Still Star-Crossed

by Melinda Taub

  That thought made her freeze. If she wed Escalus, she would be a princess. How had she never thought of that?

  Escalus’s mother was called Princess Maria, the pretty, birdlike daughter of a Sicilian duke. Her circle had been small and intimate. Just a few ladies attended her, including Rosaline’s mother. Every summer, she rode out hunting with Lord and Lady Montague at their country estate. The princess hated hunting. She cried to see the game fall. But that was the price she paid for not having a Montague lady in her inner circle. She could not appear to favor one family over the other.

  If Rosaline married Escalus, keeping the peace between Verona’s great houses would be as much her task as his. The feud that seemed so distant from this quiet garden would be her daily occupation.

  Well, someone had to do it, she thought grimly. Perhaps Escalus’s task would be easier if he was wed to one who already knew the players in this endless game.

  “Ah, see how the mighty house of Tirimo is fallen.”

  She turned to find Benvolio, hands hooked on his belt, staring down at her with a mocking grin. “Good e’en, Benvolio,” she said. “Think you that good, honest labor in the service of God is so shameful?”

  “I think you look more miserable now than you did with three swords pointed at your throat.”

  She did not care to tell him that her frown came from contemplating hunting with his kin. Instead she wiped her hands on the apron they’d lent her and stood. “Miserable? Never less so,” she claimed.

  “Truly? Do you truly think you can forgo the beauty and excitement of Verona for radishes and these infernal bells?”

  “The rhythm of the bell is soothing,” she retorted, as if she’d not just thought the same thing. “And in any case, what concern is it of yours, Master Benvolio?”

  He shrugged. “I think thee much prettier without a coating of dirt.” He reached out a thumb, wiping at the side of her forehead.

  “Ahem.”

  They turned to find the abbess behind them, eyes narrowed. Benvolio withdrew his hand.

  The abbess put a hand on Rosaline’s shoulder and drew her away from him. “We’ve word from Montenova,” she said to him. “Father Laurence says you were turned out of their door and we’re to have no traffic with you. Come, daughter, we’ve a basin for you to wash yourself.”

  Rosaline followed her to a chamber near the garden. As she splashed frigid well water on her arms and face, Mother Abbess said, “There will be none of that, you know.”

  “None of what, Mother?”

  “You assured me that you were a noble lady of good character when you took shelter beneath our roof,” the abbess said. “One who had kept chaste and away from the company of men.”

  Rosaline laughed. “Do you mean Benvolio, Mother? I assure you, he need not concern you.”

  “I know what sin looks like, lady.” She shoved a towel at Rosaline. “Dry yourself.”

  She did so, having no more words with the abbess, as she could think of nothing to say that was not unconscionably rude. But it seemed the abbess had no such qualms.

  “Benvolio is to return to Verona, the friars tell me,” she said when Rosaline had washed and changed. “You will, of course, stay here, until a more suitable chaperone may be found.”

  Rosaline blinked. “Your pardon, Mother, but I cannot. If Benvolio has what we came for, I must return with him.”

  “You will not travel alone on the road with a young ruffian whose company even holy brothers cannot abide. Your chastity demands you remain.”

  Rosaline’s gaze followed the abbess’s out the window where Benvolio waited on the other side of the garden. When he saw her looking, he waved. Rosaline shook her head. “My chastity is in no danger from him.”

  “The worst sin is that which the sinner will not see.”

  Enough of this. With a curtsy to the abbess, she hurried to Benvolio’s side. “I hear even monks cannot abide your company,” she teased.

  But his face was grim. “Come. We must return to Verona.” He put a hand on her back, ushering her toward the gate. Knowing the abbess’s gaze was still on them, Rosaline felt as though his touch was burning straight through her clothing. She tried to take a modest step away, but he stayed close, hulking protectively around her.

  Beyond the nunnery gates, she found Hecate and Silvius saddled and ready to ride. Benvolio turned to her.

  “I spoke to Friar Laurence.” He sketched out what had passed in the monastery.

  “So he did not name the duchess?” she asked, frowning.

  “No, but ’tis quite clear, is it not?”

  Rosaline had to own that it was. “So L is Lucullus,” she said. “That explains how the duchess has been able to manage the slaughter. But who is A?”

  “That puzzles me still.”

  “A. A.” Rosaline snapped her fingers. “Angelica.”

  “Angelica?”

  “ ’Tis the given name of Juliet’s nurse. Rememb’rest thou, she was at the duchess’s house?”

  “Of course. She must have seen something there and told the friar, without realizing what intelligence she possessed.” Benvolio looked worried. “I hope the good soul has spake not of it to anyone save her confessor.”

  Rosaline suppressed a shudder. She hated to think of Juliet’s nurse in danger. “Hast thou the book? We’d best show it to the prince.”

  Benvolio shook his head. “Friar Laurence had me thrown out the door. He’ll not let me touch it.”

  “Very well, we’ll just have to tell the prince what thou saw’st.” If they could convince the prince to believe Benvolio’s story, she added silently. Escalus might love her, but last she saw him, that had not been enough to convince him to trust Benvolio.

  Benvolio noticed her discomfiture. “What?”

  She shook her head. “Only a Montague could so irritate a company of holy friars that they could not abide him even for holy sanctuary.”

  Benvolio paused from checking Silvius’s bridle to look affronted. “Yonder black-habit looks no more pleased with thee, Capulet wench.”

  Sure enough, the abbess was across the courtyard, giving her a stare that could powder granite. Rosaline offered her a weak smile and bobbed a curtsy. “True, but it’s because she wants me to stay, not to go. She thinks I’ll be not safe on the road with thee.”

  Benvolio frowned. “She may be right. Perhaps thou shouldst stay.”

  “So the prince’s men can kill thee on sight? Be not such a fool. I must vouch for thy honesty, thou knowest it well.”

  “If I must sacrifice mine own safety to keep thee from harm—”

  “Then art thou a fool indeed, and shall vex me greatly. There is no safer place in Italy for me than at thy side.” Without waiting for a response, she took hold of Hecate’s pommel and swung herself up into the saddle. “Come. The hour grows long. Let’s away.”

  She wheeled Hecate about, starting down the dusty road back to Verona. After a minute, she heard Benvolio’s soft curse behind her and the clop of Silvius’s hooves. He, at least, heeded her counsel.

  The clouds grew gray above them as they rode.

  Benvolio cast an apprehensive glance toward the sky. In the scant hours since they’d left the abbey, the sky had gone from a soft, dusty blue to angry gray, and the air had developed an ominous chill. Ahead of him, Rosaline’s hair whipped wildly in the wind as she leaned over Hecate’s charging neck.

  He drew even with her. “Lady!” he shouted over the wind. “This sky bodes ill! ’Twill be a hard storm! We ought to find an inn for the night.”

  She shook her head, urging Hecate even faster. “We must press on,” she called.

  “Rosaline.” He reached out and grasped Hecate’s reins, pulling both horses to a walk. “We’re no good to Verona if we lose our way in a storm. We cannot return tonight.”

  Rosaline’s chin was rising mulishly, an expression that Benvolio was beginning to learn boded ill for his chances of changing her mind. “I beg of thee,” he said quickly. “I
am already falsely believed responsible for one death. Do not make me truly responsible for thine.”

  She rolled her eyes. “ ’Twould not be thy fault.”

  “Thou told’st me when we left the abbey that thou didst trust me with thy life,” he retorted. “If thou shouldst perish on our way, ’twill prove that sour-faced abbess right.”

  Before Rosaline could respond, they heard a clap of thunder, and, indeed, Hecate began to dance nervously. “Very well,” Rosaline called, soothing the trembling mare with strokes to the neck. “At the next village we shall stop for the night.”

  “Agreed.”

  They rode on, but their progress was soon slowed as the storm began in earnest. The wind whipped the rain into their faces, the trees swaying above them in the gale as the sky went black. Benvolio rode on Rosaline’s windward side, trying to shield her, but there was little he could do. The horses struggled, slipping and sliding as their hooves sank into the mud.

  They were less than a league from the village, by his calculation, when his worst fears came to pass. Lightning struck a tree just a few hills away, and at the blinding flash and deafening crack, Silvius reared, shrieking. For several heart-pounding instants Benvolio struggled to calm the terrified animal. Just when he settled all four hooves back to the ground, Benvolio heard another scream. He looked around to find that Rosaline had not been so lucky. Hecate was bolting up the path, Rosaline clinging desperately to her reins.

  She disappeared into the trees, but as he dug his heels into Silvius’s sides, he caught a flash of her crimson cloak far ahead. The narrow path twisted down the mountain above the bank of a river; yesterday it had been a sleepy trickle far below, but the rain had swollen it to a roar so powerful he could scarcely hear Silvius’s hooves strike the ground. His eyes strained through the gloom, but he could not catch another glimpse of her. And then he heard her cry out again. Leaning over his horse’s neck, he urged the steed faster, rounding the bend just in time to see Hecate rear. Lightning flashed, and for a moment he saw Rosaline frozen, clinging desperately to Hecate’s neck, before her horse lost its footing and horse and rider plunged over the side of the bank.

  “No!”

  Benvolio was barely aware that the hoarse cry he heard had been ripped from his own throat. He threw himself off Silvius’s back, racing to the broken, crumbling spot on the path where she’d vanished. “Rosaline!” he yelled. “Rosaline!” Falling to his knees, he strained his eyes for any sign of her. All he could see was a steep, muddy drop of a hundred feet to sharp rocks and white water below. No one could survive that fall.

  She’d been swept away. She was dead.

  It was as though Silvius had kicked him in the chest. Benvolio couldn’t breathe. Heedless of the rain and the wind, he curled to the ground, hands pressed to his forehead, eyes wide but unseeing. She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead.

  And then lightning flashed again, and a streak of crimson caught his eye.

  Crawling on his hands and knees to the edge of the cliff, he peered down over the edge. Yes! There it was, perhaps ten feet below the path. A small rocky outcropping jutted from the side of the cliff, and on it lay Rosaline’s crumpled form.

  As he watched, she stirred and groaned. Heart in his throat, he called, “Rosaline!”

  She struggled to sit up. “Benvolio?”

  “Art thou hurt?”

  “Not badly, I think.”

  “Move not.” Running back to Silvius, he found a length of rope tied to his saddle. He tied one end to a tree and knotted a loop in the other end, then threw it to Rosaline.

  She slipped her head and shoulders through the sling he’d fastened for her. “Hold fast,” he called down. She nodded, gripping it tightly. Benvolio went down on his belly, hauling up the rope. His chest burnt—his injury made this far more difficult than it ought to be. He felt his palms begin to slip. He gritted his teeth and pulled harder.

  Just as he thought he could do no more, Rosaline’s hands appeared, pulling herself up. Benvolio reached a hand out and she grasped it. He hauled her over the edge, and then she was there, she was safe, and they collapsed to the muddy ground in a heap.

  Benvolio sat up, pulling her to her knees. “Art thou well? Art thou sound?” His hands chased over her shoulders, her arms, her head, searching for injury.

  Her hands grasped his wrists as she managed to give him a shaky smile. “I am unhurt.”

  He cupped her face in his hands, leaning his forehead against hers. His breath was coming in deep gasps; he could not seem to calm his racing heart. She was all right. She was alive. She was alive.

  He kissed her.

  He felt her breath catch as his mouth slanted over hers, desperate and possessive. His hands threaded through her hair as hers fisted in his tunic. There was no decision in his mind to pull her closer, no thought except the need to feel that she still lived. He crushed her against him, every inch of them pressed together from shoulders to hips to knees as his mouth explored hers.

  A crash of thunder broke them apart on a gasp. Her fingertips brushed her swollen lips as she stared at him, wide-eyed. Benvolio swallowed. He had no idea what to say.

  He released her and stood. “We’d best away,” he said. “We must find shelter.”

  Rosaline ducked her head and nodded, getting to her feet as well and trying to little avail to clean some of the mud from her gown and hair. “Hecate is gone,” she said in a shaking voice. “She was swept away. I am sorry—”

  He brushed away her apology gruffly. “Let us begone. Silvius can carry us both.” He helped her onto Silvius’s back before mounting in front of her. Rosaline wrapped her arms around him from behind, and Silvius set off down the path once more.

  Luckily, they had not strayed far from the main road. Even there, though, conditions were treacherous, as fallen branches dotted their path. Keeping them safe took all Benvolio’s attention, for which he was grateful. He did not care to examine what in the world he had just done.

  Although, with Rosaline’s arms about his waist and her warm weight against his back, it was hard not to dwell on it.

  After an hour or so he spotted a village ahead. He urged weary Silvius on until they reached it. There was an inn, thank heaven, by all appearances clean and well-appointed. He drew Silvius to a halt outside. From Rosaline’s steady breaths at his neck, he knew she was asleep. He squeezed her hand.

  “Rosaline,” he said. “Wake.”

  “Mmm,” a weary voice came over his shoulder. “Are we home?”

  “No, lady. Verona is still many leagues off. Shall we pass the night here?”

  Her warmth left his back; he tried not to miss it. “We cannot press on? No, I suppose not. Very well.”

  They rented two rooms for what remained of the night. The innkeeper was irritated at being woken, but Benvolio mollified him with a generous tip.

  After seeing Rosaline safely to her room, Benvolio collapsed on his bed, asleep almost instantly.

  Benvolio! She woke up with a gasp.

  Rosaline sat stark upright in bed, heart pounding. Before she slept she’d been too weary to give much consideration to the night’s events. Now that she’d had a few hours’ rest, it weighed so heavily upon her mind that it had woken her up.

  He had kissed her. Kissed her. And no gentlemanly kiss upon the hand, either. This was a lover’s kiss. What was she to do?

  Perhaps he had not meant anything by it. Some men, she knew, would take such casual advantage of a lady alone. In some ways, it would be easier to dismiss it as but his momentary whim. But Benvolio was more honorable than that. And the tenderness she’d seen in his eyes spoke of something more than a fleeting fancy.

  Rosaline swung her feet onto the floor, wincing at the aches throughout her body. Her fall had left her more bruised than she’d realized. Gingerly she felt the back of her skull; there was a throbbing lump there where her head had struck the rocks.

  A knock at the door proved to be the chambermaid with an offering to dr
aw her a bath, which she gratefully accepted. Once the large basin had been filled with steaming buckets of water, she sank into it with a grateful sigh, scrubbing away the mud and fear and confusion of the night before.

  If he had merely stolen a kiss, all would be well. But no, God forgive her, Rosaline had returned the kiss, touch for touch, breath for breath. She sank down beneath the water, mortified by her own remembered wantonness. She had rejected Romeo because she’d loathed the idea of involving herself in their families’ feud—and then last night found her so entangled with another Montague it had been difficult to say where Capulet ended and Montague began.

  She could almost see cousin Juliet’s shade laughing at her.

  What did he wish from her? More to the point, what did she wish from him? If there was one thing Rosaline thought she knew, it was that she would never love any man but Escalus. Shame shot through her as his face rose in her mind. God, she was all but betrothed to him!

  Was she, though?

  The last time she had seen Escalus, he had declared his love. He had looked at her with all the tenderness she had ever longed to see from him. He had left her with the knowledge that he would almost certainly ask for her hand the next morning.

  And she had fled in the night with another man.

  She’d had her reasons, to be sure. But it was high time she faced the truth: A part of her had been glad to escape before Escalus asked for her hand, because she was not certain what her answer should be.

  That part of her seemed to grow stronger every time Benvolio’s rakish grin kindled a shy warmth in her belly.

  What did it matter? He was still a Montague. Even if Escalus had never wooed her, any union between herself and Benvolio could only end in grief. One storm-swept, fear-fueled kiss did not change that, nor did it change what she felt for Escalus. Sternly ordering herself to stop fretting, she turned her attention to scrubbing herself pink.

  After a good bath and dragging a comb through her wet hair, she felt a bit more like her old self. The chambermaid had cleaned her muddy clothes, and she dressed and went across the hall to Benvolio’s room.