Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  The voices she heard dashed her hopes. Unashamedly she listened, trying to make out the words. What were they saying? She must know.

  "We sail together. I insist on it," came a voice Roz de­cided must be Trenchard's. The words that followed were lost as he turned away, but she could hear discussion, one voice heavily accented. It was Spanish. The realization made her head throb anew. It must be the Marquis De-Vega, the Spanish admiral. Where were they sailing to­gether? She reached down and tried the door handle. It was locked.

  "I swear to you we'll evade them," Trenchard said. "We will sail to Antwerp and then see your message safely to Brussels."

  "And what if there is a fleet of them?" DeVega asked. "They travel in a fleet."

  "The Sea Beggars?" Trenchard scoffed. "They have little money and scarce any supplies to run their fleet. But if we should spot them, I can summon the queen's navy. As dep­uty lieutenant, 'tis my right. You are due aid from England, and I shall see that you have it."

  " 'Tis well," the other voice growled. "His Majesty ex­pects this communique to reach the duke, not like the last one, and so many others in the past year."

  "No, no," Trenchard's voice assured. "I'll catch the pi­rates who have raided your ships. You have my promise. I have learned much about them of late—or rather I should say, of one in particular who is most like giving you trouble."

  Roz's eyes widened. They must be talking about the Sea Beggars. Apparently Kit also preyed on the Spanish. Though she should not care, for some reason this news made her want to weep. Pressing her ear tightly to the door, she continued to listen.

  "See that you catch the guilty party," the other voice went on dryly. "His Majesty will reward you well if you rid us of these vermin."

  "The same price as for my previous services?"

  "More," the Spaniard promised. "We hate these Sea Beggars. They cause us uncommon trouble."

  "They plague me as well, I assure you," Trenchard an­swered. "But not for long. I played them a pretty trick the other day. Stole a ship, made off with the goods, and let them take the blame. Ah, but here is my servant. Sutton, be so good as to conduct his lordship to the entertainment below. I will join you shortly. I must check on my wife."

  Wife! Stole a ship! Troth! Rozalinde lunged away from the door frantically. Her limbs wanted to rebel against her commands, to freeze with paralysis, but she forced them to move as she searched the room for a place to hide. The many things she'd just heard roiled madly in her brain. She had no time to sort them out.

  The door handle rattled, a key was inserted in the lock. But it did not turn.

  Hesitantly, Rozalinde tiptoed back to the door, wonder­ing if George had changed his mind. Again she heard voices, and throwing caution to the winds, she pressed her ear to the wood panel. Beyond, she could hear George speaking to another man.

  "Damn you, why do you linger? I don't want the foot­man conducting his lordship. Get to your duties at once."

  "Not until you tell me the truth. You never said you were serving King Philip. But you are, aren't you? You let me think you served only the queen."

  Trenchard's answer blazed with anger. "You were eaves­dropping when I talked to DeVega. That is inexcusable. I'll discharge you."

  There was an answering chuckle. "I never did believe your story—that you got all your gold from the queen. She is far too miserly to reward you so lavishly. None of those heaps of coins are from her, are they? You've sold out to the Spanish, telling them everything you know. What did they promise you besides the gold, eh? A position in the new government when they invade England? A title? Whatever it is, I want my share."

  Rozalinde expected to hear a refusal from Trenchard, but apparently her betrothed thought better of it. "You shall have your due."

  "A title."

  "You can't bear a title and well you know it. Get down­stairs! There is much work to be done. These guests are only the beginning. They will be asking much of me in preparation for the invasion. I will need more help than yours to satisfy them."

  Rozalinde took a shaky step back from the door. The words she'd heard were poison. The Spanish planned to invade England! Everyone knew they wanted to, but to detect an active plot was serious business. For the first time, fear coursed through her.

  The other man must have left, because now the key turned in the lock. Roz whirled and froze, her back against the desk, as the metal lock grated and rattled.

  Suddenly the air of the room was close beyond bearing. Roz felt she was suffocating. George Trenchard stood in the open doorway, looking taller and more formidable than he ever had before.

  Outside, Jonathan Cavandish crouched behind some bushes across the town green, watching Trenchard's big house in anguish. Three men had taken his sister—he'd seen them. For he'd followed her secretly all the way from their home. Now his worst fears were realized. He balled his hands into fists, trying to think what to do.

  He knew where she was. Only minutes before, a window on the third floor had opened. A woman's slim figure had leaned out, scanning the ground. It had to be Rozalinde, Jon thought, but what could he do about it? The Spanish, it seemed, were everywhere, lodged in every vacant room of Trenchard's monstrous house. Jon studied the structure in despair. How could he hope to rescue her? He couldn't possibly fight those men! Even with the height he had so recently acquired, he was no match.

  Perhaps, he reasoned, he should wait until morning. If he told their father everything, Master Cavandish could come and demand Rozalinde back. Even if Trenchard denied her presence, his father could use his authority to search the house.

  But no, Trenchard could force Rozalinde to marry him by then. Jon discarded the plan and tried frantically to think of another. His sister could lose her virtue in a minute flat, and then there would be no drawing back from her marriage. And he didn't want Trenchard for a brother-in-law. He had to get her out.

  Several paces behind Jonathan, cloaked in the secrecy of the shadows surrounding the green, Kit Howard glowered at Trenchard's huge house, then at the boy in front of him, hiding in the bushes. Fury held him in its grasp, but he checked it rigidly, cursing his situation, his need for stealth.

  All week long he had come nightly from The Raven where it lay anchored several miles to the south. All week long he had watched Trenchard. The familiar shadows of the houses now welcomed him, wrapped him in their mysterious depths. He had listened at Trenchard's window, observed his every movement. Then blended back into the night and disappeared with expert stealth.

  No one knew he was in Lulworth. Not a soul. He was believed to be in London. Otherwise he would free Rozalinde instantly. For it was surely she he'd seen carried into the house earlier—a wench's skirts trailing as some rough brute carried her, slung over his shoulder. And wasn't this her brother, that young whelp Cavandish, hiding in the bushes, watching the house and fretting?

  Kit clenched his fist over his rapier hilt, thinking it would give him supreme satisfaction to walk up to Trenchard's door and challenge him. He would enjoy killing him. He longed to wipe the man's blood from his blade.

  But he couldn't risk it. His spying would be found out. And the Spanish would cease their overt actions so he could not learn their plans.

  They were in league together — Trenchard and the Spanish. Cohorts. His instinct had warned him, bid him investigate further. Now he knew. All the while Trenchard grew bolder, knowing no one would dare question what he did. Trenchard, the upright citizen.

  Kit shook his head, knowing he was in an awkward posi­tion himself, suspected of being the Beggar King. And he shook his head at something else. He'd watched another house regularly this week. Nightly he was drawn to the timbered dwelling of Rozalinde Cavandish, where he hov­ered like a lost soul, driven by the desperate ache inside.

  What madness was this? he asked himself. He had tried at first to name it, then given up. He knew only that he was unable to stop himself, unable to care that he could not, ever since she'd said those three ordinary wo
rds.

  " 'Tis time to stop this nonsense," he'd told her. "Admit you care." Mayhap I do. Those three words, and his world plunged into chaos, driving him to do mad things. But then she'd driven him from the first, hadn't she? Oh, she was not conscious of it, she would deny it if he said so, but from the moment he'd first seen her, from the instant he'd gathered her into his arms and tasted her kiss, he'd found her soul spread forth before him.

  Not because she wished to reveal herself. No, it was his fault really. Because he couldn't help reading her thoughts and feelings. It was as if he merged with her, like a lost key fit to its lock, opening the secrets beyond. And though it drove him insane to be so thoroughly connected to some­one—he who worshiped his solitude—he found it impossi­ble to resist. He was tied to her by silken bindings, driven by his own desperate urges.

  But because of those urges, he was now present when she took her first, ill-fated step into trouble, just as he'd predicted she would. Further, the Lord in His infinite wis­dom had sent him the vehicle to bring her out of trouble again. Pulling his hood forward, Kit arranged it to shroud his face. The midnight cloak swung around his ankles as he glided forward on quiet feet.

  Jonathan clutched the bushes, thinking dire thoughts, completely at his wit's end. He must help Rozalinde, re­gardless of his own safety. Releasing his hold on the shrub, he started forward, determined to do something. He was concentrating so hard, he noticed nothing else.

  A hand closed around his shirt collar and lifted him from the ground.

  Terror rocketed through Jonathan. "Loose me," he helped, struggling against the huge fist. "Shhh." The man swept him back into the bushes and Whispered to him fiercely. "Do you want to rouse the watch? Quiet. Say your name."

  "Cavandish," Jon gulped, trying to see the man. Villains generally stabbed you and took your money. They didn't ask your name. Swiftly he took in the man's black cloak, the way his face was obscured by the depths of his hood.

  The man seemed satisfied, for he thrust back his head covering.

  "Lord Wynford!" Jon gasped, astonished. "I thought you were in London."

  Wynford jerked his head in the direction of Trenchard's house. "We must free your sister, and we must be swift."

  "Aye." Jon didn't bother to ask how he knew. "She's in there." He pointed to the window where the woman had appeared. "I saw her just minutes ago."

  Wynford unhooked a heavy coil of rope from his belt. "Take this." He handed it to Jonathan. "Here is what you must do."

  "Rozalinde, my love, you are feeling better. I am glad." Trenchard moved lithely into the room and closed the door behind him.

  Roz stood where she was, fear rooting her to the spot beside the desk. She wanted to accuse him, to fling her rage at him, but she could not do that. If she was to escape, he would require careful handling. "Master Trenchard," she began, forcing the words to her lips. "George. What am I doing here?"

  "A better question is, what were you doing on the quay at Poole after midnight?" Trenchard smiled at her congen­ially. "I asked that myself."

  Rozalinde thought desperately. She must convince him to take her home. Mayhap if she made him feel guilty ... "You are so solicitous of my whereabouts, yet you struck me on the head."

  "Rozalinde!" Trenchard's eyebrows raised in shock. "I did no such thing. You were discovered in dire trouble and I had you rescued. But still you do not trust me."

  "How can I?" Rozalinde ducked behind a chair as he came toward her. "When I am in your bedchamber."

  He laughed gently and looked around the room. "This? This is my guest chamber. I merely store a few things here." He nodded toward the clothes on pegs. "You are right about one thing. A slight change of plans. We wed tomorrow. I have decided not to wait."

  Roz was seized by panic. "Tomorrow! But I don't wish to wed tomorrow. I have not had a chance to ready my wedding linens. Take me to my father," she ordered, sum­moning what she could of her dignity. "I wish to go home at once."

  "Rozalinde, be reasonable." George approached the chair, put a hand on its arm and leaned toward her. "Surely you can see the difficulty you are in. Does your father know you are out? Does he?" He raised his eyebrows again, questioningly. "So then, if you arrive home in my company in the middle of the night, what will your father think? What will the entire town think? Come, you must allow me to solve this problem for you. Otherwise, you can see how it will end."

  Roz shook her head and backed toward the bed. He sounded so reasonable, yet for the first time she realized his true intent. He seemed eminently trustworthy, but he'd followed her to Lulworth Castle. He posed as the loyal alderman of Lulworth, but he betrayed his country. She'd received a letter saying the Sea Beggars stole her cargo, but she'd heard him admit he'd stolen it himself. As he came steadily toward her, she backed away until her calves bumped against the bed. With a twist, she leaped upon it. Her feet sank into the feather mattress, impeding her prog­ress as she headed for the far side. Her movements made her dizzy again. Black dots danced before her eyes as Tren­chard approached.

  "Yes, I believe we have waited overlong." He began to unbutton his silk brocade doublet.

  Her gaze fastened with revulsion on that doublet, his best one again. She hated that deep color of green. It seemed to waver in the candlelight as she stared at it, then at him.

  "Let us delay no longer," he crooned, coming closer, unfastening the last button on his doublet. "I have awaited this moment when you would give me your favor."

  Roz felt his gaze burning into her. There was a strange glint in his eyes.

  "You were, after all, wandering about at night," he said, shrugging out of the doublet and dropping it on the floor. He loosened the collar of his shirt. "You know what can happen to a girl in such circumstances. Fortunately for you, my intentions are completely honorable. The men down­stairs think you are already my wife. Tomorrow, I will make it true."

  Roz looked around desperately, searching for a weapon. Her gaze lit upon a brass ewer on the stand beside the bed. Leaning down, she grasped it firmly in her fist. Black pinpoints danced distractingly, impeding her vision.

  "Rozalinde, my dear, be sensible. I am much stronger than you." Standing with feet spread, he flexed one arm, making the muscles play beneath his shirt. "You cannot think to accomplish anything beyond delay. I intend to show my admiration for you. Tonight."

  "Why are you so ..." She groped urgently for words to distract him, to give her time. "Why are you so set on wedding with me?" She tightened her grip on the brass ewer. "When I have told you I wish some time before we take such a step."

  "I want to take care of you, sweetheart. A man should take care of his wife. My father never took care of my mother. He preferred other women. But I won't be like him. You can rely on me."

  "What happened to your mother?" Roz queried, realiz­ing she'd hit on a subject he might talk about. Anything to delay him.

  Trenchard's face saddened. His sharp eyes glazed over. "She died of a fever. I tried to save her, but my father had taken all the money and left us. We had next to nothing. I could not pay a physician, nor buy proper food or medi­cine, and I didn't know what to do for her. It was just the two of us, and had been for so long, even before my father was gone."

  He bowed his head for a second, leaving Roz a perfect opportunity, but somehow she couldn't hit him. She low­ered the ewer onto the bed. "Your mother died? How old were you."

  "Eleven."

  "Only a little younger than Matthew."

  "Aye," he said softly, bringing his gaze back to meet hers. He sank down on the bed and held out one hand to her.

  She felt unexpectedly sorry for him. His past had been ugly, and apparently he had profound feelings for her. But she couldn't bring herself to feel anything in return. Before she'd felt nothing. Now she felt loathing strangely mixed with pity. He'd done things that couldn't be excused, com­mitted crimes against her and his country, all to soothe his pain from his past. Yet had he done none of these things that she considere
d wrong, marriage to him would still have been a daily trial, as she chafed under the restrictions he would place on her while he "cared for her." Her spirit groped for guidance. She must somehow bring this man to justice. The words he had spoken earlier, even though she heard them while eavesdropping, set her free to do what she must.

  A pistol shot vibrated in the night.

  Shouts broke out downstairs. Trenchard threw up his head to listen, and Rozalinde went completely still.

  "Master Trenchard, come quickly." Someone pounded up the stairs and banged on the door. "Lord DeVega has been shot."

  Trenchard leaped to his feet. "Damn!" He looked back at her, where she'd sunk down on the bed. "I'll return anon. Do not move." He went out and slammed the door behind him. She could hear him turn the key in the lock. "Alert the watch." His shout floated back to her as he clattered down the stair.

  Hatred suddenly flared in every fiber of her being. He was dangerous, a criminal trying to trick her. The realiza­tion made her even more determined to escape.

  Troth, Rozalinde thought, drawing herself carefully into a sitting position and burying her head in her hands. Her head was throbbing like a great kettledrum. But that pistol shot was a gift from God. She must make use of it.

  Dragging herself to her feet, Roz staggered forward sev­eral steps. Once again the motion made blackness froth and foam before her eyes. Clutching the chair before the cherry table, Roz bent over and willed herself not to faint. Her gaze came to rest on Trenchard's doublet.

  A carved wooden pomander had rolled from his pocket. Men and women alike carried them. It was undoubtedly filled with scent.

  Scooping it up, Roz put it to her nostrils, praying it con­tained something pungent that would clear her head. She inhaled the sharp scent of cedar and felt better.

  "Tst, Rozalinde. Are you there?"