One Perfect Rose

by Mary Jo Putney

  There was something familiar about the figures that milled around the wagons. He studied them and realized that it was the Fitzgerald Theater Troupe. The company must have gotten an early start that morning. Thomas Fitzgerald himself was giving the orders for freeing the wagon. A young boy wandered toward the river, while the ladies of the troupe began to stroll along the edge of the road, a lanky dog providing escort.

  Except for one lady. Stephen smiled when he saw the tawny, bonnetless head of Rosalind Jordan. It was still hard to be sure of her figure, for she had a large shawl swathed about her. However, it was going to take time to free the wagon. Long enough for him to reach the travelers, make a polite offer of aid, and see Lady Caliban at close quarters. He set his horse, Jupiter, trotting down the hill.

  The place where the road leveled out was only about a hundred yards from the flooding river. He glanced at the swift current, then frowned. The dark-haired young boy from the troupe was climbing a willow tree that overhung the swift waters. The child’s parents should keep a closer watch, not that watching was easy with a lad that age.

  Stephen was turning his attention away when he heard a cracking sound and a startled cry. He whipped his gaze back to the river in time to see the branch that held the boy angle downward in horrifying slow motion. Finally it broke entirely, sending the small figure into the raging waters.

  A shout of alarm rose from the group around the wagons. As Stephen urged his horse toward the river, he saw from the corner of his eye a rush of movement as the members of the troupe raced toward the water.

  But they would be too late. The torrent was sweeping the boy toward Stephen at the speed of a cantering horse. The small dark head disappeared from sight under the muddy waters for long, frightening moments. Either he couldn’t swim, or he hadn’t the strength to fight the surging river.

  Stephen reached the embankment and catapulted from his horse, his mind racing. He was the only one who might be able help, but how? There were no fallen branches to extend because the river was cutting through a grain field here. Jupiter was a fine horse, but he’d always been a little water shy. It would be impossible to persuade him into the river quickly enough to save the boy.

  Even before his mind reached the logical conclusion, Stephen was stripping off his coat. Then he looked at the torrent and froze. It was fierce enough to overpower a full-grown man, even one who was a strong swimmer. He was no hero. If he went in after the boy, the odds were better than even that he would drown. It would not be death four or five months hence, but now, in broad daylight watched by a dozen strangers.

  He wasn’t ready yet. He stared at the deluge, rigid with fear, and could not make himself move forward.

  Then the raging waters lifted the boy’s head above the surface. For an instant their gazes met. The terror and despair on the child’s face ended Stephen’s paralysis. He took two steps forward and made a long, flat dive into the turbulent river. The muddy water was shockingly cold after the warm summer day. Blinking silt from his eyes, he struck across the current. It pummeled him fiercely as he fought his way toward the center of the river. But he was making progress. He should intersect the boy’s course in a dozen or so strokes.

  As he neared his quarry, the boy submerged again. Stephen dived below the surface, stretching as far forward as he could. His fingers found a yielding object and he grabbed, catching the boy’s wrist. He pulled the small body toward him to get a better grip, at the same time kicking hard to propel them upward.

  The boy was gulping for air when the pair emerged into the sunshine, but he had the wits to cooperate, not fighting or grabbing at his rescuer. Stephen looped an arm around the narrow chest and started toward shore.

  With only one arm free for swimming, progress against the rushing river was slow. Stephen almost lost hold of the boy when a swirling branch slammed into his throat. He choked, inhaled water, and went under. By the time he got himself and his charge above the surface again, he was exhausted. But the riverbank was only a few feet away. He was reaching toward it wearily when he heard a cry of warning.

  It was already too late. Something smashed into Stephen with numbing force, and he knew no more.

  Chapter 4

  Panting with effort, Rosalind managed to keep up with the men of the company, who were cutting across the field to the river where Brian had fallen. But they would not be in time. Unless a miracle occurred, her little brother would drown right in front of their eyes. She had no breath to spare, so her prayer was silent. Please God, oh, dear God, please don’t let him die….

  Then she saw a horseman turn from the road to the river below them. The rider vaulted from his mount when he reached the bank and peeled off his coat. After an intense study of the river, he plunged into the torrent, his powerful body cleaving the waters and propelling him toward Brian.

  Beside her, Calvin Ames, the Fitzgerald driver, ticket seller, and man of all work, swore as Brian and the man both disappeared. “Damned fool. They’ll both drown.”

  “No!” Thomas said, agonized. His breathing was ragged and his face flushed, but he did not slow as he raced along the bank. “We’ll get there in time. We must.”

  The stranger resurfaced, one arm locked around Brian. “Look!” Rosalind cried, giving passionate thanks as the man began struggling toward shore. But the churning waters were fierce. Could even a strong man reach safety with only one arm free for swimming? Yet he was making headway, hard-fought foot by hard-fought foot.

  Then renewed fear stabbed through her. A tree trunk was sweeping down on the pair. Barely visible, it was moving with the force of a runaway coach. Rosalind cried a warning, though the man could not avoid the hazard even if he saw it.

  The log struck, and both dark heads disappeared.

  A long, long minute passed. Then Rosalind saw the man rise again, Brian still secure in his grasp. And finally luck was on their side. The current had carried the pair from the fields into a wooded area. Ahead another willow leaned out over the river, the lower branches submerged. The current carried the two right into it. The man wrapped his free arm about a branch and clung, his other arm supporting Brian. He made no move toward shore, apparently too battered for further efforts.

  A moment later the members of the troupe reached the trembling willow. Rosalind realized with alarm that half the earth around its roots had been swept away by the flood. Getting the man and boy to shore would be hazardous.

  Summing up the situation in a glance, Calvin said tersely, “I’ll go. I’m smallest.”

  A thick branch extended toward the unmoving figures, a foot or so above the choppy surface of the river. Calvin climbed on and carefully inched his way forward. The narrow willow leaves shivered and the branch creaked dangerously under his weight. When he was within reach, he called, “Brian, lad, can you take my hand?”

  Brian raised his head. His eyes were glassy, but he reached up and grasped Calvin’s hand firmly. He had to pry himself loose from the stranger’s clasp. When he was free, Calvin towed him back to the bank.

  Tears rolling down his face, Thomas dragged his son from the water into a fierce embrace. “Damn you, if you ever do anything so foolish again, I’ll drown you myself!”

  Shaking violently, Brian burrowed into his father’s arms.

  Thankfully Rosalind turned her attention to her brother’s rescuer as Calvin called, “You, sir, do you need help?”

  There was no answer. The stranger still clung tenaciously to the branch, his body swaying in the current, but there was no sign of life. Rosalind frowned. “I don’t think he can hear. He must be dazed from being hit by the log.”

  Her gown had a sash, so she pulled it off and handed it to Calvin. “Tie this around him so that if something happens, he won’t be swept away.”

  Calvin nodded and crept out on the branch again to tie the sash, keeping the other end looped around his arm. When the stranger was secure, Calvin said, “Jeremiah, can you help me? He’s a big fellow.”

  Jeremiah Jon
es nodded. A large, calm man, he played character roles and took care of the horses. He gingerly moved out onto the branch. The tree groaned and dipped toward the water, but mercifully held. Working together, the two men managed to loose the stranger’s grip and pull him to the bank. It took the help of two more men to lift him from the water and lay him out on his back.

  Rosalind dropped to her knees to examine the stranger as the other women of the troupe arrived, Aloysius loping beside them. Maria and the wolfhound almost smothered the shaken boy, Maria simultaneously thanking God and scolding her son.

  Rosalind smiled a little, but most of her attention was on the man who lay unconscious before her. Releasing Brian into Maria’s embrace, Thomas came over and frowned down at the stranger. “Surely the brave devil hasn’t drowned, has he?”

  She shook her head. “His pulse and breathing are strong. He took quite a blow from that log, though.”

  Her fingers slid through his silky wet hair. Dry, it would be a dark chestnut, she thought. He was going to have quite a lump there. After careful probing she said, “I don’t think his injury is too serious, but we should get him to a doctor. Redminster is closest. We can make up a bed in one of the wagons and take him into the town while you’re getting the other wagon out of the mud. Does Brian need to see a doctor, too?”

  “I’m all right,” her brother said unsteadily. “T-take good care of that gentleman, Rosie. I thought I was gone for good.”

  “Aye,” Thomas said forcefully. “If not for him…” His voice broke for a moment. “Calvin, get the man’s horse. Jeremiah, bring the lead wagon as near as you can. Rose, you go along and take care of him. We’ll see you at the Three Crowns in Redminster.”

  As Calvin and Jeremiah left to obey, Jessica came to Rosalind’s side and looked down at the stranger. “Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “It’s the man I noticed at the show last night—the handsome one.”

  For the first time Rosalind looked at the man as a whole rather than as a casualty to be examined. “I believe you’re right. Keep your hands off the poor fellow until he’s conscious and able to defend himself, Jess.”

  Jessica gave a contemptuous sniff as she knelt beside her sister. “He might not be a lord, but he’s certainly brave.”

  Rosalind nodded in silent agreement as she studied his face. Handsome, certainly, but also stern. There was passion in that sensual mouth, and lines of strict control around it. He was a man used to being obeyed, she guessed. Not surprising since the cut and quality of his clothing clearly stated that he was a gentleman. Yet, paradoxically, his hard hands and lean, fit body showed that he was not a stranger to physical exertion.

  “Should we see if he’s carrying anything that has his name and address?” Jessica asked. “There must be someone we should notify.”

  Rosalind hesitated, then shook her head. “I’d rather not look through his things unless we have to. He can tell us himself when he wakes.”

  “That will ruin the mystery,” Jessica said with regret. “He’ll probably turn out to be sober and pompous, with a wife and eight children.”

  Perhaps. But as Rosalind gently tucked her shawl around his wide shoulders, she knew that none of that would matter. To her he would always be a hero.

  Stephen returned to consciousness gradually. He was swaying. A ship, perhaps? No, a carriage of some sort. He was lying on his back with very little room to move. And he ached in a variety of places.

  Christ, what if he had been wrongly declared dead and was in a coffin? There were ghoulish tales of those who had been prematurely buried. His eyes snapped open. To his relief, he saw that he was in a canvas-topped wagon. His movement was restricted because he was surrounded by chests and boxes, but he lay on a comfortable pallet, and a soft quilt had been tucked around him.

  His head ached. He raised an unsteady hand to it, only to have his wrist gently caught in midair. “Better leave the bandage alone,” a husky contralto voice said. “You took quite a knock on the head.”

  He glanced to his right, then blinked. Kneeling beside him was Lady Caliban. Or rather, Mrs. Rosalind Jordan. As she laid his hand down, a stray shaft of sunlight transformed her tawny hair into burnished bronze and gold and amber. All of the colors of autumn, though the unimaginative might call it light brown. Her expression had the humor and intelligence he had seen when she was onstage.

  What he had not expected was the profound warmth in her dark brown eyes. He stared into the chocolate depths, mesmerized by the fact that all that kindness and concern were focused on him.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked. If her eyes were chocolate, her voice was like the finest brandy, where rich smoothness concealed a powerful punch. And he mustn’t forget the cream of her complexion. She reminded him of every delicious thing he’d ever tasted in his life.

  She was also going to think him an imbecile. He tried to say “Fine,” but the word emerged from his dry throat as a croak.

  She reached for a jug beside her. “It sounds ironic after what you’ve been through, but would you like some water?”

  When he nodded, Mrs. Jordan lifted the jug and poured water into a tin cup. Then she held the vessel to his lips so he could drink. When he was done, she sat back on her heels. “Do you remember what happened? The river?”

  He thought back, then shuddered at the vivid memory of the water dragging him down. “Is the boy all right?”

  “Brian is fine. Rather better than you, actually. He’s my little brother. We’re getting you to a physician, to make sure that you took no serious injury.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice still almost inaudible.

  “It’s you who needs thanking. My whole family will be eternally grateful for what you did.” She frowned. “Do you live in Fletchfield? Perhaps we should have taken you there, but Redminster is closer.”

  He shook his head. “Live in…the West Country,” he managed.

  “Then we’ll take care of you until you’re well enough to travel home.” She laid her hand over his. “I’m Rosalind Jordan. I’m afraid I don’t even know your name.”

  “Ash…” His throat dried before he could finish saying Ashburton.

  Mrs. Jordan cocked her head to one side. “Mr. Ashe?”

  He tried to correct her, but the wagon lurched into a deep rut, pitching him against a trunk of some sort. As he slipped into unconsciousness again, he was glad that Lady Caliban still held his hand.

  He was running through a field of flowers, pursuing a laughing woman. Her hair streamed behind her with all the colors of autumn, and her figure was sumptuously female. He caught her by the edge of the meadow and swung her around for a kiss. She tasted of wild strawberries. Her hands ran through his hair, stroking and teasing as her breathing quickened. In the way of dreams, suddenly they were lying down together, and she was responding to his caresses with an eagerness that matched his own.

  He pulled her close and kissed her again. Wild, sweet strawberries. She yielded utterly, kissing him back with frantic ardor.

  Then suddenly she was pushing against his chest, saying breathlessly, “You’re obviously feeling better.”

  His dream faded, and he realized that he was looking into startled chocolate eyes that were only inches away. He was lying on his side, this time in a real bed, in a dark, candlelit room. And Rosalind Jordan lay within the circle of his arm, hair disheveled, mouth lusciously kissable, and her expression between laughter and dismay.

  He wanted to kiss her again. Instead, feeling as if her mouth and body had imprinted his like a brand, he reluctantly bid good-bye to the field of flowers and moved away. “Good God, I’m sorry, Mrs. Jordan. What…what has happened? Where am I?”

  She propped herself up on one arm and pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. She was fully clothed and lying on top of the covers. “A fine nurse I am,” she said wryly. “I’m the one who should apologize for not doing my job better. You seemed to be doing well, so I lay down to get a bit of rest and promptly fell asleep.”


  She covered her mouth and gave a delicate yawn. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. We’re at the Three Crowns in Redminster. A physician has examined you. He said you’ll have a headache and will need a day or two of rest, but your adventure caused no real harm. How are you feeling?”

  Hoping his voice sounded normal, he replied, “The doctor was right about the headache, but otherwise I’m well enough, Mrs. Jordan.”

  “Call me Rosalind. Everyone does. Except when they call me Rose.” She gave him a wonderful, sunny smile. “After that kiss, formality would seem out of place.”

  As he flushed and muttered another apology, she yawned again, then swung her feet to the floor on the opposite side of the bed. “Would you like some soup? The landlady sent up a jug in a straw-packed basket, so it should still be warm. There’s a pitcher of milk, too, in case that would settle better.”

  Though food had not always agreed with him lately, he realized that tonight he was famished. “Soup would be very welcome.”

  Cautiously he pushed himself upright and leaned back against the headboard. A wave of dizziness went over him but quickly subsided. He wondered who had put his nightshirt on him. “Is it my imagination, or is this situation very improper?”

  She laughed. “I suppose it’s improper, but we theater people are an unconventional lot.” She hesitated, her expression growing wary. “Perhaps I should have warned you. My father is owner and manager of the Fitzgerald Theater Troupe.”

  Clearly she’d been snubbed in the past because of the family business. Wanting to restore her smile, he said, “I know. I saw The Tempest in Fletchfield. The performance was outstanding.”

  Her wariness vanished. “I think it’s an excellent production, too. Prospero is one of Papa’s finest roles. When he speaks of breaking his staff and drowning his book of magic, it sends chills down my spine every time.”

  “It had the same effect on me. He captured the essence of renunciation, when a man must give up what has been his life.” Stephen hesitated, afraid his voice might give away too much, before continuing in a lighter tone, “Everyone was good, particularly Miranda and Ariel. And you’re the most unusual Caliban I’ve ever seen.”