A moment passed before he quietly replied. “Then I think we’re both clowns or fools, because I’ve wanted you from the first. I always have.”
Rosemary stared up at him in surprise, but the gentle smile she received suddenly made it all worthwhile. Her breath expelled in one huge rush, then his head bent slowly and he kissed her.
Rosemary sighed, releasing the back of her dress, letting her hands creep up around his neck. The hard feel of his body pressed against hers was wonderfully intoxicating, as was the heat emanating from him. A warm glow spread through her veins, making her body deliciously limp, and a coiled heat began deep within her stomach. He deepened the kiss, his tongue mating with hers. Teasingly, he withdrew, then took possession of her sweet lips once more.
The effect was devastating. Rosemary found it impossible to think. Her apprehensions vanished, even when he reached behind her and finished undressing her. His fingers were impatient with the corset laces, worse with the chemise. Rosemary fought a giggle as he finally got through the layers of fancy clothing she wore, to the warm, bare skin beneath.
She gasped as his hand, warm and rough, slid over the fullness of her breast. Never would she have dreamed that it would feel so deliriously wonderful to have a man touch her there. Arching against him, she showed her pleasure, hearing his warm chuckle of appreciation as his thumb brushed a nipple into a diamond-hard point. His hand dropped to her waist, and he pulled her even closer. She could feel his hardness as he pressed her against him. Clad only in her black stockings and lacy garters she shuddered and peered up at him. The look in his eyes took her breath away.
“My God, Rose. You are beautiful.”
Indeed, she was. Her body was perfect, slender and well-proportioned, her hair falling about her like a coppery shawl. Her breasts peeked through the satiny curls, enticing him, making him want to reach out and touch them once more. Her legs, encased only in the sensuous stockings, shimmered with long, luscious curves, ending in a fiery vee just above her thighs. She was everything he’d thought she’d be, and then some.
Rosemary smiled dreamily. It had to be the whiskey. Nothing else could explain the way she was feeling. The nameless longings that she’d had suddenly seemed to culminate in this moment. When he bent down to remove her stockings, she gasped at the feel of his hand against the smooth satin of her thigh. When he slid the stocking down, inch by inch, placing sweet kisses along the inside of her leg, she had to hold on to his shoulders to keep from falling. By the time he’d finished the other leg and stood up to kiss her once more, she was on fire. She clutched him tightly, dizzy and overwhelmed with desire, and he chuckled softly.
“Easy, Rose, we have all night.” Gently he eased himself from her, just long enough to discard his own clothing. He couldn’t take his eyes from her as she stood before him, naked and obviously aroused, wanting him as much as he wanted her.
Somehow, they were on the bed, and he was opening her legs, preparing her. Instinctively she started, but his fingers teased her and found the most responsive part of her, knowing he had found it by her uninhibited moan. His lips took the warm, wet satin of her mouth, and when she was wiggling unbearably beneath him, he entered her swiftly in one fluid motion.
Rosemary gasped, surprised by the sharp pain and the stinging sensation between her legs. She felt him stiffen, but her body was expanding to accommodate the intrusion, and without thought she wrapped her legs around him, encouraging him to go on. Groaning, he drove into her again and again, fighting his own passion to consider her needs, and not releasing it until he heard her soft cry of astonishment as she reached fulfillment. Only then did he give in to his own desires as their passion reached a stunning conclusion. Sighing in blissful contentment, Rosemary curled up against him and was quickly sound asleep.
That same refuge eluded Michael, however. As he gazed at the slumbering woman in his arms, her hair sweetly clinging to her face and framing it with soft, shimmering curls, he realized that what had passed between them was not ordinary. Not celibate by any means, he had taken his share of women when and where he found them, though his tastes for bed companions usually leaned toward sophisticated women who appreciated his sexual appetite and didn’t encumber him with any further demands. But Rosemary, the bold Carney who lived and worked among rough, transient men, had been a virgin, and she had given herself to him.
The sexual afterglow wore off quickly as the full import of what had taken place struck him. A virgin! He would have bet his townhouse in Philadelphia that she’d had plenty of experience, especially with the way she’d entered his tent, boldly planning to seduce him. She’d responded to his caresses with an enthusiasm unknown to most well-brought-up Victorian women, but to him it was delightfully refreshing. And she’d asked him for nothing, not about the loan nor for jewels, nor any of the other things most mistresses expected or at least tried to bargain for.
He groaned inwardly. As much as he’d enjoyed her, he didn’t need this, nor did he plan on such a complication in his life. He’d wanted her, yes, he had to admit that. He had from the first time he’d met her, when she had the audacity to kick him, and her wig tumbled off, revealing that glorious red hair. But he hadn’t counted on her being an innocent. He would be leaving soon, going back to Philadelphia and his banking business, back to his well-ordered way of life and its financial rewards. He cringed as he thought of any of his prominent friends meeting Rosemary, or Carney the clown. When they stopped laughing, they would surely want his head examined. And when he thought of her meeting his mother…
He dismissed the idea. Carney belonged here, in the circus, and there could never be anything between them. Surely Rosemary had known that. Why, then, had she given herself to him, of all people? What was her possible motivation?
Tenderly he drew up the blankets around her slumbering body. Come tomorrow, he would have some answers.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ROSEMARY AWOKE SLOWLY, the dreamlike fog of the previous night refusing to dissipate entirely. Curling in the covers, she felt wonderful, drained and deliciously limp. A sensual smile stole over her lips.
So that was sex. It was so incredible, so completely fulfilling, that she wondered why people came to the circus at all when they had this entertainment waiting for them for free. Her body ached and a small part of her stung a bit, but it was worth it. It was a little like dying, losing oneself, then being reborn. Rosemary sighed in pure, feminine pleasure.
Now she understood why the clowns, who called it wenching, couldn’t wait to be with a woman. Or why the miners spent their last dime in pursuit of the lusty saloon girls. And why the room had always been so charged when she and Michael were in it together. This is what lay beneath all their arguing, and it was so beautiful she had no idea why they didn’t just do it sooner.
She nearly purred. It occurred to her that she wanted him again, that already her blood was thickening at the thought of awakening beside him. The sheets seemed to caress every part of her, and her breasts, alive and tingling from the way he’d loved them last night, ached against the covers. Dreamily she put her hand out to caress him and felt the empty space beside her.
He was gone. Her eyes flew open in stunned surprise, then she blinked at the blinding sunlight that poured into the tent. The bright illumination gave her a throbbing headache, but she forced herself to look about the room. To her relief, he was seated a short distance away.
“Good morning. Did you sleep well? I didn’t know if you took coffee or tea, so you’ll have to make due with my coffee. It’s all right once you get used to it.”
Rosemary sat up, and the blood seemed to rush from her head. Something was wrong. He was looking at her the same way Griggs looked the day he had told her her mother had run away. The emotions she was experiencing were too new, too raw, to be exposed to the heartless morning sunlight like this. She hadn’t counted on the warm, gentle feeling she had for him now, or the feeling that she wanted to experience it all again. Placing aside the coffee he
offered, she hugged her knees to her chest. Her face turned upward, and he saw the apprehension in her magical emerald eyes.
“Rosemary, we have to talk.” He touched a stray lock of her hair in a gesture that was gentle and regretful at the same time, then spoke in a voice that betrayed his discomfort. “Last night…it’s obvious to me that you drank too much. I realize now that you didn’t know what you were letting yourself in for. Had I known, I would not have let…things happen the way they did.”
She gazed at him, her brows knitting over her nose, her freckles scrunched up. “You wouldn’t have—”
“No, I wouldn’t have made love to you.” How he hated this, but it was as much for her good as his. He couldn’t have her start to care for him, or imagine their moment of passion as anything else. Unaccustomed to being noble, especially with her, he continued more bluntly. “I don’t have room in my life for you, Rose. I’ll be leaving soon, going back to Philadelphia. You belong here. And in spite of everything that’s happened between us, I don’t want regrets, and I don’t want you to be hurt or expecting something that I can’t give. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She stood up, looking utterly adorable with her hair tumbling round her, her eyes enormous. Reaching for her dress, she suddenly felt very naked. The gold gown twinkled as a remembrance of the night as she held it against her, and she looked at him as if her heart would break. “You mean you don’t want to do this again?”
“We can’t.” His voice was hoarse with genuine regret. “It’s just not a good idea. Not for you or me.”
“I see.” Actually, she did. Michael thought she wasn’t good enough for him. She was a circus wench, a pratfall artist, a clown. She had become used to that attitude on the part of gentlefolk, but she somehow hadn’t expected to find it in him, not now. The realization made her Irish pride come to the forefront, and she lifted her chin, determined not to ever let him know how much he’d hurt her. Tears tightened her throat, but she fought them back, managing to give him her best clown smile as she slipped on her dress. “Then I guess this is sort of a goodbye. We’ll just go on as before, as if nothing ever happened.”
She had wanted her words to hurt him, to show him the encounter had meant as little to her as it did to him, but he was looking beyond her, to the cot. She followed his gaze to the bed, wondering if she’d forgotten something, then blanched at the sight of her own blood on the tangled sheets. Confusion and fear made her pale, and her fingers tightened around her shoes. What had happened to her last night? Had her time come, or did this mean she had gotten with child? Clara had assured her, and yet…
“Don’t be afraid.” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “I didn’t need such proof, but I knew when it was too late. It doesn’t mean anything other than that I was the first for you,” he added gently, seeing her look of alarm.
“How did you know?” Rosemary’s voice was almost a whisper. “Was I that bad?” She almost hated to ask, but the thought wouldn’t leave her, especially since he seemed so sure.
“God, no. You were wonderful. Really wonderful.” He seemed uneasy and more than a little chagrined at his own part in all this. Guilt overwhelmed him, and he fought the temptation to take her into his arms. She looked so vulnerable, so innocent…until him. He’d given it a lot of thought last night and realized that this could not have been a plot. She simply didn’t understand the repercussions of what had happened. He damned his own careless sexual desires, aware that he’d hurt her, that he’d awakened something inside her that would have been better off lying dormant until the right man came along. It would have been so much easier if she ranted and raved at him, demanded money or some other mercenary compensation, but she just stood looking at the bed in her rumpled gold dress, her eyes brilliant with unshed tears.
“Rosemary, wait.” He stopped her as she turned toward the tent opening, her shoulders slumped, her head held high and proud. That touched him more than anything else, and without a second thought he reached into his sheaf of papers and withdrew an elegantly scrolled note. Handing her the document, he saw her puzzled expression as she tried to decipher the legal terminology.
“It’s the note. Your loan. I’m forgiving the debt. Take the papers.”
He hadn’t planned on doing any such thing, but confronted with the result of his actions, he could do nothing else. Somehow, sometime, this clown-woman had come to mean something to him. He admired her spunk, her sense of mischief, her business acumen, but most of all, herself. He’d never met a woman like her and knew he’d never forget her. He watched her as understanding dawned, then she glanced up at him, her eyes flashing with anger.
“I wouldn’t take this now if I owed the Civil War debt.” She threw the paper at him, fury twisting her face. Her hair seemed to crackle around her, and the Carney of old, pugnacious attitude included, glared at him. “You can take that back, and be damned to the rest. I’ll not be bought for any price!”
If she’d been close enough, she would have slapped him. Instead, the paper drifting to the floor like a feather, she turned on her heel and marched out of his tent, her hair swaying with the force of her motion, her bare feet leaving tiny prints on his floor. Ruefully he watched her go, wondering at the relief that flooded through him.
Rosemary marched back to her tent, barely able to contain her sense of outrage and betrayal. She fought back tears as she passed the clowns, while they gave her and her gilded dress a curious glance. But that little concerned her now. Her pain was so deep that she didn’t notice them, nor did she care.
She entered her tent and saw Clara sitting beside her bed, a worried expression on her wizened old face.
“There you are, lass. I’ve been worried. Did he drink the stuff?”
Rosemary grimaced, recalling the potion. She’d poured it into the bottle, then he’d come back and…Her face paled ever more. Good Lord, he must have switched glasses!
Suddenly it all made sense. Nothing else could explain the way she was feeling, as if something inside her had been crushed before it had a chance to bloom. She hurt entirely too much for it to have been anything else, particularly…
“I drank it,” Rosemary whispered in horror.
Clara looked aghast. “Ye did!” Her eyes narrowed, and she studied Rose suspiciously. “And did it work?”
Rosemary winced. “It did. Too well.” At Clara’s stunned surprise, the words poured out in a tumultuous rush. “Oh, Clara, it was awful! Why didn’t you tell me or warn me? It wasn’t easy, like you said. It meant something! God, I actually made love to him, and I feel terrible!”
Clara patted her head, clucking to herself. “My puir lassie. So he broke the heart in you.”
Rosemary’s head flew up in consternation. “How did you know? Was it the potion? Is this a side effect?”
“Bah, the potion.” Clara rolled her eyes upward. “I knew the minute you walked into the tent. You were the picture of a lost soul. ‘Tis odd that a man like that mercenary would have such an effect on you, but then again, ‘tis not so odd. The charm worked.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“He didn’t offer you the papers?”
“He did.” Rosemary shrugged. “I gave them back.”
“You what?” Clara put a hand over Rosemary’s head. “Are you daft? Isn’t that the reason you did all this? Then you just gave them back to the man, just like that?”
“I couldn’t take them.” Rose collapsed onto a crate and tried to explain. “It was a payoff. He felt bad for…making love to me. And he wanted to get rid of me. He told me that what happened was a mistake, that it couldn’t happen again….” Unknowingly, her throat tightened, and her words became hoarse with pain. “I just couldn’t take them. Be damned to him.”
“Rose!” Clara exclaimed, though she sat back, her agile mind working. “Then what happened?”
“I threw the papers at him and walked out,” Rosemary said bitterly, her cheeks flushed with anger. “And I’d do it again if I had
the chance! A bean counter, that’s all he is. He doesn’t know the first thing about people, about feelings.”
“I see.” Clara nodded sympathetically. She gave Rose a sharp glance. “So what will you do now? I suppose you’ll mope around in your clown suit, go back to the way things had been, and give His Lordship the satisfaction of knowing he’s beaten poor Carney. Ah, it was a grand day when you gave him one for one. But if he broke your poor heart—”
“I will not!” Rosemary glared at Clara as if the older woman had lost her mind. “I will act like he didn’t matter at all to me! And I will wear dresses, pretty ones, and go to town with the men. And I will drink whiskey and flirt to my heart’s content.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and her mouth curved in a smile that would have warned the clowns immediately. “And if he thinks I gave him trouble before, he’ll think that was May Day by the time I’m through!”
“That’s talking!” Clara slapped her birdlike legs with her palms, glad to see the healthy color return to Rosemary’s face and a bit of her old vigor. “But be careful, lass. If he sees through you, he’ll be flattered by the attention. The man might have no heart, but he does have a brain. Don’t get on the wrong side of him.”
Rosemary nodded, aware of the wisdom of this advice. Yawning, she allowed Clara to tuck her into her cot, the headache still violent after her confrontation with Michael. She wanted to sleep, wanted to forget this whole dreadful thing ever happened.
“That’s right child, sleep,” Clara murmured, humming an old Irish song. “I’ll watch out for you. Haven’t I always?”
When Rose finally slept, the old woman crept from her tent, securing the flaps so that the bright sunlight would not intrude and disturb her rest. The canvasmen were busy packing up the circus, but there would be some time before they were on the road once more. Glancing down both paths to the tents, Clara hastened to the large one that resided beside the elephants, and immediately entered the clowns’ tent.
Defiant Rose Page 14
