Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

There was an immense stillness, during which Rozalinde struggled to fill her lungs. "We both know what it is," Trenchard said. His words hung on the air. Rozalinde had to suppress other terrified gasp.

  "When you come down to it," Trenchard continued, you're no better than the rest of us. Not when you're going after what you want. No, you're not above treason, that I'll warrant. You'll hang just as neatly as the next knave."

  "Explain yourself." The bored tone in Kit's voice had vanished. His rasping reply sounded just as dangerous as Trenchard's taunts. Roz wiped her sweaty palms on her kirtle skirts and inched herself back.

  "I mean," came Trenchard's reply, "that you're playing a dangerous game and you'll be caught at it, I promise. You think no one knows, but the deputy lieutenant makes such things his business."

  "Browne." Kit crossed the room, moving away from Rozalinde, his voice coldly polite. He must have opened the door, for she heard him call Browne again. "Please see this gentleman out. Trenchard, we are finished for tonight. I would have you gone." Roz backed away farther, her heart racing, her limbs shaking. Trenchard was proving difficult in ways she'd ever imagined. The chaos that stampeded through her life looked insignificant compared to Kit's danger. Her problems had seemingly expanded from her small household to include the great earl on the hill. It was so vast a trouble, it threatened to overwhelm her. Somehow Trenchard had earned things about Kit only she knew. Her anxiety escalated. God save us, she thought over and over. This man intended to ruin the earl, and he had the power to do it.

  The full extent of Kit's danger came home to her and she backed farther, wanting to escape her involvement in Kit's troubles. Her own were complicated enough. The tiny chamber was musty, but she was grateful for it, for sheltering her with its fearful dark.

  Then, as she backed, her feet went out from under her. The floor disappeared. A hole gaped beneath her, and she found herself falling—down, down—into its yawning, terri­fying depths.

  In Kit's cabinet, the verbal battle continued.

  "You threaten me, when you have no basis for it?" Kit kept his voice low, controlled. Trenchard was poised before the door to leave. "If you doubt my fealty to Her Majesty, ask her yourself. If you know her so well."

  Trenchard scowled at the jab, put his hand on the rapier that hung at his side. Kit saw his motion and indicated the door. "Sir, I'd ask you to leave my affairs be. I don't expect to be troubled this way again. I'll not countenance your intrusion." But even as Kit kept his expression stony, he churned with discomfort inside. For he had caught a glimpse of Rozalinde's garter lying on the floor. Carefully he manipulated Trenchard, trying to back him away, praying the man would not look down. The garter lay in full sight.

  Trenchard smiled, appearing to detect that minute change in Kit's demeanor. His sharp eyes scrutinized the room. He took one deliberate step toward the door but did not pass through it. Outside, Browne and the cook waited, their faces distinctly unfriendly.

  "I'll leave when I'm ready and not before. I'll pursue this line of thinking further. You admit to having affairs you would not like inspected." Trenchard clucked his tongue. He seemed to be deliberately baiting, knowing it was not what Kit had meant. "I warrant they're none too savory. Well, well, we shall see. In the meantime, remember the bloody shirt. You can lie awake tonight, guessing who told me. Which of your servants would it be? Hmm? You'd not want to dismiss anyone unfairly, would you? I know you already, you see. So generous with those who serve you, taking up people from the gutter and giving them a place, feeding their families so they'll not starve. Bah!" He scowled. "This town mislikes your charity. You'll reap nothing but trouble for disturbing the natural order of things. They're low because they're born to it. You'll find that out soon enough."

  Kit made a threatening sound in his throat.

  Trenchard continued. "We shall meet again by and by. I consider it more than generous on my part to warn you. Hut 'tis as far as my generosity goes. If we meet ship to ship, the law will be on my side."

  "Enough." Kit's voice cracked like a cat-o'-nine-tails. "Get out."

  "Ah, he angers." Trenchard snickered. "Only a man with burden of guilt angers when accused." He took a quick step across the threshold at Kit's thunderous expression. "I'll not cross swords with you tonight. Another time, you may be sure. Adieu."

  Kit banged the door shut after Trenchard, all but catching the man's heel. Whirling, he contemplated the marble chimney piece furiously, trying to leash the rage that stormed inside. It made him long to whip his rapier from its hanger and charge after the brute. Lunging forward abruptly, he retrieved Roz's garter and stuffed it in his trunk hose pocket. Then he strode to the all panel and leaned against the rosette. Damn Trenchard. Damn himself. He should have known Rozalinde might be followed. How could he be so simple as to remain in the room where she'd entered? He hadn't realized the chief alderman wanted Rozalinde so badly, but apparently he did.

  The panel slid back slowly. Too slowly for his taste. He wanted to grasp it in both hands and tear it from the wall get at Rozalinde. She was probably half dead with terror, he expected her in tears. "Rose?" His voice rang hollowly in the recess. "Sweetling, you can come out." Silence.

  He reached into the darkness, expecting to find her lying in a dead faint, but his hands encountered nothing. Only dusty floorboards warped by time. Rozalinde was gone, and realizing what had happened to her, he swore softly to him­self. Bloody hell and damn.

  It was not a hole to nowhere. Roz soon discovered that. In fact, she had fallen down a flight of steep, narrow stairs and now lay at the foot. Groping, she strove to rise.

  Her heart still pounded excruciatingly as she struggled with her fear of the dark. It rose up from her childhood, unmerciful in its intensity. But now she must rely on this old enemy, the dark, to hide her. Her greater fear was that Trenchard had heard her fall down the stairs.

  As she felt in the blackness, trying to get oriented, her hand encountered something hard and cold. A little metal box. Careful not to drop it, for it would make much noise, she picked it up. It seemed to be a tinderbox, for she felt some stonelike shards inside, along with a mound of soft lint. Relief shot through her—she was saved from the dark. Striking the two pieces of flint together, she made a spark. It caught immediately and the lint flared. Grateful for the light, she sought a candle from the box and lit it, then stepped on the lint to extinguish it and looked around.

  The passage was ordinary. Its walls were stone. Turning away from Kit's cabinet, she followed it down. Deeper she traveled, probably on a level with the castle cellars, and still she went on. She would do anything to get away from them above, despite who or what she might meet below.

  The passage grew damper. She could smell and see moisture collecting on the walls. Moving as quickly as possible without putting out the light, she continued, wanting only to be safe again at home. Home—once it had meant a warm, cherished place to her, but two men had changed it. One wanted to wed her and would stop at nothing to accomplish it. He had a great deal of power and would punish anyone who stood in his way. This man appealed to her but little, yet his strength was undeniable. The other—his attraction was overpowering, she admitted that. But he was involved in political intrigues that were dangerous. Well enough to serve the queen and inspire the poor by masquerading as a Dutch pirate. But in doing so, irony put an English price on his head. She would never be safe with a man like that.

  The passage made a turn. There was no branching. Rozalinde discovered she could only go forward, or else back. And she would not go back. As she continued, she stepped on an uneven spot in the floor and almost fell sprawling.

  With an effort she managed to save herself and the candle, but what had tripped her?

  Holding the candle aloft, she examined the floor, trying to see. A stone was clearly missing. But wait. It was something more.

  With cautious fingers Roz explored the recess. It looked so smooth and even to be an accident. Then she felt the wall above and to the right o
f the door. Nothing about it unusual, except ... Her fingers encountered a stone extrusion, another bump in the irregular surface of the wall. She pushed it hard, felt it give. A door swung open wide. Her candle illuminated a tiny room. It had no exit other than the one through which she'd entered. Warily she checked the door from the inside, to be sure she could get out later. Then she shut it softly behind her. She was safe. In this little haven, put here by some unknown benefactor, she could hide a moment, feel a measure of peace. She moved into the room. A huge four-poster bed dominated the space, hung with faded red velvet curtains. Silken ropes tied them back to reveal a snug sleeping place, covered by a silken coverlet, against the wall stood a table with two chairs, on it a rushlight. Holding the candle to the rush, Rozalinde lit it. Within seconds, oil of roses permeated the room with its cent, excruciatingly sweet.

  A carved wooden box also rested on the table. Rozalinde touched it with one hand, wondering if she should open it. Mahogany, she thought, examining the wood by double illumination of both rushlight and candle. A rivulet of tallow ran down its side and splashed painfully on her hand. She peeled off the wax when it hardened, put her sore and to her mouth to ease the sting, and looked around. Something about this room soothed her. It must be the roses.

  The scent swayed Roz's decision. She opened the box. A letter lay inside, its thick, red seal broken. Like blood, that seal lay against the paper, a talisman proclaiming something. It was not her letter but she knew she must read it. She had to know who had used this room.

  The creased paper unfolded beneath her hands as if it had been read often. "My sweetest love," it began, "my precious Anne ..."

  Guilt overwhelmed her. She should not read it. Putting it down on the table, Roz calmed herself by counting her pulse. Gone was her fear of the priest's hole, her helpless awe. A curiosity overwhelmed her, a desire to know. This room was magic—a lovers' trysting place. And she must understand what it meant.

  Hesitantly she stared at the letter without touching it, saw the date. 1568. Five years earlier. She shook her head and moved away, went to the bed. There was an imprint of a head on each of two pillows. Two lovers had lain here, perhaps exchanged vows, undoubtedly known physical passion. On the floor something caught her eye—Roz bent to pick it up. Among scattered, dried rose petals lay a little silver cross hung on a chain. It was entwined with a rose. She held it close to see better. It was exquisitely crafted, the rose perfect in every detail.

  She let it fall where she'd found it. Hurrying back to the table, she clutched for the letter, wanting urgently to know how it would end.

  Let me write no more of these troubles. With thee, my only wish is to forget these cares. Your touch relieves my sorrow. Your kiss heals my pain. So it has done since I first knew you, when thou we'rt but a little maid. But now, I have lost everything but you. Love is the only thing that lasts, my sweetest, so do not despair. My ship beckons, but I will come again to you. I swear it—though myriad forces plot to prevent me. I treasure you, my jewel, and kiss your beloved face a thousand times. Phillipe

  Roz stared at the dark flourish of the signature. The poignant feelings couched in those words overwhelmed her—the tender trust, the bittersweet pain. She let the vellum fall from her fingers, confused by a new desire to escape from this secret place. Quickly she extinguished the rushlight. Then hurrying to the door, Rozalinde touched the spring. Obediently the door swung open. The gaping tunnel greeted her. With impulsive abandon, she cast herself into its dark embrace.

  * * *

  The passage ended at the pirates' creek. Roz had known it would. A secret door, cleverly concealed at the rear of the cave, blocked off the tunnel. Obviously none of the people she'd met the other night knew about it. Pinching out her candle, Roz huddled just inside the entrance to the cave, scanning for the guard Trenchard had said he'd placed.

  Leaning her temple against her fingers, she tried to sort out her feelings, which tangled in confused array through her mind. She'd fled from that chamber beneath Lulworth Castle, the emotions it represented frightening her. Yet she struggled to deny her fear. It was nothing, she told herself over and over. She was fine. It was the dark, that was all. She'd been unnerved by it. But it was not that. She'd left the safety of the chamber, thrown herself willingly into the darkness to escape something else. That room stood for abiding love—for physical passion between a woman and a man. Vehemently she clutched her fist over her crumpled, now-dirty kirtle skirt and tried to calm herself, to think rationally.

  The words of the letter came creeping back into her mind to haunt her, whispering their message. Love is the only thing that lasts. The only thing that lasts. What was it like to feel such passion, such love for a man that spanned time and distance, that brought two people together in spirit even when they were apart because they believed in and trusted each other? She wanted to weep at the thought of it—she who was so unsentimental, exact. The poignant scent of roses stole into her memory, causing baffled feelings to rise unbidden into her heart. "Kit," she whispered to herself, marveling that she had spoken to him so intimately, calling him by his first name, slowly she reached down, touched a wound on her leg that came from his rosebush. The wound no longer pained her. Pain sprang from something else—the memory of his arms around her, the feel of his lips on her throat, the pleasurable tangle of his hair clasped in her hands. Letting her head list heavily against her knee, she knelt here, watching for the guard. It had begun to rain, and thunder crashed in the distance. A streak of lightning slashed the sky, and she hugged herself, her mind going a thousand different directions, still lost in a tunnel of dark. She was learning many things about herself, not all of them good. Her fear of the dark she had long forgotten, believing it outgrown with her childhood. But here it was again, springing up to torment her, the same way Kit sprang into her life, causing her to question her choices up until now. Before him, she'd lived by logic. A man like Trenchard could have been her savior. He could have helped her business and kept her on the right side of the law.

  Right side of the law? The fact that she even considered crossing to the other side appalled her. Had she lost her good sense? Her father, a man so excellent in his judgment, had recommended Trenchard. She should listen to him.

  But she hadn't. Instead, she'd gone sneaking out at night, climbing in a man's window to warn him of danger from the very law that was supposed to protect them. What in the bright heavens had possessed her? She had gotten exactly what she deserved from it—she'd been discovered. There was no question she would pay further for that indiscretion.

  And yet ... Rozalinde plucked despairingly at her kirtle skirt, wanting to hide her face in misery. Suddenly she had turned as mad as Bess of Bedlam, for of the two men, the one who awoke the yearning deep inside her was Christopher Howard. Oh, illogical choice. Such thoughts had never tormented her before. But now, on the brink of her twenty-first year, when she should be gaining in wisdom, she was instead regressing. She was thinking like her brother—Jon, the laughing clown, who played the merry fool. She thought just like he did—wanting to reject Trenchard and his rea­sonable suit. A man from her own class, who wanted noth­ing more than to settle down and live respectably. Yet she longed instead for an earl who, for all his closeness to the queen, had a secret life that might bring him to death at the hands of the English law.

  Then, too, there was her duty. Her most important purpose in life was to serve her family. From her father and mother, love sprang. She didn't fool herself into thinking that, much as Trenchard wanted her, he would cherish her the way they did. And as for Kit, his beguiling kisses were no more than another way of tempting her from her loved ones.

  No, she thought, seeing the guard approach and slipping deeper into the cave again, she needed more desperately than ever to guard the heritage of her father. If she married Trenchard, that heritage would merge with his wealth and become unrecognizable. With him she would lose command of her own ventures and have to settle for the rewards he chose, like h
is grand new house in the middle of Lulworth, or the expensive pew he'd paid for at church. It was no substitute when, to her mind, her father's business represented all his love and affection and guaranteed her freedom and her connection to her family. Those were things so precious, she would protect them with her life.

  So thinking, she steeled herself to forget her soft feelings for Kit and strengthened her resolve to reject Trenchard. Concentrating on the guard, she watched him pass by her hiding place and continue up the creek. When the way was clear, she slipped from the cave and hurried through the rain to her home.

  Kit stood before a mirror in his chamber three days later, donning his traveling clothes. Courte Philips lounged on the bed behind him.

  "You're off to the queen, then?" Courte tried to banish the wistfulness from his voice. "How much will you tell Her Majesty? About the Beggar King, that is."

  "Enough to make her sympathetic to his cause." Kit looked up from struggling with his doublet buttons. "But not a whit more. Why?" He turned back to the mirror and the uncooperative buttons.

  "Oh, no reason." Courte traced the intricate pattern on the Ypres coverlet with his finger. "I was just wondering what you would say about the communique."

  Kit left the mirror and came to stand before Courte. "Curiosity eating you?" He laughed at Courte's obvious discomfort. "No use trying to hide it." His smile was good-natured. "I know you too well."

  "You don't have to see right through me," Courte said grouchily. " 'Tis embarrassing at times. And why don't you get a body servant? Your clothes wouldn't take so long."

  "I hate servants' fussing." Kit finished the last button and reached for his boots. "As for knowing what you're thinking, if I did you harm, you might complain, but since I don't ..." He reached out to give Courte a friendly cuff on the arm. "You look as miserable as an old cony pelt. What's wrong?"

  "Nothing," Courte said sourly. He retrieved his hat and gloves from a chair.