Defiant Rose (12 page)

The troupe followed Rose, Jake pausing to shake his fist at Michael, who was sitting on the cot, still trying to make sense out of what had just happened. While the others departed, Biddle waited behind for a few moments. He gave Michael a polite smile. “Sorry, old boy, we didn’t mean to interrupt or anything. Though I hope you don’t mind if I give you a little advice?” Another man would have blanched at the outrage in Michael’s eyes, but Biddle sweetly continued in the same pleasant tones. “We all care very deeply for Rosemary. Especially since her father died. In fact, I think we all have assumed that role on his behalf. I don’t suppose it would be a good thing for you to wind up on the wrong side of fifty fathers. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Michael Wharton continued to glare at the ringmaster, furious and thwarted in his own desires. His blood still boiled, and he had no use for some drunken Englishman’s meanderings. He managed to return Biddle’s stare and answer in a voice that fought for control.

“I understand perfectly. You have no reason to be concerned. It is not good business to fraternize with employees, and no one knows that better than myself. What happened tonight will not happen again.”

“I’m delighted to hear it.” Biddle tipped his black polished hat and strode out of the tent, leaving their new manager fuming behind.

CHAPTER EIGHT

R
OSEMARY SAT ON THE EDGE
of her crate with the troupe all around her, waiting for Biddle. From her position and with the aid of a single taper beside her dressing table, she could see her reflection in the mirror, and she cringed at the telltale signs of Michael’s passionate embrace.

Her lips looked fuller, impossibly pinker, and slightly swollen from kisses. Her eyes had taken on a dreamy look, her cheeks were flushed with color, and her hair seemed like copper filaments. She had never been considered beautiful, not even by her father when she was a child. Her nose was too big and sat like a small potato on her face, her skin too freckled, her eyes too intense and penetrating. But she had a good face, sparkling with life and merriment, and that more than made up for what she lacked in beauty. She’d learned to be objective about her looks, to know how to play up her mouth and the color of her eyes when she wanted to pass for pretty, to play them down when she wanted to appear religious or frugal. Yet the face that stared back at her now was the face of a stranger, soft and passionate, full of erotic promise.

Even her body felt different. Rose had a hard time concentrating on the flow of conversation around her. Her stomach felt like a barrel of ale that had been tossed too many times and was about to burst. Her skin felt warm and wet, her nerve endings especially sensitive, while her breasts tingled from where Michael had fastened his mouth. She glanced down, relieved to see that the clown suit hid most of this odd reaction, but they still brushed the soft satin with every motion. Embarrassed, she tugged at the suit, wanting to get rid of the strange sensations. She found it was impossible to think.

Never before had she experienced anything like this. Oh, there were times when a farmboy who had just joined the circus would discover that she was a woman and try to assert his masculinity, but a stinging slap or a mischievous chuckle at the appropriate moment was usually enough to dampen even the most ardent hayseed. Of all the circus performers, only Zachery seemed aware of her as a female, and even his interest was more of a friendship than anything else. He had kissed her affectionately once on the forehead, but had never done anything that made her knees buckle or her heart race….

“…so I say we put him on the wheel again. Maybe if one of William’s knives hits, he’ll leave. What do you think, Rose?”

Rosemary glanced up, frantically trying to remember what they’d been talking about. It wouldn’t do to reveal her distraction, for she already sensed their disapproval on finding her comfortably ensconced in Michael’s embrace with nary a protest. She shifted on the crate, pulling her costume away from her too-warm body, and shrugged as if it mattered little.

“I don’t think the knife throwing will work. Remember what happened last time. And if he catches us again, I have a feeling he won’t be so forgiving.” She shuddered as she remembered him in a dead faint, and his furious reaction later when he cornered her in the tub. “Besides, there’s no way we could get him up there again, now that he knows the truth.”

The others nodded, glancing solemnly at William, who nodded along with them. Yes, it was best to hire a stranger to work with a blind knife thrower—common sense would tell you that.

“I have to agree with Rose,” Biddle said, entering the tent and climbing over the seated clowns. “I’ve spent the last few minutes talking with our new manager, and for a man of his intelligence, he doesn’t seem to understand the art of compromise. Did you have any luck?”

“No,” Rosemary admitted, grateful that no one asked if her kissing Wharton was part of her plan. She couldn’t explain what had happened any more than the rest of them, and she had a feeling that her face would reveal what her words would not. “It seems to me we have to go back to basics. You can’t reason with the man, talk to him, or get him to relax his plans even in the slightest.”

“Can we pay him off?” Biddle suggested thoughtfully. “Do we have any extra money? Perhaps a partial payment would satisfy him.”

“I’ve thought of that,” Rosemary said. “There’s really no cash until the end of the season, even with the extra income. He’s using that money to fund the food and the costumes needed for the second ring. We have a definite cash problem.”

The clowns grumbled. Griggs stood up and ceremoniously delved into his pocket, pulling out a ragged fan of bills. The others waited solemnly while he handed the roll to Rosemary, then gestured to Biddle.

“We took up a collection, Rose. Carney’s has taken care of us for all these past years, and if Carney needs help, we are more than willing to give it. Unfortunately, none of us has much virtue when it comes to saving our dollars, but between us all, we’ve managed a tidy sum. Take it.”

Rosemary’s eyes filled as she fondled the bankroll. No one knew better than she what kind of a sacrifice they were making. It was true, performers all seemed to have a live-for-today attitude, necessary when working in an environment where their job could disappear overnight or they could become injured and unable to perform. From the thickness of the roll, she could tell that they had managed to collect quite a bit of money. Emotion swelled within her, and she handed the wad back to Griggs, swiping at her eyes.

“Thank you all, you’re the best, every one of you. I appreciate what this means, and I only wish my father were here to see the way you all have rallied around me. I will forever be grateful. Unfortunately, we can’t even make a dent in the debt, it’s that sizable. The interest alone is stupendous, as Biddle would say.”

“Is there nothing that would help?” Rags asked.

“I could take a mortgage to satisfy the loan. I plan on speaking to the bankers in Denver; I figure some of the miners may want to invest in the circus. The bad thing about that is, I’ll no longer own Carney’s.”

The others nodded sadly. No one wanted to see control of the show fall into some banker’s hands. If Wharton was any indication of what they were like, the circus could be in deeper trouble than it was now.

“Then we have to think of something else,” Jake said pragmatically. “I think you were on the right track with scaring him, lass. When he was on that wheel, he was ready to call the whole thing quits. One good shove in that direction just may do it.”

Rosemary nodded. She had no choice, especially after what happened tonight. Michael Wharton had become a threat to her peace of mind in more ways than one, and she had to get rid of him.

“May I make a suggestion?” Leonardo stood up, his leopard-skin tights gleaming in the dim tent. His eyes glittered with emotion, and his swarthy skin looked more flushed than normal. “Elsa is due within two weeks. Her temper is not the best.”

The others nodded. The lioness was tame, but pregnancy had reduced her normally pleasant nature to that of a snarling cat. While Elsa wouldn’t hurt the tiniest child, she nevertheless had a frightening appearance.

“Perhaps my pet should wake up in the wrong place? I can slip her through the hole in Griggs’s old tent. Zachery never got around to fixing it. It is good idea, yes?” The lion tamer glanced from one clown to the next, while Clara clapped her hands, her old face wrinkling in delight. One by one the members of the troupe looked to one another and their unpainted faces broke into clownlike grins. Even Biddle smiled, and he placed a hand on Leonardo’s shoulder.

“You just may have something there, old boy. Wharton is from back East, and I’ll wager he knows nothing about lionesses, pregnant or otherwise. Finding Elsa in his tent may just provide the incentive he needs to go home. What do you think, Rose?”

Envisioning Michael Wharton’s smug grin when he saw her again, after she had let him kiss her, fondle her—her eyes twinkled a brilliant green, and her mouth curved into a mischievous smile. “I say it will be just the comeuppance he deserves.”

Michael emptied the last of the whiskey into his glass and scowled at the clear bottle. He needed much more fortification than this meager amount, especially after what had happened tonight. Gulping down the fiery fluid as if it were water, he waited for a blessed numbness to overtake him, but the alcohol had no effect.

Silently cursing, Michael flung himself onto a crate, the only seat this godforsaken circus had to offer. Staring at the taper which was now little more than a stub, he tried to will his body into exhaustion, but sleep was the farthest thing from his mind.

It was her, that clown-witch, Rosemary Carney. Even the flame reminded him of her red hair, which crackled around her face, and her eyes, which constantly seemed to be laughing at him. Except for tonight. When he’d kissed her, he’d seen their expression change from outrage into something else, something deeper and definitely more intriguing. She’d attempted resistance at first, but Michael wasn’t fooled. By the time they had landed on his cot, she was responding to him with a passion that set his blood on fire.

Glancing at the offending bed, he grimaced and reached for the bottle, observing the finger-mottled vessel with chagrin. There wasn’t even a drop of the amber liquid left. He’d finished it all, and yet her presence wouldn’t leave him. He simply had to close his eyes to see her laughing at him, her soft curvaceous mouth upturned and her charming little nose crinkled. Her arms were outstretched, then her twinkling eyes closed, her mouth moistly opened, awaiting his kiss…

Damn her! Rosemary Carney would not do this to him. He threw the bottle across the tent, watching with satisfaction as it crashed against his trunk and sprinkled the ground with silver glass.

A low roar came from the far corner of the canvas shelter, and he stared in drunken disbelief as a pair of golden eyes stared back at him. A prickle started somewhere along the back of his neck, and icy fingers continued the sensation along his spine. Slowly he rose as the eyes continued to watch him, glowing like twin tapers from the opposite side of the tent.

“Who is that? Rose, if this is some kind of joke—”

An answering roar, louder this time and more insistent, was the only response. His throat tightened, and he glanced frantically for the whiskey, wondering what strange apparition the liquor had wrought. Silently he cursed himself for drinking so much, though he knew that he’d never drunk himself into a stupor before, nor had he ever hallucinated an eerie roaring presence with oddly piercing eyes.

That had to be it, he’d merely conjured this apparition out of an alcoholic haze. Satisfied with this explanation, he reached for the candle, a crooked smile coming to his face. He would carry the taper into the corner, and once reassured that nothing was there, he would force himself to sleep and forget Rosemary Carney and her games.

Carrying the feeble stub toward the corner, he thrust out the candle, determined to dispel the shadows and prove to himself that it was simply the whiskey that was distorting his vision. His hearing, he had no explanation for. But when the candle shed a yellow glow of light beside his trunk, his mouth dropped in shock.

Golden eyes snapped at him, and an enormous jaw widened, displaying teeth that were at least two inches long. Annoyed at the light and angered by his stumbling approach, the lioness roared, this time the sound nearly shaking his tent poles. Michael froze in horror, holding the candle as if it were some kind of protection against the wild animal.

“Easy now, kitty. Elsa’s your name, isn’t it? I won’t hurt you….”

Elsa snarled, obviously displeased to be disturbed. She watched him, her eyes unblinking, her teeth still exposed as she lifted the corners of her enormous mouth. As if in a nightmare, he saw her rise and stretch her long, graceful body, then take a step closer.

“Help!” Michael gasped, emitting the sound as more of a squeak than a cry. Slowly he backed away, searching frantically for a shield while his eyes never left the angered feline. He stumbled over a crate, and the candle fell from his hand, the slender light extinguishing on the dirt floor. After righting himself quickly, he picked up the wooden box and placed it between the lioness and himself. He could still see Elsa watching him, her golden eyes piercing right through the dim light. With a swipe that was more playful than angry, she swept the box away, leaving him standing in front of her without any protection once more.