Heather Graham (9 page)

He turned and strode away, tall, dominating the company, drawing many an eye with him.

Rose didn’t even realize that her own gaze followed him until she found herself engaged in a dance with Jamison, mindlessly following the music and his steps and being whirled away from a view of Pierce DeForte at last.

The evening had been too much. And Lord Jamison Bryant was eyeing her again in that calculating way of his.

She was weary of it all. The plots, the plans, the machinations. The king was kind, his court was certainly entertaining, but lecherous as well. She wanted no more of it for this evening.

She suddenly broke free from Jamison. “Lord Bryant, you’ll forgive me. I’ve acquired an atrocious headache. Please, excuse me. I must lie down, and try to go to sleep!”

She didn’t wait for a reply, but turned and fled from the gathering, hurriedly making her way along the halls until she reached the room assigned to her.

She found it empty and assumed that Mary Kate must still be with the other servants watching the dancing—and all else that transpired. Rose began to cast aside her own clothing, realizing that she had truly acquired the headache she had lied about.

She slipped into a linen nightgown and crawled beneath her sheets. They were clean and cool. She closed her eyes, willing her headache away.

Her eyes opened again. She stared at the ceiling. She was so very agonized by the pain that pounded against her skull, yet she couldn’t sleep. She kept hearing his voice, seeing his eyes, feeling them, silver fire upon her.

Sleep! she told herself.

But she didn’t sleep. She had escaped him, escaped his touch—escaped his concern! No. He was haunting her even here. She could feel his touch again within her mind, see the silver of his harsh stare. Hear his words, the tone and cadence of his voice. He had seemed so angry with her.

And with himself …

He was horrible. Detestable.

And still …

She opened her eyes. Sleep was eluding her. Minutes had ticked by. Maybe hours.

The very thought of him made her feel the heat again. Warm, rushing, rising …

She closed her eyes, insisting to herself that she dream of a sweet past, of green hillsides, sparkling, cool waters, the sand on the beach, the fields. Virginia. So beautifully green in the rich heat of summer. Yet no matter how the sun burned down, there would be a breeze from the river, cooling her. She could see the waters of the James in her mind’s eye, dark and swirling when a storm threatened, lazily drifting by in the spring with sweet smells everywhere. She had lain in the grass so many times. She could see herself there now.

And then he was there, too. So tall and dark and arrogant, walking her way with that taunting smile. He was in her dream. Coming toward her. She could feel the grass beneath her, the dampness of spring. She could feel it vividly because she was naked. And as he walked toward her, he was naked, too, powerful, bronzed …

“Damn!” she swore aloud. “Oh, Lord! Oh, damn!”

Then she winced. The very thought of him had her swearing like a seaman!

She groaned, then buried her face in her hands. How could she be having such horrible dreams? She wanted to forget him, not dream about him!

Mary Kate! She had to find Mary Kate. The woman would rub her temples with cool, soothing water, and ease all the tempest from her mind.

Rose threw off her covers and flew out of bed. A heavy velvet robe lay over the footboard, and she quickly cast it over her shoulders.

She threw open the door to her chamber and looked quickly into the hallway. It seemed deserted. She stepped farther along. There, in one of the secretive little window seat nooks, she was certain she saw movement. Some lovers in a secret tryst? She would hurry by.

She stopped short with a gasp. A man moved into the hallway. It was none other than Lord Jamison Bryant. Very lean, handsome enough with his sharp face and curious, almost colorless blue eyes.

He was not alone. She realized that she had interrupted him deep in the midst of conversation with Anne’s brother, Jerome.

Now both men stared at her in the fashion that made her so uneasy.

“Rose,” Jamison murmured. “Whatever are you doing out in the hallway at this hour?”

“Is it so late?” she inquired innocently.

“Late enough,” Jamison said, surveying her apparel. Her hair streamed over the velvet on her shoulders. She hugged the caped robe around her more tightly.

“I was looking for my maid,” she said.

“Oh, I see. Well, she is not about. And you should not be wandering the hallways.”

“There can be danger,” Jerome advised.

“Well, I will just go back to my room now …” she began.

Jamison was walking toward her. Jerome did the same, coming around to her side. She felt trapped between them. It was the same play that had been made on Lady Anne the other day, though this time not on horseback.

What could they do to her? she wondered. She didn’t want to find out.

“I’m responsible for your welfare, Rose,” Jamison said, frowning. “Perhaps I should insist that you come back to my manor with me.”

“I feel extremely safe beneath the king’s roof!” she assured him. They were coming closer and closer. She kept backing away. She was beneath the king’s roof, she reminded herself. There were guards scattered about. All she need do was scream…

Except that they might never give her the chance to scream. They might simply spirit her away.

And then?

Her father wanted Lord DeForte. But Lord DeForte wanted nothing of her. So …

There might be some wealthy, wrinkled old baron out there with a tremendous title, willing to pay a pretty penny just for a bride with youth. One who wasn’t willing in the least.

Such things had happened, she had heard from the gossip among the queen’s women.

“Your headache hasn’t confined you to bed?” Jamison inquired pleasantly.

“It’s somewhat better.”

“I’m ever so glad.”

“Still, it is plaguing me. Mary Kate is so good with a massage at the temple; that was why I was looking for her.”

“Perhaps I should bring you home even now. My housekeeper is extremely tender with such things,” Jamison said.

“I’m accustomed to Mary Kate. The hour is very late, as you’ve said.”

“Rose! I insist—” Jamison said, then broke off suddenly. He stopped dead still, looking past her. She continued to back up until she crashed into a hard chest.

She swirled around.

DeForte. He straightened her back around, staring at Jamison over her shoulders. “A little late for a tête-à-tête with your ward in the hallway, isn’t it, Jamison?”

Fury flickered through Jamison’s eyes, but he held his peace. He lifted his hands. “I do agree. I was just trying to discover myself what my ward was doing, wandering the hallways.”

She felt DeForte’s eyes touch her with their silver mockery. Was he wondering if she had lied earlier, if she hadn’t, perhaps, found some man of her own choice to meet? And was he curious about just what kind of assignation she’d had in mind, her hair tumbling down, clad in her nightgown and robe?

She lowered her lashes quickly, biting on her lower lip, wondering why on earth she cared what he thought. Every one of these men seemed to be attempting to destroy her life!

And yet …

She felt much safer since DeForte had come into the hallway.

“Perhaps, Mistress Woodbine,” he suggested, “you should return to your room. And bolt your door. While we are all here to watch you go safely.”

“Yes! Yes,” she murmured swiftly. She wanted to cry that it was none of his business, none of any of their concern, that she owed them no explanations.

But she hadn’t liked the way that she had been cornered, and despite herself, she was grateful to DeForte for giving her the opportunity to escape back to her room.

“Good night, m’lords!” she cried. DeForte’s hands fell from her shoulders as she sped away, her robe and hair flying behind her. As she opened her door, she saw them there, DeForte, Jamison, and Jerome, all watching her.

She closed the door. And bolted it.

Shivering, she raced across the floor and jumped into her borrowed bed.

In the darkness and the quiet, Jamison Bryant stared out at the night, richly dissatisfied. “He doesn’t need your fair sister as I do. And the king has given his blessing. We will have to move quickly.”

“We will, we will,” Jerome assured him. He smiled. “And perhaps it will not be difficult. Rose Woodbine does seem to have distracted DeForte!”

Jamison spun on his friend. “She would distract any man!”

“Indeed, it goes well. Thank God! My gambling debts will shortly see me confined to Newgate,” Jerome said tonelessly.

“Ah, no! Anne will never allow her brother, her blood, to be turned over to Newgate!”

“She is weary of lending me money.” He paused, looking out at the beautifully full moon. “And if she weds DeForte, he will certainly put a stop to it. He’d be pleased to cast me into a dungeon himself.”

“We cannot allow them to marry.”

Jerome smiled with pleasure again. “As I said, we must move quickly. Very quickly now.”

“Tomorrow?” Jamison asked.

“Tomorrow,” Jerome agreed.

A cloud misted silver over the moon.

W
HEN MARY KATE BROUGHT
Rose her chocolate in the morning, her tray contained an invitation to join the king and queen on a hunting party, to commence that afternoon and finish the following morning.

Rose sipped her chocolate, and tossed the invitation aside. Mary Kate immediately sprang upon it.

“Did you read this, Rose?”

Rose nodded dully. She’d had a horrible night. The last thing she wanted to do was spend any time whatsoever with the king, since DeForte would surely be in attendance.

Mary Kate was both incredulous and troubled. “You mean, you don’t intend to go?”

Rose shook her head firmly.

“Why on earth not?”

“I don’t wish to see—people.”

Mary Kate
tsk
ed in reproach. “You mean you don’t wish to see Lord DeForte.” She began to gather the clothing strewn about the room, casting Rose a sly glance. “Fine. Let him best you, then.”

“Best me!”

Mary Kate shrugged. “I’m sure that the occasion will be wonderful. The king is interested in so many things that the people with him are bound to be fascinating! And you’ll miss out on the day—because you’re afraid of DeForte.”

“I’m not afraid of him!” Rose said incredulously. She stared at Mary Kate, then began to laugh. “Make me defensive and I’ll go, just to shush you up, is that it?” She said affectionately. Then she sighed. Maybe Mary Kate was right.

And she wasn’t afraid of DeForte. Not really. She lowered her lashes quickly. She could already feel a strange fever sweeping through her, just thinking about the man. But she really wasn’t afraid. He was domineering, arrogant, and atrociously mannered—but that really didn’t have anything to do with her.

And in truth, despite all the things about him that infuriated her, she had to admit that he had come to her rescue last night.

She glanced at the invitation again.

King Charles II was a shrewd and multifaceted man, with a love of art he had inherited from his father, and a fascination with building and architecture. He gathered men and women of many talents around him. The company would be diverse. The party would be likely to include a portrait painter, an astronomer, and numerous friends of the royal household. The overnight stay would be at a quaint Norman inn deep within the woods.

“So you will go!” Mary Kate said, pleased.

“Maybe,” Rose told her.

“It’s tremendously exciting. Your father will be so proud!” Mary Kate told her excitedly.

“If I choose to go.”

“Refuse the king, and your father might well appear on English soil soon himself, demanding that you wed the first potbellied, balding old sot with a title who will have you!” Mary Kate warned.

Rose flashed her a quick smile. “My lord, but you can be as difficult as father!” She sighed. “Oh, all right. Fine. And don’t you go smirking at me for managing to have your way!” Rose warned.

Mary Kate walked to the bed and gave her a little hug. Rose hugged her back fiercely. “Oh, Mary Kate, how am I going to get home? Why did Father put me in this wretched position?”

“Rose, things have a way of working out,” Mary Kate said. “They always do. Now, let me see.” She hurried over to the wardrobe where she had hung many of Rose’s things. “The proper attire …” Mary Kate muttered.

Rose leapt from bed, stretching. “Mary Kate, do you wish to come along? I’m really quite capable of caring for myself, you know, and the queen will be with the king, so I will be quite well chaperoned.”

“Do I wish to come along! Of course I wish to come along!” Mary Kate said, her eyes twinkling. “I don’t want to miss a minute of this. Of course, I’ll have to miss some of it, since I’ll ride behind with the king’s servants, but I’ll be most anxious to see the inn. In fact, perhaps I’d best go let them all know that you will be coming.” She laid Rose’s hose and boots and riding attire out on the bed, then hurried past her with a smile. “Dress, Rose! You haven’t all that much time!”

Rose smiled. At least Mary Kate was excited. She hurried on out.

Rose stood, frowning, and wondering why she suddenly felt as if an icy finger had stroked down her spine. She shook away the feeling. Mary Kate was right. It should be a nice day. She walked to the dressing table, where a pitcher with fresh warm water and soap awaited her, brought right before the chocolate by a very considerate Mary Kate. She scrubbed her face, and even as she did so, she began to feel ready for the challenge of the day. Just let DeForte try to be difficult today!

Mary Kate hurried down the hallway, relieved that Rose had chosen to go. She had scarcely left her own corridor when she heard footsteps following close behind her. She slowed and looked back as Lord Jamison Bryant came to her left, and his friend Jerome to her right.

“Good day, milords,” she said quickly, wondering why they seemed to be closing in on her so tightly.