Wake Me With a Kiss: A Fairy Tale Retelling (Regency Fairy Twists Book 1)

by Samantha Holt

  Her aunt’s face paled. Rose shifted to sit up.

  “Aunt?”

  “It—it was nothing, my dear. I was just telling Mrs. Shaw that we should…um…contact Marianne’s grandparents.”

  Rose frowned but her next question was interrupted by the entry of the cook, complete with a tray of broth and what smelled to be a cup of coffee.

  A relieved smile crossed her aunt’s face. “Ah, here’s your food. Why do you not have your broth then you can get some more rest?”

  “Aunt,” Rose warned.

  She glanced at Mrs. Shaw, who frowned. Rose turned her attention to the cook. “Do you know anything about my grandparents?”

  Two splotches of color appeared on the woman’s cheeks. “I…” She looked to Aunt May. “What have you told her?” she hissed.

  “Nothing,” the other woman hissed back.

  “What is going on?” Rose asked, exasperated.

  Miss Taylor bundled in with an armful of extra blankets. “I just wanted to…” She paused and frowned. “What is going on?”

  “That is what I would like to know,” Rose said, forcing strength into her still fragile voice.

  Her aunt’s mouth opened and closed. Mrs. Shaw shuffled from foot to foot while the housekeeper eyed them all. “You’ve told her?”

  “Told me what?” Rose demanded.

  Aunt May eased herself down next to her, the mattress giving way slightly. “You must understand we never told you to protect you from scandal.”

  “What did you never tell me?”

  A little perspiration broke out on her aunt’s brow. “Your parents…they are not dead.”

  Rose jerked at this, feeling as though she had been physically struck. “Pardon?”

  “They are not dead. At least we assume your father is not. We do not really know.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Rose cast her gaze around the room at the three women. Miss Taylor hugged the blankets close while the tray in Mrs. Shaw’s hands trembled a little. They clearly all knew what she did not.

  “Your mother is my niece,” Aunt May said.

  Rose opened her mouth then shut it again.

  “She had you at a very young age. She was but fifteen. A man—your father—took advantage of her.” Aunt May reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “My sister—your grandmother—asked me to bring her here until she gave birth. It was planned that the baby would stay with me and we would look after her, and your mother would return to town as though nothing had happened. We all prayed that both of you could be saved from scandal.”

  “I am illegitimate?” Rose whispered.

  “Yes.” Her aunt squeezed her hand tighter. “Your mother went on to marry a very nice man. She is very happy but she writes to check on you.”

  Rose blinked. “S-she does?”

  “I—” She glanced around. “We wanted to protect you. You look terribly like your mother. My fear was always that someone would recognize you as related to her, and we would have no way of denying it. It would only take a few questions to have discovered I’m related to your grandmother.”

  “And you all knew?”

  The housekeeper and cook nodded slowly.

  Rose eyed the blanket she had scrunched up in her hands. She was not angry—at least she did not think so. More…confused. Her aunt was actually her great aunt and her mother was alive. Maybe her father was too, wherever he was. Aunt May had not taken in an orphan but had instead taken in an illegitimate child.

  “We love you, Rose,” her aunt said quietly.

  She nodded slowly, taking in the pain in her aunt’s eyes. Everything her aunt had done had always been what she thought was the best for her, she knew that much, but to be lied to…

  What would Hamish think? Good God, he was a laird. He could not marry an illegitimate woman! Everything had changed so suddenly. Whatever was she to do?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hamish had managed to keep away for one day. One long, long day. He eyed the attractive house, its slightly sandy color creating a stark contrast to the greenery around it. The gardener gave him a quick nod of greeting before turning his attention back to the bush he was pruning.

  Striding up the front porch, he drew up his shoulders and straightened his jacket. Before he could pull the bell, Miss Taylor bustled out with an armful of sheets. She glanced up at him, eyes wide.

  “Oh, my laird.”

  “Good afternoon. Is Rose in?”

  “Yes, she’s abed at present.”

  He frowned. “She is still unwell?”

  “Not exactly.” She glanced from side to side. “She is tired.”

  “But she is well?”

  “Yes, she is almost recovered.”

  He let himself relax. “Good, for a moment I thought—”

  “I think you had better return another day, my laird.”

  He peered down at the rounded woman. “Can I not speak with Mrs. Merriweather at least? I should like to pay my respects.”

  “I—” She paused when Mrs. Shaw came up behind her.

  “Oh, my laird, you came already? I would have thought you were mightily fed up with us,” the cook declared.

  “How could I ever be?” he said with a smile. He turned his attention back to Miss Taylor. “I willnae take up much of yer mistress’s time.”

  “He wants to see Mrs. Merriweather?” the cook asked.

  “Aye,” he confirmed. “I wouldnae object to seeing Rose either.”

  The cook glanced at Miss Taylor and retreated. “I shall speak to Mrs. Merriweather.”

  Miss Taylor bundled the sheet close. Hamish narrowed his gaze at her. “What is wrong? Is Miss Merriweather ill?”

  “No, not at all. It has just been…a hard day for her. If she agrees to see you, perhaps she will explain.”

  Hamish could not fathom what he had done so wrong to warrant this strange greeting. Did she now blame him for what had happened? God knew he blamed himself. Had Rose died he would never have forgiven himself. As it was, he could still find no trace of Marianne. Most of him hoped she was in a ditch somewhere.

  Mrs. Shaw shuffled back out into the hallway and gave a dip. “Mrs. Merriweather will see you. She’s in the parlor.” She motioned to the door to the side where he had once shared tea with Rose and her aunt. He recalled feeling too damned large for such a small room and wondering if Rose thought he looked an utter fool in the tiny chairs.

  He ducked into the room to find Mrs. Merriweather tucked up in a blanket, looking remarkably aged by the past few days. She motioned to the seat opposite and he took it.

  “Are ye unwell, Mrs. Merriweather?”

  She shook her head. “A little tired, that is all. What can I do for you, my laird?”

  He noted he was back to being laird. Maybe she really did blame him.

  “I had hoped to see Rose.”

  “Of course. I am afraid that cannot happen.”

  “I also hoped to speak with ye,” he persisted. If he could just persuade her he loved Rose more than life itself, perhaps she would forgive him.

  “You may speak to me.”

  He swallowed the knot that had wedged in his throat. “I think ye know that I have feelings for yer niece.”

  She nodded.

  “I believe she has feelings for me too.”

  She nodded again.

  “I would like very much yer permission to court her,” he said quickly.

  Mrs. Merriweather gave a soft smile. “Yer a fine man, my laird, but I am afraid I cannot give you that permission.”

  “If ye are worried about whether I will look after her…”

  A hand held aloft, she shook her head. “I have seen what you would do for her. But I am afraid, my laird, she will not see you.”

  He scowled. “Why not? Does she blame me for what happened?”

  “Not at all. As for why, I cannot really explain myself. It is not up to me. But she specifically said that if you called, she would not see you.”

 
“Ye must let me speak with her.”

  Aunt May sighed. “I will let her know you called, and I will try to persuade her to at least write to you. There’s not much more I can do. My niece is a stubborn girl.”

  “Aye, that she is.”

  “I am sorry I cannot be of more help, my laird, but at this point I must respect her wishes. Goodness knows I have wronged her in many ways. I will not deny her wishes on this, no matter how I feel about it.”

  He puzzled over her choice of words. What could Rose’s aunt have possibly done to wrong her? As far as he knew, the woman had raised an orphan and had been a loving and wonderful aunt.

  He debated trying to argue with her, but the sudden fragility washing over her face and making her hands tremble prevented him. Instead he rose and dipped his head. “I shall write to her, if ye dinnae mind. Perhaps I can persuade her to see me.”

  “Yes, I am sure that will be fine. Excuse me if I do not…” She made the motion of standing with her hand.

  “Of course. Good day to ye, Mrs. Merriweather.”

  He ducked out of the parlor only to find Mrs. Shaw waiting for him. She twined her fingers together, the petite woman looking as though she might burst out of her skin. “You came to see Rose?”

  “Aye.”

  “She is in her room.”

  “I had assumed as much.”

  “The gardener is working just under her window. I believe he is cutting back some of the vines. It means he must use a ladder.”

  He peered at the woman. Why the devil was he getting a lesson in gardening?

  Mrs. Shaw gave a huff and shook her head. “Och, I didn’t think you daft, lad. Use the ladder and sneak into her room. Speak to her.”

  A chuckle escaped him. “Aye, if ye wish. But if I end up thrown off the top of a ladder, it will be on yer head.”

  “I would offer to hold the ladder, but I do not think I should be doing as much when you’re wearing a kilt.”

  “I can manage, I think. I wouldnae wish to give ye a scare, Mrs. Shaw.”

  “Hurry then. I shall distract the gardener.”

  Hamish trekked around the outside of the house. He found the ladder on the east side, tucked under a slightly ajar window. Mrs. Shaw must have had some hand in ensuring it was open, the canny woman. Without hesitation, he clambered up the ladder, aware the brittle wood was likely not designed for someone of his weight or stature.

  Oh well, Rose was worth a broken leg or two.

  With great effort, he hauled himself through the window. He released an oof when he landed on the floor and Rose squealed. He cursed silently. He’d be lucky if Aunt May or the housekeeper did not come in brandishing a broom, ready to see off the invader.

  Coming to his feet, he pushed a hand through his hair and straightened his jacket. He lifted his gaze to Rose, who had huddled herself in a corner, a glass vase in hand.

  “I hope ye dinnae intend to use that.”

  She glanced at the vase and hastily put it down. “What are ye doing here?”

  Some color was back in her cheeks, but there were still rings around her eyes and they looked red, as though she had been crying. He swore to God, if he had been responsible for those tears, he’d throw his damned self out of the window. He took one step forward, and she pressed herself back against the wall.

  He took in the feminine decor of the room, all powder blues with flowers on just about everything from the bedding to the curtains to the seat padding. It was certainly fitting for Rose.

  With her golden hair a little mussed and in a simple dress scattered with a sprig print, she reminded him of the first day they had met. All she needed was a few more dirt streaks. Hamish could not help but smile at the thought.

  “Yer aunt said ye would not see me.”

  “I-I was going to write to explain.”

  “I would rather ye tell me in person.”

  She sighed and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “I know it was cowardly of me, but I knew if I saw you I would…”

  “Would what?”

  “Want you.” The last word cracked and he scowled. He took a swift step forward. All he wanted to do was sweep her up in his arms and take away whatever her troubles were.

  “Why is that a problem? Is this about Marianne?”

  She shook her head.

  “What were ye going to write to me about?”

  Rose slumped onto the bed and eyed him. “I found out something that makes it impossible for me to marry you.”

  “Well unless yer married or my sister, I cannae think what it could be, and I am fairly certain ye are neither.”

  “No.” She gave a weak smile. “I am illegitimate.”

  Air escaped his lungs. He laughed.

  Her eyes widened. “It is not funny!”

  “Forgive me, but I thought ye were dying or something. It’s funny indeed.”

  “Do you not see? I cannot marry a laird. I would bring shame upon you.”

  Gingerly, he inched over and placed himself on the bed. The ropes creaked as he lowered his weight fully onto it. Rose’s thigh brushed his and he gritted his teeth. All he wanted was to hold her close and kiss her until she forgot every foolish thought in her head of not seeing him.

  Instead, he lifted her hand off her lap and threaded his fingers through hers. He eyed the creamy paleness of her slender fingers against the darker roughness of his.

  “Rose.” He squeezed her hand to urge her to look at him. “I couldnae care if ye were the daughter of a damned donkey. I love ye and I cannae imagine living my life without ye.”

  Tears blossomed in her eyes. “I love you too.”

  “Good. Then that’s all that matters.”

  “But…”

  “No buts. I dinnae give a damn what yer past is. I know ye, lass, and yer a fine woman and more than fit to be married to a laird, especially a rough highlander laird like myself. Do ye no’ think people have more objections to me than my choice of bride? In truth, it’s likely that ye shall ingratiate me toward people, because who could not adore you?”

  “But, Hamish…”

  “Enough now, lass. I’ll hear no more on it.” He brought his mouth down upon hers and kissed her firmly until any sounds of protest vanished. Drawing back, he saw the doubt had vanished from her eyes. “This highlander wants ye for his bride and he’ll no’ take no for an answer.”

  “I suppose I had better say yes then,” she said, laughing.

  “Aye, ye should.”

  He kissed her again for good measure.

  Epilogue

  Rose kissed her mother farewell, and Hamish handed her up into the carriage. She gave her mother a last wave before her husband tapped the roof and the carriage started off. He wrapped an arm about her and stared intently at her.

  “What is it, Hamish?”

  “Are ye well?”

  She smiled and took his hand. “I am. It was good to see her, even if she could not publicly acknowledge who I am.” She leaned back against the carriage seat. “I confess, London is exciting but I am looking forward to returning to Scotland.”

  “If there is anything I have learned from marriage, it is dinnae argue with yer wife,” he declared. “And I woudlnae argue with you on that.”

  Rose smiled. They had both missed home. She had explored much of London and though they had not spent time with the finer elements of society, she had seen more than enough of the town that never seemed to stop moving. Her mother had been overjoyed to meet her. Although Rose could not claim to feel much like her daughter, they got on beautifully and she was pleased to have met her. Her husband was a kind and doting man who had long since known the truth.

  “I cannot help feel it was all for the best,” she said. “Aunt May taking me in,” she explained.

  “Aye, if she had not, ye both would have been shunned from society.”

  “Precisely. And neither of us would have met such fine men,” she said with a smile.

  “Oh? Where is this fine man ye met? D
o I have to fight him for ye?”

  Tapping his arm, she laughed. “Give me a braw highlander over a London gentleman any day.” She peered out of the window at slow-moving traffic. It would take them quite some time to navigate the busy roads of London and make their way to the traveler’s inn in which they would be staying. “Rupert will have missed us too. We should have brought him with us.”

  “He’ll be perfectly happy running yer aunt and Mrs. Shaw and Miss Taylor ragged. London is far too long a trip for him.”

  “Aunt May has quite the soft spot for him, I think.”

  “I noticed. That mutt has more friends than I do, I think. I dinnae know how he gets away with it. He causes mischief and yet everyone adores him.”

  “Well, I adore you.” Rose leaned into her husband. “Oh.” She straightened and peered out of the window. They were stuck behind several curricles that were holding them up as the drivers argued over something. But that was not what had drawn her attention. “Look.” She pointed in the direction of a generous town coach parked on the side of the road.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  An older gentleman hustled along a group of several children—nine, Rose realized—but that was not the exceptional thing. Miss Marianne Andrews was herding them along with him. Dressed in an extremely fine gown, her appearance should have been quite elegant except that her hat was askew, the children were tugging at her dress, and the infant in her arms was smearing its face across her chest. Marianne grimaced and said something to the gentleman. He shook his head, and Rose saw her huff and roll her eyes.

  “That is Viscount Winterbourne. I had heard he had remarried to a Miss Marianne but it didnae occur it could be her.”

  “I guess she found her rich husband,” Rose mused.

  “She did, though by the looks of it, she is regretting as much.”

  They giggled as the infant yanked the hat from her head and issued a wild scream that was then echoed by Marianne.

  “The viscount’s wife died during childbirth,” Hamish confided. “He was looking for a mother for the children.”

  “It looks as though he found one, though I am not sure she is relishing the opportunity.”