But she was a clown, and no man would ever see her as anything else.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“WE’RE NOT GOING to stand for this, Rose, no matter what he says.” Biddle stood before her, his eyes outrageously clear, his voice sharper than normal and tinged with anger. They had all gathered in her tent on this hot summer night, less than a full week since Michael Wharton had taken charge as new manager. And manage, he did. He’d followed through on his initial threats and stopped the whiskey, the ale, the bawdy nights on the town, and the extra feed for the animals. He’d gone to two rings instead of one, and while that created a sensation that was bringing in an even greater profit than before, the performers and crew were exhausted and on the verge of mutiny.
“My animals have lost weight,” Zach said accusingly, spitting out a weed he’d been chewing, his eyes boring into hers. Since he’d witnessed their fight the day Michael had come back and the knife-throwing incident, Rose knew that unconsciously, he blamed her for the severity of their troubles. “They need the good food to work, especially now.”
“Yeah, and they’re stinking up the place.” Rags held his nose while the other clowns solemnly concurred. “What’s in that food, anyway? They smell worse than skunks. The elephants have turned the camp into swamp dung.”
“My Elsa cannot keep up with this schedule!” Leonardo protested dramatically, his black eyes glittering with emotion. “She is expecting, you know that! But that man wants her to perform two sets instead of one!”
“And no whiskey!” Biddle shuddered, patting his threadbare vest where there once resided a silver flask. “What does he think we’re made of, sawdust?”
The others nodded in agreement, then faced Carney expectantly. Clara cackled and wagged a crooked finger at the clown-woman.
“Your father would have been ashamed to know this,” Clara warned, assuming a mystical air. “I will be going soon to join him. You know I have the sight and can tell the future. And when I go, I will inform him of these doings. Carney’s Circus, bah!” Her face wrinkled like an old apple. “ ’Tis more like Wharton’s Circus!”
Rosemary flinched, sinking down lower onto her crate. Her tent was filled with the complaining performers and crew, and she really couldn’t argue with a single point they’d made. It was all true. Carney’s had become more a slave yard than a boisterous troupe, and Michael Wharton was to blame.
Everyone continued to grumble. The animals, with the introduction of cheap food, had made everyone’s life unpleasant in the hot summer stench. The acts, overworked already, found their load doubled to accommodate the second ring. Clara now worked as both fortune-teller and clown, Griggs as roustabout, Biddle ran between the two rings in an attempt to orchestrate the show, and Zach was pressed into duty as an assistant. They were exhausted, in spite of the increase in food, and disgruntled.
“The worst part is that I can’t even accuse him of not keeping up his end,” Rosemary said thoughtfully. “He works twice as hard as the rest of us and still has energy to spare.”
“That’s true,” Biddle conceded. “He doesn’t ask us to do anything that he wouldn’t do. Just this week he’s stood in as an assistant again, although he refused to work with William.” The blind knife-thrower looked indignant while the others smothered a tired laugh. “But he’s done it all—roustabout, cage cleaner, ticket seller…”
“Animal keeper…”
“Canvasman…”
“Teetotaler,” Biddle finished indignantly. “The man’s like a human machine. He doesn’t go pubbing, doesn’t purchase even a wee drop, doesn’t even stop by the clowns’ tent for a game of whist. What does he do for fun?”
“Nothing,” Rose said emphatically. “He’s a cold one, all right.” She chewed her lip thoughtfully, her eyes sparkling with determination. “I’ve got to think of something.”
“You’d best do it quick,” Rags pronounced. “All of us are ready to walk, Rose, Carney’s or not. Nothing is worth this.”
Their eyes met, and they all solemnly nodded. Rosemary glanced fearfully from the clowns to Clara, to the ringmaster, then to Griggs and the crew. Even the silent clown, her father’s oldest and dearest friend, nodded in agreement with the others.
Her mind wandered back to Michael. She’d tried her best to soften his actions but hadn’t been able to prevent the implementation of his plans. She’d made certain he was aware every time a worker complained or showed signs of exhaustion, made a point of demonstrating the animals’ reaction to the feed by marching him innocently through their pen first thing in the morning, and had glared accusingly when the troupe missed a performance due to a night spent pubbing when they couldn’t do without their ale. She’d sent for him whenever a problem arose due to his management, yet none of it seemed to dent his armor.
Worse was the odd effect he continued to have on her. Just yesterday he’d been helping Zach with the elephants and had taken off his shirt to pitch hay into their pen. Rosemary had almost walked into him, not recognizing him without his starched white shirt or neatly tied cravat. Instead, a sheen of sweat had glistened on his naked torso, and crisp black hair adorned his chest. He’d stopped and accepted the dipper of water she’d intended for Zach, ruffling her hair with a smirk. The animal keeper had watched in puzzlement, expecting Rose to give him the devil. Instead, she’d let him have the drink, looking like any other silly female when their eyes met, and she was forced to glance away. Zach had stared at her, his youthful face confused, but that was nothing in comparison to what she had felt. For some reason, she had been compelled to help Michael. It embarrassed her to be around him when he was half dressed, even though she had long grown used to seeing most of the men that way. Michael Wharton unsettled her, and she didn’t have the faintest idea why.
Rosemary rose from her seat, brushing the sawdust from her clown suit, and looked around at the expectant faces of her fellow workers. “I understand your feelings. There’s only one thing I would caution you about. I don’t want to see you cheated. If you walk now, he doesn’t have to pay you until the end of the season. It’s in the contract.”
“What?” Biddle asked, outraged, while the others’ heads perked-up in astonishment.
Rose nodded. “He’s already shown me the notation. Apparently, it was part of my father’s agreement, to ensure that his help didn’t leave him. Sean Carney would not have enforced it, but Michael Wharton will.”
“Damn him,” Rags said forcefully, waving his tattered hat in his fist. “Maybe we should take him out back and teach him a lesson.”
“Let me talk to him,” Rosemary said, though her voice held little hope. “Perhaps, if I can make him understand what he’s doing to morale, he may listen. After all, he is a businessman.”
The others nodded, satisfied that Rose would help them. Carney always had and always would. And if Rosemary set her mind to something, Lord help the man that stood in her way. As they walked from the tent, Biddle and Griggs exchanged a satisfied smile. Only Clara looked thoughtful. The old fortune-teller recalled the dreamy look on Rosemary’s face when she’d mentioned Michael. Something about that held promise, but Clara couldn’t figure out what it was. She’d have to look at her tarot cards. Shrugging, she followed the others back to their tents, to drink the last of their whiskey.
Rosemary walked slowly toward the tent adjacent to her own, her mind troubled. Heat rose from the moist earth beneath her bare feet, and the moon was cloaked in a silver veil. Brushing aside a lock of her own crackling red hair, she stood outside the canvas flap to the tent and shivered in spite of the clown suit she wore.
This was not going to be easy. From what she’d seen of Michael Wharton, he would be no more agreeable tonight than he’d been during the last week. While he was brilliant with numbers and had more business sense than any ten men she knew, he had no knowledge of people. He didn’t seem to understand what he was doing to their spirits, and in a circus, morale meant everything.
In addition, Rosemary felt a de
ep sense of obligation to them all. They were her family, the clowns, the fortune-teller, the acrobats, and the roustabouts, and right now her family was unhappy. She had to do whatever she could to correct that, and quickly. It troubled her to see Griggs’s sad face become permanent, to hear Clara’s mutterings and Zach’s open accusations. She couldn’t escape the fact that she’d handled this wrong from the beginning, had underestimated him, and now they were all paying the price.
Taking a fortifying breath, she walked into the tent, prepared to do battle. After all, it wasn’t the first time for a Carney, and she had the feeling that it wouldn’t be the last.
Michael Wharton sipped a glass of whiskey as he stared at the ledgers before him. His eyes burned, and he opened and closed them several times, willing away the irritation. In exasperation he flung down his pen and unbuttoned his shirt, aware of the intense heat that made the canvas enclosure seem stifling.
It was all going as planned. Already, profits were up, and at the rate things were progressing, Carney’s would have a record season. He would be able to collect on his bet, secure his money, and return some profit to the circus. Why, then, was he feeling so wretched?
After downing another glass, he placed the bottle before him like any other cowhand settling in for the night in a saloon. Unwillingly, his eyes returned to the contracts he’d been examining, and the smooth, flowing writing of one of the papers caught his attention. He’d recognize that scroll anywhere; he’d grown up with it. And it really didn’t surprise him in the least that his father had drafted their note rather than handle the matter with a barrister.
Shame washed over him, a feeling that he wasn’t used to and didn’t appreciate. His father would have been appalled at the way he’d been acting, and would have taken him to task for working these rustics the way that he had. Strangely enough, he understood now why Sean Carney and Jonathan Wharton, an educated doctor, had become friends. They held the same philosophy about people, the same understanding of their faults and coddling of their weaknesses. He couldn’t escape the fact that his father would have been deeply disappointed in him and, had he been alive, would have made him feel six years old once more.
He squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. The practical side of him rebelled, reminding him why he felt driven to do this. His father’s foolhardy generosity had nearly cost his family their existence. His mother knew nothing about business and had been shocked to learn what kind of financial danger they’d been in. His brother had wanted to go to school, Harvard, no less. And the bills for their townhouse and summer cottage did not go away. The income from investments had done so poorly that by the end of the financial panic, they were next to worthless. Thank God he’d been able to mercilessly cut expenses and make the decisions that returned his family’s holdings to respectability.
He swirled the liquor in his glass, and his mind settled on the cause of his problem. It was her, that damned clown-woman, who was making him feel this way. When those people had mocked her in town, he had felt strangely protective of her, a feeling he didn’t like one bit. It hadn’t escaped his notice that she was present every time something went wrong, and made sure he knew it. He had to face her accusing stare constantly, and like a curse, she was an incessant reminder of his guilt. Rosemary Carney had become a walking conscience garbed in the ridiculous clown suit she wore.
Just then the object of his thoughts strode boldly into his tent, the timing so perfect that he had to blink twice to make certain he hadn’t just conjured her up. She was scrubbed of makeup, and he noticed again just how smooth her skin was, like rich cream. Her face wasn’t what one would call pretty, but it held more character than half the women he knew. She was wearing that damnable clown suit, which effectively hid the slender figure he knew was beneath and, for some reason, annoyed him more than ever tonight. Her hair, easily her best feature, seemed to glow around her face like beaten copper, and her green eyes danced at him.
“What do you want? Doesn’t anyone knock around here?” He downed the last of his whiskey, ignoring the way she stared pointedly at the bottle.
“I’m returning a favor,” Rosemary said innocently. “After all, you make free use of my tent when you please. The other night when I was taking a bath proved that. Besides, it’s a little difficult to knock on canvas.”
He had to concede the point, but he wasn’t in any mood for Carney’s games. He watched her warily as she took a seat on the crate beside him and lifted the bottle to the candlelight.
“Mind if I join you? Though you’ve left barely enough to wet the devil’s tongue.”
“Then it should be enough for you, though I’ve seen the way you drink. What kind of woman are you, anyway?” he grumbled. “You drink like a man, curse like a sailor, tumble from that horse as if you didn’t have a bone in your body. You wear nothing but that damned clown suit…Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress?”
Stung, Rosemary pretended indifference. “I don’t see why what I wear is any of your concern. You may own the circus through your debt, but you don’t own me.”
Instead of getting angry, he smiled, an odd light coming into his eyes. “You are right, I don’t own you. I humbly apologize for making a personal remark. If you prefer the role of a clown to a woman, what business is it of mine?”
There was something about the way he was looking at her, a kind of warm assessment in his eyes, that unnerved her. Taking a fortifying drink, she faced him bravely, aware that this was a bad time to try and reason with him. Half the whiskey was gone, and from the look of him, she’d wager that he’d drunk most of it this night. Yet she had to go back to the clowns with something. Forcing aside her own emotions, she tried to sound logical.
“I wanted to talk to you about the troupe. You’re coming down too hard on them. They are tired, and they have no spirit. I want you to reconsider what you’re doing.”
Her lashes were black, jet black. He hadn’t noticed that before, nor did he notice the way her mouth was perfectly shaped, with a beestung lower lip. She was seated at the edge of the crate, her body pressed urgently to the makeshift table between them, her hair glinting with a life all its own. He saw the passion she had for her people, and he wondered if she retained that depth of feeling for anything else.
She was waiting for an answer, and it took him a full minute to remember what she had asked. Suddenly it all came to him, why she was here and looking at him so beseechingly. She’d come to try and persuade him, to change his mind about his plans.
“No.” He shrugged cavalierly. “No, I am not backing down, nor am I going to coddle your clowns. You have my answer, and you can return as their emissary and give them my response. No.”
Fury boiled up in her. It was humiliating enough to have to plead with this cad for common decency, but to have her requests denied with his noblesse oblige attitude was more than she could stand. Rising from her crate, she threw the drink at him, her eyes sparkling with anger.
“I don’t know why I even thought I could talk to you, you jackass! Everything with you is a number, isn’t it? Never mind that these are people we’re talking about. I’m sorry that I made the mistake of thinking you were a human being.”
She skittered past him, aware that she had once more pushed him to the breaking point. He jumped from the chair, dripping in whiskey, now as angry as she. Tension sparked in the room between them like one of Franklin’s experiments, and he grabbed for her arm, catching a handful of her clown suit and preventing her escape.
“Let go of me…” Rosemary tried to pry his fingers from her. He was close, too close. Strange feelings rushed through her blood, and an odd warmth tingled within her, just like the night in the tub. Frantically she struggled, more alarmed by the moment as she felt the heat from his body. Her breath came more quickly, and when she glanced up, she saw the identical feeling reflected in his eyes. It was hunger, a longing, and without conscious effort, she stopped fighting.
Slowly, as if in a dream, his
head lowered to hers. His mouth met her lips with a firm pressure that made her lose any semblance of reason. He held her so closely she could feel the entire length of his body pressed against hers, the bare skin of his chest meeting the softness of her costume. He smelled good, like horses and Irish whiskey, a scent that she always associated with her father and the clowns and that she liked in other men. Her lips parted urgently, and to her shock, she felt his tongue explore her mouth, sending strange lightning-like impulses that raced along her skin. His hand reached up to cradle her head, and in doing so, he slid his fingers through her hair, enjoying the silky texture.
“My God,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and unlike any tone he’d used before. “You are so sweet.”
Rosemary melted into him. No man had ever kissed her like this before or told her that she was sweet. It was a heady experience and, with a man like Michael Wharton, twice as enticing. His face was buried at her throat, and he was pressing soft little kisses along her pulse, making her gasp for breath. Somehow she was in his arms and sinking to the cot, entangled in the cloth from her clown suit and the hot rough blanket.
He raised his head to look at her and saw that her eyes really were the color of emeralds, flecked with pure gold. They had taken on a glazed look of passion that he read as experienced desire, and a hot rush of blood went through his aching loins. Her mouth was delightfully pink from his kiss, and the same hot color stained her cheeks. Pressing kisses farther down, he let his mouth wander to the place where her top had loosened and, brushing away the flimsy fabric, fastened his mouth to her breast.
Rosemary groaned, lost in the sensations he was creating. Gasping and wiggling, she felt his large warm hand rise up to still her, then to capture the other breast. Her fingers locked in his hair, and she held him even closer, captivated by what he was teaching her. His hand inched lower, then began tracing wondrous paths along her legs. She forgot everything, the debt, Carney, and clown; all ceased to exist except for herself and him. Her mind whirled, and when he took her lips once more, she met him wholeheartedly, wanting everything this new experience promised.
Defiant Rose Page 8
