Coming Up Roses

by Duncan, Alice

Her sense of satisfaction died a quick death. Nevertheless, when she cast a glance around her tent and discerned no suitable place for her to rest except on the cot next to H.L., she gave up resisting. “Very well. But you’d better not do anything I don’t approve of.” She tried to sound stern and determined, but he only grinned harder.

  With a funny feeling in her heart, and wondering what this night would mean to her in the long run, Rose tied her tent flaps down—she didn’t fancy having any more visitors barging in during what little remained of the night—and walked over to her bed. H.L. obligingly scooted over to make room for her, lying on his side and watching her with an expression that hit her like a single sunbeam through a heavy mist.

  “You might as well take that robe off, Rose. It would be a shame to get it all wrinkled.”

  She didn’t believe the innocent look on his face for a second. “Does your head still ache?” she asked hopefully.

  “Sure does.”

  She didn’t believe that, either.

  Since she had no option except sleeping on the floor or in Annie’s tent, which would be deserting her patient, Rose removed her robe and sat on the edge of the bed. She glanced at H.L. over her shoulder. He smiled sweetly at her.

  “Feel free to take of your shirtwaist, too, Rose. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

  “I’m sure.” She gave him her hottest scowl. It didn’t faze him in the least, as she might have predicted.

  “No, really,” he said, sounding not unlike a Sunday School teacher explaining one of the parables of Jesus to a five-year-old. “I’m sure you’ll be much more comfortable if you take off your clothes and wear your nightgown to bed.”

  Rose was sure of it, too. The notion of H.L. seeing her in her nightie, however, made odd, pulsing sensations start up in her lower belly. While she hadn’t experienced them before, she feared they boded ill for her status as a proper maiden lady.

  H.L. patted the bed. “Come on, Rose. I won’t be bad. Promise.”

  She eyed him, keeping her back to him. “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Well . . .” She probably shouldn’t trust a single word he said. Yet she was tired and sore and really wanted to get to sleep. After thinking about it for another couple of minutes, and doing battle with herself on the issue of modesty versus common sense, Rose finally gave up. Blast H.L. May, anyhow. And blast herself, too, for being so absurdly attracted to him. She got up abruptly. “Close your eyes.”

  H.L. looked worried. “What are you going to do?”

  “Get into my nightgown.”

  He relaxed. “Good. That’s good, Rose. I’m sure you’ll sleep much better if you’re in comfortable clothes.”

  She squinted at him. “Right.” She knew she was taking a huge step, although she didn’t know where it would lead her. She repeated, “Close your eyes.” She heard his sigh from across the tent.

  “All right, Rose. My eyes are closed.”

  Rose doubted it. But she removed the rest of her clothes as quickly as she could, donned her voluminous flannel nightgown, and returned to the bed. His eyes didn’t look closed to her, but she guessed it would only be embarrassing if she questioned him.

  As if to reassure her, H.L. repeated, “I won’t be bad, Rose. Honest.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m never bad.”

  She got a sinking feeling that she was missing his point.

  # # #

  It was long past midnight. Probably dawn wasn’t far off when H.L.’s eyes drifted open, and he blinked into the dim shadows of Rose’s tent. She hadn’t extinguished the kerosene lamp before she retired, but she’d turned it down, so there was very little light.

  The sense of blissful comfort pervading his body was as foreign to H.L. as the meals he’d eaten in the Street in Cairo. It took him a minute to realize the delicious sensation emanated from the woman sleeping next to him.

  Rose. H.L. still had an arm around her. As his brain looked back over the events leading up to his awakening beside her, he wondered why he didn’t feel worse. He’d been knocked for a loop by that damned sandbag. By rights, he should be in agony. There was a faint, faraway ache in his head, but it felt more like the memory of pain than pain itself.

  He grinned, remembering the poultice Rose had made for him, and the foul-tasting potion she’d made him drink. Those Indians really knew their stuff. If they could only make that drink taste less like sewer water, they could probably make lots of money marketing it.

  Carefully, so as not to awaken Rose, he began testing his limbs one at a time. His arms seemed to work all right. His legs were operative. The big test was his head. Gingerly, he lifted it from Rose’s pillow. Pain didn’t come back with a thump and attack him, so he dared to sit up.

  Hmmm. So far, so good. Bracing his hands on the mattress, he turned and peered through the gloom at Rose. She looked as lovely and as peaceful as an angel, with drifts of dark hair framing her pale, pretty face. Her dark lashes were thick and gave her the faintly mysterious look of some kind of Egyptian princess. As if he knew anything about Egyptian princesses. Still, he liked the imagery.

  He lifted a hand to his lump and wondered if his senses had been knocked askew by Pegleg’s sandbag. H.L. couldn’t recall ever having such fanciful whimsies about a woman in his life.

  On the other hand, Rose was special. She wasn’t like any other woman he’d ever met. She was something brand-new to him: tough as nails, innocent as the new dawn, and as charming as a kitten.

  H.L. reminded himself that he didn’t like cats, but it was no use. Rose was special, and he wanted her. A lot. He, who’d believed himself impervious to love. He, who used to laugh at his fellows who went around mooning over women. He, to whom the mere thought of marriage used to make him cringe.

  Actually, the thought of marriage still made him cringe. The thought of bedding Rose, however, was sounding better and better with each passing second. He loved the wench. There you go. H.L. guessed he’d found his comeuppance in Rose Ellen Gilhooley: Wind Dancer, Bareback Rider Extraordinaire. Who’d have thought it? Not he, certainly.

  A problem remained, however. While H.L. May knew beyond a doubt that Rose Ellen Gilhooley was the only woman in the world for him, he had yet to convince her. He’d almost succeeded before the Pegleg incident, but Rose had had plenty of time to cool off by this time. He shook his head—carefully, in case the ache was still back there waiting to pounce—ruing circumstances and loathing Pegleg.

  As he sat there, drinking in the sight of Rose in all her innocent loveliness, a thought occurred to H.L. He shook his head again, harder this time, to test its ability to withstand activity. No problem.

  If he sort of sneaked up on her while she slept, she’d probably succumb pretty easily. After all, if she was unconscious, she wouldn’t know what he was doing until it was too late and she was so excited, she wouldn’t be able to refuse him.

  At once guilt stabbed him. Hell, H.L. hated guilt. It was such an inconvenient emotion. Guilt hadn’t troubled him when they’d headed to Rose’s tent hours earlier with the express intention of consummating their passion; why should it trouble him now?

  He knew the answer to that one: It was because earlier he’d been blinded by lust and hadn’t given a thought to the consequences. He was in his right mind now, and was trying to think of ways in which Rose might be coerced into giving up her maidenhood to him.

  It sounded bad when he put it like that. Frowning, he tried to come up with other ways to put it and couldn’t.

  “Aw, hell.”

  Although he didn’t speak loudly, Rose stirred. Some incomprehensible murmur left her lovely lips, and she turned over onto her back. H.L. gazed down at her, and his heart felt all light and floaty. After a second or two, she moved again, turning onto her left side and grabbing the pillow H.L. had just vacated. She tugged it against her as if she were hugging another person, and H.L. felt a pang. He wished it were he she was holding like that.

  Which brou
ght him back to his moral dilemma. What to do; what to do?

  When Rose stirred yet again, and sighed deeply into the pillow, a surge of desire shot through him that was so strong it almost wiped the slate of his conscience clean. Almost.

  H.L. decided to hell with it. Almost was good enough for him. Taking care not to jostle the bed, he stood up and slipped out of his clothes.

  His arousal was already heavy and so powerful it almost hurt.

  Then, very gently—he didn’t want Rose to wake up too soon—he slid back onto the mattress until he lay on his side, facing her. Demonstrating more patience than he’d given himself credit for, considering the state of his arousal, he pried her fingers from around the pillow and thrust the pillow behind him.

  Her nightgown buttoned down the front, which was convenient. H.L. took great care not to bother Rose as he unfastened the buttons. His breath snagged when, button by button, her body was revealed to his greedy eyes.

  She was tiny and perfect and delicious, just as he’d expected her to be. Her breasts were a precious handful. And mouthful. As he drew the nightgown away from her body, H.L. leaned over and tasted one of them. Wonderful. She was wonderful.

  Rose released a soft mewing sound and stretched in her sleep. Ah. Good. H.L.’s plan might be underhanded and dirty, but he was feeling more desperate than usual at the moment. The thought of making love to Rose was exquisite. The thought of making love to Rose and then having her hate him was unthinkable. So he didn’t think about it.

  Rather, he spread his palm over the warm skin of her stomach. He didn’t understand how so much raw physical power could be encased in this delicate body. Her skin was as soft as a baby’s. As H.L. had never felt a baby’s skin, he wasn’t absolutely sure about that, but he expected he was right. Her skin was soft. Very soft.

  His hands caressed her tenderly, and his excitement climbed when he saw that she wasn’t impervious to his touch, even though she still slept. She moaned softly and gently arched her hips. H.L. had to close his eyes for a second and tell himself to keep calm.

  Leaning close to her, he brushed her lips with his, gently and tenderly, barely touching her. He saw her eyelids flutter for a moment, and then her eyes opened and she looked up at him, blinking.

  “H.L.” Her voice was a breathy whisper.

  “You’re beautiful, Rose.”

  She took in the sight of his naked chest and gasped. “What are you doing?”

  To H.L.’s dismay, she sounded frightened. He guessed it was time to confess. “I’m making love to you, Rose.”

  Her mouth opened and closed, and she swallowed. “Um, you’re what?”

  “I’m making love to you.”

  Even though she was still fuddled with sleep, she gaped at him. H.L. sighed, recognizing the clear signs of shock.

  Desperately, he confessed, “I love you, Rose.” He needed for her to believe him. This was too important to him to chance disbelief. Hell, he didn’t expect such a thing ever to happen to H.L. May again in this lifetime, and he needed her to understand. “I didn’t think I’d ever fall in love, but I have. With you.”

  Still, she didn’t speak. H.L. kissed her again, harder this time, allowing his tongue to trail over her lips, craving her love in return. He couldn’t imagine her allowing him to make love to her if she didn’t love him. Rose Gilhooley was no floozy. She was no liberated feminist who believed in free love and indiscriminate bedding of any man who caught her fancy. She was, in her own way, an old-fashioned girl. She was also ahead of her time. She was, in short, perfect for H.L. May.

  “I want you to love me back,” he said at last, uneasy in the face of her continued silence.

  He saw her swallow, but she didn’t speak.

  Finally he lost his patience. Sitting up and glaring down at her, he said, “Damn it, Rose, speak to me. You must love me. You wouldn’t let me sleep with you if you didn’t.”

  “H.L. I—I—I don’t know what to say.”

  Well, hell. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Frustrated, he snapped, “Say you love me, damn it.”

  Her smile came to him out of the dark and lit up his whole soul. With a pounce, she threw her arms around him. “I love you! I love you, H.L. May. You’re the most exasperating fellow on the face of the earth, and I love you.”

  “Thank God. Thank God.” He cradled her in his arms, and his heart felt full to overflowing. Since H.L. May would sooner have people call him Horatio Lambert than admit to entertaining weepy emotions, he captured her lips with his again and ravished her mouth.

  If she wasn’t stunned and breathless after that kiss, she was made of stone, and H.L. already knew she wasn’t. Lowering her to the bed again, he continued his survey of her body with his hands and his lips and tongue. Rose was soon writhing underneath him.

  “Good,” he whispered when she whimpered softly. “I want you to love this, Rose, because we’re going to be doing it a lot.”

  She crammed a fist to her mouth, as if to stifle a scream. “Oh, my!”

  He didn’t want to scare her, but H.L. had a yen to let her know what she did to him, so he guided her other hand to his erect sex. She let out a soft cry, and he saw her big blue eyes open wide. “That’s the effect you have on me, Rose. Pretty powerful, isn’t it?”

  “I should say so. I’ve never—that is, I— Oh, dear.”

  “You’ve never seen a man like this before?”

  She shook her head, and her curly hair caught the lantern light. H.L. was delighted to perceive golden and red highlights gleaming up at him. “I love your hair,” he whispered. Then he buried his face in it and had the joy of feeling Rose’s arms enfold him.

  After an exquisite moment, Rose whispered, “I’ve seen dogs and horses before, but never a man.”

  H.L. couldn’t help it: He laughed. Rose smacked him lightly on his shoulder blade. “It’s not funny, H.L.”

  “Is, too.” Burrowing his hands under the hollow of her back, he rolled over onto his own back, taking her with him so that she was lying on top of him, her exquisite body pressing against his. He’d never felt anything so good in his life. He cupped her face in his big hands and drew it down to his. She kissed him as if her life depended on it. He knew his did.

  He rolled over again, until she was beneath him. As much as he was enjoying this, he feared he was going to disgrace himself if they didn’t get down to business soon. He hadn’t been this excited since his first time. It seemed funny to him that the most potent aphrodisiac he’d yet discovered was love, since he used to be so cynical about love.

  Not any longer. With a shaking hand, he reached to cover the dark brown curls between Rose’s thighs with his hand. He heard her suck in a deep breath, but she didn’t protest. By the time he found the seat of her pleasure with his thumb, his whole body was trembling. He felt as if an earthquake were happening inside him.

  “Oh, my!” she exclaimed softly when he began gently manipulating his fingers against her. She lifted her hips in rhythm to his tender caresses. “Oh, H.L.”

  “That’s the way, Rose.” His voice was low and scratchy with passion. “That’s the way, sweetheart. It’s supposed to be good, Rose. I want it to be good for you. Does it feel good, Rose?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes.” She caught her breath again, her body stiffened, and then, with a cry, she shuddered beneath him.

  H.L. watched, enraptured. He’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life as Rose achieving pleasure at his hand. Before she could come back down to this earthly plane, he knelt over her. “I hope this won’t hurt, Rose.”

  Without giving her a chance to react to his hope, H.L. guided himself to her wet passage and thrust home. With his eyes squeezed tightly shut, he spared a moment to bless Rose’s chosen career, because she evidently felt no pain. At least, she didn’t cry out or mention it.

  She felt so good. He didn’t dare to move for fear he’d spill his seed before he wanted to, so he remained poised there, action suspended until he was able to trust himself
again. Fearing what he might see, but needing to know how she was reacting to his intimate invasion, he cricked his eyes open and peered down at her. She looked stunned. He wasn’t sure that was a good thing and guessed he’d better ask.

  “Did I hurt you, Rose.” His voice, he noticed, didn’t sound like it belonged to him.

  She shook her head. “N-no. It feels—funny.”

  Great. Here he wanted to give her the greatest experience of her life, and he was making her feel funny. He cleared his throat. “Um, is that bad?”

  Again she shook her head. “No. It feels—good.”

  Ah. That’s what he’d been hoping for. With a sigh, H.L. decided he’d probably survive. “Good. I’m glad.”

  Very carefully, taking exquisite care so as not to frighten Rose, he began to move inside her. He watched her closely, trying to gauge her reaction.

  She appeared confused for only a moment before she started tentatively meeting his thrusts with lifts of her hips. H.L. blessed her and decided he could stop being so careful and resume enjoying himself.

  It didn’t take him long. He’d been wanting this for so long, and he and Rose had been through so much together in the short time they’d known each other, and both H.L. and his body needed this affirmation of his love. After only a few deep thrusts, his release came, shudderingly and magnificently, and with a hoarse cry that seemed ripped from deep inside him.

  Rose held on for dear life, although he didn’t know it until his last shuddering spasm had been spent and he barely stopped himself from collapsing on her and crushing her. With great care, he let himself down at her side. He was still buried inside her; he wanted to stay there forever.

  A deep, deep silence prevailed in the tent. To H.L., it was as if they’d been transported to another world, one in which there was nothing but Rose and himself, floating in blissful fulfillment.

  Being a cynical and world-weary reporter, he knew he was out of his mind even to think such a thing for a second. Therefore, with a gut-wrenching sigh, he opened his eyes.

  Nope. No other world. Rose’s tent. He glanced at Rose. Her eyes were closed, and she looked as if she weren’t quite sure what had happened to her. Or him, for that matter.