Defiant Rose (18 page)

“What’s the matter?” Rosemary asked, concerned as he coughed, then cleared his throat.

“Nothing.” He stared at her through watery eyes. “What is that scent you’re wearing?”

“Oh.” Rosemary sniffed the air, taking in the sweet odor. “Clara gave it to me. She said it was from Paris.”

“The south side, I would imagine,” Michael said bluntly.

Rosemary’s smile vanished. “Don’t you like it? I thought it was too strong, but Clara said men like this stuff.”

Two and two began to equal something resembling four in Michael’s mind, but he didn’t have the whole equation yet. Studying the young woman before him, he realized that she looked nervous and uncomfortable, yet unbelievably gorgeous. He wondered exactly what was up, and whether it involved anything more deadly than knives or lions. Strangely enough, he had a feeling that this time it might be much more lethal.

“It’s fine.” He smiled encouragingly. “Now, would you mind telling me why Clara doused you with perfume, dressed you like a gypsy, and sent you to my tent?”

This wasn’t going at all as planned. Clara had warned her to use the potion as soon as she could. Rosemary smiled, unaware of just how enticing she looked. Awkwardly she crossed her legs the way Clara had shown her and batted her eyes.

“Got anything to drink?” Her voice was throaty, innocently seductive.

“A drink,” Michael repeated, forcing himself to think. His gray eyes locked with hers. “Is that what you came for?”

“So what’s wrong with that?” Exasperation crept into her voice. Lord, this man was difficult to seduce, potion or no potion.

“Nothing.” Michael chuckled, then poured out a generous portion of whiskey. He extended the glass to her. “I believe this is your drink.”

“Where’s yours?” Rosemary nearly panicked as he sat back, apparently without any intention of joining her.

“I think it best if I don’t. Remember what happened last time?”

“That won’t work,” Rosemary protested. “I…don’t like to drink alone.”

Michael shrugged, then reached for the bottle, sensing that she would leave if he didn’t. And in spite of his conviction that she was up to something, he really didn’t want her to go, not yet. Not until he knew what this was all about. Part of him wanted to believe what her presence implied, and he had to admit, she looked absolutely beautiful.

There was only one glass on his desk, and he’d given that to Rosemary. Leaving the decanter on the table, he got up and walked into the corner of the tent, rummaging in the darkness for a second glass.

Rosemary nearly fainted in relief. Quickly she removed the vial from her sleeve and poured the contents into the whiskey bottle. Thankfully, there was no more than a serving or two left. She managed to return to her seat just as Michael turned around and glanced at her suspiciously. Rosemary assumed a patrician look of pure innocence. Frowning, Michael returned to the desk and poured out the whiskey. When Rosemary glanced demurely away, he shifted the glasses. He wouldn’t put it past her to poison him, if she thought it would help Carney’s.

“What shall we drink to?”

“To the circus.” Rosemary looked up, giving him what she hoped was a seductive smile.

“To the circus.” He picked up a glass and drank down his whiskey in one smooth gulp, almost daring her to do the same.

Rosemary took a deep breath, realizing that the moment was almost upon her. Clara had told her a little about the actual love-making, and the rest she had deduced from the clowns and from watching the circus animals. “The men are queer about it,” Clara had explained when she gave her the potion. “You have to endure their tugging and prodding, but then it’s all over. Just lay back and think of Ireland.”

Rosemary grappled for the glass, then downed the whiskey, wishing now that she had thought to bring much more. She hadn’t counted on the strange tension between them, or the way he was looking at her. The liquor spread warmly through her and settled in her stomach like a hot sun.

“Now what?”

Swallowing hard, she replaced the glass beside his, then walked across the tent floor to the waiting cot. With trembling fingers, she loosened the laces of her gown, remembering Clara’s advice that men liked to do the undressing themselves. She glanced up and saw him staring in disbelief. His eyes dropped to the shimmering lace of her dress, and it seemed that only his gaze held it up. Settling down on the cot, she lay across his blankets like a human sacrifice, her arms outstretched, expecting the worst.

Michael’s jaw slackened as her intent became crystal clear. The sight of her, stiff and unnaturally posed, waiting for his amorous attack, was suddenly as funny as it was appalling. A slow chuckle started in his throat, and before he could help himself, he was laughing out loud.

Rosemary scrambled to her feet. Something was wrong—he was laughing at her! Her cheeks stung red with humiliation, she started for the tent flap, wanting nothing more than to get far away from here, from him. Grabbing the back of her dress to keep it closed, she fought to keep from crying as she stumbled toward the opening, only to find it blocked.

“No, don’t.” He tried to sound kind, but burst out laughing again. He made a gallant attempt to quell his chuckles as she raised mortified eyes to him, and only partially succeeded. When she would have dodged past him, he caught her and held on to her firmly.

“Now, Rosemary, the least you can do is tell me the truth.” His hands closed around her waist, pulling her closer to him. “Why did you do this?”

“Let go of me…” She struggled, but he refused to release her. The more she fought, the closer he held her until she was dragged up against him, his body touching hers far more intimately than she would have liked. “I don’t have to tell you anything!”

“Oh, yes, you do,” he insisted firmly. “You’ve not leaving until I know the truth. Rosemary"—he lifted her face to his— “was it just because of the debt?”

Yes! she wanted to shout at him. She wanted to hurt him as much as he’d just hurt her. But she couldn’t. Rosemary Carney was a jester, a prankster, a practical joker, and a clown, but she wasn’t a liar. Tears stung her eyes as she looked up at him, compelled to tell the truth.

“No,” she whispered, watching his expression change from amusement to something far more interesting. “I wanted…you.”

A moment passed before he quietly replied. “Then I think we’re both clowns or fools, because I’ve wanted you from the first. I always have.”

Rosemary stared up at him in surprise, but the gentle smile she received suddenly made it all worthwhile. Her breath expelled in one huge rush, then his head bent slowly and he kissed her.

Rosemary sighed, releasing the back of her dress, letting her hands creep up around his neck. The hard feel of his body pressed against hers was wonderfully intoxicating, as was the heat emanating from him. A warm glow spread through her veins, making her body deliciously limp, and a coiled heat began deep within her stomach. He deepened the kiss, his tongue mating with hers. Teasingly, he withdrew, then took possession of her sweet lips once more.

The effect was devastating. Rosemary found it impossible to think. Her apprehensions vanished, even when he reached behind her and finished undressing her. His fingers were impatient with the corset laces, worse with the chemise. Rosemary fought a giggle as he finally got through the layers of fancy clothing she wore, to the warm, bare skin beneath.

She gasped as his hand, warm and rough, slid over the fullness of her breast. Never would she have dreamed that it would feel so deliriously wonderful to have a man touch her there. Arching against him, she showed her pleasure, hearing his warm chuckle of appreciation as his thumb brushed a nipple into a diamond-hard point. His hand dropped to her waist, and he pulled her even closer. She could feel his hardness as he pressed her against him. Clad only in her black stockings and lacy garters she shuddered and peered up at him. The look in his eyes took her breath away.

“My God, Rose. You are beautiful.”

Indeed, she was. Her body was perfect, slender and well-proportioned, her hair falling about her like a coppery shawl. Her breasts peeked through the satiny curls, enticing him, making him want to reach out and touch them once more. Her legs, encased only in the sensuous stockings, shimmered with long, luscious curves, ending in a fiery vee just above her thighs. She was everything he’d thought she’d be, and then some.

Rosemary smiled dreamily. It had to be the whiskey. Nothing else could explain the way she was feeling. The nameless longings that she’d had suddenly seemed to culminate in this moment. When he bent down to remove her stockings, she gasped at the feel of his hand against the smooth satin of her thigh. When he slid the stocking down, inch by inch, placing sweet kisses along the inside of her leg, she had to hold on to his shoulders to keep from falling. By the time he’d finished the other leg and stood up to kiss her once more, she was on fire. She clutched him tightly, dizzy and overwhelmed with desire, and he chuckled softly.

“Easy, Rose, we have all night.” Gently he eased himself from her, just long enough to discard his own clothing. He couldn’t take his eyes from her as she stood before him, naked and obviously aroused, wanting him as much as he wanted her.

Somehow, they were on the bed, and he was opening her legs, preparing her. Instinctively she started, but his fingers teased her and found the most responsive part of her, knowing he had found it by her uninhibited moan. His lips took the warm, wet satin of her mouth, and when she was wiggling unbearably beneath him, he entered her swiftly in one fluid motion.

Rosemary gasped, surprised by the sharp pain and the stinging sensation between her legs. She felt him stiffen, but her body was expanding to accommodate the intrusion, and without thought she wrapped her legs around him, encouraging him to go on. Groaning, he drove into her again and again, fighting his own passion to consider her needs, and not releasing it until he heard her soft cry of astonishment as she reached fulfillment. Only then did he give in to his own desires as their passion reached a stunning conclusion. Sighing in blissful contentment, Rosemary curled up against him and was quickly sound asleep.

That same refuge eluded Michael, however. As he gazed at the slumbering woman in his arms, her hair sweetly clinging to her face and framing it with soft, shimmering curls, he realized that what had passed between them was not ordinary. Not celibate by any means, he had taken his share of women when and where he found them, though his tastes for bed companions usually leaned toward sophisticated women who appreciated his sexual appetite and didn’t encumber him with any further demands. But Rosemary, the bold Carney who lived and worked among rough, transient men, had been a virgin, and she had given herself to him.

The sexual afterglow wore off quickly as the full import of what had taken place struck him. A virgin! He would have bet his townhouse in Philadelphia that she’d had plenty of experience, especially with the way she’d entered his tent, boldly planning to seduce him. She’d responded to his caresses with an enthusiasm unknown to most well-brought-up Victorian women, but to him it was delightfully refreshing. And she’d asked him for nothing, not about the loan nor for jewels, nor any of the other things most mistresses expected or at least tried to bargain for.

He groaned inwardly. As much as he’d enjoyed her, he didn’t need this, nor did he plan on such a complication in his life. He’d wanted her, yes, he had to admit that. He had from the first time he’d met her, when she had the audacity to kick him, and her wig tumbled off, revealing that glorious red hair. But he hadn’t counted on her being an innocent. He would be leaving soon, going back to Philadelphia and his banking business, back to his well-ordered way of life and its financial rewards. He cringed as he thought of any of his prominent friends meeting Rosemary, or Carney the clown. When they stopped laughing, they would surely want his head examined. And when he thought of her meeting his mother…

He dismissed the idea. Carney belonged here, in the circus, and there could never be anything between them. Surely Rosemary had known that. Why, then, had she given herself to him, of all people? What was her possible motivation?

Tenderly he drew up the blankets around her slumbering body. Come tomorrow, he would have some answers.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

R
OSEMARY AWOKE SLOWLY
, the dreamlike fog of the previous night refusing to dissipate entirely. Curling in the covers, she felt wonderful, drained and deliciously limp. A sensual smile stole over her lips.

So that was sex. It was so incredible, so completely fulfilling, that she wondered why people came to the circus at all when they had this entertainment waiting for them for free. Her body ached and a small part of her stung a bit, but it was worth it. It was a little like dying, losing oneself, then being reborn. Rosemary sighed in pure, feminine pleasure.

Now she understood why the clowns, who called it wenching, couldn’t wait to be with a woman. Or why the miners spent their last dime in pursuit of the lusty saloon girls. And why the room had always been so charged when she and Michael were in it together. This is what lay beneath all their arguing, and it was so beautiful she had no idea why they didn’t just do it sooner.

She nearly purred. It occurred to her that she wanted him again, that already her blood was thickening at the thought of awakening beside him. The sheets seemed to caress every part of her, and her breasts, alive and tingling from the way he’d loved them last night, ached against the covers. Dreamily she put her hand out to caress him and felt the empty space beside her.