A Name Unknown

by Roseanna M. White

  Twenty-Five

  Peter hadn’t been to the pub so many times in a week . . . ever. But on Thursday night he entered again, behind Rosemary, and nodded at Kenver and Tamsyn, Treeve, and Cadan, who sat in the corner booth.

  People looked up when he entered. But no one seemed particularly surprised to see him. Everyone, it seemed, was here, packed in like so many sardines. Under normal circumstances, this was the last place he would want to be.

  But he was here for the same reason everyone else was—to hear whatever news came in over the wire.

  Rosemary had his hand in hers and tugged him through the crowd, toward the bar. Where he would have found a corner to lean into, she sidled directly up to the barkeeper and said, “Anything new, Colin?”

  This was Colin? Peter tried not to study him too closely, though he had wondered what kind of man had inspired Eseld to toss over Treeve. He knew the Thorns, of course—more or less—but hadn’t been sure which brother Colin was.

  The tall one, apparently, who could whip one pint along the bar even as he drew another from the tap. And he regarded Rosemary as everyone here seemed to—like a friend. “Have you heard about the Austrian bombardment of Belgrade, across the Danube?”

  Rosemary nodded. “Yesterday. It wasn’t successful, right?”

  “Nah.” Colin set the new pint on the counter too and wiped up a spill. “Nor have been their continued attempts to scare Russia away from the border. They’re still mobilizing.”

  Someone bumped into Peter, sending him into Rosemary, all but pinning her to the bar.

  He probably should have minded more than he did. But then, she was smiling too as she shouted, “Watch it, William! There are delicate ladies here!”

  William—an Ellis, wasn’t he?—grinned over his shoulder. “Where? I only see you, Rosie.”

  Rosemary laughed. And ordered, “Slap him for me, Eseld.”

  Eseld, maneuvering through with a tray held high in one hand, obligingly delivered a friendly cuff to the back of William’s head with the other.

  Peter eased away. A bit. But stayed closer to her back than he usually would have. For safety’s sake, of course.

  Rosemary nodded to Eseld. “Meur ras.”

  “Heb grev.”

  His brows moved up. “You’re learning . . . Cornish?”

  “Not on purpose, but you can’t help but pick up a few things here and there.” She rested her forearms on the bar and drummed her hands upon it. “Have you got the Telegraph back there? Peter isn’t a subscriber.”

  Peter rolled his eyes. “I get . . . four newspapers. And you n-never read . . . any of them.”

  “Because you don’t have the right ones, luv.” She reached out for the newspaper Colin liberated from another man farther down the bar and then spread it open before her.

  Peter scanned the headlines over her shoulder. They all looked the same as the ones he’d already read—which left his mind free to wander to the lemon scent that clung to her hair. And to that luv. It meant nothing, he knew that. Like the Cornish ansum or dearovim. But he was tempted to pretend it did.

  She tapped a finger to the page. “Did you catch this?”

  “Hmm?” He blinked to clear his mind of lemon and luv and focused upon the words beneath her finger. He read a paragraph, unsure of whether to smile or frown. Kaiser Wilhelm, according to one source anyway, had been against the attacks, maintaining there were still diplomatic solutions. “King George will . . . will be g-glad of that . . . anyway.”

  “That’s about enough.”

  A man two stools down turned toward them, his face mottled. It took Peter a long moment to recognize him as Pomeroy. He looked not quite sober. And more than a little angry as he stood and shoved a finger in Peter’s direction, though it didn’t reach him. “Who do you think you are, talking of the king that way, huh? You being a blighted German. You think you know what His Majesty thinks?”

  Colin slapped his cloth to the bar. “Sit down, Pomeroy, or get out. You’ll not be starting a row here.”

  Pomeroy staggered a step into what would usually have been an aisle. “No. I’ll have my say. Bad enough that we’ve got a traitor here—worse that he thinks he’s some kind of friend to the king.”

  He heard shifting and scooting from behind him, from the corner of the room. Kenver and Treeve and Cadan, he’d bet. But there were also men behind Pomeroy—his cronies. FitzSimmons. Foote.

  Peter sighed. “Listen, M-Mr. Pomeroy, I’m not—”

  “You’re not much of anything, are you? Nothing but a coward who thinks he’s too good for us. A traitor. From a long line of traitors.”

  Peter shifted. One foot a bit in front of the other, weight balanced. Arms limber, at the ready. Facing him down. “Say what you want . . . about me. But you w-will not . . . insult my f-family.”

  Pomeroy’s sneer was an ugly thing. Not because of the brown teeth or the red nose. Because of the hate in his eyes. “I’ll insult whomever I p-p-please.”

  The scent of lemon hit his nose a second before her curls appeared in front of him. Rosemary charged at Pomeroy like a battering ram, knocking him back a full step—likely because the man hadn’t been expecting that.

  No one had been expecting that. A hush fell over the pub, except for the scraping of chairs as everyone stood to better see.

  Peter reached to pull her back before Pomeroy could recover and lash out at her. “Rosemary.”

  She shrugged away from his hand. “No. It’s time someone stands up for you, and if no one else has the guts, I’ll do it.”

  He could stand up for himself. And he would now. When it was the entire Holstein name, the Holstein honor, at stake. He reached for her again.

  Pomeroy leered. “That’s right, Holstein. Get your London hussy under control before I do.”

  Peter, standing even with Rosemary now, dropped his hand before he could be shrugged away again. He’d never seen that particular set to her jaw before, but she had the look of a steam engine ready to blow to pieces.

  She stepped closer to the old drunk. “You think you can control me, Pomeroy? If anyone’s a coward here, it’s you and yours. Only cowards resort to vandalism. Or to stupid insults. Does it make you feel big and powerful to spout off like you do? Or maybe you need to hit a girl to achieve that? Prove yerself a man.”

  Pomeroy’s face went red, and his hands went into fists. Peter saw his lunge as he coiled for it, prepared his own.

  Needn’t have. Rosemary had already ducked the swing, had already stepped aside and landed her own in the sot’s drunken face. And now jerked a knee into his groin that doubled him over in half a second.

  A chorus of cheers—and grunts of sympathetic pain from a few of the men—filled the pub.

  Rosemary shook out her hand. “Lesson number one for you, Pom. Don’t mess with a London girl. You don’t hold a candle to the thugs I’m used to.” She spun, her face still a fury. But it was hidden now behind that mask she wore so often. Peter saw it only in the snap of her eyes, the curl of her fingers. Her gaze met his. “I think I’ve had my fill of news, if you have, Mr. Holstein.”

  The mister was for them, he knew. A sign of respect. He inclined his head. “As you . . . wish. Miss Gresham.”

  There was something else beneath the fury in her eyes too. Something he couldn’t see quite clearly enough to name.

  She nodded and turned toward the door. Peter glanced down to make sure Pomeroy was still on the floor—he was, and Colin had emerged from behind the bar to grip FitzSimmons by the scruff of the neck. But Foote hadn’t been restrained.

  “Rosie, watch out!”

  Betty’s cry filled Peter’s ears even as he saw the man charge forward.

  Peter moved before he could think, Father’s training taking over. A jump into his path, a block of the raised hand. Another block when Foote swung his other—this one he grabbed, since some neighbor or another had surged forward to take hold of Foote’s other arm.

  What made a man turn into this?
Full of hate ready to spill out on whoever was handy? Peter, just because of his name. And Rosemary, just because she stood up for Peter.

  He shook his head and forced Foote’s arm down. “If you hurt her, you’ll . . . regret it.”

  “Aye, that he will,” said the man who’d grabbed him from behind.

  Peter let go of him when someone else moved forward. Turned to Rosemary.

  He rather liked the smile that played at her lips. It was small and mischievous and exactly like the one Rosita had given Locryn just before she’d abandoned him to the natives halfway through the book. Except Rosemary didn’t run away. She held out her hand. “My hero.”

  He breathed a laugh and took it. “I d-daresay we’re . . . even.”

  “Even better.”

  They strode together out of the pub, into the familiar little street. His carriage was there, waiting for him, his horse snorting a greeting. He helped Rosemary up.

  She was, by the time he rounded the curricle and climbed up, sputtering. “I hate bullies. Hate them. Men like that—they’re the kind that would take the bread right from a baby’s hand, even when he’s all but starved and they’re fat and spoiled. The kind that would step on a person just to hear him scream. I detest men like that!”

  He gathered the reins, clucked to the horse. “I never . . . would have guessed.”

  “And don’t you laugh at me, Peter Holstein, or I’ll let loose my Cockney fury on you.”

  “I’m not . . . laughing.” Except that he was, even as he said it. “Wouldn’t dare. I’m . . . afraid of you.”

  “You should be.” She curled her fingers again, uncurled them. Held them up. “That blighter’s got a hard head.”

  “Ooh.” One of her knuckles had a cut, and the others were red. “We’ll . . . tend it. When we get home.”

  Her shoulders sagged as they drove out of the village. “It wasn’t one of them though. In the woods that day. That blighted Robin Hood was younger than any of them. Leaner.”

  He was. Peter sighed. “They all have . . . have sons. In their twenties.”

  “I know, I’ve asked around. Young FitzSimmons is a nasty piece of work too, it’s said. His wife’s often sporting bruises.” Her hand fisted. “Like to get ahold of him sometime.”

  Peter shook his head. “Pomeroy’s . . . he’s more solid. Works for . . . for Mr. Arnold.”

  “And never goes about spewing hate against Germans, I know. What of Foote’s son?”

  Another shake of his head, but this time because he hadn’t any idea. “I don’t . . . don’t know him.”

  “We’ll ask Kenver or Treeve. They will.”

  They would. And perhaps they’d know, too, if any of them were chain smokers. Maybe that information would lead them to their answers.

  For a few minutes, Rosemary said nothing more. Until their drive came into view, at which point she said, “We’ll figure it out. Before I leave.”

  Funny how that spoiled the evening more than the barroom brawl. Peter turned the horse toward Kensey. And sighed. “You don’t . . . have to.”

  “I won’t be able to rest easy until I know that whoever’s been wreaking such havoc is behind bars.”

  That wasn’t what he’d meant. He’d meant she didn’t have to leave. But he’d already said that once. Just saying it didn’t make any difference, not if he couldn’t give her a reason to stay.

  Benny was jogging out of the house to meet them and take the horses. Peter said nothing as he drove the last little distance, nor as he climbed down and reached to help her do the same. He took her hand—her left one—and tugged her toward the house.

  She tugged back. “I think I’ll just go home. Anger’s tiring.”

  He didn’t let go. “Your knuckles.”

  “I can tend to them.”

  “But you . . . won’t.” She’d just go in and make herself a cup of tea and fall asleep in that chair by the window with a book, her lights all ablaze. As she did eight nights out of ten.

  Her lips twitched. “All right, you can be my hero again. Tend my battle scars.”

  “That’s better.” He led the way through Kensey’s main doors, through the halls, to the kitchen.

  It was empty. Grammy would be abed already, what with getting up so early each day. The Teagues were likely outside on the bench the mister had made for his missus years ago, enjoying the evening.

  The quiet suited Peter well. He fetched the jar of honey and lavender, and a slender bandage.

  Rosemary was leaning against the table, her gaze on the dried herbs hanging above the sink. When he drew near, she focused on him instead, produced a smile, and held up her hand. “Be gentle. I’m a delicate lady.”

  He chuckled and dipped his finger in the honey, spreading it gently over the cut. “Delicate when . . . when it suits you. Strong . . . always.”

  She laughed too, a soft version that tied a knot right in the middle of his chest as he reached for the bandage. “Careful,” she said, “or you’ll turn my head with such flattery.”

  He wound the cloth around her injured knuckle. Then let the knot inside him have its way. He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the bandage. Looked into her eyes, clear as a jewel. “Maybe I . . . mean to.”

  She went still. Breathed his name. But she didn’t pull her hand away or make a run for it.

  So he eased a little closer. Lifted his other hand to cradle her face. And kissed her.

  It was fire. Definitely fire. That force that could take and destroy. That could rage and consume. It was fire, and Rosemary wrapped her arms tight around the flame and held on.

  It shouldn’t be fire. How could it be, when Peter was all cool reactions and self-control? He’d never sent her a smoldering look. Never flirted, not until just that moment. He’d never been anything but a friend.

  A gentleman, in the real sense. The true sense.

  It was fire—but it wasn’t the fire that destroyed lives and homes and stables. She dug her fingers into his shoulders and tilted her head a bit so he could kiss her more deeply. More fully. More. It was a hearth ablaze on a winter’s night. A torch lighting the darkness.

  It was life, and she couldn’t get enough. Didn’t want to. Because as long as he was kissing her, she could think of nothing but him and her and this nebulous them that hadn’t existed until a minute ago. That would flicker out of being again when he pulled away.

  He pulled away. Dragged in a breath. And his eyes were the sea, blue and green and swirling, which everyone knew extinguished a flame without a thought.

  And she was an idiot, because he was a gentleman—no matter how true a one—and she had no business standing here in his pretty kitchen and kissing him when she’d be gone tomorrow. When she’d leave him with his lovely secrets and his welcoming home and his mostly friendly staff, who would all wag their heads while Mrs. Teague proclaimed, “I told you that girl was no good.”

  “Oh blast,” she said on a breath. He still held her between him and the table. And his arms still felt so strong, so perfect around her. And his lips were on her cheek. Her jaw. Her ear. “Mrs. Teague will have a fit. She’s convinced . . .” Her jaw again, in a slow, slow move toward her mouth. “She’s convinced I only came to seduce you. Which you had better know isn’t true, because if you think I’m kissing you now because of some plot on my part—”

  “Rosemary.” He was smiling, blast him, even as he traced his nose along her cheek.

  She couldn’t breathe. Maybe he was that other kind of fire. The kind that sucked the air right out of a room. “What?”

  He hovered there, a whisper away. “Stop talking. Please.”

  Her laugh only had a moment to escape before he was kissing her again. She let him, though she shouldn’t. And kissed him back, though she ought to have better sense.

  She’d be gone tomorrow, whether she could figure out who Robin Hood was or not—she’d have to be, or she’d end up in jail. She’d be gone tomorrow. But she’d miss him every day for the rest of her
life. He’d stolen her heart right out of her chest when she wasn’t looking, and she hadn’t the foggiest idea how to get it back. And didn’t much want to. He’d take better care of it than she ever could anyway.

  At some point, his lips left hers and settled on her head. Which had nestled, somehow, against his shoulder. His fingers were trailing up and down her back. And because she was an idiot, tears were stinging her eyes.

  She wasn’t who he thought she was. And he was so much more than she deserved. “Peter.”

  “Don’t. Not yet. Don’t . . . don’t tell me how you must . . . must leave. I haven’t the words yet to . . . to argue.”

  He’d find them—likely with a pen and paper tonight. He’d write her some heart-stoppingly beautiful letter that would make her want to stay—even more than she already did.

  But it wouldn’t be real. Because it would be to Rosemary Gresham, librarian. And she wouldn’t be that anymore after tomorrow.

  She pulled away, careful to keep her gaze just below his. Careful to keep her muscles loose, relaxed, or he’d know something was wrong. And if he knew something was wrong, he’d try to put it to rights. And she couldn’t bear that right now.

  So she cleared her throat and hoped he’d chalk it up to a belated bashfulness, or awkwardness, or whatever he wanted to call it. “I found your documents,” she said. “Last week. I just . . . they were my last reason for staying. They’re in the library, behind that false shelf back.”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t care about that. Not now.”

  But he should. They were what mattered—his proof of who he was. Those papers meant he would be fine, he would be safe.

  She’d managed that, at least. And she’d leave him a letter of her own, one warning about Mr. V. One, perhaps, that confessed how much he meant to her.

  No. She couldn’t do that or he’d come after her, because it was the noble thing. Which wouldn’t do. She’d have to tell him it had all been a lie. That she was just a thief.

  She turned away when those burning tears turned to falling tears. She hurried toward the door.

  “Rosemary!”

  She was just a thief. But it hadn’t been a lie. She loved him. God help her, she loved him. God, help me!