Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  Kit sat up, too, astonished at her reaction and immediately indignant. He sought reassurance and she gave him none. "If you refer to the lovemaking," he answered just as coldly, "it was your own requirements that invited me You have been greatly in need of a man to liberate you passion. The Spanish have an entirely separate business."

  "Of course," she said, frost hanging from her words. "And it was my own need that required me to say 'I love you.' You wanted it for no other reason, for my gratification."

  "You were glad to tell the truth."

  "I wasn't." Rozalinde snatched up her bodice and put it on.

  "I believe you are. A woman needs a man. It's the way of the world."

  "Then we live in different worlds, your lordship." Roz drew her cloak about her disdainfully. "I still believe we should never have met. You give me physical sensations, but they mean nothing. I want more from a man. Some­thing you can't give."

  Kit's mouth compressed into a tight, angry line. He fetched a wet cloth from the ewer stand and tossed it to her. "You might wish to freshen yourself."

  She threw it back at him. It hit him in the chest and fell limply on the floor. "Don't remind me of what just passed between us. I should not have let you touch me, but I forgot. You're a man, determined to impose your will."

  "A woman's lot is to wed and bow to the will of her man, as you will learn to do."

  "A woman's lot is to be a partner, as I am to my father. He trusts me. He has every confidence in my skill and abil­ity. There's no need for me to bow to him or anyone. But you! You want information and you coax it out of me in unorthodox ways and expect me not to mind. You toss around orders and expect me to obey."

  "You would have obeyed if you'd understood how dan­gerous it is to sail to Antwerp, but you chose to learn the hard way. You should have listened to me." His face hard­ened. "That brings us back to the original question, doesn't it? Why did you leave West Lulworth when I instructed you to stay home?"

  Rozalinde tossed her loose hair over her shoulder and donned a scornful expression. "You clearly do not understand, though I should think you would. You've been in shipping."

  Kit ground his teeth. "I have indeed. So I think you should listen to me. I have more experience. If only you had been there, to Antwerp—"

  "I have," Roz retorted brusquely.

  How long ago? Two years? Things were different then." And what was the difference, your lordship?" Rozalinde unleashed her most biting sarcasm. "Go ahead, I'm listening. Perhaps you should enlighten me. And I refuse to apologize for the fact that I don't believe in blind faith." Crossing her arms tightly, she regarded him.

  Roz felt sure Kit would explode at her words. He looked furious.

  "By all that's holy, woman, you make me want to commit violence." He seized a chair, with a mighty blow sent it smashing across the table. The table jumped and the chair shattered into a million pieces. "I'm trying to tell you we're fighting Spain," he bellowed, planting his feet in the midst of the rubble, "we're fighting in every way possible without risking open war. Here I work day and night with the Beg­gar Fleet, trying to free the Netherlands, and you want to trade with the enemy. You want to trade with Spain." He stopped where he was, his chest heaving.

  Roz let her crossed arms drop and stared at him. "Say that again."

  "Spain is our enemy, and I work as an undercover agent for Her Majesty, aiding the Beggar Fleet and the Prince of Orange." Kit's voice had returned to its normal level. "I haven't told anyone. I shouldn't have told you."

  But Rozalinde, in her turn, was furious. With a shriek, she launched herself across the cabin and began to pummel him. "Christopher Howard, you horrible, horrible person! Why didn't you tell me? I thought Antwerp was neutral. That's what everyone said."

  "Neutral!" Kit cried, catching her by the arms to stop her flailing. "It might have been once, but not anymore. Not since two months ago when King Philip levied the tax calling for every tenth penny earned by the people to be his; not since he brought the Inquisition to the Netherlands. Did you hear nothing of that?"

  "No." Roz's arms stopped flailing. She stood still, tears pooling in her eyes.

  "You didn't hear what the Duke of Alva has done to the people? Last month he strung up twelve well-known merchants, left them kicking and dying in front of their wives and children, just to make an example because they refused to pay that damned tax." He reached out to wipe away one of her tears as it trickled down her cheek.

  "I heard nothing. Only that it was not our war, and trade should continue as usual...." She stopped, clapped both hands to her mouth as realization hit her. "My news came mainly from Trenchard. Whenever a trade ship put in at West Lulworth, he told me about it. In fact, the captains were required to report to Alderman Trenchard before un­loading. All my father's captains did."

  Kit grimaced and let go of her. "Trenchard was sup­pressing the truth in West Lulworth. Any news you re­ceived was biased, slanted to suit his needs."

  Rozalinde bowed her head. "I believed everything he said." Her voice had sunk to a whisper.

  Kit put one arm around her shoulders. "You must not blame yourself, Rose. He deliberately set out to deceive you, and I must say he was clever. I didn't suspect him either, not until he came to Lulworth Castle that night. Even then I never guessed he was deceiving you."

  "No, no, it's more than that." Roz wrung her hands. "Don't you see. It was all my fault. I wanted to believe everything was well in Antwerp so we could continue to trade there, to get the splendid prices my father customarily did. It seemed the only way I could keep the business afloat. I did not seek information elsewhere because Trenchard told me what I wanted to hear." She sank down ok the bunk, buried her face in the blanket, and began to cry in earnest.

  "Do not take it so hard." Kit sat down beside her and rested one hand on her hair. "We all underestimated Tren­chard. He seemed honest, seemed to be doing his duty. His official work made his meetings with the Spanish natural. It took me a long time to become suspicious. And in an isolated town like West Lulworth, he had everyone in his power." Kit unfolded a blanket from the foot of the bunk and wrapped it around her "The truth of the situation is ugly. Even now the Duke of Alva plots with King Philip to assassinate the Prince of Orange so the rebellion in the Netherlands will die. The Spanish ship that followed you— that ship carried the latest communique from Philip. We learned through the queen's intelligence network how these messages are concealed. Each time they send one, we inter­cept the ship and steal the communique. We are desperate to have this one. We know Spain plans to send an agent to kill the prince, but we do not know when or where."

  Roz sat up in the bunk. Her tears had stuffed her head unbearably. She could scarce breathe. Fumbling in her skirt, she searched until she retrieved the little carved po­mander. Putting it to her nose, she breathed in its scent.

  Kit eyed her strangely. "Is that made of Spanish cedar? Where did you get it?"

  "Trenchard gave it to me," Roz said, drawing in another deep breath of the fragrance. "That is, he didn't exactly give it to me, he—"

  "Let me see." Without a word of apology Kit snatched the pomander from her hands.

  Roz stared at him in astonishment.

  "This is it!" he crowed victoriously, clutching the poman­der and leaping to his feet. With a flourish he pulled out the stopper and fished a slip of paper with two fingers from the recesses of the bauble.

  "This is what?" Rozalinde thrust aside the blanket and staggered from the bunk, clutching at his arm. "Do you mean to say I had the communique, that I carried it all this time? What does it say?"

  "God's dignity!" Kit banged the pomander down on the table. "It's not in the usual code. Phillipe!" he bellowed, striding to the door and flinging it wide. "Phillipe, they've changed the code again."

  The Beggar King appeared a second later, as poised as if nothing unusual had happened. "The communique? Wonderful!" Grasping the paper, he spread it flat on the table. "Let us employ patience. We have
deciphered them all before."

  "Aye, and we will again. But it takes time." Kit dropped despondently into a chair. "I had hoped we would know immediately. We could lay more sensible plans. Now we must delay."

  "It matters naught, just now, what our plans are," the Beggar King told him, his voice laced with irony. "The storm controls us. These winds will blow us God knows where."

  Rozalinde watched the Beggar King and fury reared in­side her. This was the man who had confiscated her vessel. Slipping from the bunk, she planted herself at his elbow. "I want my ship," she challenged, crossing both arms and jutting out her chin. "I want your promise that I shall have it back."

  She must have taken him by surprise, because something flickered in his eyes when he looked at her. But only for the briefest second. Then he straightened from the table, drew to his full height, and also folded his arms across his chest. "What is that you say?"

  Roz gulped. He was so tall, she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. His massive height was unnerving. He was even taller than Kit. Things in the room shrank by comparison—table, chairs became minuscule as he towered over her.

  She forced herself to meet his gaze disdainfully. He would have her feel guilty, like a child caught in a prank, but she would not. Defiantly, she met his smoldering gaze, taking in the long gray locks, the craggy features, the solid, imposing stance of this aging king. "I want my ship."

  "You desire a reckoning?" he growled, leveling a hard look at the English maid. So this was Christopher's love, though the lad would not admit it. He studied her from head to toe, scowling his blackest, wearing the outward demeanor of the fearsome pirate. Let her be frightened. She deserved it, giving him such a difficult time over her ship. Let her quake inside. Let her beg.

  Navigating the ship's motion, which had subsided to a rhythmic roll punctuated by occasional thrusts and lurches, Phillipe frowned at her. Ah, but she was a beauty. He could see the perfect oval of her face, illuminated erratically by the dim light of the ship's lantern as it swung on a peg. She did not seem intimidated either, as she should be by rights. "You'll not have that ship," he told her slowly, "until I approve the port to which you sail."

  "Orders again." To Rozalinde, those few words, the dominating voice, curled around her like the lash of a whip demanding her subjugation. She flung up her head defiantly, fixing him with a tight, stony stare. "I tire of orders from men." Her tone was scathing. "I don't even know you are."

  Frowning, he studied her, taking in the way her eyes assessed him, the way she stood her ground. He must not fooled. She was capable of many things, this woman. Kit had chosen her, so she would be a formidable adversary. She would be both bold and intelligent. Suddenly he had to turn away—to hide his smile. He knew exactly what he would do.

  Disappointment streaked through Roz as he left her, finished with his scrutiny. He swayed across the room on those agile cat's feet and beckoned to Christopher.

  "Offer the lady some comforts. We are all tired, and she is most likely cold."

  She was cold, Roz thought, shifting her feet and feeling water squish in her shoes. Her gown was damp from her earlier exposure to the storm, but she had not noticed her discomfort. It took the Beggar King to call it to her atten­tion. Unaccountably she found herself wanting to go over and put her freezing hands in his pockets. He was probably as warm as he was big and she longed to snuggle beneath that warm cloak with him, as she had with her father when she was small and they took winter walks in London. She was so cold now, she longed to ...

  Troth, she swore at herself, interrupting her ridiculous fantasy. She had no reason to like him. She must tread warily, if she was to get her ship back.

  A coffer lid banged. Roz jumped. She had been so intent on the Beggar King, she hadn't noticed Kit. Now he crossed the cabin and led her to the bunk, spread a heavy wool blanket over her and tucked it around her waist. It was far warmer than the light cotton blanket he'd given her earlier.

  "Excellent," the Beggar King praised. "Now then, food."

  Kit took down bread and cheese from a shelf. "We have nothing hot, Rozalinde. The storm prevents our making a fire."

  Hunger growled in Roz's stomach. She snatched the bread Kit offered and bit into it, not even pausing to think why the Beggar King was being kind. She devoured the cheese in rapid bites. It was dinner since she'd last eaten, and that was long ago.

  Kit passed her a pewter flagon of water and she drank thirstily, watching them both over the metal rim as they moved around the cabin. Briefly she let herself long for creature comforts: some clean, dry clothes, a hot drink, a bed heated by a warming pan.

  "Now then." The Beggar King recrossed the cabin and planted himself before her, where she sat tucked up in the bunk. "I think it best you understand exactly who you're dealing with. I am Phillipe de Montmorency-Nivelle, the Count of Hoorne at your service. Admiral of the Prince of Orange's Navy and bearer of his letters of marque."

  Roz looked at him askance, shocked that he would reveal his identity so readily. "I am pleased to make your acquain­tance," she said stiffly, good breeding answering before her anger could.

  The count laughed vibrantly. "No, Mistress Rozalinde, on the contrary. You are not pleased to make my acquain­tance. You would rather scratch out my eyes, and you are most justified in that wish. I interrupted your work, and you are furious with me. You want your ship back, though since neither of us have it at the moment, 'tis a moot point. And you would like to be alone with Christopher, and for me to mind my own business." He took a mammoth step, closing the space between them. Leaning over, he cupped her chin in one great hand. "I shall not mind my own busi­ness just yet," he informed her, his powerful voice mirror­ing the startling intensity that poured from his eyes. "You are far too intelligent for me to leave your fascinating mind untested. I can learn much from you. And I intend to do just that."

  "I'll not tell you anything," Roz jerked away, breaking their contact, "unless I wish. You don't frighten me. And I cannot see why you reveal your secret identity, unless it is some sort of trick."

  "I tell you because Christopher has trusted you," Phillipe said simply. "I assure you, he seldom makes a wrong judg­ment about such things."

  Rozalinde fixed him with an incredulous look. Blast this devil, he was as beguiling as Kit. She should think of him as her enemy. Yet he began by disarming her totally—by being thoroughly, unnecessarily honest with her. What was she to do? There was no fighting such a man.

  She did the only thing possible. She relaxed. The stiffness went out of her body. She let the wariness retreat from her eyes. I suppose I should return your trust. It seems that Kit does."

  "That would be an admirable start."

  The count smiled at her, and the fearsome mask disappear. A vital, animated man took his place, and Rozalinde found herself startled again, as his eyes warmly caressed her.

  It was pleasant to watch them, the two tall men moving around the cabin, so similar in stature. This Phillipe—some­thing about his name struck her, but she could not think what it was. Her mind probed, turning the name over and over, examining with obsessive insistence.

  Phillipe. A common name. But referring to someone specific ...

  He approached the bunk and bent over to offer Roz a pair of dry woolen socks, which she accepted graciously. As he leaned forward a small silver cross on a chain slipped from his shirt and dangled before her eyes. Roz's gaze fastened on it. She saw it was exquisitely crafted, entwined with a single blooming rose. Insight burst upon her. That cross! It matched the one in the room under Lulworth Castle. Her mind raced urgently, making the logical connections—this must be Anne's lover, the man who'd written the letter she'd found in that secret room.

  With dawning fascination Roz watched the count look for more clothing, search the coffer and pull out folded linen. If this was the same Phillipe, then who was Anne? Not the present dowager countess. Her name was Mary, and she was the wrong age for this man. A vague recollection surfaced
—Roz had visited Lulworth Castle with her father over a year ago. There had been some reference made to the former countess, now dead. Lady Anne. That had to be it! "You say you are the Count of Hoorne," Roz blurted out, "but were you not—"

  "—beheaded?" Phillipe finished for her, mercifully mistaking what she had been about to say. "Aye, so 'twas said." He brought a clean linen shirt and placed it on her lap. "But you see I am very much alive. Hence the birth of the Beggar King. Among my men, I am Count Phillipe and nothing more. When I go raiding, I become a masked noble. A romantic figure, but in reality, a man of necessity."

  "I see." Rozalinde put down her empty flagon, stifled her urge to question him further. There was no need. Kit's mother had loved this man. She knew it for a fact. Furtively she studied him, comparing him to Kit, wondering why this was important. Yet they were similar in build and in pos­ture. Even the way they carried their heads was similar, high and proud.

  Phillipe, in his turn, conducted his own assessment, seeing how Rozalinde's eyelids listed heavily and Kit's shoulders drooped. They were all of them exhausted, and yet there was still information to gain. "Come, my dear," he said gently, seating himself on a stool near Rozalinde and drawing close. "You must tell me how that Spanish ship came to pursue you. I must know all."

  Roz groaned inwardly. Once again business encroached on worldly things. She must respond to the call of logic.

  Love is the only thing that lasts. The words of the letter intruded on her consciousness, making her shiver. A giddy joy swept through her body before she crushed it ruthlessly, setting aside thoughts of herself in favor of the business at hand.

  She described the plain, hard facts. First, of how she'd been struck on the head, then of how she'd found herself in Trenchard's house, unsure of whether he rescued or abducted her. Next, of how she had escaped by way of his chimney with her brother's help and stowed away on her father's ship. "I didn't think Trenchard would go to so much trouble as to follow," she concluded. "I truly did not. But now I know he is involved with King Philip of Spain." She grimaced bitterly. "And 'tis my guess he has been for some time."