Still Star-Crossed (37 page)

Livia laughed, a bitter sound, and Rosaline’s heart twisted in her chest. Her merry little scamp of a sister was gone forever, leaving behind a much sadder woman. “No, thou art not. No one is sorry for it. Except for me. And I killed him.”

“Oh, dearest, no.”

“Pray coddle me not.”

“Thou didst but what thou must. Paris was a heartless wretch. Hadst thou not stopped him, God only knows what would have become of us all.”

Livia shook her head. “Not heartless. For he loved me. I know he did.”

Rosaline did not know what to say to that. So she just took her sister’s hand and squeezed.

Livia’s gaze strayed to the carriage patiently waiting in the road. “Another fine gift from the prince?”

Rosaline ducked her head, pretending to focus on the little flowers she was plucking to hide her blush. “He has been most generous. To our house and to Benvolio too, I hear.”

“Generous.” Livia gave a snort.

“He’s very grateful,” Rosaline said. “To thee above all. Hadst thou not warned him in time, Verona never would have prevailed against Paris’s forces. He would give anything in Verona to make thee happy.”

“I fear nothing in Verona could.”

“Livia—”

“Hush. Pray do not try to comprehend. He whom thou lov’st yet lives.”

Rosaline just stared out over the sun-dappled water.

In the end, she was able to bundle her sister back into the carriage, though she suspected it was only because Livia was too fatigued to refuse.

The next few weeks were busy ones for all, as the city in general, and Houses Montague and Capulet in particular, began repairing and rebuilding. The riots after the nurse’s
death had left extensive damage, as had those of Paris’s men who had managed to fight past the city walls. The Duchess of Vitruvio was one of the lucky ones whose estates had been largely untouched by the rioting. She sent her servants to help the other Capulets rebuild, but she herself stayed mostly at home. Rosaline supposed that was only natural. Her daughter’s treason must have come as quite a shock. She had gone up to her great-aunt’s house to visit once or twice, but the old woman did not seem to welcome her company more than she ever had, so Rosaline left her to her solitude. She had an uncomfortable feeling that the duchess knew she and Benvolio had suspected her of the treachery that turned out to be her daughter’s.

She saw none of Benvolio, who had been sent to nearby cities to do business on House Montague’s behalf. The prince was more often in her company. He had her to dine at the palace several times, officially to thank her for her service to the Crown, and when he walked through the city to observe the rebuilding efforts he often took her with him. He was sweet, and attentive, and generous, but they had not spoken of what had passed between them before he went into battle. She often caught him looking at her, though. Had his feelings changed? She could not bring herself to ask.

But he continued to shower them with gifts, although Livia seemed entirely indifferent, and Rosaline herself protested mightily. At least his gratitude helped distract her from the little hurt she was nursing about Benvolio’s silence. Busy though he might be, he could at least write to her and let her know he was all right.

After a few weeks, Livia’s health had improved greatly, though her spirits were no higher. Rosaline’s relief at her recovery gave way to disquiet. Verona gossip told her that Benvolio had returned several days prior. But she’d had no word from him—and, after all, what right had she to expect any? They had worked together to end their betrothal. Well, it was ended, and while Houses Capulet and Montague were not exactly the best of friends, they had agreed to a chilly peace that seemed likely to hold. Perhaps he was content now to be free of her company.

Perhaps his kiss had meant nothing.

Then one day there was a clatter of horses outside. When Rosaline opened the door, several servants in the yellow and white livery of the prince’s men stood on the threshold of the cottage. With cursory glances at Rosaline, they took up positions by her door. A third stopped on the new carpet and, after a self-important pause, spoke.

“His Grace the Prince and Her Grace the Princess of Arragon wish to speak to Lady Rosaline of House Tirimo,” the man said.

Rosaline stared. “Both of them? Here? Isabella is returned?”

The man looked pained, and Rosaline gave herself a mental shake. “Please, I’d be honored. Let them in.”

The next moment her old friend was striding through the door, her smile as merry as ever. “No turnips today, I am afraid,” said Isabella. Rosaline had scarcely given her a curtsy before she found herself engulfed in Isabella’s embrace.

“Your Grace, well met. I did not know you were back in Verona.” She returned her friend’s hug.

Isabella pulled back and gave a good-natured groan. “I’d have been here sooner, but my husband is overcautious, and he bade me stay away until he was sure there was no one else in this conspiracy, lying in wait for impetuous princesses.”

“He is wise. You missed Verona’s worst hours.”

“I always seem to.”

Rosaline curtsied to Escalus, who nodded in return, but remained back by the doorway. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” she asked.

Isabella said, “Oh, I’m not here for thee. Where is thy sister?”

Rosaline blinked. “Livia? What—” She stopped herself. “Livia,” she called over her shoulder. “We’ve visitors. Wilt thou come?”

“By and by,” her sister’s weary voice floated down.

“Ah, nay, now, an it please thee …”

After a few moments Livia appeared at the top of the stairs, clinging to the banister. Her eyes widened when she saw their guests, and she sank into a curtsy. “Your Grace. Your Grace.”

“Hello,” said Isabella.

Escalus nodded. “Livia. Thou look’st much better.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” She shot a puzzled glance at Rosaline, who shrugged. “Why are you here?”

Rosaline smiled as it was the prince’s turn to look flustered. At least Livia had lost none of her accustomed directness. But it was Isabella who answered. “I’ve a quarrel to that sister of thine, Livia. Rosaline promised me two Verona ladies
to go back to Arragon with me, but gave me none. I’ve come to collect on the debt, in part at least.”

Livia’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “My lady … you mean …”

“I mean I need a lady-in-waiting,” Isabella said. “Wilt thou come with me to Arragon, Livia?”

Livia went very still, her eyes wide. “Arragon.”

“Yes.”

“ ’Tis very far from Verona.”

“Yes.”

For a long moment, Livia stood frozen. Then, for the first time since Paris had died, Rosaline’s sister burst into tears.

The prince stepped forward in distress as Rosaline took the sobbing girl in her arms. “My lady—we did not mean to give offense—”

“I do not believe you did,” Rosaline said, patting Livia’s shuddering back. “Hush now, Livia. He thinks they’ve upset thee.”

“Arragon,” Livia sobbed. “I can go. I can
leave
.”

“Yes, dearest.”

Livia pulled back, swallowing her sobs in great gulps. “No. I cannot. How can I leave thee?”

Now Rosaline was close to crying too. “You can. You must, if you cannot be happy in Verona.”

“Oh God, never,” Livia breathed. “I cannot stand the sight of this accursed city. I mean no offense, Your Grace.” Escalus nodded gravely.

“So thou wilt come?” Isabella asked.

But Rosaline shook her head. “No, wait. Livia is still too weak to make this journey.”

“How now if she make it with a kinswoman?” the Duchess of Vitruvio asked. She had joined the prince at the base of the stairs.

Rosaline and Livia looked at each other in surprise. “Aunt?” Rosaline asked cautiously. “We could not ask you to accompany her—”

The duchess waved this off. “Please. Even were she hale and well, I’d not allow her to go unchaperoned. Secret elopement, consorting with traitors, wandering about dressed as men—Capulet maids are turned terribly wanton of late. Besides, the young lady’s right. Verona is intolerable. My wits are grown soft as pudding here. I knew my daughter was up to no good, but I said nothing. Travel will sharpen me.”

Livia gasped. “That is why you were trying to get into Paris’s chamber.”

“Aye.” Her sharp gaze turned on Rosaline. “This one thought I was behind it, I’d wager. I should have told thee, girl, when thou cam’st to see me, of my suspicions. If we’d been less deceitful, we might have saved a great deal of strife.” She sniffed. “But thou hadst that
Montague
with thee.”

Rosaline laughed in surprise. “You cannot still think the Montagues to blame.”

The duchess sniffed again. “You cannot deny that where they go, trouble follows. But no matter. Shall I relieve thee of this sister of thine or no?”

Rosaline opened her mouth to refuse, but she looked at Livia and was surprised to see a glint of her old mirth lurking
deep in her eyes. “I thank you, Aunt,” Livia said. “I believe I shall find it most amusing to travel with you.”

Rosaline hid a smile. She foresaw barrels of wine in her aunt’s future. No prospect could have pleased her more. “Very well, Aunt.”

“Come, ladies. Let’s discuss thy gowns. Fashions are rather different in Arragon.” With a sly look at Escalus, Isabella swept the duchess and Livia upstairs, leaving Rosaline and the prince to stand in awkward silence.

He clasped his hands behind his back, turning a circle, taking in the new furniture. Some had been gifts from him; some she’d bought with her new allowance; a few had even been sent by House Montague, who could not choose but be grateful that she’d saved their heir. Altogether, the cottage was much grander than it had been. His servants stood unmoving at attention, for all the world as though this were his house, and Rosaline an interloper. The majesty of his person made the finery Rosaline was so proud of seem shabby by comparison.

Then he grinned at her, and Rosaline felt ashamed of her momentary resentment. “Beautiful,” he pronounced. “The finest home in all Verona.”

Rosaline shook her head, even as a pleased smile grew unwilling on her lips. “You flatter yourself, for any beauty is due entirely to you—as is the fact that the roof no longer admits rain.”

“To my aid, perhaps, in persuading the Capulets to give you your due. But if my men could produce such beauty under mine own direction, the palace would be a much more
welcoming place. So lovely an abode requires a woman’s touch.”

Rosaline smiled her thanks. An awkward silence fell once more. Rosaline found her hands twisting in her skirts and forced them back to her sides. The prince turned, admiring a shelf of small statues he could not possibly care about.

“May I offer you something to eat?” she offered, casting her mind wildly into the kitchen, trying to imagine what she might serve that was worthy of royalty.

He held up a hand. “No, no. There’s no need.”

“As it please you.”

They lapsed into silence again, and Rosaline wondered what in the world he was doing here. It occurred to her how few conversations like this Escalus must have—not to hear a complaint or issue a command, but simply to talk. That disquieting, awe-inducing air of majesty he wore about him discouraged easy conversation. How lonely that must be.

“I’ve a gift for thee,” he said.

Rosaline shook her head. “No, please, Your Grace has already been too generous—”

He waved a dismissive hand at the finery that now bedecked her house. “No gifts they were, but well earned, for you saved the city.” He took her hand, tugging her toward the door with a smile. “Now, this—this is a gift.”

He opened the door and she gasped when she saw what waited outside. There, tied at her door, was a stunning white mare—a far finer horse than even her father had ever owned.

“By this day, she’s beautiful!”

“She is thine.”

She turned to Escalus. “No, no—”

“Yes. By order of your sovereign. Take her.”

She ought to refuse. He had already been far too generous.

Oh hell. “What’s her name?”

Escalus grinned. “Tomasina, and a prettier piece of horseflesh there never was. Come, wilt thou ride with me? The day is fair for a gallop through the hills.”

Wildly tempting, but Rosaline shook her head. “Your sister, and Livia—I cannot.”

“They will be all right. Please, I crave thy company.” He gave her his most charming smile, but when he saw that she still wavered, he added, “Perhaps thou think’st I’ve not done penance enough for the trouble I have caused thee? Thou think’st not right, for look.”

Taking hold of Tomasina’s bridle, he drew her aside, revealing his own stallion. Rosaline clapped a hand to her mouth, but could not restrain a laugh. The poor horse’s mane had been shaved.

“Since there were no small maidens about to teach me my lesson, I did it myself.”

Rosaline shook her head, stroking the embarrassed horse’s neck. “You will be the silliest-looking prince in all of Italy till it grows back.”

“ ’Tis worth the humiliation, if it makes thee smile, sweet Rosaline.” There was an unaccustomed warmth in his eyes.

“Let me don a clean gown,” she said.

They rode south and west, along the river. Once they were out of sight of the city walls, Rosaline gave him a saucy look
over her shoulder and tried to scandalize him by throwing Tomasina into an unladylike gallop, but he merely gave a boyish whoop and came racing up behind her. At last, laughing and windblown, she reined Tomasina in on a ridge overlooking the forest. Escalus drew up next to her, blowing out a breath.

“By this day, I hope no one saw that,” he said.

“Always so proper.”

“We cannot all go flitting about the countryside in disguise.”

Rosaline shuddered. “I hope I ne’er again have cause to do so.”

“Come,” he said. “Let us walk awhile.”

He dismounted before offering a hand to help her down too. After all that had passed, it felt strange to be treated so gently. Benvolio had been chivalrous to a fault, but he’d treated her as a comrade. Escalus made her feel as delicate as a bit of porcelain.

He kept hold of her hand and threaded their fingers together. For a few minutes they walked in silence as the horses grazed nearby. Rosaline let her eyes drift over the countryside below them. Summer was ripening into fall, and the farms and fields were rich with crops soon to be harvested. Strange to think that all she could see owed fealty to the man beside her.