Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  A short while later Master Cavandish had been examined by the physician and was moved upstairs, where they made him comfortable in his huge four-postered bed. Rozalinde and her mother sat, one on either side of him, while the maids drew the window draperies, arranged the linen, plumped the pillows.

  Rozalinde examined her father. His skin was an unhealthy gray that frightened her.

  "He will get better, Rozalinde." Her mother's voice quivered. "Just like last time." Roz nodded tremulously. As she watched, her father's eyelids fluttered, then closed. His expression softened. His steady breathing indicated he'd fallen asleep. Roz backed away from the bedside. Let him rest, regain his strength. He would be up and around in a few days. As her mother said, just like the last time. Excusing herself, she slipped from the room.

  Closing the door, Roz leaned against the polished oak, let her body sag. For the first time since the crisis, she let herself feel. A rush of pain swept over her. Her father was dying. Burying her face in her hands, she began to sob, her body shaken with her silent grief. Turning, she fled down the passage.

  Rozalinde ran through the house, her breath catching painfully in her lungs, her heart full of despair. Wanting to be alone, she headed for the family solar, which was isolated and quiet. Flinging herself on a settle, she gave in to a rare display of tears. He must not leave her. Her father was the one person who gave her life meaning. If she lost him, she didn't know what she would do.

  Her grief was so intense, for several minutes Rozalinde forgot everything else and gave in to her weakness. But she was never one to linger over sorrow. She preferred to act rather than wait passively for fate to decide for her. So after a few minutes she sat up determinedly. Drying her face, she lectured herself.

  Enough of this nonsense, she told herself sternly. Enough! If something was to happen, she must be the one to bring it about. She would busy herself with her plans— the goods they would ship, her trip to Antwerp. Surely she could succeed, and then there would be no reason to wed with Trenchard.

  Resolutely Roz stood and walked to the solar table, picked up de Vault's treatise on navigation and thumbed through it absently, put it down and turned to her astrolabe. Lifting it reverently, she stroked its beautifully joined brass parts, adjusted the pinhole sighting vanes for the stars. It was her own astrolabe. Her father had commissioned it for her, after catching her at twelve sneaking out at night to learn from his ship's navigator. He'd even engaged a man trained in the best navigator's school in Portu­gal to teach her. And when she'd used it later, they'd been at sea together. Those were the times she liked to remember, and today of all days, when her father seemed most precious to her, she could not shake them from her mind.

  There was something else she could not shake from her mind—the earl, how he'd looked at the cove last night. She supposed she hadn't been quite honest with him, saying she could use an astrolabe, for she could do a great deal more than that. She had her own pilot's chartbooks of the shores off England, France, and the Netherlands. She had her own precious maps. But it was more than the skill of navigation that intrigued her. It was the numbers themselves. Whenever she looked at a calculation, the answers rose up in her mind like whispers, forming themselves unbidden like delicate traceries in her thoughts. She could not tell how it happened. Only that it did. And it was her destiny to heed them.

  Sighing deeply, Rozalinde held up the instrument and sighted through the vanes out the window, pretending to measure the altitude of a star.

  There were no stars just now. It was full day outside. But suddenly the dream returned to her in full force—the

  one she'd had last night. It was dominated by the Beggar King.

  A shiver racked Roz's body. Gooseflesh rose on her arms as memory of the earl and the Beggar King merged. Again she felt his kisses, saw in her mind's eye his dark figure

  poised on the Spanish galleon's deck, haunting in his black swirling cape, his face hidden from the world by the velvet mask. The moon of her dream gilded him with silver.

  What could the others understand of him? Nothing! For there, on the shores of Lulworth Creek, only she, Rozalinde, had known him. In the dream, she clutched his secret tightly in her palm. Looking down, she'd seen it, pulsing like a star, burning vibrantly into her flesh. His secret— given to her alone. The pain of it filled her with a new, inexplicable desire.

  It ruined her sleep, this dream. Angrily she'd awakened, sat up in bed vowing to forget it, to forget him. But he crept silently into her thoughts. Insistently. Sweetly. By day the dream images merged with those of the real earl, and she felt confused, afraid for him. They were one and the same man. The earl lived a double life. And realizing it, she would be lost again, swept away by unfamiliar sensations tearing at her heart.

  Shaking her head in tired bafflement, Roz put down the astrolabe and took up her quill, began scratching calculations on a piece of vellum. It was a mere pastime, measuring the height of the parish steeple using her instruments, yet the numbers soothed her, and she bent over them intently, letting them speak their silent language to oust the dream.

  "Rozalinde, can I come in?"

  Roz whirled guiltily at the sound of a voice, at the same time wondering why she should feel guilty. Jonathan lounged gracefully at the door. "You don't usually bother to ask my permission. I suppose you'll come in if you want." She pointed to a chair. He entered slowly and sat down.

  "Is Father all right?" Jon asked hesitantly, seeming aware she was angry. "Don't be cross, Rozalinde. I'm sorry I wasn't here to help."

  Roz shut her eyes tightly and pressed her fingertips to her temples. "It's not your fault you were at the shop. But it's hard to manage everyone when Papa is ill. He will survive, it seems, but I would have had you here."

  "Like last night?"

  "Yes, like last night," Roz admitted, realizing why she felt guilty. For once she had been the lazy one, not Jon. "I thank you for taking my tasks," she forced herself to say.

  "I didn't mind." Jon got up and strolled to the window, hands thrust deep in his pockets. "It was the least I could do. What I did mind was Father. He had hell to pay."

  "What do you mean?" Roz whipped around to look at him. "Hell to pay for what?"

  "It was odd, really." Jon went on, staring out the window. "I heard Trenchard speak to Father, thought for certs he would give him trouble when you disappeared. He never mentioned it, though I know he was insulted you'd left."

  "How did you know?"

  "I hear things." Jon looked at her pointedly. "I told you before. Anyway, Trenchard insisted on a date for your be­trothal. Then he urged Father to change his will and appoint him our guardian. He wanted the lawyers to do it today."

  "What did Papa say?" Rozalinde's chest felt so constricted, she could hardly breathe.

  "He put him off. You know how Father can be—vague when someone bothers him. Trenchard didn't take it kindly. He hinted that Father would be ... well, he didn't actually say he would be sorry, but he made it sound that way. He's determined to get his due."

  "No!" Rozalinde sank back on her stool and clasped her hands, greatly upset at this news. "No one told me." Jon shrugged, but his gesture bore none of his usual non­chalance. "Father made us promise not to. He said you had worries enough." Turning, he confronted her, his face intent. "What I want to know is, are you going through with it? The betrothal, I mean."

  Her answer stuck in Rozalinde's throat, refusing to come out. To say yes, to say no, both choices were impossible—the one put her in the arms of Trenchard, the other would cause her to go back on her word to her father. She fiddled with the quill in her hand, stroking it against her palm.

  Jon's voice interrupted her as these thoughts warred in her head. "You're afraid to tell me, aren't you? You're planning something Father won't like. What is it, Rozalinde? I'll not tell. I swear."

  "You're right, Papa won't like it." Roz looked away, feeling a rising discomfort as she thought of her plans. She stole a peek at Jon's face, but his qu
estioning expression hadn't changed. Hands clasped behind his back, he continued to study her. "If you wed with Trenchard, I won't approve."

  "If my plan succeeds, I won't have to," Roz told him firmly. "But you can't help, so there's no use my telling you."

  "Now just a blasted second." Jon brushed his hair backward with one hand, something he did when aggravated. "Look here, sister mine. I know I've not always worked as hard as you, and I know Father relies on you first. But I don't like the look of our future and I'll do whatever I must to change it."

  Rozalinde lifted her gaze to study her brother, taking in his chiseled features that still held the beauty of boyhood, the way his thick brown hair fell across his high, intelligent forehead. His brown eyes were so intense, so earnest, she could not meet them. Her gaze fell away. "I've wanted your help, Jonathan, but until now you've been so—"

  "—immature and selfish," Jon finished for her, sarcasm creeping into his voice. "Thinking only of my own pleasure. I know, you never said so, but you thought it. Well, I intend to change. I want to help. I see you can't do everything alone."

  Roz gripped the table edge tightly and looked up at her brother. Though Jon could say and do astonishing things at times, this was surely the most astonishing. "What did you say?" she asked, staring at him.

  Jon shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable. "Stop it, Rozalinde. It's hard enough saying it once. I mean to do better by you and Father. I swore last night I would. After hearing the way Trenchard spoke to Father, I know he wants to control our business. And I don't want that. So tell me how to help you, Rozalinde, and I swear I will."

  There was a long silence, during which Rozalinde kept her eyes fixed on the table, examining its walnut grain. He seemed serious, at least as serious as this younger, impish brother of hers had ever been. "There is something you could do," she began tentatively.

  "What?" Jon started forward eagerly. "Shall I challenge Trenchard to a duel? I've been practicing with my blade."

  "You mustn't do that. He's skilled with a rapier." Roza­linde shook her head in sudden fear. "He's been studying with a master. Besides," her voice took on its old chiding tone, "haven't you given up that nonsense, thinking you'll be made a nobleman? We belong to the merchant class. Why do you aspire to more?"

  "The queen will knight me some day." Jon picked up three bright balls of wool from his mother's workbag and began to juggle them, emulating the players he'd seen last night. "So I intend to be prepared if the occasion presents itself. You said it yourself, Rozalinde—if you want some­thing, you have to fight for it." As he finished speaking, he missed a ball and it rolled away under the settle. Getting down on his knees, he groped for it in the dark recess.

  "You just want Margaret," Roz said, her many fears making her snappish. "Though her parents say no. Her father's a squire. He doesn't want Margaret marrying a merchant's son. Even if Papa gets his coat of arms, we're still nothing to them with all their land."

  "I do want Margaret." Having recovered the wool, Jon straightened and set the balls spinning again. He had all three whirling perfectly before he caught them each neatly in his left hand. He grinned at her recklessly. "And, I intend to win her in the end. I'm willing to do anything I must to have her."

  "Anything at all?" Roz queried, deciding to test him.

  "Yes, but I need your help. What must I do to have it? Manage the shop and not be lax?" He put the wool back where he'd found it. "Sit with Father and hold his hand? Though you know I hate it. Direct the maids and footmen? Just give me something that will make a difference. I won't settle for nonsense work."

  Roz looked at him, feeling touched. "You really mean it? You'll do anything I ask?"

  "I swear I will."

  He seemed so sincere, she believed him. "I must say I'm glad." Her face softened, and she smiled at him, something that would never have happened a day ago. "I could use your help, Jon. You could manage the shop tomorrow while I go to Poole. You can inventory the fabrics from the recent shipment, at least the parts that were not destroyed."

  "Aye, sister." Jon was obviously disappointed. "I was hoping for something more exciting, but I'll do your bidding. I promised I would. Only you must help me with Margaret."

  "I suppose it's only fair," Roz agreed reluctantly. "I'll do the same for you."

  Looking up quickly, Roz caught a wicked glint in his eye. "I don't know what you're talking about," she began warily, telling herself to be on guard.

  "You do," he told her cheerfully. "I'll help you; you help me. If you want to meet your ... whoever he is, I'll tell a tale for you." Jon laughed mischievously as Roz stared at him, trying to keep the shocked expression from her face. "Don't be an addlepate and say no," he went on in a wheedling tone. "Of course I can tell you've met someone. It shows."

  Roz put both hands to her temples and squeezed her eyes shut, feeling confounded. Self-centered as he was, Jonathan could be astonishingly observant at times. Apparently this was one of them. Something about her was different after last night. And apparently even she didn't know in what way. "Well ..." she began, wishing she could trust him.

  "Look here, Rozalinde." Jon slid around and sat facing her on the settle. "I need your help; you may need mine. Father won't approve of your sneaking off at night. He said nothing this time, but for certs he'll not keep silent again."

  "I won't be slipping off," Roz protested. "That's what you think." Jon gave her a knowing nod. "It pays to be prepared."

  "Oh, there's no arguing with you." Roz crossed her arms and glared.

  "Then don't argue," Jon said cheerfully. "Stop using that confounded reason of yours. It's not always useful, Rozalinde. Say yes to my proposal. Say it and have done."

  His words, his coaxing, both reminded her hauntingly of someone else. "Yes," she said unexpectedly, not knowing why she said it. "When do you want to see Margaret?"

  "Tomorrow," Jon said determinedly. "When you return from Poole. I'll mind the shop and be everything correct and proper. You've not misplaced your trust."

  And somehow, for the first time in their lives, Rozalinde believed him.

  True to her word, Rozalinde went to the quay at Poole the next day to meet with her father's captain. By midday, she had severed their working agreement, met with two new captains, and inspected each of their ships. Making tentative plans to hire one of them, she completed her business and returned to where her horse waited outside her father's warehouse.

  The day was hot and Rozalinde paused before mounting, fanning herself with a simple paper fan she kept tied at her waist. This last captain was her best choice, and he'd agreed to accept the commission. He was a devoted family man, a native of West Lulworth. His ship was of adequate size, seventy-five ton with a dozen cannon. If he could successfully get this shipment of goods to Antwerp and bring back another to sell in England, they could make thousands of pounds. The thought was an encouraging one.

  Turning to tighten her horse's girth, Roz congratulated herself at how well the day had gone. First a man had come from Lulworth Castle, paid for the earl's crate of lace and hauled it away with the assurance that his lordship was working on a second buyer. Now she'd made arrangements with a new captain. Straightening her safeguard to protect her kirtle skirt, Roz sprang lightly into the saddle and gestured to the accompanying stable boy. They would return home so she could tell her father. Her heart lifted with a surge of hope.

  When her horse disappeared along the road leading back to West Lulworth, Kit Howard slid behind the tall stack of crates that had concealed him. Sinking back into his previous seat, he stared at the cloud-punctuated sky, musing.

  It was an ordinary task, overseeing the revictualing of The Raven. He'd been loitering on the quay, waiting for a delivery of salt meat, when he'd heard voices from the other side of the high-piled crates.

  "I'm sorry, Captain," a female voice had insisted. "I regret having to discharge you, but to date you have ruined forty-six bales of calico, two hundred ells of cambric, and two hundre
d and sixty loaves of sugar. Should I itemize the rest of the goods you've managed to destroy in the past six months? I'm sure you understand we cannot continue to employ you."

  At the first number, Kit had leaped to his feet and peered through the barrier. One look and a strange constriction seized his heart—the girl he'd named Rose stood opposite a sea captain twice her size, not the least intimidated. She wore a plain white smock overlaid by a severely cut bodice of dull green weave. The sun glinted on her chestnut hair, burnishing it with a halo of gold highlights. It was drawn back from her face, the heavy braids bundled at the nape

  of her neck, making Kit remember how it felt to kiss that slim neck the other night, those soft lips. Her answering kiss had seared his senses beyond relief. In the daylight of the docks, her beauty dazzled the eye even more than in the dim draper's shop. The captain she addressed, however, was intent on begging her for another chance. Absorbed in their discourse, Rose had noticed nothing else.

  Kit reached for a piece of driftwood, began to shape it absently with his dagger. Mistress Cavandish, the captain had called her. Mistress Rozalinde. He hadn't been far wrong when he'd named her Rose. And she was the daughter of the draper, though he'd guessed that. She'd argued like a man with the captain—a trait incongruous with her beauty. Rozalinde. Lass with a name like a rose.

  Kit swung his booted foot against the crate, let the name create images in his mind. He saw the vivid roses flowering in the gardens at Lulworth Castle. They reminded him of his mother, of course, since she'd planted them, but he usually avoided thinking of her. He focused instead on Roz­alinde—her lips capturing the pale blush of the Alba rose before he kissed them. Later, they reddened like the damask after his mouth ravished hers. His thoughts meandered blissfully among these pictures.

  But a second later he pulled himself to attention. Enough forbidden lusting. He was bothered by something. What was it? Ah, yes, her discourse with the last sea captain. From it he'd learned the Cavandishes traded at Antwerp. He hadn't liked hearing that, She'd told him as much the other night at Lulworth Cove, but he'd had other things on his mind. Now, he was forced to consider. They did business with England's enemy. Not everyone knew it, but Spain exerted increasing force on Antwerp, bending the populace to its will.