Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  "Do you dismiss all things that baffle you? Most unwise, mistress. Someday you must face certain facts. I would like to acquaint you with a few choice ones." He laughed deep in his throat. "But I cannot today. I must go. After I have named you."

  He scrutinized her for a minute, pacing around her as she stood looking at him, amazed. He didn't ask her name. He presumed to name her. It made her so uncomfortable, his attention, that she clasped both arms across her chest and twisted her neck, first one way, then the other, to watch him go round.

  "Rose," he said at last, having made a complete circuit and stopped where he began. "Skin soft like the flesh of the flower, eyes luminous as the dew. No other name suits you so well." He stood there looking satisfied with himself.

  "Are you quite finished?" she asked sharply. "If you fancy yourself a poet, you are a poor one. And Rose is not my name."

  "Ah, there are the thorns. You see I am right—"

  "I am not what you say, just because you choose to say it." Thoroughly enraged by his presumption, confused by his earlier kindness of buying the lace, Roz caught up a heavy wooden bobbin wound with ribbon and clutched it tightly.

  "Angry?" He nodded to indicate the bobbin.

  "Yes," she ground out.

  "Then throw it at me."

  "Nonsense."

  "Do," he urged. He lunged forward, as if threatening, and she jumped back so quickly, hurled the bobbin so fast, she hardly knew what she'd done.

  Laughing, he put up both hands to ward it off, so that it fell with a clatter on the floor. Abruptly her anger ran out of her like dry meal from a rough frieze bag.

  "Feel better?" Cheerfully he retrieved the bobbin. Strangely, she did.

  "Ah, I am relieved." Christopher swiped at his brow. "If you are done with anger, you must know that I would like greatly to kiss you." He eyed her appreciatively.

  "What?" She stared at him, aghast, realizing she'd been thinking the same thing. "You are impolite."

  "I told you I was." His eyes laughed merrily at her. "But then I'm also honest. Don't be angry again. I should be sorry if you were."

  "I am not angry, but you must not say such things."

  "Not ever?"

  His face showed disappointment. In fact, he looked so sorrowful, she could hardly bear it. His entire body slumped, became dejected. He crushed his hat in both hands and looked at her, his bewitching blue eyes mirroring his pain. They made her feel guilty, as if she had hurt him sorely. "Well, of course, 'tis not that it's such a fault, as long as you do not follow the words with the action, as you said yourself, but you must remember that in polite com­pany, one does not ordinarily, that is, you must see, people do not talk of such things when they have just met ..." Groping for words, she looked at the floor in bafflement, then turned back, convinced he really did not understand.

  His attractive face wore a look of pure devilment, and it slowly dawned on her that he was teasing. What could she possibly be thinking, stumbling out an explanation when he meant to bait her? With a rush of anger, she grasped the wrapped fan and almost threw it at him. "You, sir, are a rogue and a knave. There is the door. Be gone at once!"

  He was chuckling as he caught the package midair. Hold­ing the fan carefully within its coarse cotton wrapping, he swiveled lightly to obey. Halfway to the door, he turned hack. "I shall still call you Rose when we meet. Agreed?"

  "We shall not meet . . . except on business," she amended lamely, feeling ungrateful. But his roguish grin forced her to snap at him again. "You are insufferable."

  "In truth, my red-cheeked Rose?" He said the words as carefully as he protected the fan, nodding to himself. "I shall send someone for the crate of lace, then find a buyer for the rest." He held up one finger and winked at her. "Remember, I have made you smile. Next time, I shall make you laugh." He gave her a bold glance. "And perhaps something more."

  With that, he was gone. The bell on the door seemed to clang harshly as he went out.

  Roz pressed one hand to her hot cheek, wondering just how red her face was. But after a second, a new thought came to her in a rush—the scent that clung to him, she knew what it was. Cloves. The lingering fragrance twined around her senses and buried itself deeply in her subcon­scious as she watched him mount his huge black horse and ride rapidly away.

  When he was well gone, when there was not the slight­est chance he might return, Roz gave in to tempta­tion. Going to where her father kept a looking glass for customers, she lifted it down and scanned her reflection, trying to think what had just happened. Her own brown eyes gazed back at her, and she touched her now-pale cheek in disbelief. Was it possible? She who never blushed ... had turned so red?

  Tilting the glass, she surveyed her simple kirtle and smock, trying to make out how she must have looked. Troth, she thought, pushing back a stray tendril of hair, her feelings swirling, rough as the eddies of Lulworth Cove. Everything was upside-down today. First the ruined lace. Now this man, suggesting ... She should have slapped his face. She always had before when a man went too far.

  But she hadn't wanted to slap him. Not as she had the others. Perhaps it was because no man had ever bought her ruined cargo before. That alone was enough to make her love him.

  Love? Nonsense, she chided herself. What in heaven made her use that word? She'd never been in love, and she didn't intend to be now. Just because her body responded in such an unusual way didn't make the man trustworthy. In fact, quite the opposite—it made him dangerous.

  Best forget him, she told herself sensibly. He would prove to be like the others who courted her—mouthing words about her beauty, thinking that a fair exchange for her dowry. None of them cared what she wanted. Only her father did that.

  A sadness descended upon her. Her cherished papa, the bulwark of her childhood, the center of her existence, he was so ill now it frightened her. The physicians had suggested a quieter life, the sea air. They had left their fashion­able house in London to come here. She hadn't minded. She would do anything for him. No one else in her life mattered so much.

  "Ah, Mistress Rozalinde, what do you here?" The errant apprentice interrupted her reverie by entering at last, scratching his back and yawning hugely.

  "John!" Roz whirled around and put away the glass be­fore he could see her examining herself. "Where have you been? A customer came."

  He goggled at her. "What? Where is Master Gray? And Tom?"

  "Gray left for his half day off, and well you know it. And Tom," she shrugged, having heard her father complain about this problem before, "has disappeared. You," she Raid accusingly, "were left in charge."

  "Pardon, mistress." The young man hung his big head on its lanky neck. "I fell asleep in the back room. 'Twill not happen again."

  Roz looked at him sternly for a minute, then melted. "You have served us long. I'll overlook it this time. Now then," she held out the broom with authority, "sweep up and tidy the stock. Especially the ribbons. They are all in disarray." She indicated the brightly colored silks half un­wound from their bobbins. One in particular was a hopeless tangle from its earlier roll on the floor. Roz looked away from it guiltily, trying to forget what she'd done.

  John took the broom and swept the floor industriously, gathering scraps of cloth and dirt. "Who was the cus­tomer?" he ventured to ask while he worked.

  "I don't know," she admitted as she tallied the latest income in her father's account book. "A gentleman of some means, though I've never seen him before."

  John was just opening his mouth to question her further, but at that moment the back door slammed. A plump lass in a stiffly starched coif and apron bounced in and curtsied before Rozalinde, panting from her haste. "Oh, Mistress Rozalinde, your pardon, but we need you sore up t' the kitchen, what with all them folk your pa hired to make up our revel. The one's got lice, I'd swear to it, and Cook's in such a titter about 'em. You'd best come."

  "Troth! I forgot the time." Roz draped her cloak around her, frowning with worry. "I hope they've done the tasks I
set them. The revel begins in just a few hours." Moving quickly, she led Margery out the back door.

  The two girls hurried up the steep steps cut in the hill behind the shop, making for the fine timbered house over­looking the street. Roz could have outdistanced her maid easily—Margery was winded from her climb—but she waited patiently before slipping in a side door and leading the way to her chamber.

  Roz indicated her best gown, laid out on the bed. "I'd best dress now, for I'll get no chance later. You must lace my busk tighter, if I'm to wear that."

  Deftly Margery stripped off her mistress's plain kirtle skirt and bodice, and began tightening the laces of Roz's busk. "Any customers in the shop?" she asked, tying the laces and reaching for the bodice to the gown.

  "One," Roz answered, standing still so Margery could hook the bodice up the back. "He didn't look travel worn so he must be local. I sold him a fan and—"

  "You sold him a fan!" Margery frowned in disapproval. "You're not to do that. Where were Tom and John?"

  Roz sized up her maid. No one would benefit if she told on the apprentices. "Why shouldn't I help a customer?" she said carefully. "I'm a shopkeeper's daughter."

  "Faugh," Margery scoffed, taking the bait and forgetting the boys. "You're no such thing. You're the daughter of the richest master merchant in London. No, the richest in England, I'd wager. How many times have I said, you're not to be alone with strange men in the shop. What would your pa think? Worse yet, what did that gentleman think?"

  "He thought nothing at all. Why should he?" Roz said sharply, feeling the blood rise unexpectedly to her face.

  "He did, I'll vow. I know what I know about men, mistress." Margery clucked her tongue as she came around to straighten the bobbin lace on the front of Roz's bodice. "A minute alone with a lass as looks like you, an' ... well, I never said so before, but I always thought all 'twould take is the right man to come along and then heaven help us all! So what happened? Did he try to take liberties?" Mar­gery held out the matching blue brocade kirtle skirt guarded with lace.

  Roz shook her head with irritation as she stepped into it. "Nothing happened. I made the sale and he went away. I'll probably never see him again. It's late, Margery. The quests will be arriving for the revel as soon as dinner's done. I'd best go down like this."

  "Oh, no, you don't. Not with today being what it is, special and all. You'll wear your sleeves and overgown or I'll get scolded for being lax."

  "Oh, troth." Fuming, Roz held up her arms so Margery could help her into the separate gown. "Bother all these clothes. They take too much time. Are the children all arrayed?"

  Margery rolled her eyes while she tied on a beribboned, lacy sleeve. "As arrayed as I could get 'em. At least Angelica is."

  "Tell me the truth, now—how are things in the kitchens?"

  This time Margery grimaced. "I didn't want to say in front o' John, but them folk your pa hired to bring the pasties and meat and all—they're all mad."

  "How so?" With both her elaborate sleeves and gown tied in place, Roz sat down, loosened her hair, and looked at her maid in the glass.

  "Can't stop talking, that's what." Margery picked up the brush and began to arrange her mistress's long, curling hair. "Jabbering and gossiping fit to drive you witless. All this nonsense about pirates, saying as they're goin' to land on our coast." She harrumphed as she divided the hair and began braiding. "Got the stable lads and spit turn so stirred up, they're ready to run off wild in the night. Such a mud­dle I never did see."

  Roz reached for her sapphire earrings, the only baubles she would let her father buy her, and slipped them on. "I shall tend to the kitchen folk. Is Papa resting as the physician ordered?"

  "He is, and your ma's with him. So you'd best see to things," Margery grumbled, "before half our folk run away this very night. The chief caterer—the one what gives Cook fits 'cause he claims his sauce is the best in Dorset—why, he says they'll be giving things away."

  Roz flashed Margery a sharp glance. "The pirates around Lulworth don't give away things. They land up Lulworth Creek, and everything they bring is sold for a pretty price."

  "Aye, I know." Margery sighed as she finished Roz's braids, then wrapped them around her head like a coronet. "But they're our pirates, our locals. We know what to ex­pect of them. But these others are the Sea Beggars, the Netherlands pirates. And Lord knows what they'll be up to. Seems they give away goods from the Spanish ships they capture."

  Roz stopped, her hand poised with her left earring, and stared at Margery in surprise. "The Sea Beggars? They won't come here. Not to West Lulworth."

  Margery folded her lips smugly. "You tell that to those gossips."

  Rozalinde turned back to the mirror and closed the catch on her earring as she thought it over. Everyone had heard about the Sea Beggars, men from the Netherlands who sailed the North Sea and the channel. They were more than pirates, really, commissioned by their rebel leader, the Prince of Orange, to fight the Spanish king who ruled their land. All she needed was for them to land, put everyone in town and in her household in a frenzy. "They won't come," she told Margery firmly. "I'm sure they won't."

  "They might," Margery went on, warming to what was actually her favorite subject. "Just think, the Sea Beggars. Here, in Dorset. Noblemen thrown off their land because they wouldn't pay the King of Spain's taxes. Isn't that right?"

  Roz eyed her braids critically. "I don't know. Alderman Trenchard says King Philip has been fair to them. Look, Margery, don't loop my hair so. I prefer it plain."

  The maid obediently rewrapped the braid.

  "Besides," Roz went on resolutely, "it's none of our af­fair. The queen requires us to be neutral, and so we are. And the Beggar King may be a noble, but he's the only one."

  "Ah, the Beggar King." Margery grinned broadly and held out the looking glass so Roz could examine her handi­work. "There's a subject of great import to many a maid. Said to be a dashing gallant, their leader. Lord of the sea and brave as they come. Now there's a man for you, mis­tress. A king among men."

  "What a nonsensical thing to say, Margery." Satisfied at last with the simplicity of her shining braids, Rozalinde got up to change her shoes. "An outlaw, no less."

  "Ah, but they say he's courageous. And handsome, in his black swirling cape and mask, comin' to seek the fairest woman in Dorset. If he was to sweep me into his arms, I know I'd—"

  "Trash, Margery, stop talking trash." Roz straightened and looked around the room.

  "That's the trouble with 'e," the maid complained as she tidied the dressing table. "You work too hard and you don't like men. Look at the proper suitors you've turned away."

  "They just wanted my dowry," Roz insisted, looking under the bed. "I can't find my girdle, Margery. Where can it be?"

  The maid pulled it from beneath a cushion. "Angelica hid it. What about Master Trenchard?" she persisted. "He has money of his own and he's sore enamored of you."

  "He's no such thing," Roz said with finality, reaching for her pomander. "He's a man of business. He gives me the latest news on prices and products. Here," she instructed, "you hold the girdle while I fasten this on."

  Margery looked skeptical, but she held the chain without saying anything while Rozalinde clipped her scent-filled po­mander to it. "What about these other men your mother's chosen," Margery asked. "The ones coming to the revel?"

  "Bother the revel."

  "But 'twill be grand, sure. All those gentlemen wooin' you."

  Rozalinde wrinkled her nose in profound disgust, but there was no time to argue. "You see to Lucina," she instructed. "I'll see to the boys." And taking the belt from Margery, she clasped it around her waist and hurried out the door.

  A minute later she entered the room where her three younger brothers slept. The place was utter chaos. Jona­than, a tall lad of sixteen, lounged against the window case­ment. He, thank goodness, was ready, wearing a new doublet and velvet-paned trunk hose. He winked at her as she entered the room, daring her to make se
nse of the mess.

  Matthew, who was thirteen, sat fiddling with a pair of torn netherstocks. And Charles, just eight, was fighting with his nurse. I

  "I won't wear it. 'Tis devilish nasty." He twisted away from the old lady as she tried to pull the heavy doublet over his head. "The day is too hot."

  "For shame, Master Charles," admonished the nurse, struggling for a grip on his squirming body. "You are going to a great revel and must practice your manners at table before. You must show respect."

  "I'll show you ..." Charles made a rude gesture with his hand.

  The nurse let go of him and shrank back with a gasp. "Where did you learn that?"

  Jon and Matthew were suddenly busy looking out the window, talking about something else. Rozalinde whisked into the chamber and took Charles in hand.

  "Come dear, you must dress yourself." She took the dou­blet and put it in Charles's hands. He gaped at her with surprise, now that he controlled the hated garment. Roza­linde dropped a kiss on his head and showed him how to hold the doublet. "If you hurry, there will be sweet suckets after dinner."

  Charles regarded her with big brown eyes. "In truth? Even raspberry?"

  "In truth." Roz coaxed the garment over his head while still convincing him he was in control. "Matthew, let Nurse help you with your stocks."

  "They're torn," Matthew whined in his worst childish voice. " 'Tis Jon's fault."

  "No matter." Done with Charles, Rozalinde pulled a clean pair of stockings from a coffer, tossed them at her middle brother, and shook her finger at Jonathan. "You might help rather than holding up that window. And where were you last night? Mother was asking for you."

  "I prefer to let you manage things. 'Tis unfailing pleasant when you do." Jon purposely avoided her question. "You keep them well in hand." He gestured at his younger brothers.

  Before Roz could contradict him, to say it was not unfail­ing pleasant for her, Lucina, who was six, ran into the chamber crying and cast herself into Rozalinde's arms. She was followed by a frazzled-looking Margery. "She won't let me wear my new red ribbons," sobbed the child, pointing at Margery. "Mama would have let me."