?" she asked stiffly.

  He tried again. "Haven't I proved I won't? I didn't tell about the man you were meeting the night of the revel."

  "I wasn't meeting—"

  "Yes, you were, but I didn't tell. I've helped you in the shop—and been reliable. I won't tell about this if you can assure me you've made proper arrangements. Do you have a maid or something?"

  Rozalinde's face cleared as he apparently convinced her. He could see her relax her fists. "Yes, yes, I've thought of all the details. I'll engage a maid as soon as possible and no one of consequence will be the wiser. You know I must sail with this cargo, Jon, but everyone fusses so, telling me I'm in terrible danger."

  Jonathan grinned. "If there were danger, I would put my wager on you, Rozalinde. If you couldn't overpower a man, you'd outsmart him."

  Roz gave him a ghost of a smile. "I don't go looking for trouble. I'd rather have a quiet voyage. But if necessary, I'll do what I must."

  "For certes," Jon agreed glibly. "I can see you in hand-to-hand combat with a dozen pirates." He gave a mock slash of the sword.

  "You're an impudent puppy," she scolded him. "Don't even jest about such a thing. If we do meet pirates, I'll use the cannon before we are boarded. I've made sure we have plenty of powder and shot."

  Jon shook his head, once more worried. "Nevertheless, Rozalinde, my prayers will go with you. It's not a journey I would undertake."

  "You'll not have to. You're to leave things to me."

  "All except one."

  Rozalinde stopped and looked at him. "Which one is that?"

  "Your departure. You'd best let me arrange it. Other­wise, how do you intend to leave the house? Father will know instantly. And if you board the ship, the captain will know you're there. He's bound to send you home."

  Roz shrugged unconcernedly. "I'll manage."

  "You'll not. You'll be caught. Especially now that you're betrothed to Trenchard. He watches you like a hawk."

  "A lot you know about it." Rozalinde bent to pick up a fallen smock. "The captain won't know I'm there. Nor will Trenchard."

  "No!" Jon goggled at her as he realized her intention. "You mean you'll stow away?" He clucked his tongue anx­iously. "This sounds risky to me. It was one thing to sail with Father, but to go alone and unprotected? It will not do."

  Roz folded the smock and tucked it away. "I chose the captain carefully. He's a respectable family man, with daughters of his own. He'll keep the men in order."

  Jon rolled his eyes and snorted. "I pray you are right. If not, you'll have no one to blame but yourself."

  "Such encouragement," she said. "Let us talk of some­thing else. How are things in the shop?"

  "Superb. Sales have been brisk. The mayor's wife bought new linen for embroidered hangings. She'll have her daugh­ters pricking their fingers for a year hence. I've tidied up, counted all the money, and logged it in the book."

  Rozalinde bestowed a radiant smile on her brother. "You have managed well, Jonathan."

  Jonathan sighed with contentment. "In that case, might I meet with Margaret? I haven't been with her since the revel." He raised his eyebrows and gave her a wistful look.

  "You know better," Roz chided him. "Her father forbids it, and so does ours."

  "I know." Jon grew disheartened at the reminder. "But I love her, and you know well enough how that feels."

  "I do not." Roz bristled all over. "How should I know?"

  Jon shook his finger at her, just the way she always shook hers at him. "Don't think I haven't noticed, your mooning around the house when you're thinking of him. And now he comes calling to the house—"

  "He did not come calling," Roz lashed out vehemently. "He came to give me a warning and absolutely nothing else."

  "A warning is it? Dare I guess about what?" Jon gave her a knowing look. "Proves he does love you. Admit that you love him, too."

  Rozalinde flapped her apron at him, shooing him toward the door. "I am weary of the subject, Jon. Run away to Margaret and leave me be."

  "You're plenty stubborn, Rozalinde."

  "Go on with you. Bring me any news you hear."

  Jon paused and looked at her beseechingly. "You will be careful, Rozalinde. I know you're doing this for us." He leaned over and unexpectedly kissed her cheek.

  "Get you gone." Roz swatted him with a book, clearly embarrassed at his show of affection. But as he rushed mer­rily out the door, eager to see Margaret, he caught a last glimpse of her expression. Her eyes were soft with a yearning he'd never seen before—but they changed after a second. She looked disappointed, and though he didn't know why, he felt for her deep inside.

  Buoyed by the praise from his sister, Jon hurried all the way to Lulworth Cove where he'd arranged to meet Marga­ret. Impatiently he scanned the sands for her blond head. She shouldn't be much longer—it was nigh on half past six.

  Ah, there she was. He crouched behind a fisherman's overturned boat, ignoring the fact that the grizzled old owner sat on the other side, mending his net. When Marga­ret was almost upon him, he sprang out and clasped her around the waist.

  Margaret had been walking slowly, staring sadly at her worn slippers. But when Jonathan jumped out and caught her, she squealed with pleasure and returned his embrace.

  "I was afraid you could not come," he began, pulling her close against him. He caressed her cheek with the palm of his hand. "Is all well, my sweet?"

  "All is well, Jonathan," she told him, locking her hands about his neck and putting up her lips to be kissed.

  He obeyed her silent command, meeting her welcoming mouth with his own, sliding his hands around her slim body.

  "You are a wicked one, Jonathan Cavandish," she teased, breaking loose from his embrace, "always tempt­ing me."

  "I'm not. You like it," he teased back, clasping her hand and leading her several paces into the shelter of some tall rocks. There he un
tied the lace that fastened her one braid and fluffed it out so he could twine his hands in her golden hair. "When I am with you, Margaret, I want so desperately to—to ... oh, curse it." He groaned and leaned over to kiss her again. "You know what I mean, Margaret. When will the happy day come?"

  "The day you are one and twenty," she said boldly back, knowing exactly what he meant. "When you are of age, we can do what we wish and no one shall say us nay. Ohh."

  She tipped back her head and breathed in ecstasy. "You are precious to me, Jonathan."

  "As you are to me." Jon leaned against the rocks, pulled her hips against his. "Would that I were one and twenty one. I would marry you and bring you back here and bed you."

  "Jon!" Margaret laughed delightedly, used to his teasing. "Everyone would see. They would come and watch if you bedded me here."

  "Let them," Jon declared, tweaking her nose and making her giggle. "I want everyone to know you belong to me."

  Still laughing, Margaret pulled away and began to rebraid her hair. Jon grabbed for the lace as she tied it, attempting to pull it loose again, but Margaret ducked out of his reach. "Tell me about custom, Jonathan," she coaxed. "Are there new silks in the shop?"

  "There are." He stood back and gazed at her admiringly. "I unpacked an entire shipment from Genoa last week. We have a saffron yellow that would set off your hair and make your eyes glow." He took her hand and squeezed it. "You have beautiful eyes."

  Margaret's smile broadened at his compliment and she blinked her gold-flecked hazel eyes. "You at least appreci­ate them. Mother calls them unlucky. She is so fearful of late, I cannot think what is wrong with her. Always moan­ing that I must marry well."

  "Does she hate me as much as ever?"

  "Nay, she does not hate you. It's only—"