The Ruffian and the Rose

by Colleen French

  Keely slipped her hand beneath her cotton sleeping gown and caught the cold metal of the amulet she wore around her neck. She smiled in the darkness, fingering it. It was only a copper tuppence, worn smooth by the years, but it was given to her by her father when she was four, and it was her most prized possession. "Take this and keep it always, daughter," her father had told her, smiling. "And someday it will grow; someday you will have wealth beyond belief." At the time, his words had meant little. What did a young girl care about wealth? But it had been a present, given out of love, and Keely had not gone a day without it since he had given it to her. With a hole punched in it, she wore it around her neck on a delicate gold chain.

  Keely's mind swept over the years that had passed since her father had given her that coin. Father and Uncle Lloyd's shipping business had prospered, then Father had died and she had been sent to England to be brought up as a proper lady. Keely laughed aloud at the irony. She had been sent home to England so she could be raised decently, only to return to the wilderness of the uncivilized Colonies. What good would her lessons do her now? Did it matter that she could read and translate Latin? Did it matter that she could plan a banquet for three hundred guests? She hoped she would not be exiled there for long; London was her home now.

  Sighing aloud, she crossed her arms over her chest. Keely was sorry that Uncle Lloyd was dying. Though it had been a long time since she'd last seen him, memories of his laughter and his love for her were still fresh in her mind. It would be good to see him again . . . if only it was under different circumstances. Still, she wished it wasn't necessary to travel all the way to the Colonies to be with him. And she wished Aunt Gwen hadn't had her bastard son come fetch them.

  Brock . . . Her thoughts settled on the heathen captain again, and for an instant she recalled the feel of his hard chest pressed against her cheek. Leaping up from the chair, Keely climbed back into her bed on the floor and pulled the covers over her head. She had never met anyone in her life that frightened her—or excited her—as much as that red devil did.

  Chapter Two

  August 25, 1777

  Dover, Delaware

  "Keely, I truly wish you'd curb your tongue in. Brock's presence." Aunt Gwen arranged the abundant skirts of her brocaded silk dress on the carriage seat. "One would think you were some fishmonger's brat!"

  "Me? Curb my tongue? What of him? You know he baits me." Keely sat across from her aunt in a small horse-drawn phaeton sent by Uncle Lloyd. "He's been doing it for weeks."

  Brock had brought the Tempest up the Saint Jones River to Lloyd's private dock at midmorning and sent word to the Bartholomew household that they had arrived. As soon as Brock completed his immediate duties aboard ship, he would be escorting his mother and cousin to Lloyd's home in Dover.

  "I know this trip has been difficult for you, and I'm sorry for that, but there really is no other way. If Lloyd is dying, there are things to be settled."

  "Things to settle?" Keely sighed, fiddling with the reticule she held on her lap. "What kind of things? There are solicitors to settle wills, your son said so himself." She pushed open the tiny window of the phaeton, letting the light breeze ruffle the curls that peaked from her green silk calash. Outside, rough-looking men on the docks scurried like ants on a hill, moving crates and shouting orders.

  "Nothing for you to concern yourself with, dear. Your Uncle Lloyd and I will take care of it all." She stroked the chin of the spaniel sprawled on the seat beside her. Brock had suggested the dogs be brought later, but Gwen insisted they'd been cooped up long enough. "The inheritance you will receive from your uncle, combined with your father's assets," she continued, "will make you a woman of considerable wealth. We just want to be sure you'll not be taken advantage of."

  Keely turned sharply to face her aunt. "You mean you'll be marrying me off?" Her hazel eyes flashed with indignation.

  Gwenevere opened her mouth to speak, but the door of the phaeton opened and Brock stuck his dark head inside. "I'm coming, Mother. Just one more thing." He shut the door.

  "Well?" Keely asked. "Is that your intention?"

  "Dear, we've discussed this before. You knew the time was coming. A lady of nineteen should be wed by now. You should have accepted Lord Larten's proposal last year."

  Keely gave a snort. "Easy for you to say. You wouldn't have been locked up with the perfumed dandy for the rest of your life." She looked away. "I know that I have to marry, but I'd like some say in it. A proper Englishman, educated, so at least I have something to say to him." Her eyes narrowed. "I'm warning you, Auntie, I'll have no colonial clod for a husband, not as long as I draw breath!"

  Gwenevere's mouth twitched. "I've been far too lax with you, child. You know better than to speak like that to me."

  "I'm sorry," Keely's voice dropped. "You're right, I do know better. It just seems so unfair that a husband must be chosen for me, or for any woman for that matter. I should think you'd trust me to choose for myself."

  "And who would you choose, tell me that, child. I have given you more than adequate time; we discussed this a good three summers past."

  "I don't know," she answered thoughtfully.

  Gwenevere reached out to take her niece's hand. "Don't worry. You have a good life ahead of you." She unfolded the young girl's hand, flashing a smile. "It's in your palm."

  Keely tried not to smile. "Palmistry is a lot of nonsense and you know it. Last year you were reading my fortune in a crystal ball." The phaeton door latch clicked and she looked up to see Brock climbing into the carriage.

  "My apologies, ladies." He glanced down at his mother's seat and realized the futility of finding room beside her. An assortment of wicker baskets, yapping spaniels, and worn leather valises filled every inch of space and spilled over into her ample lap. He looked to Keely. "Am I to stand, little cousin, or are you going to move over? I can run behind the carriage if you prefer."

  Bright spots of color tinted Keely's cheeks as, flustered, she slid over. Brock made her so uncomfortable that during the journey across the Atlantic she had avoided him as much as possible, trying desperately to keep out of his way.

  Brock dropped into the seat beside her as he knocked with a fist on the roof of the vehicle.

  The carriage leaped forward and Keely pushed back on the leather bench, trying to keep her arm from brushing against her cousin. The man was unnerving with his heathen black eyes and cynical laughter. But for some reason the bronze hue of his skin, the slope of his nose, the height of his cheekbones intrigued her, even haunted her. Though by day she hid beneath the decks from him, by night she found herself thinking of him. He angered her with his overbearing manliness, yet her eyes strayed to his at the evening meal.

  "All's well, I take it?" Gwenevere asked her son.

  "Well enough. I'll have to return this evening. I've business to attend to, but I've time to sup with you ladies and see Lloyd before I go."

  Keely kept her eyes on the window, watching the passing scenery as they followed the road that ran along the river. As much as she hated to admit it, the Delawawre Colony, the place where she'd been born, was beautiful. The dirt road was lined with ancient oak and maple trees that had grown tangled, forming a thick canopy of lush green. In the distance she could see fields of crops running down toward the river and the dots of scattered men working the land.

  It had been nine years since Keely had left the place where she'd been born, though she now considered England her homeland. Until she was ten, she'd been raised in Dover by her doting father, his brother Lloyd, and a bevy of servants. She never missed the mother who had died of milk fever when she was only a week old. The Bartholomew brothers had grown wealthy through their shipping concerns despite the crown's growing demands on the American colonists. Then her father died and Uncle Lloyd had not thought it proper for a young maid to be raised in an old bachelor's household. Instead, he sent her to his estranged wife Gwenevere in England.

  The sound of angry masculine voices and heated di
scussion outside the carriage startled Keely from her revelry as the vehicle came to an abrupt halt. "What is it? What's going on?" she demanded, standing to stare out the window.

  A group of angry men surrounded the carriage, shouting and shaking their fists. "Come out, you traitorous puddleraker!" someone shouted.

  "Come out and face your maker," another demanded, jerking open the door of the phaeton.

  "Stay where you are," Brock ordered the women tersely.

  Two men reached into the carriage and yanked Brock out by his arms. "We have to do something," Keely shouted.

  "Sit!" Aunt Gwen hissed, holding tightly to one of her spaniels.

  But Keely was already up off the seat, pushing her way out the door. Ignoring her aunt's command, she leaped out of the carriage.

  "Stop it!" Keely shouted at the men who were laughing and shoving Brock from one man to the next. "Let him go or I'll have the watch after you."

  A sudden hush fell over the men. All eyes turned to the defiant young woman standing ankle deep in a puddle of water. Only Brock's muffled chuckles broke the stillness.

  Keely suddenly realized that something was wrong.

  A stocky man in a scarlet coat burst into laughter, knocking Brock on the shoulder. "Got a lady fightin' your battles, have you, Bartholomew?" He swept off his befeathered cocked hat, bowing gracefully. "Mistress, my apologies. George Whitman at your service. We didn't realize the good captain here was traveling with company. We simply recognized the carriage and meant to welcome him home."

  The other men followed suit, sweeping off their hats as well and murmuring words of apology. Only Brock kept his hat on his head, watching her, his mouth twitching to the barest of a smile.

  At a loss for words, Keely dipped a brief curtsy, ignoring the water that ran up over her polished black slippers. "Gentlemen. Master Bartholomew." She shot Brock a venomous look. "I have an ill uncle to attend to." Turning gracefully, she swung back up into the carriage and closed the door behind her.

  George Whitman broke into laughter, stuffing his hat back on his head. "Christ, Brock, we're sorry. We didn't mean to offend. But who's the fierce little blue hen with her feathers ruffled?"

  Brock raised his hand. "None taken, I'm glad to see you, all of you. And that, gentlemen, is my dear little English cousin, Mistress Keely Bartholomew, Lloyd's niece. My mother's returned to Dover as well."

  "Gwenevere! By the King's arse, I didn't realize she was still living. Is she as beautiful as she was when she left?" Joshua Kane beat his three-cornered hat against his knee.

  "She is," Brock answered. "And now, gentlemen, that you've had your fun and stopped traffic"—he glanced up at the wagons and carriages lined up to pass—"I should be on my way."

  Micah Lawrence offered his hand. He was a well-featured man with a head of yellow-gold hair tied in a club. "Good to see you, Brock. Missed you." He glanced at the carriage. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to come calling." He smiled. "Just to catch you up on the news, of course."

  Brock laughed, starting for the carriage. "You're always welcome, you know that, Micah, but you'd better get in line fast. I imagine my mother and Lloyd will have her on the auction block by the end of the week." He flashed a grin. "That baggage is a wealthy woman, you know, or shortly will be if Lloyd's surgeon knows his business."

  Micah's eyes twinkled mischievously. "A beauty and an heiress, hmm. You certain you don't intend to keep her for yourself?"

  Brock threw up his hands in self-defense. "Not for all Howe's ships in the Chesapeake."

  Micah grew serious. "So you heard, did you? There's fear he'll take Philadelphia and we're wide open to it. We've heard talk of the Continental Congress moving to higher ground."

  Brock shook his dark head. "I'll be by the King's Head tonight, Micah, you can tell me the details then." He tipped his three-cornered hat. "Gentlemen." Then with a nod, he swung open the carriage door and leaped up. "Onward," he ordered the driver, then closed the door behind him.

  Brock looked from his mother to Keely on the seat beside him and then back to his mother again. "My apologies, madam. They're friends. They didn't realize you were with me." He shrugged. "Their idea of a joke." He glanced back at Keely, who sat stiffly, peering out the window. "I hope the mud didn't ruin your slippers, but you should have stayed when I told you to."

  Keely pointedly ignored him, continuing to stare out the window. Her new leather heels were beyond repair, yet she refused to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

  Gwenevere made a clicking sound with her tongue. "Men . . . always boys," she said with amusement. "You gave us quite a start."

  "A start!" Keely whipped around, unable to remain silent another instant. "Not very funny if you ask me. It's my understanding that these wandering bands of so-called patriots are burning houses and tarring and feathering anyone who doesn't side with your disloyalty to the Crown." She folded her hands on her lap. "And you, sir, call these vagrants friends?"

  "Vagrants?" Brock scoffed. "Who are you to judge? Those vagrants, as you call them, are the members of the Committee of Inspection and Observation. They are men of considerable wealth, education, and power. George Whitman is a judge and an assemblyman, Manessah Lewes, a portentous solicitor."

  "Portentous or not, I fail to see the humor." Keely looked away, unable to stand under her cousin's scrutiny.

  "There, there, Keely. No harm done, you've been too sheltered, and it's no one's fault but my own." Gwenevere scratched one of her spaniels behind the ear and the dog whined, thrusting its head beneath its mistress's hand again. "That, Keely, is the sort of thing men do. They are loud and boisterous; they do play inane pranks on one another." She shrugged, glancing out the window, the subject obviously closed.

  Keely crossed her arms over her chest, looking away as a lump rose in her throat. She felt like a fool. Why would she do such a stupid thing? What did she care if someone carried the heathen off?

  Brock sighed irritably, leaning back on the well-oiled carriage seat. His little cousin suddenly looked younger than her years. The sunlight came through the tiny window, setting on fire a red curl that peaked from beneath her bonnet. Brock had to suppress the urge to reach out and tug the curl. He pushed his hands down on the seat, promising to find himself a willing fair-haired woman as soon as possible.

  The remainder of the bumpy journey to Dover was made in silence, and when the carriage finally came to a halt only a street from the town's center green, Brock leaped out of the phaeton, offering a hand to his mother to help her down. Hesitantly, Keely accepted her cousin's hand just long enough for her to step from the carriage and then she released it.

  The house that loomed above them was a two-and-a-half-story, L-shaped, red brick structure with a center door and nine windows across the front, upstairs and down. The shutters, the simple woodwork trim, and the front stoop had been freshly painted, in the last day or two, Keely surmised; she could still smell the fumes of fresh whitewash. The house was simple, yet elegant, just as she had remembered it.

  A long-forgotten glimmering from the past flashed through Keely's mind. She remembered the stoop, standing on it, waiting for her father to return home. He had thrown his arms out to her and she had leaped into them, laughing. He was a kind-looking man with a frosted beard and a coat that always smelled of tobacco. How many times had he caught her off that stoop, she wondered.

  "My pups, Brock," Gwenevere said, startling Keely from her memories. "They can't be left in the carriage."

  Brock shook his head. "You and those damned dogs. What I'd have given to throw them to the fish a hundred miles offshore."

  "You'd better thank the heavens you didn't or I'd have had your head on a chopping block, son or not," Gwenevere retorted.

  "I'll see to them. I'll have Blackie take them around to the kitchen and feed them." He tugged at the braid running down his back. He'd forgotten how difficult his mother could be.

  "Feed them? Don't you dare let one of those servants of Lloyd's fee
d them! My babies would be dead in a week. They have a special diet, you must realize that." Gwenevere's dark eyes grew large. "Are you to care for them or I?" she asked, planting her feet firmly on the brick walk.

  Brock started for the front door. "I'll do it, Mother, now come. Lloyd will be waiting." Brock stepped onto the front stoop just as the door swung open.

  A young girl in a starched mobcap threw a hand up to her mouth. "God's teeth, Master Brock, don't be steppin' in the wet paint."

  Brock lifted a booted foot and cursed beneath his breath at the sight of white paint covering the soles of his fine leather shoes. "Why the hell didn't you warn me before I stepped in it, Lucy?"

  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Master Brock! Blackie tole me to watch fer you, but you see, there was this mouse hidin' behind the table in the front room, you know the table with the little legs that looks like—"

  "Enough, enough, Lucy." Brock dropped his hands to his hips in exasperation. "We'll just go around the back."

  "It's wet there, too, sir," the girl answered sheepishly.

  "And the side door from the garden?"

  "Wet, too." She clutched her small hands.

  "And how in the hell did he expect us to get in if he painted all of the stoops?"

  "Well, that's what I asked him, I said, Blackie, if you paints them steps then how is — "

  "Lucy! Go tell Master Bartholomew that we've arrived. I'll take care of this."

  "Yes, sir." She bobbed a curtsy and then disappeared.

  "Mother." Brock put out his arms, trying to make the best of a bad situation. "Come on, I'll lift you in."

  Gwenevere chuckled. "I can see nothing has changed in this household, not even in thirty-five years."