Defiant Rose (19 page)

He was gone. Her eyes flew open in stunned surprise, then she blinked at the blinding sunlight that poured into the tent. The bright illumination gave her a throbbing headache, but she forced herself to look about the room. To her relief, he was seated a short distance away.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well? I didn’t know if you took coffee or tea, so you’ll have to make due with my coffee. It’s all right once you get used to it.”

Rosemary sat up, and the blood seemed to rush from her head. Something was wrong. He was looking at her the same way Griggs looked the day he had told her her mother had run away. The emotions she was experiencing were too new, too raw, to be exposed to the heartless morning sunlight like this. She hadn’t counted on the warm, gentle feeling she had for him now, or the feeling that she wanted to experience it all again. Placing aside the coffee he offered, she hugged her knees to her chest. Her face turned upward, and he saw the apprehension in her magical emerald eyes.

“Rosemary, we have to talk.” He touched a stray lock of her hair in a gesture that was gentle and regretful at the same time, then spoke in a voice that betrayed his discomfort. “Last night…it’s obvious to me that you drank too much. I realize now that you didn’t know what you were letting yourself in for. Had I known, I would not have let…things happen the way they did.”

She gazed at him, her brows knitting over her nose, her freckles scrunched up. “You wouldn’t have—”

“No, I wouldn’t have made love to you.” How he hated this, but it was as much for her good as his. He couldn’t have her start to care for him, or imagine their moment of passion as anything else. Unaccustomed to being noble, especially with her, he continued more bluntly. “I don’t have room in my life for you, Rose. I’ll be leaving soon, going back to Philadelphia. You belong here. And in spite of everything that’s happened between us, I don’t want regrets, and I don’t want you to be hurt or expecting something that I can’t give. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She stood up, looking utterly adorable with her hair tumbling round her, her eyes enormous. Reaching for her dress, she suddenly felt very naked. The gold gown twinkled as a remembrance of the night as she held it against her, and she looked at him as if her heart would break. “You mean you don’t want to do this again?”

“We can’t.” His voice was hoarse with genuine regret. “It’s just not a good idea. Not for you or me.”

“I see.” Actually, she did. Michael thought she wasn’t good enough for him. She was a circus wench, a pratfall artist, a clown. She had become used to that attitude on the part of gentlefolk, but she somehow hadn’t expected to find it in him, not now. The realization made her Irish pride come to the forefront, and she lifted her chin, determined not to ever let him know how much he’d hurt her. Tears tightened her throat, but she fought them back, managing to give him her best clown smile as she slipped on her dress. “Then I guess this is sort of a goodbye. We’ll just go on as before, as if nothing ever happened.”

She had wanted her words to hurt him, to show him the encounter had meant as little to her as it did to him, but he was looking beyond her, to the cot. She followed his gaze to the bed, wondering if she’d forgotten something, then blanched at the sight of her own blood on the tangled sheets. Confusion and fear made her pale, and her fingers tightened around her shoes. What had happened to her last night? Had her time come, or did this mean she had gotten with child? Clara had assured her, and yet…

“Don’t be afraid.” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “I didn’t need such proof, but I knew when it was too late. It doesn’t mean anything other than that I was the first for you,” he added gently, seeing her look of alarm.

“How did you know?” Rosemary’s voice was almost a whisper. “Was I that bad?” She almost hated to ask, but the thought wouldn’t leave her, especially since he seemed so sure.

“God, no. You were wonderful. Really wonderful.” He seemed uneasy and more than a little chagrined at his own part in all this. Guilt overwhelmed him, and he fought the temptation to take her into his arms. She looked so vulnerable, so innocent…until him. He’d given it a lot of thought last night and realized that this could not have been a plot. She simply didn’t understand the repercussions of what had happened. He damned his own careless sexual desires, aware that he’d hurt her, that he’d awakened something inside her that would have been better off lying dormant until the right man came along. It would have been so much easier if she ranted and raved at him, demanded money or some other mercenary compensation, but she just stood looking at the bed in her rumpled gold dress, her eyes brilliant with unshed tears.

“Rosemary, wait.” He stopped her as she turned toward the tent opening, her shoulders slumped, her head held high and proud. That touched him more than anything else, and without a second thought he reached into his sheaf of papers and withdrew an elegantly scrolled note. Handing her the document, he saw her puzzled expression as she tried to decipher the legal terminology.

“It’s the note. Your loan. I’m forgiving the debt. Take the papers.”

He hadn’t planned on doing any such thing, but confronted with the result of his actions, he could do nothing else. Somehow, sometime, this clown-woman had come to mean something to him. He admired her spunk, her sense of mischief, her business acumen, but most of all, herself. He’d never met a woman like her and knew he’d never forget her. He watched her as understanding dawned, then she glanced up at him, her eyes flashing with anger.

“I wouldn’t take this now if I owed the Civil War debt.” She threw the paper at him, fury twisting her face. Her hair seemed to crackle around her, and the Carney of old, pugnacious attitude included, glared at him. “You can take that back, and be damned to the rest. I’ll not be bought for any price!”

If she’d been close enough, she would have slapped him. Instead, the paper drifting to the floor like a feather, she turned on her heel and marched out of his tent, her hair swaying with the force of her motion, her bare feet leaving tiny prints on his floor. Ruefully he watched her go, wondering at the relief that flooded through him.

Rosemary marched back to her tent, barely able to contain her sense of outrage and betrayal. She fought back tears as she passed the clowns, while they gave her and her gilded dress a curious glance. But that little concerned her now. Her pain was so deep that she didn’t notice them, nor did she care.

She entered her tent and saw Clara sitting beside her bed, a worried expression on her wizened old face.

“There you are, lass. I’ve been worried. Did he drink the stuff?”

Rosemary grimaced, recalling the potion. She’d poured it into the bottle, then he’d come back and…Her face paled ever more. Good Lord, he must have switched glasses!

Suddenly it all made sense. Nothing else could explain the way she was feeling, as if something inside her had been crushed before it had a chance to bloom. She hurt entirely too much for it to have been anything else, particularly…

“I drank it,” Rosemary whispered in horror.

Clara looked aghast. “Ye did!” Her eyes narrowed, and she studied Rose suspiciously. “And did it work?”

Rosemary winced. “It did. Too well.” At Clara’s stunned surprise, the words poured out in a tumultuous rush. “Oh, Clara, it was awful! Why didn’t you tell me or warn me? It wasn’t easy, like you said. It meant something! God, I actually made love to him, and I feel terrible!”

Clara patted her head, clucking to herself. “My puir lassie. So he broke the heart in you.”

Rosemary’s head flew up in consternation. “How did you know? Was it the potion? Is this a side effect?”

“Bah, the potion.” Clara rolled her eyes upward. “I knew the minute you walked into the tent. You were the picture of a lost soul. ‘Tis odd that a man like that mercenary would have such an effect on you, but then again, ‘tis not so odd. The charm worked.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“He didn’t offer you the papers?”

“He did.” Rosemary shrugged. “I gave them back.”

“You what?” Clara put a hand over Rosemary’s head. “Are you daft? Isn’t that the reason you did all this? Then you just gave them back to the man, just like that?”

“I couldn’t take them.” Rose collapsed onto a crate and tried to explain. “It was a payoff. He felt bad for…making love to me. And he wanted to get rid of me. He told me that what happened was a mistake, that it couldn’t happen again….” Unknowingly, her throat tightened, and her words became hoarse with pain. “I just couldn’t take them. Be damned to him.”

“Rose!” Clara exclaimed, though she sat back, her agile mind working. “Then what happened?”

“I threw the papers at him and walked out,” Rosemary said bitterly, her cheeks flushed with anger. “And I’d do it again if I had the chance! A bean counter, that’s all he is. He doesn’t know the first thing about people, about feelings.”

“I see.” Clara nodded sympathetically. She gave Rose a sharp glance. “So what will you do now? I suppose you’ll mope around in your clown suit, go back to the way things had been, and give His Lordship the satisfaction of knowing he’s beaten poor Carney. Ah, it was a grand day when you gave him one for one. But if he broke your poor heart—”

“I will not!” Rosemary glared at Clara as if the older woman had lost her mind. “I will act like he didn’t matter at all to me! And I will wear dresses, pretty ones, and go to town with the men. And I will drink whiskey and flirt to my heart’s content.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and her mouth curved in a smile that would have warned the clowns immediately. “And if he thinks I gave him trouble before, he’ll think that was May Day by the time I’m through!”

“That’s talking!” Clara slapped her birdlike legs with her palms, glad to see the healthy color return to Rosemary’s face and a bit of her old vigor. “But be careful, lass. If he sees through you, he’ll be flattered by the attention. The man might have no heart, but he does have a brain. Don’t get on the wrong side of him.”

Rosemary nodded, aware of the wisdom of this advice. Yawning, she allowed Clara to tuck her into her cot, the headache still violent after her confrontation with Michael. She wanted to sleep, wanted to forget this whole dreadful thing ever happened.

“That’s right child, sleep,” Clara murmured, humming an old Irish song. “I’ll watch out for you. Haven’t I always?”

When Rose finally slept, the old woman crept from her tent, securing the flaps so that the bright sunlight would not intrude and disturb her rest. The canvasmen were busy packing up the circus, but there would be some time before they were on the road once more. Glancing down both paths to the tents, Clara hastened to the large one that resided beside the elephants, and immediately entered the clowns’ tent.

The clowns were all assembled, as were Biddle, Zachery, and Leonardo. They glanced up expectantly when the gypsy entered, their painted faces betraying their concern in spite of the clown-white.

“How did it go?” Rags asked while the others looked on.

Clara smirked, her wise old blue eyes looking at them as if they were children. “She did not get the papers. In fact, it’s worse. Didn’t I tell you fools? The girl is in love with him.”

Rags looked at Griggs, who looked at Biddle, who looked at Leonardo, who looked at Zachery, who looked back to Clara. All of them appeared flabbergasted.

“Well, I’ll be,” Rags continued. “Our Rose, in love with a man! Are you sure?”

“Ach, when am I not?” Clara demanded, then spoke up quickly. “Now, you’ll be forgetting that time I mixed the wrong potion for you, then. Those hives did not last that long.”

“Long enough!” Rags spat, but the worried look did not leave his face.

“I don’t understand.” Biddle finally spoke, rubbing his aristocratic face thoughtfully. “Michael Wharton seems very mercenary to me. Not at all the type for Rosemary. I hope he doesn’t intend to cause her any harm.”

“I have a bad feeling about this!” Leonardo said quickly, his black eyes flashing with emotion.
“Amóre!
It has caused trouble since the beginning of time!”

“ ’Tis too late,” Clara cackled, brushing aside their objections. “The deed is done. She’s in love with the rogue.” Clara conveniently left out her own involvement with the scheme and the part where Rosemary drank the potion. “The question is, what do we do about it?”

All of the clown faces looked blank. Practical jokes, they could contrive by the dozen. Funny acts, they could come up with overnight. But to see their beloved leader revealed as a woman in love was hopelessly out of their league.

“Maybe she’ll forget him,” Rags said, glancing at the concerned faces around him. “After all, Rose has never taken up with a bloke before. Maybe she’ll get tired of him.”

“Hardly,” Biddle said sharply. “Rosemary is not a fickle woman, to be falling in love one week and falling out the next.” His eyes darkened with concern, and he lost any sign of intoxication as he leaned closer to Clara. “If I find out you had any hand in this, woman, I’ll—”

“What?” Clara asked indignantly, though she pulled her shawl more tightly around her, as if for some kind of protection. “You all talk big now, but I’m the one who helped her. If it was up to you all, Rose would be wearing greasepaint and tumbling in the dust when she’s my age. The girl needs some male attention, and Wharton is the most likely man for that. He has money, he has education—what would you rather she take up with, some tinker who’d join the show for a lark and leave her, big with his child with naught to care for her but us?”