Rosemary gasped. “You aren’t suggesting—”
“I’m only telling you this for your own good. For many years we’ve let you run the show, and you’ve paid a dear price. You’ve lost a part of yourself. We have to give it back. Michael is here to help you manage the troupe. I know you say you cannot abide the man, but here is his card.” She indicated the knight, keeping the rest of the information to herself. There were times when it was best not to reveal all, especially when the news was unwelcome. “Mayhap you should use this knowledge and make the best of it.”
Picking up the card, Rosemary stared at the image, then glanced back to Clara. It was true, the cards never lied. And if Clara saw Michael offering her love, then maybe…“Are you saying I should encourage him?”
Clara shrugged. “Think about it, dear. You already have his interest. If the man loved you, he wouldna’ try to harm you. He might"—Clara leaned closer, the wisdom of her years showing—"he might even forgive the loan. Most men are generous with their mistresses, no doubt.”
“Mistress!” Rosemary gasped. “You aren’t saying—”
“I’m only suggesting that it wouldna’ hurt for the man to like you,” Clara said smoothly. “And it wouldna’ hurt you none, either. ‘Tis time you left off with those trousers and acted the part of a lady.”
Rosemary’s nose scrinched up thoughtfully, picturing herself and Michael Wharton. Unknowingly, her eyes took on a vacant look as she envisioned their heated kiss, his hand possessively cupping her breast, his mouth making her lose her mind in a delicious fog of sexuality. No, he was too good at what he did, too handsome, too knowing and urbane to fool with that way. Lionesses and knives were safe. Michael’s kisses were not.
“I don’t think I can,” Rosemary said softly. “I don’t know the first thing about it.”
Clara’s eyes squinted, and she peered at the young woman before her. It was true, Rosemary had no experience with men in any romantic sense, other than what she’d gleaned from the clowns, and that wasn’t entirely reliable. With her hair pulled back in a knot, her slender body clothed in trousers and a shirt, her face devoid of artifice, she would have trouble seducing a randy cowhand, let alone a sophisticate like Michael. Worse, for all the confidence Carney had for business, she had none for love, which required the most.
“There, there, child.” Clara clucked her tongue. “Didn’t Clara always take care of you? Long after your mother went off, I was the one who bandaged your knees when you fell from that horse, and I helped you learn your letters. I willna’ fail you now.” She grinned, seeing Rosemary’s smile return. “I believe I had a book.”
“What kind of book?” Rosemary put down her teacup curiously as Clara bustled around the tent, rummaging through one crate after another. Soon she started on the trunks, pulling out spangled costumes, gypsy earrings, clothes shot with gold and silver, lace and sequins. Next came the cards, tarot and playing cards, with strange symbols and odd colorings. Bypassing all of that, she disappeared headfirst into the largest trunk, then burst up a moment later, waving a worn black volume.
“This is it. Now, let’s see what we have.” Clara bustled back to the table, her white hair blowing about her face like smoke from an incantation. She plopped the odd book down on the felt cloth, brushing away a light film of dust that obscured the title. Rosemary couldn’t read all of it, but the gold lettering said “…Spells and Magic.”
“Is that really…” She couldn’t prevent the exclamation that emitted from her lips as she reached for the book, nor could she stop looking at Clara in wonder. “I was only joking!”
“Now, let me look. Do you mind, missy? The young are impudent these days.” Clara brushed Rosemary’s hand aside and quickly opened the book, blowing at the peppery dust. “We have Cures for the Cold, Curses, Charms, and Voodoo. Here’s Crystal Gazing, Tarot Cards, Good Luck Potions, and Spells. Now, maybe something along this line….” Clara whipped through the parchment pages with a familiarity that stunned Rosemary, who was beginning to feel a bit uneasy.
“You don’t believe all this, do you?”
“Don’t you?” Clara grinned, scanning the pages. She squawked with satisfaction, pausing under the chapter for Potions. “This.” She indicated a page with one crooked and gnarled finger jabbed into the middle of the script.
Rosemary glanced down at the page, then her face flew up in astonishment. “You must be kidding!” When Clara didn’t laugh, she did herself, but very weakly. “A love potion!”
Clara turned her bright blue gaze onto Rose. “I can read, miss. My sight is as sharp as ever.”
“But a love potion!” Rosemary felt Clara’s head. “Are you addled?”
Clara cackled, then indicated the page once more. “You said you didn’t know the first thing about it. It couldn’t hurt to have a little help, in spite of what the cards say.” Clara looked pointedly at the work pants. “You have to admit, you could use it. Especially since His Lordship must know lots of pretty women, women with dresses who do up their hair, women who know how to seduce a man.”
Rosemary recalled the day in town when Michael had spoken up for her against that city woman. It was true, he was a part of that world, whereas Rose had grown up around sawdust and canvas. Then she remembered his stunned surprise when he’d glimpsed her nightgown, and the clowns’ laughter. That decided her, and she leaned back over the book and gestured to the page.
“All right, though I don’t believe a word of this. What do I have to do?”
Clara grinned, content, then slid her finger to the top of the page to read.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE NIGHT WAS MOONLESS, exceptionally dark and silent. Rosemary glanced out of the tent flap into the inky blackness. No lone light shone from the tents, no distant farmhouse or campfire illuminated the darkness. Sky and land blended into one onyx plane of ebony; it was a night for secrets.
Turning back inside her tent, Rosemary held up the tiny vial of brownish liquid that churned like a living, breathing organism. “Do you really think this will work? What if I…conceive?”
“You won’t.” Clara grinned, her toothless smile wide and satisfied. “I checked the cards.” Gypsy rings dangled from her ears, and she wore a spotted kerchief that covered her sugar-spun hair. She never looked so much like a witch as she did this night, though her appearance was oddly reassuring.
“Now, just remember to do as I said. Ask him for a drink of something. Whiskey would be best. ‘Tis strong enough to cover the taste. And when he’s drunk it all, seduce him.”
Rosemary nodded, though she had some difficulty picturing herself as a bold temptress and Michael Wharton as the hapless victim. Still, she had an incantation and a potion to help, which was more than most women had. Besides, from what she’d heard the clowns say, lovemaking was something that men pursued and women avoided. Logic told her that Michael would not reject something he’d already indicated he wanted, potion or not.
The rustle of her dress caught her attention, and she smoothed the gold and black lace, then glanced uncertainly in the mirror. “And the dress? Do you think it’s too…fancy?” She recalled the woman in town that day. Her gown had been much more subdued, but she had been out walking and not bent on seduction.
Clara grinned, taking in Rosemary’s gown. It had belonged to another gypsy woman and with a few stitches fit Rosemary perfectly. The neckline was cut very low, displaying a cleavage that although small, was lighted up with gems and French lace. The waist was tightly cinched to display a tiny circumference and was bound with a black satin bow. Rosemary’s hair was loose and caught the lamplight, managing to outshine the gold satin cloth and the glittering lace. Although neither woman was aware that a Victorian lady would never don such a gown to see a man, to Clara, Rosemary looked beautiful, and indeed, she did.
“No, I don’t think it too fancy. I daresay you’ll get the man’s attention. Did you use that sweet-smelling stuff behind your ears?”
Rosemary nodded, her no
se wrinkling. “I think it’s too strong. Do men really like it?”
“That they do. Trust me, child, when you finish with Michael Wharton, the man will be eating peanuts from your hand. Now, turn around and let me take one last look.”
Rosemary complied. The dress swirled around her, encircling her figure and making sparkling gems dance on the floor. Her hair gleamed like polished copper, and slight traces of makeup enhanced her face and made her eyes glitter like emeralds.
When she’d completed her turn, Clara nodded in appreciation. “You look grand. Now go, child, and remember what I’ve told you. One swig of that potion, and the man won’t be able to resist you.”
Rosemary nodded, tucking the bottle in her sleeve. Taking up her shawl, she passed through the tent flap, grateful for the concealing darkness. The last thing she needed was to be spotted by one of the clowns and have to explain her appearance.
The distance from her tent to Michael’s was less than ten feet, but on this night it seemed like miles. Rosemary walked slowly, fighting the panic that threatened to send her running back to her tent. It was only her determination that kept her moving.
What if he laughed at her? What if he coldly rejected her? What if…The thoughts were like a refrain, repeating themselves in her mind. Rosemary cringed, but the cool feel of the bottle against her wrist and Clara’s counsel reassured her. That and the remembrance of the night in Michael’s tent, when he had kissed her with a passion that made her mind spin, helped her ward off her fears. And although she’d never admit such a thing to Clara, she wanted him in a way she instinctively knew he’d understand.
She stood before his tent and took a deep breath before entering. Outside, it looked dark, but a single taper sent a circle of light inside the tent and on the man working at the desk. She nearly sighed in relief to see that he wasn’t asleep, although part of her wished he had been.
He glanced up as soon as she entered, his eyes taking in the gold and black lace dress, her shimmery silk stockings, her unbound hair, and rouged cheeks. His mouth dropped at the sight of her, unable to believe that Carney, the clown-woman, had metamorphosed into this gorgeous creature standing before him. The gown enhanced her figure, calling excruciating attention to every curve and every enticing crease of her body. Her dress glimmered in the dim light, the lace bewitching, while her hair was magic. It cascaded down her back like a molten waterfall. A small smile came to his face, and he laid down his pen, obviously intrigued.
“Is this a social call?” he said when he could speak, his mouth dry. She looked like a show girl, true, but a bedazzling one. His smile deepened as he realized Carney was up to something, and he leaned back, prepared to enjoy whatever entertainment this meeting would bring. “Or are we reading tea leaves for the show?”
Rosemary bit back a reply, remembering Clara’s warning that seductresses did not tell off their seductees. Forcing a smile, she indicated a crate positioned close to his. “Mind?”
“By all means.” He watched her sit awkwardly on the wooden box, the lace and gold dress obviously not designed for such rustic seating. He fought back a smile as she stuffed the dress beneath her, then wiggled until she could breathe once more.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” He drew out the last word with a strange emphasis, then nearly choked as her perfume assailed him.
“What’s the matter?” Rosemary asked, concerned as he coughed, then cleared his throat.
“Nothing.” He stared at her through watery eyes. “What is that scent you’re wearing?”
“Oh.” Rosemary sniffed the air, taking in the sweet odor. “Clara gave it to me. She said it was from Paris.”
“The south side, I would imagine,” Michael said bluntly.
Rosemary’s smile vanished. “Don’t you like it? I thought it was too strong, but Clara said men like this stuff.”
Two and two began to equal something resembling four in Michael’s mind, but he didn’t have the whole equation yet. Studying the young woman before him, he realized that she looked nervous and uncomfortable, yet unbelievably gorgeous. He wondered exactly what was up, and whether it involved anything more deadly than knives or lions. Strangely enough, he had a feeling that this time it might be much more lethal.
“It’s fine.” He smiled encouragingly. “Now, would you mind telling me why Clara doused you with perfume, dressed you like a gypsy, and sent you to my tent?”
This wasn’t going at all as planned. Clara had warned her to use the potion as soon as she could. Rosemary smiled, unaware of just how enticing she looked. Awkwardly she crossed her legs the way Clara had shown her and batted her eyes.
“Got anything to drink?” Her voice was throaty, innocently seductive.
“A drink,” Michael repeated, forcing himself to think. His gray eyes locked with hers. “Is that what you came for?”
“So what’s wrong with that?” Exasperation crept into her voice. Lord, this man was difficult to seduce, potion or no potion.
“Nothing.” Michael chuckled, then poured out a generous portion of whiskey. He extended the glass to her. “I believe this is your drink.”
“Where’s yours?” Rosemary nearly panicked as he sat back, apparently without any intention of joining her.
“I think it best if I don’t. Remember what happened last time?”
“That won’t work,” Rosemary protested. “I…don’t like to drink alone.”
Michael shrugged, then reached for the bottle, sensing that she would leave if he didn’t. And in spite of his conviction that she was up to something, he really didn’t want her to go, not yet. Not until he knew what this was all about. Part of him wanted to believe what her presence implied, and he had to admit, she looked absolutely beautiful.
There was only one glass on his desk, and he’d given that to Rosemary. Leaving the decanter on the table, he got up and walked into the corner of the tent, rummaging in the darkness for a second glass.
Rosemary nearly fainted in relief. Quickly she removed the vial from her sleeve and poured the contents into the whiskey bottle. Thankfully, there was no more than a serving or two left. She managed to return to her seat just as Michael turned around and glanced at her suspiciously. Rosemary assumed a patrician look of pure innocence. Frowning, Michael returned to the desk and poured out the whiskey. When Rosemary glanced demurely away, he shifted the glasses. He wouldn’t put it past her to poison him, if she thought it would help Carney’s.
“What shall we drink to?”
“To the circus.” Rosemary looked up, giving him what she hoped was a seductive smile.
“To the circus.” He picked up a glass and drank down his whiskey in one smooth gulp, almost daring her to do the same.
Rosemary took a deep breath, realizing that the moment was almost upon her. Clara had told her a little about the actual love-making, and the rest she had deduced from the clowns and from watching the circus animals. “The men are queer about it,” Clara had explained when she gave her the potion. “You have to endure their tugging and prodding, but then it’s all over. Just lay back and think of Ireland.”
Rosemary grappled for the glass, then downed the whiskey, wishing now that she had thought to bring much more. She hadn’t counted on the strange tension between them, or the way he was looking at her. The liquor spread warmly through her and settled in her stomach like a hot sun.
“Now what?”
Swallowing hard, she replaced the glass beside his, then walked across the tent floor to the waiting cot. With trembling fingers, she loosened the laces of her gown, remembering Clara’s advice that men liked to do the undressing themselves. She glanced up and saw him staring in disbelief. His eyes dropped to the shimmering lace of her dress, and it seemed that only his gaze held it up. Settling down on the cot, she lay across his blankets like a human sacrifice, her arms outstretched, expecting the worst.
Michael’s jaw slackened as her intent became crystal clear. The sight of her, stiff and unnaturally posed, waiting for h
is amorous attack, was suddenly as funny as it was appalling. A slow chuckle started in his throat, and before he could help himself, he was laughing out loud.
Rosemary scrambled to her feet. Something was wrong—he was laughing at her! Her cheeks stung red with humiliation, she started for the tent flap, wanting nothing more than to get far away from here, from him. Grabbing the back of her dress to keep it closed, she fought to keep from crying as she stumbled toward the opening, only to find it blocked.
“No, don’t.” He tried to sound kind, but burst out laughing again. He made a gallant attempt to quell his chuckles as she raised mortified eyes to him, and only partially succeeded. When she would have dodged past him, he caught her and held on to her firmly.
“Now, Rosemary, the least you can do is tell me the truth.” His hands closed around her waist, pulling her closer to him. “Why did you do this?”
“Let go of me…” She struggled, but he refused to release her. The more she fought, the closer he held her until she was dragged up against him, his body touching hers far more intimately than she would have liked. “I don’t have to tell you anything!”
“Oh, yes, you do,” he insisted firmly. “You’ve not leaving until I know the truth. Rosemary"—he lifted her face to his— “was it just because of the debt?”
Yes! she wanted to shout at him. She wanted to hurt him as much as he’d just hurt her. But she couldn’t. Rosemary Carney was a jester, a prankster, a practical joker, and a clown, but she wasn’t a liar. Tears stung her eyes as she looked up at him, compelled to tell the truth.
“No,” she whispered, watching his expression change from amusement to something far more interesting. “I wanted…you.”
Defiant Rose Page 13
