The Greatest Lover in All England (16 page)

“Don't tell Rosie,” Sir Danny begged. “She spoke with him before he left.”

Tony sought Rosie's gaze with his. “I know.”

“She's likely to blame herself for his defection. She won't tell me, but I think she rejected him.”

Tony
did
know that Rosie had spoken to Ludovic.
Hal had seen them sneaking into the garden together, and reported the matter to his master.

Tony didn't believe Rosie was capable of deceit, but to whom did she owe her loyalty? Would she have warned Ludovic that Tony suspected him of violence? He very much feared she would, and now, despite the efforts of his huntsmen, Ludovic was out of reach, yet only too close.

“Sir Danny.” Lady Honora's voice vibrated with enthusiasm. “Your swordsmanship is awe inspiring.” As they reached the top step, she added graciously, “As is yours, Anthony.”

Tony grimaced. He wanted Rosie's praise, not Lady Honora's.

But Rosie had eyes only for Sir Danny, and those eyes were narrowed in foreboding. “Your swordsmanship
has
improved, Dada.” She intercepted Sir Danny before he could go through the doors into the manor. “Why?”

The name she called him staked a claim, the bald query proved she'd noticed their incessant practice, and her hostile stance proved she suspected the cause.

“Ohh.” Sir Danny skipped backward a step. “When I have a tutor as proficient as Sir Tony, 'tis a shame not to take advantage.”

He tried to go around Rosie, but she thwarted him. “You haven't been practicing
Hamlet
at all. How will the troupe perform when you leave Odyssey Manor?”

“Trying to get rid of me?” Sir Danny pinched her cheek.

She bore it stoically. “When
do
you plan to leave Odyssey Manor?”

Lady Honora came to the rescue. “Lady Rosalyn! One does not invite guests to leave in such a manner. Especially not a guest as cultured as Sir Danny.”

“I'm not inviting him to leave,” Rosie said through clenched teeth. “I'm wondering when he's planning
to leave. Those are two entirely different inquiries.”

Lady Honora acknowledged that Rosie might know her guardian. “Sir Danny, is Lady Rosalyn aware of something we should know?”

Tony waited, sure Sir Danny would have to announce his departure now.

But Sir Danny clasped his fists to his breast. “Rosie realizes I cannot remain here forever, for performance is to me what wind is to the wild gull. I cannot fly, I cannot live, I cannot
be
without it, and the time is rapidly approaching when I must take to my wings and soar away.” He gazed soulfully at Lady Honora, then in a normal tone of voice, added, “But not tonight.” Slipping around Rosie, he took Lady Honora's arm and hustled her inside. “Tonight we feast, drink, and dance while finding pleasure in the company.”

“That man is plotting something.” Rosie turned to Tony. “What is he plotting?”

Tony loved the look of her—eyes flashing, chest heaving, cheeks aglow with fury. He loved knowing that she'd rage and fume when Sir Danny made his announcement, for in the correct hands, rage could be transformed into desire. With a grin, Tony looked down. Aye, he had the correct hands.

“Why are you grinning?”

He had the right lips, too, and when he kissed Rosie…

“Get that look off your face right now.” She shook a finger at him, and he caught it and bussed it. She snatched it away with an exclamation of frustration. “You men always collaborate. You're not worth a pence, any of you!”

She marched away and he still grinned. Frustration and rage—a volatile mixture, and one he could exploit for their mutual pleasure. Ah, tomorrow would be an exciting day.

 

Today was the worst day of his life.

“Lady Rosalyn, this is an improper way for a gentlewoman to behave.” Lady Honora looked the image of a stern taskmaster, but her voice wavered slightly.

“Rosalyn, you must come in. The wind is cold and from the look of the sky, 'twill start raining soon.” Shivering, Jean stood so her skirt protected Rosie from the chill of the breeze.

“Rosalyn, dear. Rosie, dear.” Ann knelt beside the girl's hunched figure and rubbed her back. “You mustn't cry so. It'll make you sick.”

It was making Tony sick—sick with worry and self-recrimination. Nothing Sir Danny had said, no assurance he had offered, made an impression on her absolute conviction she would never see him again. She cried the tears of a child abandoned.

“Sir.” Hal crept out of the manor and tugged at Tony's cloak. “Aren't ye going t' make her stop?”

Tony turned on him savagely. “Don't you think I would if I could?” His sisters were looking at him, too, and Lady Honora, but what did they expect him to do? He was a man, terrified of any woman's tears, horrified by this check to his plans for Rosie, and vaguely ashamed of his expectations. He thought he understood women, so how could he have failed to understand what Sir Danny meant to her?

“What does she want?” Lady Honora asked. “Is she trying to get you to give her the estate?”

“Oh, Lady Honora!” Ann looked distressed. “Don't be disagreeable.”

“I'm not being disagreeable. I just don't understand why she's crying like that.” Lady Honora wrapped her cloak tighter around her and stared at Rosie through
sightless eyes. “Sir Danny has made himself amenable to all of us, but none of us are crying just because he left. Just because he's a shallow, selfish actor who left us to visit the fleshpots of London.”

“You can be the most callous witch.” Jean pushed Lady Honora toward the manor. “Go in before you cause more damage.”

“She's just trying to get attention.” Stumbling toward the door, Lady Honora said, “She's trying to gain our sympathy and persuade us we should allow her to marry Tony.”

Standing up, Ann hustled Lady Honora through the entrance. “Leave off.”

“I don't care if she is the heir to the estate, she can't marry Tony. I'm going to many Tony.”

“She can't even hear you.” Jean sounded exasperated.

“I'm going to marry Tony, and no glib, charming actor is going to change my mind.”

Glib, charming actor? Tony rubbed his forehead. Was she referring to Rosie? Or Sir Danny? Why was she so bellicose? So defiant?

Why wouldn't Rosie stop crying?

As if nature aspired to add to the misery, a mist began to fall.

“Fine, “Tony said, as if someone had given him instructions. “I'll take care of her.”

To his distress, no one argued. He gestured to his sisters to go in, and they shivered and obeyed. Hal shifted from foot to foot, staring at Rosie with miserable eyes. “Go in,” Tony commanded. Hal didn't move, and Tony repeated, “Go
in!
”

Shuffling, Hal entered the house, leaving Rosie and Tony alone in the wretched weather.

Kneeling beside her, he called her name. “Rosie.” She huddled inside her cloak and he could see nothing
but her braid and the pale stem of her neck. “Rosie, sweetheart. We have to go in.” Her tears didn't check, and he laid his hand on her back. “Rosie.” He stroked his hands through her hair. “Come, dear.”

Like a turtle leaving its shell, she lifted her head.

She looked awful. Her puffy eyes and splotchy cheeks too clearly expressed her anguish. The rain soaked her hair, the tears drenched her face, and she badly needed a kerchief. Yet he'd never seen a woman who appealed to him more.

He loved her. There was no other explanation. Beneath the lust and the quick-fire attraction lay a bedrock of affection, admiration, and devotion. She needed comfort; he would provide it. He, and no other. “Sweetheart.” He gathered her into his embrace. “Don't cry anymore. I'll take care of you forever.”

The fire burned on
the massive hearth, but the heat it produced could not dent the chill of the master's chamber. Tony pushed Rosie within that embrace and, removing her cloak, threw it into the corner, where it subsided in a sodden mass. She stood cold, unmoving, her face still blotched, but blank, as if she did not know where she was or what person served her.

It horrified him. It made him remember a time when he was a boy, alone in a big house in the north, thrust by his beloved family into the bosom of a frigid clan and abandoned.

Oh, it wasn't true. Even as a child, he'd known it wasn't true. The memory of his mama had burned in
his mind, keeping his spirit alive when the earl of Drebred and his rod would have murdered it. For days, for weeks, for years he had waited to be rescued from Drebred Castle, and at last he'd come to realize he must rescue himself. He'd done it. Damn, he'd done it, but his exile had been too long and too unhappy. Within himself, he was still as sunny a lad as he'd always been, but for a different reason. He knew only too well how quickly life could lose its savor and become a fight for survival. Now he erected bastions around him—bastions of income, of land, of fighting skill, and relentless charm.

Looking at Rosie, limp, still, and silent, recalled his own old hopelessness, and he'd already fought that battle once for himself. Rather than fight it again for Rosie, he wanted to call a maidservant to wait upon her, a doctor to bleed her, and on heaven to cure her ills—and all he dared to do was call on heaven. Rosie was his responsibility now.

Brisk as Jean, kind as Ann, he stripped off Rosie's overskirt and bodice, and went to work on the strings that supported her petticoats. “I don't blame you for being distraught at Sir Danny's leaving today. 'Tis a miserable day for travel. The roads will be a quagmire, but what are his choices? 'Tis St. Nicholas Day tomorrow, and the winter rains have held off long as they're likely, I suspect. The country folk complain if it's a dry autumn and they complain if it's a wet autumn, but they're predicting a long, wet winter.”

She wasn't listening. She turned at his direction, let him remove what he would, but she stared straight ahead as if stunned by events too dreadful to absorb.

He opened the door to the antechamber, a massive room that contained his favorite volumes, a small desk, chests, and tall standing wardrobes filled with clothing,
shoes, and anything else he might need. “Come in here and help me find you something to wear.” Seeing that she followed him, he moved inside, opened a chest, and rummaged through the contents. “After you've made your choice, I'll call a serving maid to help you.”

She made an ugly, broken noise, and he stiffened. Had he erred? “I thought you wouldn't want me to help you, but gladly I will do so, if that pleases you.” He glanced at her, then openly stared at the spectacle of Rosie, groping along a table that didn't exist.

She fondled an invisible post and caressed the air with a knowing touch. In a high, childish tone, she said, “Dada, where's your bed? Have you moved it? That is not your desk. What happened to the carpet? I liked to sink my toes into it.” Then, in a tearful voice, she added, “I didn't take it, Dada. I only touched it. I didn't lose it. Please don't be angry. Please please please.”

Standing, Tony moved slowly toward her. He recognized the dazed expression on her face. He'd seen it many times after the fighting on the Continent. When a soldier had had a leg ripped off by a cannonball, or his best friend had been sliced open before his face, he frequently looked and spoke like Rosie. But what had Rosie done? She'd been upset in the other room, but she'd still been Rosie. Now he didn't know where or who she was. Sliding an arm around her shoulder, lifting her face to his, Tony looked into her eyes. “Rosie?”

“I didn't hide it, Dada.”

Scared, questioning her sanity, he shook her a little. “Rosie?”

Rosie—the essence, the being—snapped back into place. She touched her forehead with her hand as if checking the truth of her existence, then stared at him before mouthing, “Tony.”

She tried to flee, but he held her and she fought
him. When he wouldn't let her go, she buried her head in his chest as if she could hide in his arms, and he gladly gave her shelter.

“He's not here.” Her muffled words sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. “He's not here.”

“Who's not here?” he demanded.

She peeked out and started, and her fear and pain vibrated through him. He glanced around, half expecting to see the shade of Lord Sadler, but nothing stirred the tapestries, no sound disturbed the silence except the rain tapping on the window. “What do you see?” he asked.

“Just a room.” She pointed at the wardrobe. “Was this here before?”

“I brought it from London with me.”

She eased herself away from him. “And the desk.”

“It's mine, also.”

Gaining confidence, she stepped away—but not too far away—and feathered her hand along a narrow table. “But this was in the room before.”

“Aye.”

“And this?”

She picked up one of the carvings Lord Sadler had collected, another Madonna and child. She stroked the smooth wood, and he wondered at the memories cradled in her palms. There was no madness here, Tony admitted, only memories so old they tormented Rosie with their flashes of recollection. If this was to be her home, she couldn't continue denying those memories or her heritage.

“Did your father like that carving?”

“I don't remember.”

“Was this his table?”

“I don't remember.”

She stood absolutely still, yet he sensed the emotion
that roiled beneath her facade. Why was she so angry? So afraid? “Rosie?”

“I don't remember anything. I don't remember this place. I don't remember the man you say is my father.” Setting the carving down hard on the table, she insisted, “I don't remember.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Why not?” She turned on him fiercely. “Why doesn't anyone believe me?”

“Because you are too emphatic.”

“I'm not! I'm—” Taking a breath, she gathered her composure around her. “I've already warned you that I lay claim to Odyssey Manor, so what is the point of your questioning?”

“Rosie.” Going to her, he stroked her cheek with his fingers. “Talk to me. Tell me what you remember. Don't you know you're Lord Sadler's daughter?”

She smiled at him tightly. “Everyone believes I'm Lord Sadler's daughter. Sir Danny says”—her voice shook—“I'm Lord Sadler's daughter. Even you say I'm Lord Sadler's daughter.”

“Aye, so I do.”

“Therefore, I must be.” In a softer voice, she said, “Maybe that's why Sir Danny left me behind.”

Shudders shook her slender frame, and he pulled her into his arms. She shook him off, wanting none of his comfort, and although he understood the strife within her, her rejection hurt.

“Come, then,” he said sharply, leading the way toward the light and warmth of the bedchamber. “You're damp, and this chilly antechamber is no place for a woman who has suffered the loss of one father and the discovery of another.”

She made no move to follow him. She wilted, sliding back into apathy and anguish, and he couldn't allow
that. She had to stay with him, talk to him, become the vivacious woman that lurked beneath the shadow of want and insecurity.

She needed a shock. He glanced around the chamber, seeking he knew not what, and said, “You shouldn't worry about Sir Danny. I sent a letter with him to be delivered to one of my men in the Queen's Guard, and besides, he's as wily an old goshawk as ever I've seen.” His knife. He pulled his fighting knife from his belt and thrust it under her nose.

She saw that. She tried to jump back, but he clasped the strings of her shift. “I'm going to remove your stomacher,” he said. “Don't move.”

“You can't.”

“Watch me.” He sliced the ribbons at the front in one clean slash, made all the more impressive by the sharp edge he honed on his blade. “Oops!” he exclaimed. “Nicked the material. I must not be as proficient as I thought.”

Her eyes widened, and she sucked in her breath.

“I'll have to practice on these.” He cut the strings that held the stomacher together, and the whole contraption fell open.

“Are you deranged?”

He'd succeeded. He'd brought her back to life.

Rosie reacted to his exhibition with fury. “A more childish performance of manly prowess I've never seen.”

Her damp linen above-the-knee shift revealed as much as his had during the sword fight, and she had more to show. Ah, and he wanted to see, but she turned her back and paced toward the bedchamber. The light shone through the fine material and he followed eagerly, captured by the curve of her silhouette.

He latched the cursed door behind him as she stalked to the fire. “Not that I haven't seen other childish perfor
mances. Men are full of them. Once Sir Danny walked the top rail of the Globe and I thought he…” She brushed her hand across her eyes, and her voice wobbled. “Sir Danny…”

Tony realized that her fury was disintegrating into tears again. But these tears were different. Not tears of mourning, but tears of rage.

“How could he have left me here?”

One of her hose drooped, and with her back to him, she tugged at the loose garter. He saw a peek of curly hair when she bent over. He thought his heart would stop and groped for the big chair set within the ring of warmth.

Not that he needed the warmth. Somehow a coal had dropped into his lap and it was igniting his whole body.

“He knows how I feel about losing him. Didn't he understand that if he dies, I die?”

Tony tested his restraint, and didn't grab for her. He tested her knowledge, and asked, “Why should he die now? Why not yesterday? Or tomorrow?”

“Because today he goes back to London where the earls of Essex and Southampton wait for him like vultures wait for carrion. And that's what Sir Danny is to them. Carrion, just—” She turned on him, and the flames behind her almost banished the straight drape of her shift. He couldn't have seen any more if she'd been naked.

The coal in his lap turned from flaming red to intense blue.

“You know why he's gone,” she raged. “You know the danger he's in. How could you encourage him to leave without me?”

How could she fail to notice the glorious agony of his burning? “What possible good would you be to him?”

“I can fight as well as any man!”

“And go to prison as well as any man.” The blaze within him dimmed as his mind brought forth pictures that made him cringe.

“If that be what is required.”

“But you're not a man, and prison has special tortures for women which it reserves almost solely for the fair sex.” Fear stifled his fire, leaving him cool and focused. “And those special tortures would not preserve you from the others which the executioner would call forth.”

“Upon Sir Danny's head.”

Too late he perceived the trap which he had set for himself, but he couldn't deny the truth. “Sir Danny serves the queen unselfishly, for that is Sir Danny's nature. Would you have him be less than what he is?”

“Nay, but I would serve the queen with like generosity.”

“Sir Danny has delayed his service for love of you. He couldn't return to London until he knew you had been settled, for your safety means more to him than his hope of salvation.”

“My safety.” She wrapped her waist in her arms and hugged herself, pulling the shift into her form and up her legs. “I care nothing for my safety if Sir Danny lives not, and am I not the master of my own fate?”

“Nay, for you are the daughter of Sir Danny's heart.”

“You seek to bind me in chains of affection.”

“Methinks you are already bound, at least by Sir Danny.” His voice deepened as his love and his wanting ignited the spark once more. “And the chains with which I seek to bind you owe little to the paltry emotion of affection.”

For the first time, she glanced around and realized they were alone. She glanced down and realized how
scantily the shift covered her charms, and tugged the them of it as if she could stretch it to cover her legs. “What do you intend?”

“What do you think I intend?” He grinned at her trepidation. “I'm going to acquaint you with the running of the estate.
Your
estate. You must know your duties before you present your petition to the queen.”

“Now? You wish to tell me about the estate
now
?”

“Nay, 'tis not what I wish to do.” He stared meaningfully at her body. “But it's what I must do. There's one of my shirts draped over the fireguard. Why don't you trade your wet shift for it?”

She blushed. “Not likely, varlet!”

“It's considerably longer than the one you're wearing.” She still shook her head, and he still smiled. “Think of it as a way to distract me.”

She fingered the massive cream-colored shirt that hung on the metal fireguard. “Silk?”

“I indulge myself.” The smooth pink roundness of her nipples pressed against her shift. If he held them in his palm, they wouldn't be smooth, regardless of her body heat. They would be tight, puckered, and in his mouth.

He must have made her nervous, for she babbled, “I'm accustomed to men seeing me without my clothes, you comprehend.”

He was on his feet without realizing it. “What?”

“I mean that a gentlewoman cannot dress herself without help, and Sir Danny frequently helped me when I prepared for my acting parts.”

Sinking down in his chair, he rubbed his cheek with the flat of his hand. “Certes. I knew that was what you meant.” How evil a man he was, to be jealous of the man who loved her like a father.