by Trish Morey
She pursed her lips and pretended to be thinking it over. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. There’s a lot to consider.” She searched his face and shook her head sadly. “If only you were as cute as the stable boy.”
He groaned. “I’m going to trade you to King Juomo. You’ll be happy there. He really knows how to treat a lady.”
She grinned happily. “Okay, I’ll marry you. Let’s do it quick.”
“Before we change our minds?”
“Never.” She held her glass of orange juice up as a toast to him. “I’ll love you forever, Max. Forever and everywhere and always.”
“Me, too.”
Teddy made a noise. It sounded very much like words.
Max frowned. “Did he just say, ‘me, too’?”
Kayla nodded. “It sure sounded like it.”
“You know what that means?”
“Tell me.”
“We’re a family now.”
Rising from her chair, she went to slip onto his lap and put her arms around him.
“Sealed with a kiss.”
THE TAMING OF
THE ROGUE
Amanda McCabe
About the Author
AMANDA McCABE
wrote her first romance at the age of sixteen—a vast epic, starring all her friends as the characters, written secretly during algebra class.
She’s never since used algebra, but her books have been nominated for many awards, including a RITA® Award, an RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Booksellers Best, the National Readers’ Choice Award and the Holt Medallion. She lives in Oklahoma, with a menagerie of two cats, a pug and a bossy miniature poodle, and loves dance classes, collecting cheesy travel souvenirs and watching the Food Network—even though she doesn’t cook. Visit her at http://ammandamccabe.tripod.com and www.riskyregencies.blogspot.com.
CHAPTER ONE
London, 1589
GOD’S wounds, but it was another fight. And Anna was sure she could guess what the cause was, too.
She put down the costume she was mending, and peered over the railing of the upper gallery to the stage below. Morning rehearsal had not yet begun for Lord Henshaw’s Men, and only a few of the players sat there, desultorily running their lines as Old Madge swept up the used rushes of yesterday’s performance. It seemed an ordinary start to a day at the White Heron Theatre—perhaps she had imagined that shout.
Nay, for there it was again, moving closer from the lane outside. A man’s hoarse yell, a woman’s scream. A mocking laugh.
The men on the stage heard it, too, breaking off mid-sentence to turn curiously towards the bolted doors.
‘It seems Master Alden has returned,’ Anna called down to them, her voice calm and steady. Unlike the rest of her. Her hands trembled as she longed to grab Robert Alden and give him a violent shake! And then to drag him close and kiss him …
‘Fool,’ she whispered, not knowing if she meant him—or herself. She had fought hard to impose control on her life, and she wasn’t going to let a ridiculously handsome, trouble-making actor wreak havoc on that.
‘Shall we bring him in?’ asked Ethan Camp, the company’s comedian. He relished a good brawl.
‘I suppose we must,’ Anna said. ‘He owes us a new play, and we’ll never have it if his arms are broken.’
She spun round and hurried towards the narrow staircase, lifting her grey wool skirts as she dashed down the winding wooden steps past the lower galleries, empty and echoing so early in the day, and into the yard which was open to the sky above. The quarrel was louder there, as if the participants played to the groundlings.
But Anna knew too well that if any blood was shed it would not be from a burst pig’s bladder hidden under a costume.
Ancient Elias, the porter, was already unlocking the doors, the players drawing their daggers. Even Madge leaned on her broom, looking on with keen interest.
As if theatre life was not already unpredictable enough, Anna thought wryly. Robert Alden could always be relied upon to liven things up.
And that was why she was such a fool. She finally had her life orderly again, after the end of a most ill-advised marriage and a blessed widowhood. She helped her father with his many businesses, especially the White Heron, and she loved the challenge of it all. The fact that she was good at the work, and was needed, was something new and welcome. She could do her work and hide backstage. She had no more use for the perils of romance. Especially with an actor.
But when she looked at Rob Alden she felt like a silly girl again. A blushing, giggling clot-pole of a girl, just like all the legions of ladies who only came to the theatre to watch him on stage. To toss flowers at his feet and swoon. To lift their skirts for him in one of the boxes when they thought no one was looking.
He was a handsome, tempting devil, indeed. One with the magical gift of poetry in addition to his azure eyes and tight backside. Anna refused to be tempted. Refused to be another of his easy conquests. Her task was only to lure plays from him, those wondrous tales that drew vast crowds and great profits. A play by Robert Alden was always a great success, and ran for days and days to sold-out crowds.
But there would be no beautiful words if he killed himself in a brawl, which Anna feared he might. He had a reputation even in tumultuous Southwark for his temper.
As soon as the doors swung open she dashed through them, clutching the fearsome weapon of her sewing scissors even as she wished she had the short sword she carried when she collected her father’s rents. The actors were right behind her.
Southwark was fairly quiet in the morning hours. A district that made a living in dubious pleasures like bear pits, brothels and taverns—all the things that were banished from within the city walls and into the suburbs—could never easily rouse itself after a long night’s revelry. The thick pearl-grey mist drifting off the river hung over the shuttered, close-packed buildings and the muddy, mucky lanes.
But a few shutters were thrown open, sleepy faces peering down to see what the trouble was. Trouble always attracted attention in Southwark, no matter what the hour. But everyone soon melted away once it was over.
Anna first saw the woman—a buxom female clad in once-bright, now-dingy yellow satin, her matching yellow hair straggling over her shoulders. She was crying, the tears carving streaks in her thick face paint.
Anna’s gaze darted to the man who stood in front of the whore, waving a sword around wildly. A great, portly bear of a man, with a reddened face and thick black beard. He looked quite unhappy, ready to explode, and Anna felt a cold touch of disquiet in her belly. The man was obviously drunk, and that made him even more unpredictable.
Unlike a play, where the script made it clear how all would end. Had Rob gone too far this time?
She turned to face Rob, who seemed most unconcerned by the whole scene. Probably he, too, was ale-shot, but he gave no indication of it. His blue eyes shone like a summer sky, his grin was merry and mocking, as if imminent disembowelment was greatly amusing.
Unlike his opponent, Rob was lean and lithe, with an actor’s powerful grace. His unlaced white shirt revealed a smooth, muscled expanse of bare chest—and a wide smear of blood. He held a rapier, lightly twirling the hilt in his hands as the weak sunlight flashed on its blade and on the gold rings adorning his ink-stained fingers.
Anna knew that he was a skilled fighter. Everyone knew that in Southwark. She had seen it too many times, both on stage and in the streets. The man’s mocking tongue and quick temper were irresistible temptations to brawlers. But somehow this time felt different. There was a tense charge to the air, a feeling of time standing still before crashing down on them.
‘Mistress Barrett!’ Rob said, giving her an elaborate bow. ‘I see you have come to witness our revels.’
‘What seems to be the trouble this time?’ she asked, glancing carefully between Rob and the enraged bear-man.
‘He’s a boar-pig of a cheat!’ the bear-man roared. ‘He owes me money for th
e lightskirt.’
The woman’s sobs grew louder. ‘‘Tweren’t like that. I told you! Some men aren’t brutes like you. I weren’t working then …’
‘Aye,’ Rob said cheerfully. ‘Some of us know how to be a gentleman and woo a lady properly.’
Gentleman? Anna pursed her lips to keep from laughing. Robert Alden was many things—witty, clever, and damnably handsome. Gentlemanly wasn’t one of them.
This was just another quarrel—over payment to a Winchester goose. Yet somehow she still sensed there was more to it. Something else was happening underneath this common, everyday disagreement.
She opened her mouth to argue, turning back to Rob, but just then that strange tension snapped and chaos broke free in the quiet morning. With an echoing shout, the bear-man lunged at Rob, all flailing arms and flashing blades, faster than she could have imagined possible.
His men, half-hidden in the shadows, tumbled after him, shouting, and everything threatened to hurtle over into a full-blown battle. Anna pressed herself back against the wall.
But she had underestimated Rob. Debauched he might look, yet the long night had lost him none of his actor’s grace. Swift as the tiger in the Queen’s menagerie, he sidestepped his attacker, reaching out to grab his arm. Using the man’s bulk against him, Rob flipped him to the ground. A brittle snap rang through the air, causing the bear-man’s minions to freeze in place as he howled in agony.
Rob gestured to them with his blade. ‘Who is next, then?’ he called.
Predictably, no one took that offer. They scooped up their fallen leader and ran away, the sobbing whore reluctantly following them. The sudden explosion of violence receded as fast as it had come.
‘I hope you are content now,’ Anna murmured.
Rob leaned his palm against the wall near her head, laughing. ‘I am, rather. They ran like the gutter rats they are. Didn’t you find it amusing, Mistress Barrett?’
‘No, I did not. I think …’ Then she saw it. The smear of blood on his bared chest was a thicker, brighter red, staining his rumpled shirt. ‘You’re hurt!’
She reached out to touch him, but he drew away with a hiss. ‘‘Tis a scratch,’ he said.
‘A scratch can lead to the churchyard if it’s not seen to,’ she protested. ‘I am the daughter of Tom Alwick, remember? I’m certainly no stranger to wounds. Please, let me see.’
He glanced past her at the gawping actors, reluctant to lose their excitement so fast. ‘Not here,’ he muttered.
‘What? Do you fear having your modesty offended? Fine, we can go to the tiring-house.’
‘I will happily shed my garments for you, Mistress Barrett. You need only ask …’ Suddenly Rob swayed, his bronzed face ashen.
Anna caught him against her, her arm around his lean waist, as alarm shot through her. Robert Alden was never pale. Something troubling indeed must have happened in the night.
‘Rob, what is it?’ she gasped.
‘No one must know,’ he said roughly, his breath stirring the curls at her temple as he leaned against her.
Know what? ‘I will not let them,’ she whispered. ‘Come inside with me now, and all will be well.’
If only she could believe that herself.
CHAPTER TWO
ANNA led Rob through the twisting maze of corridors behind the stage of the White Heron. It was eerily silent there, with Rob’s breath echoing off the rough wooden walls. The smell of dust, face paint and blood was thick in her throat, and Rob’s body was too warm as he leaned on her shoulder—as if he had a fever.
Despite her efforts not to worry, Anna couldn’t help it. All her life, with her father and her husband, and now with her father again, she had lived among men of hot and unpredictable tempers. Fights and feuds, duels, even sudden and violent death, were things all too commonplace in the streets of Southwark and Bankside. She had learned the hard lessons of dealing with such men.
But Rob Alden—despite his own quick temper, he had always seemed above such things, able to win a brawl with a quick flick of his sword and a careless laugh. He was known and feared in this world. Men said his smile hid a lethal heart, and they avoided him when they could. Anna had seen this time and again, and puzzled over it. Rob walked through life as if enchanted. Unlike her own existence.
Had the enchantment worn away?
She pushed away that cold, clammy fear and led him into the deserted tiring-house behind the stage. Chests full of costumes and properties were stacked along the walls, and a false cannon gleamed in a dark corner. Anna pushed aside a pile of blunted rapiers and made Rob sit down on a scarred old clothes chest.
He slowly lowered himself to the makeshift seat, watching her warily. There was no hint of his carefree laughter, his constant sunny flirtation. He looked older, harder, the sharp, sculpted angles of his handsome face cast in shadows. How had she never noticed that coldness before?
It made her even more cautious of him—of the threat his good looks posed to her and her hard-won peace.
‘What happened?’ she said. She turned away from the steady, piercing glow of his eyes and dug out her basket from a cupboard. She always kept bandages and salves nearby for these all-too-frequent moments. There were always injuries in the theatre.
‘You saw for yourself,’ Rob said. His voice was as hard as his expression, with no hint of the light humour he usually used to cloak his true self.
Whatever Rob Alden’s true self might be. Anna wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
‘A quarrel over a whore?’ Anna said.
‘Aye. It happens all the time, alas.’
‘Indeed, it does.’ Her father was the landlord of brothels. She knew what went on behind those doors, and actors were the worst sort of trouble there. Yet she couldn’t shake away the sense that something more was happening here.
She watched Rob as he pulled his shirt off over his head. He winced as the cloth brushed over his shoulder, and Anna could see why. A long gash arced over his upper ribs into the angle of his shoulder—a jagged red line that barely missed his heart. It was crusted over with dried blood, but some fresh, redder liquid still seeped out onto his smooth burnished skin.
There were older scars, as well—stark white reminders of other fights and wounds that marred his perfect beauty, making Anna remember the daily danger of this life.
She dampened a clean cloth and carefully dabbed at the new wound. She breathed shallowly, slowly, and kept her expression bland and calm. She had learned a thing or two about artifice from working around actors. Nothing should ever be what it seemed.
‘A quarrel over payment?’ she asked as she lightly sponged away the dried blood to examine the depth of the wound.
His breath roughened but he didn’t move away from her. He just watched her with that steady, unreadable look on his face, with those blue eyes that seemed to see so much yet give nothing away.
Anna slowly raised her gaze to meet his. She saw why the bawds fought over him as they did. He was the last sort of man she needed in her life, but he was a rare specimen of manhood with that face, and that lean, strong body displayed before her now. He was a danger just by simply being himself, and whatever it was he kept so well hidden only made him more so.
She dropped her attention back to the work of cleaning the wound. The coppery tang of blood was a timely reminder.
‘Aye,’ he answered after a long, heavy pause. ‘Her keeper tried to charge me more than agreed on after we were done. Something I’m sure your esteemed father would never do in one of his houses.’
Was that sarcasm in his voice? Anna nearly laughed. She wouldn’t put anything past her father and his business practices. He was such an old rogue. But not even he would cheat Robert Alden.
And neither would anyone else in Southwark. Too many had felt the chill of Rob’s dagger, and ever since he’d been tossed into Bridewell Prison for a short spell after a fatal duel he had grown even colder. That had been before he’d become a sharer in Lord Henshaw’s Men, and one of
their most popular actors and playwrights, so Anna didn’t know the details of the crime. But she had heard all the gossip.
‘And he did this to you? The bawd’s pimp?’ she said, as she dabbed some of the sticky salve onto the clean wound. ‘For I would wager it was not the girl herself who took a blade to you.’
A hint of his usual careless grin whispered over his lips. ‘Nay, she couldn’t bear to ruin my handsome looks. But it wasn’t that boar-pig of a pimp who did this.’
‘It wasn’t? Two brawls in one night? That’s a great deal even for you, Rob.’
‘It was an old quarrel. Nothing to worry about at all, fair Anna.’
‘Then I hope it was resolved at last. Or someday someone will ruin your looks, I fear.’
‘I’m touched that you worry about me.’
Anna laughed. She reached for a roll of bandages and wrapped the linen tightly over Rob’s shoulder. The white cloth was stark against his bare skin. ‘I worry about my family’s business. With no more Robert Alden plays the White Heron would surely suffer a loss of receipts, and my father has many expenses.’
Rob suddenly caught her wrist in his grasp, his fingers wrapping round it in a tight, warm caress. For all his wounded state, he was still very strong. He drew her closer—so close she could feel his breath on her throat, the alluring heat of his body against hers.
‘You wound me, Anna,’ he said, and for once there was no laughter in his deep, velvet-smooth voice. ‘Is that truly what you think of me?’
She wasn’t sure what she thought of him. He had confused her ever since she’d met him, when she’d come back to her father’s house after the blessed end of her wretched marriage. He was unpredictable, attractive, changeable …
Dangerous.
She tried to pull her hand away from him, to create a safer distance between them. For an instant his hand tightened and she thought he wasn’t going to let her go. She swayed towards him, not even realising what she was doing.
He pressed a quick, hard kiss to the inside of her wrist. ‘Of course you do,’ he muttered, and let her go.