The Ruffian and the Rose

by Colleen French

  She turned to see Brock standing in the center of the road with his hands planted on his hips, his hat tucked beneath his arm. Rain ran down his face, plastering his raven hair to his head. "Walk!"

  "Keely! What's wrong with you? What's going on?"

  "You were set up," she answered over her shoulder, continuing down the road.

  "I know that!" Brock broke into a run, going after her. "But how did you know? How did you find me? Keely, you're not going to leave me here! It's a good five miles into town!" He was running in earnest now, but the wagon was moving faster down the slick road.

  "Keely!" he shouted as she disappeared into the darkness. Realizing it was impossible to catch up with her now, he stopped running and threw his wet hat to the ground, silently cursing all women.

  By the time Keely reached home, she was soaked through and shivering. The dull ache in her lower back had increased to a throbbing pain and her swollen stomach felt taut and heavy. Leaving the wagon in the barn to be unhitched by the bewildered stable boy, she hurried into the house and up to her bedchamber.

  Peeling off her wet clothes, Keely slipped into a flannel sleeping gown and got into bed, shivering but too weary to get up and light a fire to drive off the chill. She fell asleep almost instantly, but woke a few hours later to a painful tightening in her abdomen.

  "Oh God," Keely murmured aloud. "It can't be, not the baby!" She stroked her stomach, trying to convince herself that it was just the rough ride in the wagon and that the pain would subside. Frightened, she lay perfectly still in the bed, forcing herself to breath evenly.

  What was she going to do if the pains didn't stop? Lucy and Ruth were gone, only the two stable hands were on the property, and they were long asleep. If she needed to, she decided, she would get up and call one of them to go for the midwife. How could she have been so stupid to have risked her baby's life like this, she wondered miserably.

  A groan escaped her lips as the next wave of pain came and went. Catching her breath, she clutched the counterpane, trying not to panic. I've got to get someone, she told herself, but when she tried to rise up out of the bed, another contraction seized her, making her gasp.

  Brock heard Keely cry out in pain as he opened the front door. "Keely!" he shouted, throwing his hat to the floor. "Keely, where are you?"

  There was no reply from the dark house until Keely moaned again. "Keely!" Brock raced up the front staircase and down the hall toward their bedchamber. "Keely?" he demanded.

  "Here," she answered weakly as he flung open the door. "I'm here . . . ."

  In the darkness Brock crossed the bedchamber in three long strides. "What is it?" he demanded, leaning over her in the bed.

  Keely reached for his hand, needing his comfort. "The baby," she whispered. She felt herself rising in another wave of pain and she bit down hard on her lip to keep from crying out.

  Brock swore beneath his breath as he fumbled with the lamp beside the bed. Finally succeeding in lighting it, he drew it closer to the bed. Keely's face was pale and dotted with perspiration; her hands clutched the bedsheets tightly. "You're going to be all right," he whispered, shaken. "I'll get the midwife."

  Keely nodded. "Hurry," she breathed. "They're coming faster."

  Brock lit two more lamps in the room then went down the back staircase, out of the house, and into the barn. "Samuel!" he bellowed. "Samuel get up and get down here before your ass is in a sling!"

  A minute later, the sleepy stable hand appeared, rubbing his eyes with one hand as he hitched up his breeches with the other. "Yes, sir?"

  "Take the two-seater and fetch the midwife immediately."

  The boy's eyes widened. "The missus?" He gulped.

  "Just go on and be quick about it!" Brock ordered sharply.

  Samuel nodded vigorously. "Yes, sir, yes, sir!"

  Brock returned to the house, stopping only to draw a bucket of cold water from the well. Rushing up the back staircase, the water sloshing down his leg, he burst into the bedroom. "I'm back," he soothed.

  Keely opened her eyes long enough to see him setting the bucket on the floor. "Water. I'm so thirsty."

  Picking up an empty teacup from the side table, he dipped a cup of water and brought it to her, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

  Keely panted, leaning forward. "Thank you . . . ."

  Lifting her gently with his hand, he guided the cup to her lips. "The midwife is on her way. It won't be long now."

  "That's good because this isn't going to be long. You son is anxious. I thought this was supposed to take longer." She smiled then stiffened as another labor pain rose. Brock set the cup down, pushing his hand into hers.

  "Squeeze it!" he told her. "It will help."

  She did as he said, squeezing with all her might until the contraction subsided.

  "Better?" he asked.

  She nodded. "How did you know that would help?"

  "Once I had a bullet in my leg when I was living on the Ohio. When my father's sister took it out for me, she gave me a stick wrapped with hide to squeeze." He smiled, brushing Keely's damp hair off her forehead. "It looks like you nearly did this on your own. If I'd not caught a ride halfway into town, I wouldn't have made it in time."

  "It's too early for the babe," she breathed.

  "A little, but he'll be fine. Remember, I was an early babe too . . . ." He grinned.

  Catching the joke, Keely smiled back and then was overcome by another spasm of pain.

  The minute Brock heard the front door swing open, he released Keely's hand and went into the hall. "Up here," he called. "Hurry!" Returning to Keely's side, he clasped her hand tightly. "The midwife's here now, Keely. Everything's going to be fine."

  At the sound of footsteps, Brock turned to see a tall, painfully thin woman in a mobcap come through the door. "You can go now, Master Bartholomew," she ordered as she set down the basket she held in her hand. "I'll call you when it's over."

  Brock looked at the slovenly dressed woman, her apron stained with blood. "Who are you?"

  "Sadie Marboro. Ye called for the midwife, didn't ye?" She tucked a tangled curl behind her ear with a dirty hand.

  "You're not touching my wife," Brock stated flatly.

  "What?" She stared in disbelief at the savage gentleman. She'd heard that he was odd, but no one had said he was deranged.

  "I said you'll not lay a hand on my wife. You're dismissed."

  Sadie dropped a hand to her hip. "And why might that be?"

  "You're dirty! For Christ's sake, woman, you've still got blood on your dress from the last birthing!"

  The midwife shrugged. "It were a difficult one. The mother didn't make it, but Jonah White's got a fine son, his seventh, I think."

  "Get out," Brock repeated, releasing Keely's hand to rise up off the bed.

  "And who's going to deliver your child?" Sadie indicated with her hand. "From the sound of her breathin', it's near time."

  He lowered his voice, not wanting to frighten Keely any more than she already was. "I'll get someone else." He strode to the door, waiting.

  She laughed. "Ain't no one else. Jesse's in Chestertown with her daughter's first layin'-in and Laura Mae's come down with an early case a' summer fever. So you're stuck with me."

  "Brock," Keely called from behind him.

  The sound of Keely's pained voice made him shiver. "Like hell I am!" he said through gritted teeth. "Now get your basket of filthy rags and get out!"

  Sadie snatched up her basket indignantly. "And who's going to deliver this baby, sir? You?"

  "I'll do it myself before I let you touch her with your infested ways!" he bellowed. "Now get out before I carry you out!"

  Sadie hurried out of the bedchamber. "I'll be chargin' you just the same," she shouted, her voice echoing in the hallway. "Ye've wasted my precious time, ye have!"

  Brock slammed the bedchamber door and went to Keely, kneeling on the floor.

  "Where's the midwife?" Keely asked groggily. "Where's she going?"
/>   Brock smoothed her brow with a bit of cloth dipped in the cool water. "She's gone."

  "Gone?" Keely clutched her stomach as another labor pain invaded her thoughts. "Gone where?" she managed as the contraction subsided.

  "I sent her away. She was filthy; she had the blood of a dead woman on her."

  Keely forced her eyes open. "You have to get someone. Brock, it's not going to be much longer."

  He patted her hand. "It's going to be all right. You just hang on. I'll be back up in a minute."

  Releasing her hand, Brock went down the back steps two at a time, mentally figuring what he needed. He'd seen only one birth out on the trail when his father's tribe had been moving. But his old aunt had instructed him well, telling him anyone over the age of eight summers, male or female, ought to know how to bring one of God's gifts into the world.

  Nervously, Brock fumbled around the kitchen, and finding what he needed, he retrieved an armful of clean sheets from the linen closet. By the time he made it back to the bedchamber, Keely was half sitting up.

  She looked up at him wearily. "Did you find someone?"

  He shook his head. "Don't worry. I've done this before."

  "You?" She pulled the sheet up. "No."

  "Don't be silly." Placing the clean sheets on a chair near the bed, he sat beside her, taking her hand. "I'm your husband."

  A blush crept across Keely's already flushed cheeks. "I know but—" Another labor pain rose, cutting off her words, and Brock got up to prepare for the birth of his first son.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Keely sighed, snuggling down in the fresh-smelling blankets, her small bundle pressed to her side. "I'm sorry the babe isn't a boy," she told Brock sleepily.

  He laughed, coming to sit down beside her on the edge of the bed. "Who said I wanted a boy?" he asked, pressing a finger to the tiny starfish hands that waved in the air.

  Keely smiled, tired but content. Her hazel eyes sparkled with a pride for her husband she'd never known. He had cared for her so tenderly, warding off her fears with his quiet assurance as he'd brought their child into the world. "Every man wants a boy," she teased softly.

  "Maybe next time." He stroked the cap of dark red fuzz that covered the baby's perfectly shaped head. "But this girl-child, she was meant to be." He brushed the baby's cheek with a finger and she turned her head instinctively toward it. "I think she's hungry."

  Pulling aside her clean nightgown, Keely moved the baby to her bare breast, sighing. "She's very strong."

  "And only a little small," Brock assured her.

  Keely's eyes met Brock's. "I'm sorry I left you on the road like that."

  "In the rain . . ." he added.

  She smiled. "In the rain. But you wouldn't listen to me." Her hazel eyes searched his. "Jenna said you were in danger and that I had to go."

  He nodded cautiously. "So it was Jenna and not Micah?"

  Keely frowned. "Did Micah know too?"

  Brock brushed a lock of bright red hair off Keely's cheek. "We'll talk of it later. You get some sleep now." He motioned to the window. "It's nearly dawn."

  Her eyes drifted shut. "All right, we'll talk of it later," she conceded. "But"—her eyes flew open—"we will talk."

  "I promise." Brock lowered his head to brush his lips against Keely's. Thank God she's all right, was all he could think.

  Keely savored the feel of Brock's lips against hers as he lingered over her. Of its own accord her hand lifted to stroke his striking jawline. "Thank you," she whispered, closing her eyes again.

  Brock guided her hand beneath the cover and leaned to kiss his daughter's tiny head. "Sleep," he murmured. "Sleep now."

  Two days later Keely sat up in bed, eating from a dinner tray Brock had brought himself. Beside the bed, baby Laura Gwen slept contentedly in the cradle Brock had slept in as a child.

  "Did you eat?" Keely asked, offering a fork full of buttered, mashed turnip.

  "I did." Brock leaned forward in the chair, opening his mouth to accept the offering. "But you know me. Always hungry."

  "You look like you finally got some rest." Keely sampled a slice of roasted chicken, trying to sound nonchalant. Brock had not come to her bed last night as she had expected and she was worried. Did he think that now that they had a child his husbandly duties were fulfilled? Did he intend never to sleep with her again? "Where did you sleep?" she asked.

  "Lloyd's room. I didn't want to disturb you and the babe." He crossed his long legs in front of him.

  "You wouldn't have disturbed us." She couldn't admit to him that she'd missed his warm body pressed against hers. She could barely admit it to herself.

  Brock ran a hand through his dark hair. "Keely. I have something to tell you," he said, changing the subject.

  "Oh?"

  He lifted his dark gaze, settling it upon her lovely oval-shaped face. "It's Jenna. She's dead."

  Keely's breath caught in her throat. "Dead?" She can't be. She was here the night I came to the tavern to get you. She saved your life!"

  Brock leaned forward, resting his forearms on his muscular thighs. "Keely, she's been murdered. Shot. I have to know where Jenna went and who knew." His bronze face was etched with lines of vital concern.

  "I . . . I don't know." Keely was in such shock that she barely heard herself speak.

  "What do you mean, you don't know?" he demanded. "As far as we can figure, you were the last one to see her alive. She was killed down on the docks about the same time you were saving my hide in Leipsic."

  Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. "There you go with that tone again." She pushed her tray away.

  "What tone?"

  Her lips trembled. "Accusing. I did nothing wrong! Jenna was my friend and I loved her!"

  "You expect me to believe she didn't tell you where she was going?" Brock stood, beginning to pace the hardwood floor, his high leather boots clicking rhythmically.

  "Yes, I expect you to believe me because it's the truth. All she said was that she thought she knew who was betraying you and your friends at the King's Head." Keely tried to hold back her tears. After all they'd been through, after she'd rescued him in that tavern, he still didn't trust her and the pain that that caused was almost as great as the pain she felt for the loss of her friend.

  "What else did she say?"

  She sighed. "That it was safer if I didn't know where she was going."

  "She gave you no indication of who it might be?"

  "None," Keely answered numbly.

  "And no one else heard your conversation? She didn't tell Micah?"

  "Micah?" Keely looked up. "He wasn't here."

  "But he'd been here . . ."

  "You have the servants spying on me now, do you?" She sniffed, reaching for her handkerchief. How could Jenna be dead?

  Brock's mouth twitched. "Certainly not, but you know Lucy and her tongue."

  Suddenly Keely recalled Jenna's thinking she had heard someone in the garden and then remembered the sudden appearance of Lucy. She said nothing.

  "Keely, this is very serious," he continued. "Can't you remember anything Jenna said that might be of help?"

  "Listen to yourself!" Keely flared, the reality of Jenna's death finally sinking in. "Jenna's been murdered and you're worried about who's telling your stupid secrets! She's dead because of you and those secrets!"

  "Keely, I—"

  "It's your fault. All of you!" she accused. "If it weren't for this inane cause of yours, Jenna would still be alive!" Tears began to roll down her cheeks. "Max would still have a mother."

  "I can see that you're distraught. I'll come back later," Brock said tersely.

  "Distraught! You're damned right I'm distraught! You killed Jenna just as sure as if you'd pulled the trigger," she sobbed.

  Pain flickered in Brock's dark eves. "Enough, Keely! I've had it with your sharp tongue. You don't know what you're talking about. I cared for her too!" He ran his palm over his face. "Don't you think I feel responsible enough already
without you flinging accusations?"

  Keely slid out of the bed, padding barefoot across the hardwood floor to stand before Brock.

  "Get back in bed," he ordered, catching her wrist.

  "You ought to feel guilty! Don't you see there's no sense in all of this," she shouted. "Don't you realize you can't win? He's the damned King of England!"

  Brock held her in his angry dark gaze. "Don't you realize I must win?"

  Keely's lower lip trembled as she lifted her hand to rest on Brock's chest. "What is it that makes me so angry with you and yet . . ." Her breath was audible in the room as she stared up at his finely sculpted bronze face.

  Suddenly Brock pulled her roughly against him, his mouth coming down hard against hers.

  "Damnation, woman!" he murmured against her lips. "Sometimes you make me forget . . ."

  She clung to him, still angry but needing to feel the strength of his embrace. "Forget what?"

  "Nothing." He brushed a lock of hair off her cheek and then swung her into his arms, carrying her to the bed and setting her gently down. "Now rest. I'm having a meeting at the King's Head."

  "Promise me you'll find her killer," she said quietly, grasping his hand.

  "I'll find him . . ."

  By the time Brock strode into the King's Head tavern, he had regained his composure. He forced himself to push aside his own guilt and the pain of Keely's words. If he was going to find Jenna's killer, he knew his head couldn't be clouded with emotion. He was convinced now that the betrayer, perhaps even Jenna's killer, was among them. He didn't have time to mull over his wife's accusing words, or his own mixed feelings for her.

  "Afternoon, gentlemen." Brock tossed his cocked hat onto the table.

  "Afternoon, Brock," came a chorus of male voices. They were all there—George, Micah, Issac, John, even Jenna's brother, Manessah.

  Brock took a seat, studying the faces, one by one, of the men who sat around the trestle table. When his eyes met Manessah's, he offered his hand. "You didn't have to come today."

  Manessah nodded his blond head solemnly, accepting his friend's gesture. "I know, but I wanted to."

  "Your mother?"

  "She's all right. She understands. It's like Jenna always said." Manessah lifted his head to look at the others. "We all take the risk because we fight for what we believe in. Jenna and Garrison fought for little Max's freedom and now I fight for it. We all do."