Tori Phillips (14 page)

Taking a deep breath, Rosie lifted her chin, and assumed all the dignity she could muster. Squeezing her cold hand for reassurance, Andrew led her past the greasy seller of flesh. As they swept by him, Quince doffed his stained cap.

“Good day, my lord and lady,” he greeted them in a smarmy voice.

Andrew pretended that he did not hear the man, though he watched his every move out of the corner of his half-lidded eye. Quince did not slacken his pace but kept on going, bowing and scraping to every gentleman in the throng. After a few tense minutes, Quince completely disappeared.

“Be light of heart, Rosie. He is gone.”

She shivered and still clung to his sleeve. “He will beat me within an inch of my life if he realizes he just bowed to me. God’s teeth! If I were a man, I would cut out his heart in this marketplace!”

One corner of Andrew’s mouth twisted upward in a sneer. “Trust in me. I will render that piece of crow’s meat into thin strips of parboiled fat if he ever again lays but a finger upon you.”

She snorted in an unladylike fashion. “Trust, my lord? You speak very bravely—for now—but what will become of me in July, I wonder?” She did not look at him, but stared straight ahead. Her green eyes hardened into chips of ice.

Andrew did not know how to answer her. He was not sure what would happen to her once her brother knew of her existence. As he wrestled with this dilemma, he
noticed a hanging sign that proclaimed the wares of a goldsmith from Flanders.

He welcomed the reprieve. “July is far away, but look what is here before us now!” He pulled her into the three-sided tent.

Rosie’s solemn expression melted when she saw the glorious golden array spread out on a board covered with black velvet. “By my troth, my lord! Tis like someone caught the sun and conjured its beams into the metal. Haint eve…I have never seen the like,” she breathed.

“Nor I,” Andrew replied, basking in her happy glow. Rosie should smile more often. Her lips were made for laughter—and for kisses. He cleared his throat.
“Ladies
are always decked with the finest of the jeweler’s art, and so shall you be. Which one do you like?” He pointed to a row of delicate gold chains.

She shook her head gently. “Ye…you cannot be serious. Twill cost all your prize, my lord. These are too fine for me.”

Andrew smiled at the stall keeper. “My lady is overcome with the beauty of your art, good master. Allow us a moment to catch our breath.” Then he bowed his head over her and murmured, “Banish your past, sweet Rosie, and enjoy what this day brings.”

She leaned back and gazed into his eyes. “Teach me how I should forget to remember, my lord.”

Her soft-spoken plea impaled his heart. He smoothed her brow with his thumb. “If I could, I would wipe away all your sorrows until your memory was newborn. Allow me to begin by draping you with sunshine.”

Turning back to the display, he lifted a gold chain of exquisitely fashioned roses. “Here is a fitting necklace—roses for my Rose.” He placed it around her neck and closed the clasp.

With a look of awe, she touched one petal, then another as if they might disappear at any moment. “Tis cool against my skin.”

Cocking his head, Andrew admired the effect. “You will warm it soon enough.”
I am already on fire.

“Haint ever touched real gold afore,” she whispered.

He cheerfully excused her lapse in vocabulary. “Tis your beauty that enriches the work.” He turned to the goldsmith and spent a few challenging minutes while they haggled over the price. The necklace took most of his purse, but no matter. At this moment, Andrew felt far richer than his marriage to a wealthy wife had made him.

Rosie closed her hand over his. “My lord,” she whispered as if they were in a church. “This necklace has cost ye far more than your wager. Are ye sure that—”

He stopped her mouth with a kiss.

A
ndrew had planned only to brush lightly against Rosie’s lips, but once he touched their petal-softness and tasted the heady wine of her sweetness, he could not stop. Like a thirsty man in a parched desert, he gathered her closer to him and drank deeply from her wellspring.

At first Rosie stiffened with surprise, though she did not push him away. Then, as his tongue traced the soft fullness of her lips, she relaxed into his embrace. As he moved his mouth over hers, she returned his kiss with a passion that belied her outward calm.

Raising his head, Andrew gazed into her liquid eyes. “Ah, Rosie,” he breathed. “You have bewitched me.”

She ran the tip of her pink tongue around her lips, still moist and swollen from his kiss. “Is that what it is, my lord, or something else?”

He swallowed.
She thinks I expect payment for my gift. God help me, she is right. “
If I have offended you, my sweet Rosie, allow me to take back my sin.” With a teasing smile, he bent down to kiss her again.

Rosie closed her eyes and rose on tiptoe to meet his embrace.

A harsh guffaw stopped them. “Casting pearls before swine, Ford?”

Andrew looked over his shoulder and clenched his jaw. Sir Gareth Hogsworthy, flanked by his minions, stood just outside the entrance to the goldsmith’s tent.

The knave curled his lip. “I asked if you were decking a pig.”

Rosie reacted angrily at the sneer of contempt in the man’s voice. “Go to, ye waggish, evil-eyed moldwarp!”

Andrew put his arm around her shoulders. She shook with her fury. He gave her a little squeeze. “Tush, my dear. Pay him no mind. He crawled out from under a rock and is of no consequence.”

Gareth swaggered nearer. He eyed Rosie’s gold necklace. “Tis a sad waste of the jeweler’s art to hang such a pretty piece on a whore.”

She struggled against Andrew’s grasp. “Bladder of lard!”

Several of the bystanders laughed at her apt remark.

Andrew tightened his hold on her. He feared she might attempt to do bodily harm on the reeky cad. “Remember you are a lady now, Rosie,” he cautioned her in a low tone. “And ladies do not answer remarks tossed by the riffraff.”

Gareth planted his feet wide apart and put his hands on his hips. “If that creature is a lady, I will eat my hat!”

Andrew chuckled to himself.
Rejoice in your ignorance, Hogsworthy. I would not give you twenty-four hours to live if the truth were known.

Aloud, he said, “That savory dish can be arranged in good time.” To the onlookers he added, “Pray you, good people, forgive my lord’s vile temper. Tis an unfortunate affliction that he has borne since childhood. He
would strike up an argument with his own shadow if there were no other victims in sight. My lord, we bid you good day.”

He led Rosie past the glowering knave. Gareth grabbed him by the shoulder and wheeled him around to face him. The man stank of poor wine. “Hold, Ford! I will take what I have paid for—now.”

Rosie backed away.

Andrew chuckled nastily. “Not today—or ever, my lord. A fool and his money are often parted.” He shook himself free of Gareth’s grip, then took Rosie by the arm. “Speak to Master Quince, not to me,” he called over his shoulder in parting.

Looking back at the irksome man, Rosie gasped. “My lord! He has a knife!”

Andrew whirled as Hogsworthy lunged at him with a wicked-looking dagger clasped in his fist. He sidestepped the blow’s full impact. The blade tore into his padded sleeve. A searing, burning pain coursed down his left arm. Still in motion, Andrew tripped his opponent. The heavier man fell facedown into a stinking puddle of mud and manure.

Just then Brandon and Jack stepped out of the crowd. With a boyish grin, Brandon placed his boot on Hogsworthy’s rump. “The footing is tricky hereabout, eh, my lord?”

The crowd laughed with appreciation.

Encouraged, Brandon drew his sword from his scabbard. “If you desire a bit of play before supper, I am your man.” He tickled Gareth behind the ear with the point.

Andrew groaned. He had no desire for his headstrong former pupil to tangle with the maddened Hogsworthy. Alicia would kill Andrew if Brandon were injured.
“Give way, my boy.” He smiled despite the pain in his arm. “Do not blunt your blade on that thick gentleman.”

Brandon bared his teeth with a sardonic smile. “Take our old teacher back to his tent, Jack. I will linger here awhile and amuse myself.”

Andrew wished he had the strength to cudgel the hothead. “Brandon—” he began, but Jack stepped between them and took hold of Andrew. He wrapped Andrew’s good arm around his shoulder.

“Peace, old man,” Stafford murmured as he half dragged, half carried his mentor out of the goldsmith’s tent “They say that when age is high, the wit burns low. Come along!” He glared at Rosie. “And you, too, wench. There may be some use for you yet.”

“Jack!” Andrew retorted more sharply than he had intended. “Curb your tongue. Rosie is a lady and you would be wise to remember that.”

Stafford snorted. “This jest of yours grows stale. When you sink to a public brawl over a common whore—”

Andrew summoned his strength in his good arm, and cuffed Jack. The blow staggered the youth and both men almost fell. “I’ll thank you to keep a chivalrous tongue in your head!”

Jack tightened his hold on him. “Zounds, graybeard! You still have a mighty clout—and a blind eye.” He shot another scowl at Rosie who followed behind them.

Andrew prayed his young lady would curb her quick tongue. Her temper matched Jack’s and he did not have the energy to keep them from tearing into each other. Thankfully, Rosie said nothing.

How had the bright day turned so black? she wondered. She clutched Andrew’s feathered hat as Jack led
the way through the encampment. Every so often, Andrew turned his head and give her one of his endearing smiles. She tried to smile back, but the bright crimson stream of blood that soaked his sleeve and dripped from his fingers terrified her. His complexion had lost its healthy glow and assumed a grayish pallor. He now looked as old as his years.

Misery hung like a millstone around her neck.
Tis my fault, damn my cursed tongue!
She shouldn’t have insulted Sir Gareth. After all, she was his inferior. She could wind up in the stocks for her offense, or worse, handed over to that vile lord for his own cruel punishment. Judging the black look on Jack’s face, Rosie knew she would receive no sympathy from him. Stafford would probably drag her back to Quince.

A low groan escaped Andrew. Rosie hurried to his side.

“Don’t touch him!” Stafford’s voice lashed her as painfully as a whip.

“Peace, Jackanapes,” Andrew slurred. “Tis only a scratch, but the churl has ruined one of my favorite doublets. Imported from Italy.” He smiled to Rosie. “Bloodstains are the very devil to remove, you know.”

She placed her finger on his lips. “Hush, my lord. You strain yourself.”

Andrew kissed her fingertips. “Sweet Rosie.”

“A canker rose,” Jack muttered.

Her breath burned in her throat, though she answered nothing. A terrible bitterness mingled with frustration engulfed her. She swallowed the sob that rose in her throat.
No tears now!
She gritted her teeth.

Jeremy had not yet returned from his afternoon of pleasure seeking when Jack dragged Andrew inside his pavilion.

“Not on the bed, I pray you. I have only three sets of linens with me.” Andrew pointed to his chair. “Put me there.”

Once seated, he assumed more control of the situation, though the effort cost him. “Jack, pour me some redeeming wine. The jug is hereabout. Rosie, open that.” He pointed to a brass-bound trunk. “In it, you will find a leather chest. Aye, good girl.”

“Ha!” sneered Jack, handing Andrew a brimming goblet. “Good for nothing but trouble.”

Andrew’s eyes darkened. “One more word against my lady, and I will kick your carcass out of here. You test my patience to the limit.”

Jack said nothing in return, but drank down a large mouthful of the wine. Rosie ignored him. She poured water from the bedside ewer into a wooden bowl, then soaked a piece of linen in it.

Andrew watched her preparations with nodding approval. “Untie my sleeve, sweetheart. As for my shirt, I fear tis a complete loss. Pity. I shall miss it.”

“God’s death, Andrew!” Jack exploded. “Cease this puling over your deuced wardrobe!”

Andrew raised his brows, then gave Rosie a wink. “Methinks our Jackanapes does have a heart after all. Can it be he is actually worried over my personal wellbeing?”

“The devil take you,” Stafford muttered, pouring another drink.

Rosie said nothing. Using the gentlest touch, she cut away the gory sleeve. She sucked in her breath when she saw the extent of the damage. Hogsworthy’s dagger had sliced a thin path from the elbow to the wrist. Blood continued to gush from the wound.

“Do not faint on me now, my dear,” Andrew murmured.

She wrinkled her nose and fought a wave of dizziness. “Haint ever fainted.” She wrung out the cloth and blotted the mess.

Andrew clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Ah, sweet Rosie, I shall have to deduct a penny for that lapse. You know better.”

She didn’t look up at him. “With all due respect, my lord, shut up.”

Jack choked with rage.

Andrew merely chuckled, then held up his good hand. “No offense, Jack. I deserved that rebuke. Besides, Rosie gets her temper from her…an ancestor, no doubt.” He watched her efforts to staunch the blood. “Hmm. Open the chest and find a small blue glass bottle.”

Such a rarity was hard to miss. Rose held up the rounded vial. Andrew nodded. “Excellent! Uncork it and pour some of that powder into the wound—just a pinch. Tis made from the horn of a unicorn.”

Awed by the mere name of that magical animal, Rosie carefully opened the bottle then sprinkled a glistening path of white powder down the length of the wound. She corked the bottle with reverence.

“There is a needle in that wooden cylinder and you will find a skein of black thread. Aye. Thread the needle and sew me back together again.”

Rosie thought she would gag. “Stick a needle in ye?”

Andrew’s smile broadened. “Aye. Do not worry twill hurt me, my dove. I hurt enough as it is. A little more pain is nothing.”

Jack hunkered down beside Andrew’s chair. “He used to sew us up after a few misdirected cuts with a broadsword,
wench. I’ll hold his arm steady. You mind that you make a neat job of it.”

Andrew sighed and rested his head against the high back of the chair. “Jackanapes, you and I must confer about your insufferable lack of good manners. However, now is not the time. Two boons I beg of you. First, before sweet Rosie gives us a demonstration of her needlework, I desire another draft of that good wine. Second, I bid you swear upon…upon your dear mother’s soul that you will not utter one more word against this much maligned maiden.”

Jack poured the wine, then held the goblet to Andrew’s lips while he drank. A shadow of annoyance crossed his face. “I do swear that I will say nothing ill to…Rosie,” he repeated in a chill tone.

Andrew waved away the drink. “Excellent! Thus fortified, I am ready. Commence your handiwork, my dear.”

The first stitch was the hardest. Rosie wavered when Andrew sucked in his breath at her first stab. Then he began to whistle through his teeth while she made several more stitches down his arm. True to his word, Jack held Andrew’s arm steady. He sighed with relief when Rosie knotted the final stitch and cut the thread.

Andrew stretched out his legs. “Now, more wine— not for my mouth, but pour it over my arm. Hold!” He pointed to the bowl full of bloody water. “I prefer my wine in a goblet or in me—but not on my rug. Jack, hold the basin and catch the runoff. Rosie, begin!”

He moaned when she did so, and gritted his teeth. When she had liberally washed his arm with the wine, she patted the injury dry. Andrew closed his eyes.

“You will find rolled bandages in the bottom section
of the chest. Two should suffice,” he instructed. “Bind me snug.” His voice drifted.

Rosie located the clean linens. Deftly, she wound them around his forearm, taking care to keep the material free of wrinkles.

“You have the light touch of an angel,” Andrew murmured.

“My foster brothers and sisters often cut themselves, my lord. There were seven children and it seemed one of them was always in bandages.”

Andrew nodded his head, though he kept his eyes closed. “Seven is a mystic number. Now, Rosie, this is ‘ one more thing I need. Look for a small wooden box marked Poppy.”

She bit her thumbnail. “I cannot read, my lord.” There were at least a half-dozen boxes in the medicine chest.

Jack pointed to a small, fantastically carved one. “That.”

She gave him a quick look out of the corner of her eye. “My thanks, Lord Stafford,” she muttered.

Andrew droned on. “You will find a small spoon made of horn.”

He shifted in his seat and winced with pain. “Now, find a clean cup, measure out one small spoonful of the poppy—not too much—and add water. Mix well.” His voice sank into a whisper.

Rosie followed his directions, though her hands shook. Meanwhile, Jack eased Andrew’s boots off his feet, then his doublet and paned breeches. Andrew winced and grunted with each movement. Jack held out his hand for the poppy mixture. His gaze bore into Rosie. Without a murmur of protest, she gave him the medicine. He supported Andrew’s head while he drank it down.

Then Jack stood, and hoisted Andrew to a standing position. “Turn down the bedding,” he told Rosie.

She all but flew to the inner chamber. As soon as she had smoothed the sheets and plumped the pillows as she had seen Jeremy do, she stood back while Jack lowered Andrew into the bed. Jack’s tenderness surprised her.

“Will he be all right?” she asked in a tiny voice.

Jack placed his palm against Andrew’s forehead. “He sleeps, thanks to the poppy. Watch for fever during the night and keep his forehead cool with damp cloth.” He gave her a steady look. “Tis strange for me to see him like this. I was usually the one in bed with something sewed up and drunk on poppy, while Andrew was the one who kept watch all night.”