Tori Phillips (15 page)

He strode out to the large chamber and poured himself a third cup of wine. Rosie licked her lips, but did not dare to ask him if she might have some as well. As he drank, he looked at her. When he finished, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

“You sew a fine seam.” He poured another cup. “If truth be told, I would have puked my guts had I sewn him up. Here.” He held out the cup.

She all but snatched it from his hand, in case he changed his mind. “Thank you, my lord.” She savored the rich, red liquid.

He gave her a wintry smile. “We are not square yet, Mistress Rosie, but I will honor my vow. Take good care of him, or you will answer to me. Do you mark my meaning?” He seemed to grow in size, filling the chamber with his brooding presence.

Rosie stiffened. “Aye, my lord.”

He nodded once, then turned on his heel and stormed through the tent flaps. She drew in her first deep breath since Andrew had been injured. Though she had never
before thought prayer was worth much, she now sent a swift one heavenward.

The fingers of twilight had already crept through the encampment by the time Jeremy returned to his master’s pavilion. The squire’s smooth face contorted with anger when he saw Sir Andrew and heard Rosie’s tale.

“This comes from playing with a polecat,” he growled, his tongue loosened by wine. “You are to blame for this misadventure.”

Rosie refused to be cowed by the boy, even if he was the son of a gentleman. The tongue-lashing she had endured from Jack had been more than enough. “I did not start the fray. Twas Gareth who drew his knife.”

Jeremy stepped closer until he practically touched her. “Tis no never mind.
You
were the point of their dispute. Twas an ill-favored sea that cast you on this shore.” Icy contempt flashed in his eyes. “Sir Andrew has never before stooped so low for his entertainment. I pray to God that he never will do so again.”

Andrew stirred in his sleep. Rosie brushed past Jeremy. Though she held her head high, his words had pierced her straight to the heart.

Jeremy grabbed her arm. “Stay away from my lord. You have done enough for a lifetime!”

She wrenched free. “He may be fevered. I must keep his forehead cool.”

The squire blocked her. “Nay, guttersnipe. You will not lay a finger on him again. Tis my office to attend my master in his need.” He pointed to his rolled pallet that was stowed between two of the coffers.
“You
sleep there this night. As for the morrow…” He paused, his anger hardening his pretty features. “Let the devil take the hindmost—and you with him!”

Without waiting for her reply, Jeremy entered the bedchamber
and dropped the silk curtain behind him. Rosie stared after him, her emotions in a mad whirl. She wanted to box the boy’s ears yet beg for his forgiveness. His anger was no less than her own for herself. She wandered over to one of the stools, sat upon it and stared out through the parted tent flaps until the sky turned black and the lackeys lit the camp fires.

The only light within Andrew’s tent came from a single lantern in the bedchamber. In the semidarkness, Rosie kicked off her slippers, then struggled out of her wrinkled, stained gown. She gave the garment a cursory inspection. Ruined beyond repair, she thought with a dull ache in her head. She balled it up and tossed it into a far corner. Then she pulled out the pallet, unrolled it as far away from the bedchamber as possible and lay down upon it.

Far into the night, she watched Jeremy’s shadow move back and forth as the squire ministered to his master. Andrew neither moved nor spoke. Only his drugged breathing told Rosie that he lived. She drew her knees up to her chin and allowed a solitary tear to roll’ down her cheek.

Every accusation that Jack and the squire had spoken hammered in her ears. They were right. Andrew would be well and whole this very minute if he had never met her. Instead, come the morning, he would be the laughingstock of the entire English court. She could hear their jeers now. The most fastidious of knights had debased himself for the sake of a barefoot harlot. No doubt, Sir Gareth supped tonight and would dine tomorrow on Sir Andrew’s notable lapse of good taste.

Rosie whispered a curse or two on Hogsworthy. Sir Andrew was the best of the breed. She had almost trusted his glowing promises. Now for his sake, she must
end his insane fantasy, since he seemed unwilling or incapable of doing it himself. She would slip away in the darkness, and hide herself among the ragtag throng of camp followers. He would never find her there, even if he had the inclination to search for her. On the other hand, he might awaken tomorrow and be relieved that she had disappeared from his life.

Rosie stared at the drape and tried to imagine Andrew on the other side of it. Now that she had decided to go, she found no comfort in her decision. Her heart twisted with bitter sorrow that she must leave him when he was so ill. She knew he would think she was only a fairweather mistress who ran at the first sign of distress. Good! It would be better if he despised her for her cowardice.

With a sigh drawn from the depths of her despair, Rosie got up and peeled off several of her petticoats, leaving only the plainest to act as a skirt. A pretty gown of taffeta did not belong on a common goose girl’s back. She fingered the gold chain that she still wore around her neck.

She knew she could sell it back to the goldsmith. The money would be enough to buy her passage home to England. And once there she could pursue her dream of a life on her own.

Rosie undid the clasp and held up the chain in the weak light. The golden roses winked at her. Who would believe that a beggar girl in a petticoat rightfully owned such a beautiful and costly thing as this? her common sense asked. She would be arrested for theft and hanged before midday. No one would trouble himself over her fate. Rosie knew she had many faults but stealing was not one of them.

She crossed the rug on noiseless feet, and found Sir
Andrew’s book of songs. Next to it lay one of his fine handkerchiefs. She wrapped the necklace in it, then opened the book and laid the jewelry between the thick pages.
If Andrew chances to think of me at all, he will find his gift here.
She closed the book softly. Then she touched the curtain.

Holding her breath, she lifted a corner and peeked inside. Jeremy sat by the bed, nodding toward sleep. Andrew looked peaceful in his repose, as if he dreamed of angels. She wanted to tiptoe inside and kiss his lips, just once, but Jeremy would pounce on her like a cat on a mouse. Instead, she kissed her fingertips and fluttered them toward her knight.

“Thank you for the lovely dream, my lord,” she whispered. “I shall always remember you.”

She allowed the curtain to slide through her fingers until it hung in place again. Then she turned and crept toward the entrance. After one last, lingering look around the pavilion, Rosie slipped through the flaps. The sleeping guardsman and the two lackeys who drowsed by the fire did not see her melt into the night.

A
ndrew floated to the surface of his dreams. As he awakened, he drew in a deep breath. “Rosie?” he murmured.

“My lord!” Jeremy replied with relief in his voice. “You have slept half the day away.”

Andrew opened his eyes, then grinned at the sight of his hollow-eyed squire. “And I perceive that you have not slept at all. Where is Rosie? Is she also wan and pale with the night watch? By my bones, I feel new made. Where is the lass?”

Jeremy turned away from his master and poured some fresh water into the basin. “She is not here, my lord,” he mumbled.

Andrew detected the boy’s evasiveness at once. He pulled himself into a sitting position. “How now, Jeremy? Where is my young lady?”

The squire flinched. “Gone, my lord,” he finally replied.

Andrew knotted the bedclothes in his good hand.
“You let her wander out alone? You are as dense as pease porridge, you clotpole!”

Jeremy straightened his shoulders and gave his master a hard look. “I did not see her go, my lord. Rugby, who was on guard, said he did not see her on his watch nor did either of the potboys. She stole away like a thief.” The line of his mouth tightened. “No doubt she ran back to her whoremaster with all of your valuables tucked in her apron.”

Andrew glared at his squire. “Methinks there is more to this tale than meets my eye. If you are so certain sure of her thievery, take an inventory.” He spat out his words contemptuously. Inside, he prayed.
Please, Rosie. Do not let me have misplaced my trust.

Jeremy drew nearer to the bedside. “Please calm yourself, my lord. You will break open your wound and excite a fever.”

“I will break open your head if you do not do as I bid, maltworm!”

Clenching his jaw, Jeremy went out of the bedchamber. He swore under his breath as he threw open the chests and coffers. Andrew lay back against his pillows and awaited the verdict while his fears mounted for Rosie’s safety.

“What ho, within!” Brandon shouted from outside the pavilion. Without waiting for a reply the two brothers entered, accompanied by Lady Alicia and Jack.

The countess proceeded directly into the bedchamber where she seated herself beside Andrew. She produced a covered bowl from her basket. “You’ve done yourself a fine turn this time, Andrew,” she chided as she uncovered the dish and stirred its contents.

His stomach rumbled with hunger at the savory aroma of her soup. “A scratch, my lady, and of no consequence.”
He lowered his voice. “But it appears that Rosie has fled.”

Alicia nearly spilled the soup on the bedcovers. She quickly put the bowl down on the side table. “Where?”

He shook his head. “I know not, my lady.”

Her eyes blazed with blue fury. “Boys,” she called to the three young knights. They tumbled into the bedchamber with jests and quips at Andrew’s plight. “Hold your rattling tongues,” she ordered. “Rosie has gone.”

Brandon shrugged dismissively. “What of that? Good riddance, I say.” He chuckled. “At least, now I am excused from my wager.”

“Dolt!” Andrew was so furious, he could barely speak.

Jeremy reappeared. “All is in order, my lord. She has taken nothing.”

Jack cocked an eyebrow. “Did you find a golden chain of roses?”

The boy shook his head.

“Twas hers to keep,” Andrew mumbled. A pain of emptiness burrowed into his soul and fed both his anger and his fears. “Well, don’t just stand there like great oak trees, you rascals. Find her!”

Jack hunkered down beside the bed. “Peace, old friend. Let her go. Count yourself lucky to be rid of her. Now Gareth will leave you alone.”

Andrew ground his teeth. “I do not fear that puffedup clack! But I do fear what would happen to my sweet Rosie should she fall into his clutches.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand, but a wave of dizziness gripped him. “’Sdeath! I am as weak as a kitten.”

“And as addled as one, too.” Alicia eased him back against the pillows.

His angry gaze swept the faces of the four young men around him. “Find her. Get my men-at-arms and my grooms to help you. Turn this wretched camp upside down and inside out, if you must, but I want my Rosie back here! Now!”

Guy shook his head. “You cannot be serious, Andrew.”

“Tis his fever talking,” Jeremy added.

Andrew grabbed the brass candlestick from the table and hurled it at his squire. The surprised boy ducked. Guy caught the missile before it hit the canvas wall.

Jack’s eyes widened. “God’s nightshirt, Andrew! You have gone mad. You have never lost your temper before—not like this. The chit has bewitched you. You are well rid of her.”

Andrew would have struck the prattling fool if he had the strength, but Alicia took up the argument for him.

“Jack Stafford! You do not know what you are saying. You will swallow your own words one day, I promise it!”

Andrew attempted to control his emotions. “You burn precious daylight. Be gone! Do not come back without her.”

“But she is only a strumpet—” Brandon began.

With a roar, Andrew heaved one of the pillows at him. It struck the knave in the face. “Harken to me, you scantlings. Rosie is no whore. She is a lone, frightened doe lost amongst an army of wolves who would tear her apart if they could. She is more of a lady than many who call themselves by that title, and she deserves your respect and honor.” His head ached as well as his arm. He swore at his weakness.

Alicia rose. Her stately presence commanded silence from all of them. “Fie upon you! You dare to call yourselves
knights? Where did your oath of chivalry fly to? Knighted only two months and you have already lost it? Rosie is a
woman
who needs your protection. Is she not worthy of that?” Alicia looked at each youth in turn.

“I will fight any man who swears she is not,” Andrew added.

Tension thickened until Jack broke it. “I will search for her, old man. I treated her ill yesterday and I am to blame for this mishap.” He looked at Guy and Brandon. They nodded.

Andrew released his pent-up breath. “We are
all
to blame, most especially myself. I took her for a plaything and lost a real lady. Find her for me, boys.”

Alicia’s lips trembled with her fear. “And pray she is safe.”

Without another word, the three young knights left the tent. After sending Jeremy to the vintner’s for a strop of wine, Alicia turned to the patient. “You must tell him soon,” she said. She held out a spoonful of her savory soup.

He nodded. “Aye, as soon as they find Rosie.”

“Pray God they do, or he will hate himself for a lifetime.”

He dredged up a sigh. “I have done nothing but pray since I awoke, my lady. Do you think God will answer such a rake as me?”

Alicia gave him a comforting smile. “You are not as evil as you like to believe, Andrew Ford. Now, open wide.”

The wind off the Channel whipped the dry dust of the Val D’Or into a whirlwind. Guy pulled his hat lower over his eyes and drew his cloak high across his nose and mouth to protect himself from the stinging flecks.
Twas a day to stay inside and amuse oneself with games of chance or love. Few persons ventured forth in this foul French weather. Even the rabble of camp dogs curled themselves into tight furry balls and waited for the windstorm to abate. Guy peered through the swirling dust. Where in God’s name had Rosie found shelter in this?

An hour later, he met Brandon near the eastside stables. “Not in here, nor in any of the hayricks.” The elder Cavendish wiped his tearing eyes with a corner of his cape. “I scouted Gareth’s lair as well. He has a wench, all right, but not our Rosie.”

Guy passed his wineskin to his brother. “Have you seen Jack?”

Brandon took a long swallow, then nodded. “Aye, he questioned the girls at the Golden Cockerel. They swear no one has seen Rosie since the night Andrew bought her.”

Guy chewed on the inside of his cheek and considered their options. “Do you think it likely that she’s fled to the coast?”

Brandon shook his head. “How would she know which way to go? Who can see a hundred feet ahead in this hell’s broth? And she does not speak any French. Nay, the girl is hiding here somewhere. I feel it in my bones.” He handed the wineskin back to his brother. “Go to, Archangel. Mayhap you are truly a blessed guardian after all.”

Guy knotted his fist. “I owe you a drubbing for that, poltroon.”

A half smile crossed Brandon’s face. “At your convenience—later.”

They parted on that note. Seeking temporary shelter inside the stable, Guy wiped the dust out of his face
while he considered where next to look. Then he remembered his father’s hunting lessons. A frightened animal will head for its burrow or to a place where it can become invisible. A slow smiled creased his face. Winding his cloak tighter around him, he plunged back into the lashing wind and headed toward the outer fringe of the camp where the vendors and entertainers huddled.

He spent the next few hours moving from booth to tented shop. Thanks to the ill wind, few patrons strolled among the stalls that day. He met some willing wenches with blond hair and green eyes, but none were Rosie. When he had almost given up, he found her.

A faded-blue kerchief covered her golden curls. With the sleeves of Andrew’s night shirt rolled to her elbows, Rosie labored in the rear of a cook tent. A huge mound of glistening oysters were piled on the wooden trestle table in front of her. Guy pulled his cloak closer to his face so that she wouldn’t recognize him. He lounged in the shadows on an upright keg and drank a mug of ale while he watched her shuck the oysters. The mottlefaced cook shouted at his row of sweating scullions and banged on his kettle of simmering stew for effect. Guy waited until Rosie picked up an empty basket and ducked outside behind the tent. He rose and followed her.

He found her pulling handfuls of oysters out of a large barrel of brine. “Good evening, my lady,” he murmured in her ear.

Rosie shrieked, dropped her basket and tried to run. Guy caught her around the waist and swung her over his shoulder.

“Let me down! Haint done nothing!” She pounded him with her fists.

Guy chuckled as he turned toward Andrew’s bright
pink tent. “Nay? What happened to the necklace you had yesterday?”

She grew very still.

“Spent it already?” he asked.

“Never ye mind,” she retorted.

Guy thought he heard her sniffle a bit.
Serves her right for causing Andrew such distress.

With her head hanging down like a neck-wrung goose, Rosie bumped against Guy’s shoulder. She knew exactly where he was taking her and she tried to quell her rising panic. The constable would never believe her story and she knew that Sir Andrew would not be inclined to testify on her behalf. No doubt he was very angry with her. She closed her eyes. How long would they keep her in the stocks? she wondered. She clenched her teeth to stifle the fears that rose in her throat. She could stand whatever they did to her. The years with old man Barstow had taught her to be strong.

Since she had not seen where Guy was going, she blinked with surprise when he parted the tent flaps and unceremoniously dumped her in the middle of the familiar Turkish rug. There was a general round of “Bravo!” and “Well done!” from the assembled gentlemen.

Sir Andrew, dressed in a fine suit of dove grey taffeta with silver slashings on his sleeves and teardrop pearls decorating the front of his doublet, sat in his high-backed chair. His left arm was held in place by a sling made of scarlet taffeta. Joy at seeing his return to health bubbled in Rosie’s throat, but she scotched her cry of delight when she saw the thundercloud in his expression.
He doesn’t want me. Tis his gold he seeks.

“Haint got your bleeding necklace,” she snarled in her worst accent.

“Found her in an oyster barrel,” Guy announced.

Sir Andrew did not twitch a brow. “Jeremy! Fetch the tub and send the boys for plenty of hot water.”

A plague on it! He’s a-going to drown me!

The squire leapt to the task with a smirk on his face. Rosie hid her trembling hands under her borrowed apron.

Sir Andrew studied her with his enigmatic gaze for several moments while Jeremy sloshed buckets of water into the tub. Then a wry but indulgent glint appeared in the depths of his hazel eyes.

“I perceive that you have spent your day consorting with the lowest sort of the piscine species.” His mouth quirked with faint amusement. “Furthermore, your vocabulary has taken a shocking dip. I fear you have just forfeited two pennies.” He leaned toward her and spoke in a lower, tone. “And I am sure that you did not sell your necklace. You have too much good sense to do that.” His eyes flashed a pleading look.

A flicker of hope warmed her. She wet her dry lips. “Methought ye, that is,
you
would read a good book while I was gone, my lord,” she replied, staring directly at him. “The one I balance on my head.”

With a slow, secret smile, he nodded. “Ah, exactly! Brandon, fetch me my lute book.” He pointed to it.

With a puzzled frown, Brandon handed him the heavy tome. Opening the book on his knee, Andrew found the page where his handkerchief lay. His smile deepened when he lifted the necklace from its folds.

“Behold, my dear! I have found something that has caused great distress among our friends.” He shot them a stern glare. “My lords and squire, I thank you for all
your pains upon my account. As you can see for yourselves, all’s well that ends well. Therefore, I bid you a good evening. That includes you, Jeremy. Keep watch outside and discourage any visitors. I have seen a multitude today.”

The Cavendishes and Jack exchanged startled glances with one another, then they picked up their capes and hats.

Guy gave Rosie a stiff bow. “I crave your pardon, mistress. Henceforth I will be your most humble servant.”

Brandon grinned and shrugged at the same time. “You hoodwinked us all, Rosie. I am the better for your lesson in honesty. Adieu, sweetheart.”

Jack swept her an exaggerated reverence. “And I, not to be outdone by my companions, do judge myself a dolt and ass, and I beg your pardon.”