No Other Love (14 page)

Then a thought occurred to her.

“Have you two been coming here without me?”

Lydia looked guilty.

“Only a few times, when I still hated you,” Dottie replied matter-of-factly. “I told Lydia not to tell you. But that was before. We’re all friends now, right?”

There was no use feeling hurt over what was already done, and Rose was too thrilled to be upset anyway. Instead she made do with splashing the two girls mercilessly until they were all laughing and making as much noise as possible.

Soon Dottie got out a cake of soap and they all bathed, taking their hair down and washing that as well. Finally they climbed out of the pond and sat on a patch of moss, letting the late sun dry them. Rose closed her eyes and let the other girls’ chatter flow over her, feeling relaxed and renewed and yes, even peaceful.

A lavender veil dropped over the clearing, the first whisper of the shadows that would soon fall, and Lydia and Dottie stood up and began dressing.

“We’d best get going. The men will want to be coming here.”

“I’ll be along in just a minute,” Rose said, reluctant to let go of her blissful state.

Lydia and Dottie made their way back along the trail, their cheerful chatter fading into the noises of the woods. Rose closed her eyes and drowsed as all around her toads croaked, insects whirred and birds flitted from tree to tree.

She must have dozed for a few minutes, for when she opened her eyes the shadows had lengthened and the sun no longer reached her. Standing up, she shook out her damp hair, combing it through with her fingers but keeping it down so that it might dry more. Her chemise still clung damply to her, but there was nothing to be done about that just now. Bending over to pick up her dress, she stood back up just in time to see Luke step out of the forest.

***

For a long moment Luke could only stand there, unable to take his eyes from her. Even in his wildest imaginings, he could not have conjured a more erotic picture.

Her hair flowed in molten waves over her shoulders nearly to her waist, and her arms and legs were bare. Her chemise was utterly transparent where it clung wetly to her breasts, hips and thighs. She stared at him with startled gray eyes, the crumpled dress clutched to her chest poor protection from his gaze.

It was two weeks since her refusal of him in the garden, and he had not yet made peace with the loss. Cursing his own weakness, he’d thrown himself into his work, barely sleeping, hoping that one day soon he would wake up free of her.

Now he saw he would never be free.

He had to have her. That was his only thought as he crossed the distance to where she stood, wide-eyed and unmoving.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

But he was beyond speech.

Pulling her to him, he crushed her against his chest and slanted his mouth over hers. He heard the soft gasp as her mouth opened for him and a fierce trembling swept through her. She smelled like the forest, her skin sun-warmed and flawless as poured cream. Too far gone to bank down the force of his need, he gave it full reign.

Her dress slipped to the ground as her hands came up to grip his shoulders. With lips and tongue and teeth he traced the graceful column of her throat, down, down to where the wet cotton outlined her breasts and the tightened buds at their center. He wanted to know every inch of her, leave nothing untouched.

Bending his head he took her nipple in his mouth through the cotton, nipping and tugging until a tortured moan rose from her throat and her hands twined in his hair.

Rose's legs gave way as his mouth closed over her other breast and together they fell to their knees in the soft pine needles. Catching her against him, his mouth came back to claim hers, his hands on her hips bringing her into contact with his arousal. He was wild for her, his whole body pulsing with the need to have her, to press her to the forest floor where only the birds would bear witness.

The sound of voices in the distance brought him abruptly to his senses. Pulling away from her, he looked at Rose with lust-glazed eyes, unable to trust himself to move or speak. He was panting, his breath hoarse in his own ears. Rose was still smoldering, her eyelids heavy, her gaze unfocused.

He watched as awareness returned and with it visible horror at what they’d done, her expression so like the day in the garden that he could have roared in frustration. Wordlessly she stood up and began pulling on her drawers, petticoats and dress. She struggled with the lacings of her corset but when he reached out to help she pulled away. He could only stare helplessly as she armored herself with each new layer.

“Rose, look at me. We must talk.”

But she said nothing. Only when she was fully clothed did she look at him.

He hated the hurt and confusion he saw there. She might look like a wanton goddess, but she didn’t understand the passion they aroused in one another, nor her reaction to it. Which was no wonder, as he wasn’t sure he did either.

“There is nothing to discuss, Mr. Fletcher. I won’t ever let such a thing happen again.”

He strove now to keep himself in control, though his senses were full of her.

“I still want you, Rose,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. “Forget about Will. You belong with me.”

“Belong with you? What are you saying?”

“Let me take care of you. You won’t need to work here or anywhere else,” he said urgently, desperate to convince her.

“Are you offering to marry me, or just bed me?”

“I can’t marry again, Rose. But I’m offering you all that I can. A home, my affection.”

Her mouth opened but no words came out, and she flushed, though with anger now rather than desire. Luke watched the emotions play across her face and knew he was losing her.

“Rose,” he said, moving toward her, needing to touch her. She took a step back.

“None of this should have happened. And it’s not because of Will. That’s over.”

Hope surged in him. “Then what’s stopping you?”

“I never felt for him as I do for you, but at least he didn’t shame me. How can you care for me and ask me such a thing? I deserve better than this.”

“I know you do,” he said, full of regret and need, his desires utterly conflicting. “But I’d give you everything I have.”

“And when you move on? What would you do then, leave me here? Or would I follow you into the wilderness?”

Her eyes looked wild as she stared him down, demanding answers he didn’t have. He knew it was madness, knew he had no right to ask it of her.

“Let me think,” he said. “Perhaps there’s a way…”

Her voice had dropped to a whisper when she spoke again.

“I won’t live my life in shame, or bring shame on my family.”

The exuberant voices of men coming down to bathe came closer. They would be upon them soon.

“Let us talk about this somewhere else. We can’t stay here.”

“No, we’ll finish this now,” she said her chin coming up with fierce pride. “I don’t understand what it is you do to me…”

“Rose, don't,” Luke said, reaching for her.

“Leave me be. I can’t do what you ask. Please don’t ask it of me again.”

Luke let his hands fall to his sides as despair shot through him. He'd never seen anything so lovely or heartbreaking as her face, lit by the dappled forest light, as she turned from him and disappeared into the trees without a sound, as if he’d only imagined her.

Chapter Eight

Thank goodness Lydia wasn’t in their room when she returned, for she couldn’t have withstood her scrutiny. Sitting on the bed in her damp dress, her hair in a tangle down her back, she closed her eyes as the full weight of her sadness and crushing disappointment descended over her.

For just a moment she’d thought he was asking her to marry him, and she’d felt only elation. No fear or doubt or guilt. Never mind that the idea was impossible. Her heart knew nothing of right or wrong, what was possible and what was not. She hadn’t thought she could be any sadder than she’d been after she turned him away in the garden, but this was worse. For just a moment it had seemed she might have the man she loved.

Her feelings in a constant turmoil, it was a relief to be back at Vivian’s the next day, where calm and order reigned. Her friend looked at her with concern, but almost immediately presented Rose with a small package from Aunt Olivia that had arrived only the day before.

It was the first correspondence she’d received since informing her aunt about Will. Ever since sending the letter she’d worried that Aunt Olivia would think it yet another poorly considered decision. It was with considerable relief that she read her aunt’s supportive reply.

I know you have not made this decision lightly, and that you have struggled with your feelings about Will for some time. I confess I was always fond of him, and liked knowing you would be well taken care of, but more than once your father expressed concern that you and he were ill-suited to one another. It seems he was right. I trust that someday you will find the right man, one who will bring you all the joy you deserve.

Tears came to her eyes as she read, and it seemed for a moment as if her father were smiling down on her, pleased that she’d made the right choice, however difficult it had been.

But the letter did not end there, for her aunt went on to relate shocking news. It seemed a farmhand had come across a glove buried in the dead leaves of their woods very near where her father had died. Immediately suspicious of the fine workmanship and singed leather, he connected it at once to Peter’s murder and brought it to her aunt.

There was something in the parcel, something soft pushed into the back of the box. Reaching in, Rose pulled out the glove.

“What is it?” Vivian asked.

Too dazed to explain, Rose handed Vivian the letter. Vivian read it in amazement and looked up, her eyes wide. “Oh, Rose. What’s to be done with it?”

“The name of the maker is sewn into the glove. Bailey and Sons. Have you heard of such a place?”

“Yes, I believe I have. It's very near the Common. We could walk to it from here.”

“I must go at once. This could be the proof that I need.”

“Yes, of course. We'll go now,” Vivian said, standing up.

“I can do this myself,” Rose told her. “You needn’t worry.”

“As if I'd let you leave on your own,” Vivian replied, looking insulted at the suggestion. “I'm going to pretend I didn’t hear that. I'll just tell Father we're going for a walk. I won’t be a moment.”

Unable to keep still, Rose paced the room while she waited for Vivian. This new evidence was just the thing she needed to renew her faith in her plan. She would find out whether Mr. Byrne, or any of the Fletchers for that matter, were customers at the store. If so, she would find a way to get the information she needed.

Looking down at the glove in her hand, she was suddenly overwhelmed by it, as if the glove itself were somehow malevolent and capable of harm. Her father's murderer had worn it, of that she was sure. Turning it over she saw the singe marks of which her aunt had written.

The room swam in front of her and she sat down heavily, waiting for the world to stop its sickening spin.

Dimly she heard Vivian return. “Rose? Rose, are you ill?”

“I’ll be fine in a moment.”

Vivian looked unconvinced, but Rose forced a smile.

“It’s just such a shock,” she said quietly. “All this time I’ve been looking for some kind of evidence, and now that I have it, I can hardly stand to touch it.”

“Who could blame you?” Vivian said, squeezing Rose’s hand in sympathy. “I’ll put it in your reticule and you can keep it out of sight as much as you want.”

The streets around the Common were full of mothers pushing babies in prams, and young men and women exchanging long looks as they passed each other. She and Vivian had been walking for several minutes when Vivian stopped. “This is it,” she said with a nervous whisper.

They were standing in front of a storefront, its white and green awning flapping softly in the breeze. Rose looked at Vivian, who gave a smile of anxious encouragement.

Squaring her shoulders, head held high, Rose took a deep breath and opened the door.

The store was dim and warm, filled with the comforting smell of leather. The man behind the counter looked up as she entered. Rose judged him to be about Jonas Fletcher’s age, a stout, balding man with a red face. She forced herself to smile as she approached him.

“Yes, miss. What can I do for you today?” he asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.

“I wonder if you can help me. My mistress would like a pair of gloves made for her son. He's forever losing the ones he has. He gets his gloves made here and she’s hoping you keep records of past orders. Measurements perhaps, or the style,” Rose finished, her chest tight with anxiety.

“Well now, as a matter of fact I do. At least, I keep them for a few years. If he's ordered anything from me in that time, I should have something. What's his name?”

“Nathan Byrne.”

“Let me take at look in my files. You ladies have a seat, “ he said over his shoulder, disappearing behind a curtain.

“Rose, that was brilliant,” Vivian said excitedly, making an effort to keep her voice low. “I can't believe how clever you are.”

“Let us hope he finds something. Otherwise my cleverness won’t count for much.”

The two of them sat down on a bench to wait, but Rose found she couldn’t keep still. Getting up, she perused the goods on display – gloves, shoes and boots of all styles, riding whips and crops, fine saddlebags. At last the curtain parted and the proprietor came out, a sheaf of paper in his hands.

“Looks like I might have what you need. I have an order for a Nathan Byrne from a year ago. I have the measurements, so making another pair wouldn’t be any trouble.”

Rose brought the soiled glove out and laid it on the counter.

“Does this fit your record of it?”

Picking up the glove with a frown at its condition, he smoothed it out on the counter and began to measure it. Rose gripped Vivian’s wrist below the edge of the counter but tried to appear unaffected.