Tori Phillips (2 page)

Sir Gareth’s face paled with anger. His thick eyebrows bristled like a badger’s. “The slut is mine, you popinjay! I saw her first. I doubt that you possess the fortune you bid.”

“Pray do not bleat like a motherless lamb, my lord.” Andrew tossed his orange pomander to Brandon. “Hold that, Sir Brandon, whilst I conclude this bit of business.”

With a flourish, he emptied his bag on the barrelhead, literally at the bare feet of the girl he had just purchased. He noticed her skin was incredibly filthy. Her toes curled when some of the coins touched her. Andrew looked up to give her a smile of encouragement and he nearly gasped aloud. Upon closer inspection, her breasts proved to be more perfect than he had first thought. Twin peaks of cream rose and fell with a mesmerizing rhythm. His dormant loins sent a flash of heat surging through him.
His awakened reaction to her charms tied his tongue for a moment.

“Count it!” Gareth practically frothed at the mouth.

In silence, Andrew stacked the angels into neat piles. He had the most uncontrollable urge to stroke the lass’s bare ankle to see if her skin was as soft as it appeared. As if she could read his mind, she inched a step backward, as far as the diameter of the rough barrelhead allowed.

Gareth’s eyes glowed like burning coals when Andrew’s money ran out at thirty. “My bid was thirty-eight! She is mine!” He reached for her.

Andrew restrained himself from grabbing the man around his scrawny neck. “You are too hasty, my lord.” He produced Guy’s pouch. With a self-satisfied smile, he untied the leather strings and drew out three coins. “Tis wise never to keep all of one’s fortune in a single place. Three sovereigns.”

Gareth fumed with unsavory growls. Andrew noticed that the ragged hem of the girl’s skirt trembled, though not a whisper of wind stirred through the enormous English camp. Compassion softened his lust. He congratulated himself for saving the waif from Gareth’s brutal clutches.

He slapped the final coin on the golden pile. “Are we square now, Purveyor of Wenches?”

The bawdmaster slobbered his assent. “Take her, my lord. Pleasure yerself as long as ye like.”

Andrew cocked an eyebrow at his three companions. “Mark his very words, my young friends. The master says I may have the lady as long as I like. Trust me, knave, I intend to take my time.”

“Take all the time ye need,” the bawdmaster gibbered.
His red-rimmed eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets at the sight of the gold.

Gareth ground his teeth. A thick blue vein throbbed at his temple. “Enjoy the strumpet while you can, Ford, but I will have her yet. You have made me look a fool, and I will be avenged. I swear it on my sword!”

Andrew regarded the enraged man through half-closed eyelids. “You grow tedious, my Lord Hogsworthy. I fear we must discontinue your company. Adieu! Creep back to your kennel.” Then he turned his back on the seething man and held out his hand to his prize. He flashed her a warm smile of encouragement.

“Come, fair lady. Tis time we quit these rude surroundings.”

R
osie jumped at the sound of his voice. Never had she beheld anyone so garishly dressed as the man who had just paid a king’s fortune for the dubious privilege of taking something that she no longer had.

Her new master was clothed completely in scarlet and gold from the great wealth of nodding yellow plumes on his crimson hat to the toes of his bright red leather shoes. His thigh-length scarlet doublet was trimmed with yards of golden lace. His shirt of ivory silk peeked through the slashing of his full padded sleeves. Panes of gold decorated his red trunk hose and bright yellow stockings encased his muscular legs. The magnificence of his colors put everyone else into dark shade.

Rosie presumed that the gentleman must be a cousin of the king. She wondered why he had chosen her, when he obviously could have had his pick of finer quality ladies.

Then she looked into his face. His mouth, with fine full lips, drew apart in a smile that lit up his clean-shaven countenance. Laugh lines crinkled at the corners of his hazel eyes. His nut-brown hair, shot with streaks of silver, waved over the collar of his short red cape. Rosie’s
heart skipped a beat. Even though he was past his prime, the gentleman was still very handsome by any woman’s reckoning.

Quince rapped her toes. “Quit gawking, girl, and attend to yer business with this lord. ‘E don’t want to wait until doomsday to swive ye.”

The nobleman ignored Quince. He continued to smile at Rosie. “Come, sweetheart, take my hand. I will not let you fall.”

His eyes surveyed her in a kindly manner and not with the raw lust Rosie had expected. Summoning all her courage, she placed her hand in his. His gloved fingers closed around hers and he gave her a little squeeze. When she looked into his eyes again, she saw only warmth and approval. A little trill of excitement fluttered in her heart. The doeskin of his gloves caressed her work-roughened palm with butter softness.

Quince shoved her. “Take a strap to the wench, if she don’t move fast enough to yer liking,” the bawdmaster advised.

Rosie nearly fell on top of the richly clad nobleman. Her new patron tightened his grip to steady her. “Do not be afraid, my dear.”

She took a deep breath. “Haint afeared of ye, sir. Methinks ye have paid too much money to do an injury to your goods.”

His thick brown eyebrows rose up his forehead. “Well-spoken, mistress. I shall keep your opinion under advisement.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but she heard the friendly tone in his voice. She cautioned herself not to take heart from it. All men were deceivers. Holding her skirt with her free hand, she jumped lightly to the hard-packed ground. Giddy from hunger, she wobbled.
She hoped that the gentleman would spare her a goodly supper after he had finished his business with her. She touched the hidden vial of blood to assure herself of its safety, then folded her arms over her bare breasts.

The noble drew closer to her. He smelled of spice and wealth, like someone from God’s side of paradise.

“Pull up your shift, sweetheart. There is no need to display your charms to this unworthy assembly,” he murmured. His low voice rolled over her like warm honey.

Nodding her gratitude, she gathered the thin muslin around her shoulders. Then her patron looped her arm through his and led her out of the ring of torchlight. The sea of leering men parted before them.

One of the crowd guffawed. “You have bought yourself a pretty posy, Ford! Phew! She reeks like a polecat.”

Rosie’s temper flared in response. She gritted her teeth.

“Lout!” the fine lord muttered. He patted her hand.

“Save a bit for me!” shouted another.

A third stroked at her as she passed him. “I will look for you in the morning, wench, when you walk with bowed legs!”

She shivered at their lewd catcalls and thanked her lucky stars that she had been purchased by the lord at her side.

“Do not tremble so,” he whispered. “I promise I will not eat you.”

Rosie tossed her matted hair out of her eyes with a bold show of courage. “Told ye afore, haint afeared. Only—cold.” She didn’t dare to look at him lest he read the lie in her eyes.

“Ah!” His gaudy plumes danced as he nodded. “You
are correct. Tis a sudden night wind. Allow me to remedy your discomfort.”

He halted, removed his short cape with a swirl, then settled it around her shoulders. Rosie drew the collar close to her face and stroked her cheek against the wondrous material.

“Tis soft like a downy chick!”

He chuckled. “Tis made of velvet. Does it please you, my dear? Are you warm enough now?”

“Oh, aye, my lord. Like toast on a fork.” She snuggled deeper into its folds. His intoxicating scent clung to the material. “Tis sinful. Methinks the devil himself must wear velvet.”

Someone sniggered behind her. “The wench has found you out already, Andrew. You are truly the very devil of us all!”

Rosie glanced over her shoulder to see who had spoken. Three extremely tall young men loomed in the shadows. One of them winked at her. The naked hunger in his eyes unnerved her. She detected the odor of strong wine on his breath. She pulled the cape closer around her neck.

“Hold tight to your purse strings, my lord,” she whispered to her hew master. “Three great rogues are afollowing us.”

Her escort chuckled again. “Ignore the rascals. They love to hear themselves talk.”

The three followers chortled at this remark.

Rosie tugged at the nobleman’s arm. “We should flee, my lord.”

He squeezed her hand. “I am humbly grateful for your concern, sweetheart, but tis of no consequence. I fear they are friends of mine.” He led her into a broad avenue. “This way.”

Rosie glanced around her with growing alarm. Tents, banners and campfires stretched down both sides of the thoroughfare and disappeared into the depths of the night. She had no idea that the English encampment was so large. She wondered how she would find Quince’s tent in the morning—not that she was in any hurry to return to him.

“Where are we going, my lord?” she asked as they passed a cluster of more sumptuous pavilions.

The nobleman gave her another one of his heart-melting smiles. His white teeth flashed in the firelight. “To my humble abode.”

The three behind them broke into a chorus of riotous laughter. “Wait until you see it, little one,” one of them teased her.

Rosie didn’t like the way he had said that. She tugged on the gentleman’s sleeve again. “Are…are we going to do it there?”

His eyes twinkled. “That remains to be seen,” he replied.

The three youths erupted into more boisterous braying.

Rosie’s misgivings increased tenfold. “Are they…” She glanced uneasily over her shoulder again. “I mean, are we all going to do it—together?” No wonder the gentleman had paid so much gold for her! She could trick one with her vial of blood, but not four at the same time. Her knees grew weak at the thought.

The most outspoken of the three drew closer. “In good sooth, fair damsel, you are not ours to savor. But—”he flashed her a wicked grin “—if old Andrew tires too quickly, I will teach you to dance a merry tune.”

Rosie’s protector growled in the back of his throat.
“Mind your manners, Jackanapes. There is a lady present.”

Rosie clutched the cape tighter. “Where?” she asked, peering into the darkness. She had never before met a real lady.

The three rogues nearly fell over themselves with laughter.

The gentleman shook his head at them. “Pigs,” he remarked to Rosie.

Very soon, they stopped in front of a large double tent. By the light of a bonfire at the entrance, Rosie saw that the canvas walls were painted salmon pink and embellished with gilded ivy. Her patron lifted one of the flaps, revealing a cozy interior, lighted by a wealth of candles in glass lanterns. She gasped with awe at the extravagance, then uttered a little squeal of surprise when the gentleman swept her up into his arms.

He cradled her against his chest as if she were made of the most delicate glass. The warmth and strength of his arms soothed her, though she did not understand why. Her body tingled from the contact. Her fingers ached to stroke his smooth cheek, but she did not dare to take such a liberty. She was nothing but his chattel, she reminded herself.

The gentleman glanced at the trio. “If you plan to come in, boys, doff your muddy boots out here,” he instructed them.

Rosie stared at him. “My lord?” His request seemed very odd.

To her further amazement, the three did exactly what he had commanded them.

“Tis old Andrew’s conceit, lass,” the tallest one explained, as he dropped his boots in a heap by the entrance.
“He bought those new rugs before we left London and he is determined to keep them clean.”

Her protector nodded. “Just so. Turkish, my dear. Imported on the humped-back camels all the way from the Ottoman Empire.”

Rosie had no idea what Ottomans or camels were, but she could tell just from looking at the rugs, that they were the finest things she had ever seen. “If ye want to keep them new, my lord, methinks ye should roll them up, for they will surely grow filthy when it rains here.”

The tallest laughed. “She has hit the bull’s-eye, Andrew.”

“Ah!” The nobleman nodded as if deep in thought. “A point well-taken, mistress. However, be easy in your mind. I have a layer of waxed canvas beneath them.” He smiled again at her. “But I am most grateful for your consideration, sweetheart.”

Her pulse skittered when he murmured the endearment to her. Rosie quelled the warm feeling. This man was too smooth to be trusted. He meant none of his sweet words. Ducking under the overhang, he carried her inside his pavilion.

Rosie drew in her breath then exhaled slowly. The interior was even more lavish than its rich ground coverings. Rose-pink silk draperies masked the plain canvas walls. The color made the pavilion glow with a soft, heavenly light. A small, but elegantly carved table stood near the center pole. Beside it was a matching armchair with a red cushion covering its seat. A thin wisp of smoke curled from a brass brazier, perfuming the air with an exotic scent.

A second tent of equal size and lavish appointments opened into the first. Rosie could see part of a large bed draped with billowing gauze. Its covers were turned
back. Fat pillows nestled against the gilded headboard. Fear swept through Rosie. That bed would be the stage upon which she must act the part of a shy virgin.

The nobleman set her down on one of the wooden stools that dotted the rug. “Keep your feet up for one minute, my sweet,” he instructed.

Rosie obeyed, too stunned by her sudden turn of fortune to ask why. Her master opened one of the many chests that lined the walls of the tent and took out a piece of plain muslin. He spread it on the rug in front of her. “There now. Put your feet on that, but do not move an inch off of it. There’s a good lass.” He stepped back to the center of the tent and regarded her as if she were a horse for sale.

Just then, a boy in his early teens stuck his head through the tent opening. “Good evening, my lord. I did not expect you to return so soon.” Then he noticed Rosie. “By the book, what’s that?”

Jack replied, “Your master’s latest bauble, Jeremy.”

One of his companions chuckled. “Tell him the price.”

The boy gaped at his lord. “You paid good coin for that guttersnipe?”

Before the gentleman could reply, Jack said, “Not a coin, but an angel. In fact, thirty of them.”

“And three of my sovereigns,” the tallest one added.

The servant blanched. “For
her?
With all due respect, my lord, have you taken leave of your wits? Why?”

The youths laughed again. Then Jack caught his breath. “Are you so green that you cannot guess why a man buys a wench? Methinks we need to teach you the ways of the world, Jeremy.”

The boy made a rude noise.

Rosie huddled deeper inside the cape, despite the fact
that the evening was very warm. She cast a quick glance at her patron to gauge his reaction. She wished they would stop talking about her as if she were a chamber pot. She shook her hair out of her eyes and returned their stares.

The noble lord appeared to take no note of the conversation around him. Instead, he continued to look at her, cocking his head to one side then to the other. He took one of the lanterns and held it up close to her face. Rosie shied away. He winked at her, then he turned to his companions.

“Well, gentlemen, there she is in all her muted glory. By my troth, she is too low for high praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little for a great praise. In short, she is perfect for our devices.”

Panic welled up in Rosie’s throat.

The gentleman continued, “She has a good figure—once we fatten her up a bit. Hair is a rat’s nest. Can’t even tell its true color.”

Jack made a face. “I counsel you not to touch it, Andrew. The rats may still reside therein.”

Rosie murmured an oath under her breath. That flapeared knave might look pretty but he was a double-dyed churl. Then she realized that Sir Andrew had heard her. She bit her lip.

“I agree with you, sweetheart. Our Jackanapes is a bit rough around the edges,” he whispered to her. He took one of her hands in his, studied her palms and fingers then he whistled through his teeth. “Zounds, mistress, what have you been doing with these?”

Rosie curled her fingers to hide them. “Plucking geese, scrubbing floors and washing foul linen, so please ye, my lord,” she retorted.

Sir Andrew rapped her knuckles. “And biting your nails, I see.”

Humiliated, Rosie sat on her hands to avoid further inspection by the other three who had drawn closer to look at her.

“Methinks she would have a pretty mouth—if she ever smiled,” remarked the middle one.

She glared at him. What reason did she have to smile? Any minute now, they were going to ravish her. She held her tongue and prayed that the nobleman would finish his strange examination. She wanted to get the bedding over with before she lost her nerve to hoodwink him.

The serving boy cleared his throat. “May I inquire what does my lord intend to do with this piece of baggage?”