Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  "It's only that she does not wish the squire's daughter to consort with a merchant." Jon picked up a stone, skipped it out over the waves. "But you shall, and more than that." He regarded her solemnly. "Margaret, I have something I wish you to consider. It worries me so much, sometimes it pains me, but I must tell it to you."

  "Mayhap 'tis the grippe," Margaret told him saucily.

  Jon scowled at her. " 'Tis not my meaning and well you know it." Desperately he grasped her wrists and pleaded with her. "Be serious. Let me talk to you."

  Margaret scanned his face to gauge his mood. "Speak away, then," she said, growing quiet as she understood his seriousness.

  Jon cleaned his throat nervously. "I-I love you, Margaret.

  And I want to pledge myself to you." He hesitated, then plunged ahead. "If we do, we'll be legally bound."

  Margaret paled visibly. "I do love you, Jonathan. But to pledge ourselves forever when we're only sixteen? What if you changed your mind later. Things are so bad in our family, you might be sorry to join with us. And my mother would be furious if she found out." She shuddered at the thought. "Even your father does not approve. He is too practical to accept us, with my mother always going to the law."

  "That does make things hard," Jon agreed glumly. He took her in his arms again, greatly concerned for her. "Tell me everything. How do the latest suits fare?"

  "Poorly." Margaret's face took on a remote look. "Mother is so shrewish about them, insisting we bring suit against this person and that. She is never content with what Father has to give her, always thinking to have more. I think Father would not agree, but he's ill and dislikes a quarrel." Margaret's misery snowed in her eyes. "Some­times I believe my mother daft, she imagines herself so much more than the squire's wife. The other day she re­fused my friend Lucy the door, and her father has been ever good to us, giving us credit in his shop when we couldn't pay him. But, says she," Margaret imitated her mother's high-pitched voice, "Lucy is only the shoemaker's daughter. Can you not do better than she?"

  "Tell her nay," insisted Jon angrily, "and more than that, you are going to wed with the merchant's son. I'll not press you, Margaret, but why should we not? We can keep it secret, till we find a proper time to tell. And I'll provide for you. I swear I will."

  "Oh, Jonathan. I know not how to answer you. I love you. In truth I do," Margaret went on, giving him a fresh smile of thanks for his vows. "But I feel so frightened. Mother has not been like this before, always worrying. She used to be gay and laughing. But ever since my father's illness, she's glum all the day long."

  "Mine, too," Jon assured her. "Now that she's breeding again, she's worse than ever. But come, let us not think on that. Let us savor our time before I have to return to the shop. I shall have to go soon."

  "Must you?" Margaret's eyes begged him to stay. "We haven't been together more than twenty minutes of the clock."

  Jon leaned over and let the sweet feel of her body rush through him. "I don't want to, but I've made Rozalinde a promise. If I work hard, she's promised to help me con­vince Father we should wed. So I must do as she tells me, and I must learn the business, sweet. You do understand? If I'm to claim you, I must do my duty as I should."

  "I understand, Jon. Of course you must."

  There was silence between them as he put his lips once again to hers.

  "Oh, I almost forgot. I've a present for you."

  Margaret's face brightened. She tried to hide her eager­ness, but she so rarely received gifts. "What is it?"

  "You must close your eyes," Jon told her teasingly. " 'Tis a surprise."

  Obligingly Margaret lowered her lids, folded her hands primly in her lap. "Now then, open!"

  Margaret let out a cry of delight as she looked at the ivory bobbin Jon placed in her hands. "Jon, 'tis beautiful. I shall use it every day in my lace making."

  "I would be happy if you would. I would be even happier if you would leave off the lace making entirely and spend your time with me. You concentrate so much on your hand­iwork some days, I'm not sure you notice anything around you."

  "Jon," Margaret said reproachfully, pouting at him. "I spend as much time with you as I can manage. You mustn't think I forget you just because I'm involved in my work."

  "Never mind. Forget I said it." Jon hurried to smooth over his complaint. "Look at your present. I want you to see what I wrote." He turned the bobbin, pointed to an inscription carved in tiny letters on the smooth surface.

  Margaret let out a breath of pleasure. " 'My miracle, my Marguerite.' Oh, Jon, is that me?"

  Jon put one arm around her shoulders and drew her near. "I wanted to put our names together, like all the men do when they give bobbins to their sweethearts, but I did not dare or your mother might not let you keep it. So I put this instead. I think of you as my daisy, you know. Or as the French say, my Marguerite."

  Margaret dimpled as Jon leaned near to brush her lips again.

  "I will find a way to see you tomorrow," he continued. "It will be difficult, but I'll manage. Rozalinde is so difficult at times, you know. If anyone else worked as hard as she does, they'd be dead in a fortnight. But she'll grow easier, by and by. You'll see." He nodded with assurance. "There's a secret only I know."

  "What?" asked Margaret breathlessly, partly from sus­pense but more from his kisses. "Or should you not tell?"

  "I'll tell if you'll promise to keep it close."

  Margaret nodded. "I promise."

  "She's in love with the earl. Yes, the one up at the cas­tle," Jon lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper. "And I'll tell you, my sister has never fancied a man. Not that I've seen."

  "The earl? God's eyelid!" Margaret gripped his shoul­ders, her eyes widened. "I heard he called at your house, but I assumed it was to see your father. I never thought she loved him. How can you tell?"

  "She badgered me like the very devil at our revel," Jon chuckled as he thought of Roz, "about whether or not he had come. He was invited but didn't show. She disappeared later. After Trenchard got her to agree to their betrothal." He grew sober again. "That part is no jest."

  "I agree." Margaret also grew sober. "But really, when Rozalinde left the revel, what makes you think she met with the earl?"

  Jon looked pensive. "I just feel it. When the earl came to our house, the expression on her face, the way she acted. I believe she loves him, though knowing Rozalinde, she doesn't realize it herself."

  Margaret shook her blond head at the wonder of it. "My word, but things are upside down in Lulworth lately. First this, then the Spanish ship."

  "What Spanish ship?" Jon looked surprised. "I've had my head in crates all day. I've not heard a thing."

  "Oh, 'tis all the news," Margaret assured him. "A huge ship called the Gran Grifon put in at Lulworth Cove, re­questing safe harbor because they feared being set upon by pirates. 'Tis so big, it makes me nervous." Margaret shiv­ered and drew her hps together. "At any rate, the mayor granted them asylum and here they be. Tis said the admiral is the Marquis DeVega, one of King Philip's favorite offi­cers. He and his men have been put up at Trenchard's, since he's first alderman of the town and has the largest house. Our inns are not befitting a noble. But everyone's so frightened, they think they'll be murdered in their beds. The Spanish sailors are everywhere in the streets. 'Twas hardly safe coming here."

  Jon took her hands and gripped them tightly. "You should have sent word and I would have come for you. I'm not so busy in the shop that I'm unconcerned with your welfare. I'll see you safely home." His thoughts returned to the more pressing issue. "You must think upon my pro­posal," he begged her. "I want nothing more than for us to be pledged."

  "I love you, too, Jonathan. I promise I will think on it."

  Jon stood and pulled Margaret to her feet, taking her hand in his. "A Spanish ship. My sister in love with an earl." He paused, shook his head slowly in puzzlement. "I cannot think how it all will end."

  Midnight. Rozalinde had been up since early morning, working in th
e house and shop. Come evening, she'd had to endure a visit with her betrothed, who came to sit with her in the parlor. Thank the good year he couldn't stay long. He had obligations with the visiting Spanish officials. Rozalinde had breathed with relief when he'd gone off again. She'd had no enjoyment from his company, or the kiss he claimed was his due.

  Now everyone was abed, and Roz sat before the looking glass in her chamber, studying her reflection. A headache pounded behind her temples. Putting one hand to her brow, she smoothed the furrows caused by her worry and tried to steady herself. Tonight was the night.

  The thought propelled her into action. Straightening hastily, she pulled back her loose braids and bundled them into a caul. Then she gathered together a stack of clean linen. She must hurry. It might take some time to stow away aboard The Chalice.

  Checking outside her door, Roz stopped to listen. The rumble of her father's snores vibrated from the master bed­chamber. A dog's bark in the stable yard echoed eerily throughout the silence of the house and surrounding property.

  Gazing at the worn floorboards of the passage, Roz thought of the loved ones she was leaving and whispered two prayers. One for her mother—may her babe grow strong and healthy within her. The other for her father— please the Lord that his health should hold until she re­turned. He'd gotten no worse in the last week, but he was no better, either. Then she prayed for the entire family— her sisters, her brothers, especially Jonathan. It was on his shoulders that much responsibility would fall once she left. She whispered an extra prayer for him.

  Finished, she started to turn away, but her gaze caught on something—the place where Angelica had sat as a baby on the top stair, crying for Roz to carry her down. A lump formed in her throat and she took a step backward, then started at the faint movement across the hall.

  Calm down, she told herself firmly. It was only her own reflection in the mirror opposite. Meaning to banish her anxious mood, she inspected herself in the familiar glass, but her face beneath her concealing hood seemed pale and frightened. She turned back to her room, the ache of leav­ing dragging at her heart.

  Down the hall, a door handle squeaked. Roz ducked back into her chamber and pulled the door to. It might be her mother, getting up for a drink. The floorboards creaked loudly as someone advanced down the passage. A tap sounded on her door.

  Rozalinde froze with alarm. Here she was dressed for traveling. She was sure to be found out.

  The door swung slowly inward. Jonathan's head appeared.

  He said nothing. Just slipped inside, motioned for her to join him by the window, away from the door. "Are you ready? Shall I take you to the ship?"

  Rozalinde's heart melted as she realized he'd come to help her. Never had he been so considerate. Nevertheless, she forced a brisk answer. "I must go alone. But you can help. You can pull up the sheet when I'm gone."

  "Pull up the ..." Jonathan's eyes sprang wide as two shutters opened to the dawn. "You're climbing out the win­dow?" He leaned over the casement to stare at the long drop to the ground. "You've gone to Bedlam if you do that."

  "I haven't." Roz pulled on an old pair of gloves determinedly. "Please be ready with the letter to Father. About midmorning tomorrow when I'm well away, you can give it to him. I should be back in a month."

  Jon shook his head in disbelief. "My stars, Rozalinde. You and your stubborn will. Use the back door, won't you? I'll lock it again after you go."

  "And wake Cook?" Roz shot him a scathing glance.

  "You know she sleeps just off the scullery. She would hear me, she sleeps so lightly and guards her precious kitchens so faithfully. No, I'll go by the window. I've done it before."

  "You have? When?" Jon followed her to the window and watched with visible consternation as she produced a knotted sheet and tied it to the bedpost.

  Roz tugged the sheet sharply to be sure the knot was firm, then payed it slowly out the window. "I did it often in London, when I was younger," she informed him. "No one ever knew. Didn't you wonder why I had so much mending?"

  For once Jon was beyond jesting. "God go with you, Rozalinde. I will pray for you. Truly I will."

  "You just take care of Mama and Papa." She put out one hand, placing it in Jon's. His hand was slim and grace­ful, but when he closed it around hers, there was nothing soft about his firm, masculine grip. It felt warm, comforting, and she didn't want to let go. "I'll do my best," he promised.

  Roz squeezed his hand once, then broke away. She mounted the window casement and prepared to descend.

  Scarce a minute later she reached solid ground, which felt reassuring beneath her feet. Waving at Jon, she motioned for him to pull up the sheet.

  He did so, then watched her dark-cloaked figure until it disappeared into the stable. She emerged several minutes later, leading her mare with hooves muffled in sacking. The two of them took the turn around the corner of the house and disappeared.

  Jon waited. After a reasonable interval, he let down the sheet and followed.

  The streets of West Lulworth were deserted at this hour. Even the alehouse was closed and dark for the night. Poole lay a number of miles to the south, and it was there Roz headed. Mounted on her mare, she chose the quickest route through the center of town. Someone might see her, but that couldn't be helped. She must hurry or miss the ship's departure. Already she was late.

  When she passed George's, she could see the great house blazed with lights. Roz averted her face, not wanting to know anything. Trenchard still entertained the Spanish, who made such trouble in West Lulworth: bothering the girls about town, insisting on special prices from the shop keepers. But at least they took up Trenchard's time and attention, diverting him from her. They'd informed Tren­chard that prices for wool in Antwerp had reached a rec­ord high.

  As for the earl, he was still in London, so she need not think of him. He could not stop her from going to Antwerp, and if he and his Sea Beggars bothered her on the voyage, she would make him pay for it. Putting her mind to the task ahead, she rode stalwartly on.

  Someone watched her passage, shrouded in darkness so she did not see. Paul Sutton had stepped outside for a breath of air before directing the serving of supper. He glanced idly at the horse as it reached the town green, then snapped to attention as he recognized Rozalinde. His sharp little eyes followed her. Swiftly he turned and reentered his master's house.

  Roz continued toward Poole doggedly. The ride seemed long tonight, and she found herself bent over her mare's neck, hugging the animal's warmth to ward off loneliness. Twice she started at a sound and looked around anxiously. 'Twas nothing most likely—a night bird or animal. Nudging the mare to a trot, she reassured herself that there was naught to fear.

  When the Poole quay loomed in view, Rozalinde let out a sigh of relief and slid from the mare. Removing the heavy saddle, she smoothed the animal's back with her hands. "I'm sorry, girl, I forgot your brushes. And I should have brought you some oats." For some unknown reason she tarried with the animal, wrapping her arms around the sleek, warm neck, taking a moment's pause. But she mustn't linger.

  After exchanging the mare's bridle for a comfortable hal­ter, Roz tethered her in a little shed beside her father's warehouse. The horse would be found in the morning when the men came to work, and everyone would know where she had gone. But her father must not worry. She would not want that.

  At the water's edge, she searched for a boat she could handle. The Chalice lay at anchor, halfway out of the calm waters of the bay. Two guards were posted—she had set them herself, assisted by the captain. In her mind's eye she could see them in their positions, one at the stern and one at the bow. Then she pictured the barrel, the one she had left in readiness, midway between the two guards. One empty barrel sitting among the others full of drinking water. She would hide there until the ship was at sea. Finding a small dinghy, Roz untied the rope. Gathering her skirts, she prepared to step down. Behind her a footfall sounded. Rearing her head, she whirled.

  "What do you ..." Sh
e got no farther with her question, for suddenly her head exploded with pain. She staggered forward, almost into the stranger's arms. Desperately she veered away, flashes of adrenaline shooting through her veins, warning her to run. But she couldn't run. Her thoughts grew foggy. Blackness hovered before her eyes.

  Roz fought it. She tried to stem the rising tide of pain, the blinding pool of blackness gathering before her. It was too strong for her. Her legs buckled. She sank to her knees.

  Rozalinde awoke some time later, feeling as if aeons had passed, more angry than frightened. Moaning softly, she fumbled to sit up, cradling her head. Blasted scoundrel, to hit her so. Opening her eyes, she winced at the pain and tried to make out where she was.

  The room was richly furnished. She was lying on a bed curtained with embroidered draperies. A gentleman's suit of clothing and several fashionable hats hung on pegs along one wall. A highly polished cherry table graced the center of the room, the chair pulled out as if someone had recently sat there. A branch of candles gave her plenty of light.

  Getting gingerly to her feet, Roz attempted a few steps, testing her strength. Black dots returned to swirl before her eyes and she gripped the bedpost, afraid she might black out again. Slowly, her vision cleared. Making her way to the window, Roz looked out.

  What she saw made her blood congeal in her veins. It was the green in the center of Lulworth, and that meant she was in the house of George Trenchard.

  Furious, Roz wrenched open the window and leaned out.

  Her head ached as if a hammer pounded inside her tem­ples. Clinging to the casement, she stared down. She seemed to be one level up, mayhap even two. The ground looked farther away here than it had from her own window.

  Nausea rose in her throat. That bang on the head was making her feel sick. Well, she would just have to bear it, for she could not rest now. Turning away from the window, Rozalinde scoured the room with her gaze, searching for something. She could think of one thing only—to escape.

  The door! She crossed to it, carefully this time, trying not to jar her head. Putting her ear firmly to the wood, she listened, hoping there was no one near. Maybe she could creep out without being noticed. It was such a big house.