Coming Up Roses (37 page)

Rose didn’t. “You know very well what I mean,
H.L. It’s improper for you to stay here, but I’ll allow you to do
so since you’ve suffered such a bad blow to your head. Anyhow, I’d
probably better keep an eye on you to make sure you aren’t going to
suffer from a delayed reaction to that sandbag.”

“
Absolutely. I need you to keep an eye
on me.”

She knew he was making fun of her, and she
didn’t appreciate it. “I’ll have you know that it sometimes takes
hours for the full extent of a head injury to be manifested. Mr.
Lovelady’s uncle got kicked by a horse, thought he was fine, and
dropped dead two days later from a blood clot. At least, the doctor
thought it was a blood clot. So it’s not funny.”

“
Good God.” H.L.’s insouciant grin
faded.

Rose took some satisfaction from having
rattled him.

“
In that case,” H.L. went on, “You
can’t keep an eye on me as well from across the tent as you can
from over here.”

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 brought 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.”