The Thornless Rose (15 page)

Mary came back, jug in hand, and their eyes shifted to her. “Here’s the ale, then. Give a holler if ye find ye’re needin’ anything else.”

Anne winced at the thought of starting the day with a buzz. “You wouldn’t happen to have any coffee, would you, Mary?”

The housekeeper glanced at Brandon. “Aye, Mistress Anne. The doctor usually takes his after the meal, though I can fix some up now.”

“Yes!” Anne exclaimed with a grin.

Mary’s right eyebrow lifted, and she turned to Brandon. “Doctor? Dost thou want thy coffee now or after?”

“Actually, make it now,” he said. “But just enough for Anne. I’ve too many things to do this morning.”

“Aye, Doctor. I’ll see t’ her coffee straight away.”

He watched Mary’s retreating back. “Anne, please do have a seat.” He took his place at the head of the table. “I shan’t be around much today, I’m afraid. I’ve got some moving to do in the Lady Chapel, and if I don’t get to it, the opportunity will disappear. The hospital is not usually this quiet. An August without the plague is a wonderful thing, so I’ve sent most of the staff on holiday.”

“Okay.” Anne frowned at the pitcher of sour milk. “Thank goodness you’ve got coffee. I don’t suppose there are too many Starbucks around yet, are there?”

“Starbucks?”

Smiling, Anne shook her head. “Oh, nothing. It’s just a coffee company that’s become ubiquitous in... Well, in my time they’re all over London, America, everywhere around the world.”

“Well, coffee is virtually unknown here, but I’ve a Russian patient with connections to Arabia.”

“A Russian?”

“Yes, with the Muscovy Company. He’s got an ulcerated leg and provides me with coffee in return for his treatments. Coffee is frightfully difficult to obtain, since the Arabs have it under lock and key and are loathe to share it with the world, at least in these times. I don’t know how I’ll get any after he’s cured.” Brandon’s mouth twisted into a rueful half-smile. “I suppose, if I were unethical, I could find a way to prolong his treatments indefinitely, but, alas, I guess I’m too fine a bloke. As it is, he and his men have taken quite a risk in getting the coffee here.”

“Oh, Jonathan, I didn’t realize.”

“Not to worry,” he quickly said. “I’m pleased to have you share my coffee.” He indicated the chairs by the fireplace. “They were a gift from another of my patients—rather posh for this place, if the truth be told, but he was insistent.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“Yes, rather. I usually take my coffee by the fire after breakfast. That way I can truly savor it. And you shall do the same.” He looked at her and added softly, “I meant to say, I should very much like it if you joined me there. It might be nice to chat.”

Anne saw a slight flush creep up his neck. A thought struck her—he was lonely. “That sounds great,” she said, seeking to change the subject. “What about tea? I’ve forgotten when it was introduced.”

“It won’t be available here for quite a long while yet, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I see. I’ll miss it.”

“Yes,” Brandon responded. “I dare say I’ve missed having a brew-up, too.”

The conversation lapsed, so they busied themselves at the table. Choosing to be bold, Anne poured some sour milk into her bowl. Tentatively, she touched a piece of bread to the milk and tasted it. It wasn’t that bad, she decided. Something like buttermilk.

Smiling, Brandon uncovered the Marmite. He studied the plastic jar for a long moment.

“What is it, Jonathan?”

“The differences... The jar was made of glass, of course.” He held it up, glancing uncertainly at the lid on the bottom. “The whole bloody thing is upside-down.”

Anne nodded. “You squeeze it out of the bottom now.”

Brow furrowing, Brandon carefully opened the lid and then squeezed a bit onto a piece of bread. After taking a bite, he relaxed back in his chair. “Oh, bloody wonderful! I feared the taste had changed as well, but it’s exactly as I remember.” He looked over at Anne. “Would you like some?”

“Uh, no, thanks,” she spread some jam on a slice of bread and took a bite. “Can’t stand the stuff.”

His eyes twinkled. “I take it you’ve never had a Marmite soldier, then?”

Anne choked. “I beg your pardon?”

He grinned. “A soft-boiled egg with Marmite,” he explained. “It will take but a minute.”

The moments passed as Anne watched him concentrate on his recipe: the slight clenching of his jaw as he tapped open the eggshell, the way he tilted his head to the left as he stirred in the Marmite, a blue-black wisp of hair falling across his brow.

She fought the urge to reach out and brush it aside, to touch him.

“Anne?”

His voice seemed to float to her.

“Your Marmite soldier, m’lady.”

She blinked as he held out a spoonful, his expression so open in his desire to please. Yet she couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at the thought of how he’d just ruined a perfectly good egg.

“Trust me, Anne. I’m certain you’ll think it utter ambrosia.” He looked straight into her eyes and smiled.

Her heart pounded—he was
that
sexy.

Fingers trembling, she took the spoon from him. The taste didn’t really register at first. The mingling of the salty Marmite and egg was exactly what she’d expected. It was his eyes; this close she could see his deep-blue irises were flecked with violet.

He sat back and she swallowed hard.

“Jolly good, isn’t it?”

She nodded dumbly.

“Yesterday, I was full of questions for you, Anne. Have you any for me?”

She felt almost afraid to speak, fearing her voice would crack. “Well, er, Mary,” she swallowed again, “Mary knew about what you told the queen, about our nuptials, as she called them. How would she know about that? It was just a cover.”

“Oh, I...” Brandon nervously adjusted the front of his doublet, obviously striving for composure. “I’m afraid we have no choice. We must wed, else you’ll be a woman utterly alone.”

“But there were independent women in the old days. Some were widows, who continued to run their husbands’ businesses, and others had the means––”

“That is the key,” he interrupted. “They had means. What do you have? You have nothing. No livelihood, no family, no protection.”

She sat mute. She should have been offended, but instead she realized the truth in his words.

“We must go ahead with the wedding, Anne, in spite of what I said yesterday about this being a fiction. With what I told the queen, with Norfolk, well, they will be keeping an eye on us from now on. For whatever reason, I believe Norfolk will pounce if you’re not put out of his reach.”

“But––”

“No, I’ve given this much consideration. The sooner we do this, the better.”

“Don’t I get any time to think about this?”

“I’m very much afraid the decision has already been made for us,” he said firmly.

“But how is this going to work? I mean, you and me... I don’t even know you! Besides, you were with my grandma!”

His gaze darkened, his eyes steely-blue. “I understand your concerns, but let me reassure you, Anne, that Catherine and I never had a physical relationship. I treated her with honor and respect, as I will you. My intentions are beyond reproach. I would never force myself on you. I do this for your safety, not for my own ends.” He stood. “Furthermore, it is very much out of our hands, I’m afraid, in spite of any personal unease we may feel. We must marry, for in so doing, you become my property, and Norfolk can have no justifiable claim on you. Neither of us has an option in this.”

Stunned, Anne blurted her thoughts. “And love’s got nothing to do with it, right?”

The muscles along Brandon’s jawline flexed. “If, in time, you should find someone to love, of course I shall acquiesce to a quiet annulment.” He gave her a curt nod. “However, for now, we
must
marry.”

He turned and left the room, but his words hung in the air with a finality that took her breath away.

…

Anne leaned against the outer door of the Lady Chapel. The strain of everything she had experienced in the last few days made her head spin. She took a few gulps of air and tried to will away her doubts, but then admitted she had no clue as to what to do next, no idea how to say yes to a marriage—and all it ought to entail—with Jonathan Brandon.

The confirmation that her grandmother and Brandon never had sex answered a question she’d hardly worried about, since she’d always assumed Catherine hadn’t done it with anyone but her grandfather, Arthur Howard. Anne and Catherine had never actually talked about it, though, and it was good to know for sure.

Given her growing attraction for Brandon, she felt relief and appreciation for his candor.
How could any red-blooded woman resist him?

Her cheeks burned as she visualized the tall, handsome Englishman. Those eyes. That smile. His strong, powerful hands. She shook her head. Despite what he’d said about eventually giving her an annulment, the way he sometimes looked at her... Well, something was up with him, too.

She chuckled at the double entendre and realized beyond a doubt if she had met him in a pub in modern London, she would have done her best to catch his eye, to invite the touch of his hands. And once he started touching, she knew she wouldn’t want him to stop.

Regardless of what he’d said about his honorable intentions—and her vow to never let him suspect she was wildly attracted to him—she couldn’t help wondering what would happen after the ceremony...sharing a bed night after night.

She thought back to breakfast, remembering his sexy smile as he’d held forth the spoon.
Oh God, I wanted to take it in my mouth…the spoon…him. That’s one soldier I wouldn’t mind slathering in Marmite!

This was becoming way too complicated. If she kept allowing her fantasies to run wild, he would figure her out.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Resting her face against the heavy, wooden door, she felt the coolness of it on her cheek, smelled the faint scents of ancient oak and varnish.
Get a hold of yourself.
You’ve got to stay strong where Jonathan Brandon is concerned. You can’t act like a fool.

Anne straightened up, knocked, and went inside. After letting her eyes adjust to the dimness, she glanced about, saw the entrance to the choir, and was instantly reminded of the niche by Rahere’s tomb, where she had hidden her things.

Just then, Brandon appeared from around a corner, wiping his hands on a rag. “Anne?” he asked, surprised. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I just remembered something,” she said. “The other day I stashed some of my stuff in the church. You know, passport and credit cards.”

“Credit cards?”

“You use them instead of money,” she explained as she led him to the hiding place. She got down on her knees and reached into the recess. “I didn’t want to be walking around with––”

Nothing
, she thought as her hand rifled through empty space.
Nothing!
The sudden chasm in the pit of Anne’s stomach utterly matched the void at her fingertips. The niche was empty—
no wait, wait
. There was something in the back, something flat and square. A book?

She pulled it out and stared
. A Tudor History
.

“What is that?” Brandon interrupted her thoughts.

“A book from Grandpa’s library.” In her panicky haste to shove things into the hiding spot, Anne hadn’t paid attention to the book, hadn’t realized her grandmother had clandestinely stashed it in her bag.

She thrust her hand back in the hole and felt something wrapped in paper. Pulling it out, she stared at the pharmacy bag: the penicillin.

Then the full reality of the nearly empty niche hit her. Where was everything else? Who had taken it?

She turned. Through a haze of fear and desperation, she managed to say, “Do you have my stuff?”

“What?”

“My cell phone! My passport! All my things! Where are they?”

“I have no idea where they are, Anne.”

A vision of Jack’s ugly face rose before her eyes. “Did one of those creeps take it?”

Brandon’s eyes narrowed. “You mean those blokes connected with Norfolk?”

“Yes,” Anne whispered, terrified by the implications.

“Bloody hell, come on.” He took the bag and book, then led her to the Lady Chapel.

After seating her at the table, Brandon stepped away for a moment. Despite her fears, she couldn’t help looking at the new bed in the center of the room, his bed.

“Drink,” he commanded, placing a mug before her. “It’ll calm you down and give you time to think.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“Drink. Doctor’s orders.”

She took a sip—ale.

“What do you remember, Anne? You must tell me everything that happened since you arrived, absolutely everything.”

“Oh, crap, so much has happened.”

“Try,” he urged. “It is extremely important.”

She took another sip and stared at the bag, trying to gather her thoughts. “That’s something else Grandma wanted you to have. It’s penicillin. Thank goodness it wasn’t stolen.”

He blinked. She thought she detected a quiver of interest pass through his body as he studied it, but then he shook his head.

“Anne, I’ll put the book and penicillin in my strongbox to keep them safe. Now do tell me everything. If I’m to help you figure this out, I need to hear it all.”

“Okay, okay.” She began to speak, slowly at first, then with more vigor, taking her time, recounting every blessed thing that had happened, until her mind felt numb, the mug drained, and her bladder full.

“So, Norfolk knows Will, Jack, and Nell, does he?” Brandon rubbed his face, puzzled.

“Yes,” Anne said.

“I’m more and more convinced Will and Jack were the...” He glanced down at his hands for a moment, mouth twisted in concentration, and then, quite suddenly, he brought his head up. “Blast, don’t you see? One of those scoundrels stole your things from the niche and knifed our bishop.”

“It had to be Will.”

“Will followed you in here,” Brandon agreed. “Then he and his filthy friend––”

“Jack.”

“Yes, Jack took you to the brothel, and one of the bastards gave your things to Norfolk.”