The Secret Rose

by Laura Parker

  “Fair dinkum.” He sat down in the tub and found his knees at eye level. Water sloshed over the sides and ran across the dry planks to disappear into the cracks in between. Sudden misgiving sent his hand diving between his knees and under his left buttock, where he located a slimy semisolid. He dredged up the half-melted cake and sniffed it suspiciously. “Roses,” he declared in amazement.

  “My attar of roses soap,” Aisleen said in dismay as she spun about. “I forgot to fish it out of the tub.”

  “It’s melted,” he observed as he squeezed the soggy cake until the oily gel ran between his fingers.

  She edged toward him, her hand outstretched but her gaze averted. “Give it to me.”

  He grinned. “Would ye be denying yer husband the soap with which to scrub the dirt from his weary body?”

  She jerked her hand back at the mention of his body.

  “I know, lass, I’m uncouth,” he said with a gentle chuckle. “Poor wife, ye do have yer trials with the likes of Thomas Gibson. Ye must teach me different.”

  “I doubt that’s possible,” she answered shortly, but a smile tugged her mouth.

  “Musha, if ye did nae think ’twas possible to mend me manners, then why did ye wed me?”

  “Oh, do not ask impossible questions!” she answered impatiently and crossed her arms under her bosom, which Thomas could not help observing was a very flattering pose.

  “If ye were to teach a man manners, truly, where would ye begin?”

  After some thought she answered, “With your speech.”

  “Well, that’s a fine thing,” he answered, freely splashing water over the side of the tub as he lathered up. “What’s wrong with the lilting voice of the old sod?”

  Aisleen side-stepped to the chair by the window and sat down with her back to him. How would she have him sound? Certainly not like Major Scott or like Nicholas Maclean, with his Oxford vowels and London drawl. “I would not change so much how you sound as what you say,” she admitted finally.

  “Like me calling ye ‘lass’ and saying how grand I think ye are, all pleasing and proper in yer starched ruffles? Ye remind me, sitting there, of a wee lass who’s waiting to be tucked in for the night.”

  The speech made her stomach flutter strangely. “You’ve never said anything of the kind to me.”

  “Then ’tis an oversight,” he answered promptly. “I like the way yer hair shines in the moonlight. And I think it’s the greatest kind of sin for ye to hide the glory of it.”

  “Now that is an example of what you should not say.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “It is too familiar.”

  “Too familiar?” His brow furrowed in mystification. “Cannae a man say what he likes to his wife?”

  “Not in polite society,” she answered, though she could not swear to that statement as truth.

  Thomas sniffed the attar of roses lather smeared on his palm, speculating that it must smell even better on Aisleen’s warm skin. “What, then, does a man say to his wife when they’re alone?”

  “Oh, I do not know,” she answered irritably. “Perhaps the weather or the evening meal, what he’s heard in the marketplace, or the wife might comment on a book that she read.”

  “The weather’s been the same four days running,” he remarked affably as he rested his chin upon his soapy knees. “We have nae eaten yet. Bullock driver says there’s rain in the mountains. What book would that be that ye’ve been reading, lass?”

  Exasperation sighed out of Aisleen. “You know very well that I have not been reading.”

  “Then we’ve finished our talk.” His black brows peaked. “I do nae like polite speech, I’m thinking.”

  “Polite conversation takes practice,” she admitted. “For instance, if you and I both read the same book then we could discuss it”

  “Nae. I’ll not be reading a book.”

  “Why not? I have several volumes that I think you would find interesting.”

  “Are there pictures in them?”

  “I do have primers, but I think you would prefer Defoe or Swift.”

  “I might, if I could read them, which I cannae.”

  “Cannae? Cannot?” Aisleen slued about in her chair. “You cannot read?”

  Thomas ducked his head. “No.”

  The admission surprised her so much Aisleen did not even think of the fact that she was staring at a naked man in a tub. “Why not? Were there no hedge schools near your town?”

  “Aye, there was. But me da was a fisherman, and when the catch was good he needed all his hands. A good catch would feed more bellies than all the words in all the books in all the world piled up together, so he often said.”

  “Perhaps.” Aisleen considered her words carefully. “But there are other hungers in a man just as great.”

  He raised his head, and with a single glance, he changed her innocent words into a weapon against her. “That is not what I meant!”

  “I know,” he replied mournfully. “And more’s the pity.” He waited the space of three heartbeats before saying, “About us, lass. We’re man and wife. ’Tis time we acted the like.”

  Aisleen’s fists clenched in her lap. “We are sharing our first real conversation. I think we were proceeding quite nicely.”

  “Then ye’d best be thinking again,” he muttered. “I’m a man wed, and that gives me certain rights.”

  “Which you agreed not to lay claim to.”

  “Never did I!” he answered hotly.

  Aisleen closed her eyes. So there it was, plainly said. She could no longer evade the moment. “I would rather you leave me in peace,” she said low. “Yet I have sworn before God to submit to you.” She swallowed with difficulty before adding, “I beg you, do not use me as you would your whores!”

  The pleading statement should have touched him differently, Thomas suspected, as laughter struggled in his chest for release. His whores! Did she believe him to have been the ram in the paddock before they wed? Poor wee thing. “I will be gentle,” he said when he could speak.

  “You will be as you must,” she said bitterly.

  Was he hearing her correctly? Was she agreeing to allow him the right to share her bed?

  Aisleen rose to her feet. “Where is your nightshirt? I will fetch it for you.”

  “Do nae have one,” he replied smugly.

  She walked over to where her bag stood open and withdrew a garment. “This must do,” she said under her breath. She averted her gaze as she approached the tub and held the garment out toward him. “You may wear this.”

  Thomas looked askance at the flimsy gown edged in lace and pink ribbons. “Lass, ye cannae be serious!”

  She dangled the gown before him. “A gentleman would own a nightshirt.”

  “Never said I was a gentleman,” he muttered, his arms folded stubbornly before him.

  “A decent man,” she countered.

  “Ah, well. ’Tis me own experience saying the lasses would nae have their men be decent altogether.”

  “Do not speak to me of your other conquests. I am your wife!”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Then be a wife to me.”

  “You know what I mean,” she said, taking a step back.

  “I do and I’m nae liking it,” he answered truthfully. “But for all that, I’m not against reason. So I’ll put forth a bargain to ye, being that ye’re so fond of bargains. I’ll cover meself if ye’ll come willing to bed as me wife.”

  Aisleen blinked. “I—I don’t understand.”

  “Sure’n ye do, else ye’d not be fluttering them golden lashes at me. Whenever ye’re hearing what ye do nae like ’tis always the same. Ye put a butterfly to shame with all that flashing and fluttering.”

  Somehow this statement seemed more personal than all the others because he had gained knowledge about her of which she was not aware. She stared at him with enormous eyes, confused and more afraid than any time before. What she feared most was that he would learn all her weakness
es and someday turn them against her. The jumbled feelings stirred by the thought of submitting to him as his wife cavorted in her middle. How had matters come this far from what she hoped for?

  “Trust me.”

  She blinked. Trust him? Trust the man who had a mistress in Sydney, the man who had taken the cook’s part against her, the man who had ravished her? Trust him? She shook her head in bewilderment and turned away.

  Thomas watched her crawl into bed and pull the covers up under her chin as a child might. He stood and glared at the feminine nightgown lying by the tub. She could not expect him to wear it. And yet he had promised.

  “Promised nae to bare meself,” he murmured and stepped out of the tub, trailing water. In his bedroll he found a clean shirt and put it on, not at all concerned that it dampened immediately and clung to his wet body.

  But when he had fastened the final button he did not move immediately to the bed where Aisleen lay with eyes gleaming darkly in the dim light. He walked over to stand before the window. It was a pleasant night, cool and clear, the kind best spent out of doors.

  “Do ye like the stars?” he asked softly

  “Yes,” came her answer, even more softly.

  “Took me years of gazing at the night sky to really feel at home here. The first time it happened I knew then I would never go back.”

  “To Ireland?”

  “Aye. A part of me is there and always will be, but a man cannae bring back the past, and that’s all it is to me now.”

  Aisleen turned toward him. In profile he did not seem so daunting a figure. “I cannot return home either. I suppose I knew it when I came, but I did not want to think of it.”

  “Did ye leave no one behind?”

  “Yes.”

  “A man, perhaps?”

  Aisleen’s gentle laughter brought a smile to his face. It was nice laughter, like the sound of rain after a long dry season. “Were there so many, lass, that ye find me question impertinent?”

  “Oh, don’t you see? There were none at all,” she replied.

  “I find that hard to believe, ye being so fine a lady and all.”

  “Ladies without dowries or fancy titles are not regarded as eligible marriage goods,” she answered drily. “I have neither fortune nor face. As for title, the Fitzgeralds of Liscarrol were well thought of only among their own, and that some while since.”

  “What did ye say!”

  Thomas’s startled tone made Aisleen jump. “About my family? It should be no surprise to you to hear my name.”

  “Ye mentioned a place,” Thomas said cautiously.

  “Liscarrol?” Aisleen bit her lip. “You’ve heard of it?”

  “Aye.” The syllable gave nothing away.

  Aisleen cringed inside. He was only a little older than she. If he was from Cork he might know about her father, might even have met him “Are you a Corkman?”

  “Aye.”

  Again the avowal that said less than it might. She began to tremble. “You know of Liscarrol. Did you know the owner?”

  “No, not the owner,” Thomas said and suddenly turned toward her. “I no longer want to talk of the past. We’re here, and that’s all that matters.” He moved toward the bed. “Ye’re a Gibson now and ’tis past time ye remembered it.”

  The light floral scent of roses hung in the air as he approached the bed. Thomas grinned, wondering if he or Aisleen was the cause of the fragrant night. Like the bed in Sydney, this one was narrow with scarcely enough room for one. With Aisleen there…

  The desire he had kept deeply buried during their journey swelled in release. It was not his wedding night, yet it may as well have been, for his foggy recollections of the other grew dimmer with each recall. Soon he would learn in passionate detail all that he could not remember. The size of the bed did not matter. Their mating needed only the width of one body.

  Aisleen held her breath as he bent a knee upon the mattress. She had agreed. This was God’s plan. Why did it terrify her so?

  Thomas pulled the sheet free of her nerveless fingers. “Do nae fear nae,” he said softly, reaching down to touch the pale oval of her face. “I’ll not hurt ye this time. Ye’ll see for yerself, lass. ’Tis meant to be a pleasuring for man and wife.”

  As he bent to her, Aisleen caught sight of the strain of passion in his expression, tightening the skin until the bones of his handsome face were starkly outlined beneath. Strange wingbeats fluttered in her middle as his face neared, and she shut her eyes to the emotion too strong to be borne.

  His mouth did not engulf hers as it had the first night. They met, touched, and then parted. The flicker of his tongue against her lower lip made her gasp, and he stretched his smile over the contours of her mouth as he kissed her again.

  “I do love kissing, lass, and ye do it so well.”

  “I do not,” she murmured truthfully.

  “Then ye must learn.”

  He caught her by the shoulders and lifted her up until she lay slanted across his lap, her head resting in the crook of his arm. Laying a forefinger against her lower lip, he tugged. “Ye’ve a sweet, soft mouth, lass, but ye prim it like ye expect a dose of cod-liver oil when I kiss ye. Will ye nae smile for me?”

  She stared solemnly up at him, too wary of the potency of the smile he favored her with to return one of her own.

  “So proud and proper,” he chided gently and bent his head once more.

  His lips brushed lightly across hers, the gentle abrasion tickling until Aisleen smiled in spite of herself. Again and again, he moved his head back and forth, the firm arch of his lower lip gliding along the softer curve of her own. When he paused, it was to press the full impression of his mouth upon her own. She did not resist for, she realized in amazement, she wanted his kiss. In fact, she quite liked the kissing. The giddy, light-as-a-feather swimming in her head was perfect company for the swift-as-a-hare pounding of her heart.

  When Thomas lifted his head, there was happy puzzlement on his face. She was not cold after all. Encouraged, he kissed her more urgently, plying his tongue in the trough between her lips in hopes of tasting more of her.

  Without quite meaning to, she conceded to his voiceless command, softening and then tentatively parting her lips for the subtle but powerful quest of his tongue. He touched her with the tip, stroking the roof of her mouth. In and out his tongue stroked, skimming the secret moistness behind her lips, licking up her taste.

  A chiming tension in her chest so at odds with the spreading languor of the lower half of her body pulled taut the rope of indecision stretched across her thoughts. If it were this and only this, she could give up to the pleasure of his touch.

  But it is more than pleasure, her secret self crooned against the regular chiming that was her heartbeat. You wish it to be more. You must take care!

  “No!” Aisleen grabbed the wrist of the hand that sought the shape of her breast through the bed linen.

  “No?” he questioned in a passion-muddled voice.

  “You mustn’t,” she whispered, dry-voiced. “I will not be handled like a whore.”

  Thomas tensed. Her kisses had drugged him into believing that she, too, was welcoming the tide of passion surging up inside him. “A gentling touch only.”

  “I am no dumb animal! Do what you must, but do not expect me to be grateful to you for the taking of what I would not willingly give!” Aisleen scarcely recognized the speech as her own. Dear Lord! That waspish shrew could not be she.

  But it was. Thomas had withdrawn from her and from the bed. When she dared to open her eyes he was standing above her, his face lost in shadow, but his voice was clear enough.

  “Ye promised,” he said accusingly, but in that accusation was the lament of a joy snatched away. “Ye are me wife!” It was the only answer left him, and he used it as a shield against his wounded pride.

  Aisleen did not utter a sound, only turned her head away and closed her eyes. She did not move away as the sheet was lifted back, nor when she felt the hot, har
d length of him slide down beside her. She only whimpered once, when he reached for the hem of her gown, skimming it upward over her knees toward her thighs.

  “What?” he barked, thwarted desire turning to anger.

  “The candle. Please,” she whispered so softly that she thought he would not hear her. But he did. Reaching up, he snuffed it between thumb and forefinger before he moved to lie over her.

  She wanted to lie still, to submit without opposition, but she could not bear his touch upon her naked skin. When his palm slid up over her thigh, she again caught his wrist in both hands. “Don’t touch me!”

  “But I must—” Thomas began, only to realize that he was near bursting with need of her. No, he did not need to touch her or even kiss her for his own body’s arousal. A few kisses had been enough, more than enough, stimulation for a man who had been waiting a week to reclaim his bride. But it would be hard for her if she did not want him. “For yer need—”

  “For my need you would cease altogether!” she cried. “Please!”

  The pitiful cry was too much even for his passion. Thomas jerked his hand from her hip and flopped across the bed onto his back. “Bloody hell! I’m no monster!”

  Aisleen stared wide-eyed but utterly exhausted as she lay beside him. She had won. Yet she was inconsolably miserable. What she had wanted was for him to be kind to her, to make her smile. Now they were both miserable.

  A dry sob racked her, and then another and another until she could scarcely catch her breath. Finally tears brimmed and coursed, running downward into her ears and onto his chest.

  Thomas touched the droplet of water that fell upon his chest. “Do nae cry!” he roared.

  Aisleen sat up, but Thomas caught her by the elbows and roughly pulled her back down beside him. “Ye’re me wife and ye’ll sleep by me! That’s little enough to ask!”

  Too drained to protest, she lay meekly still, her tears suddenly gone, but the place where her heart should be ached as though the organ had been torn out by its roots.

  *

  Aisleen sat on the hard wooden chair staring vacantly out into the impenetrable darkness long past the last shout, and last bang of the door, and last tinkle of glass below in the tavern.

  Behind her Thomas sprawled in sleep, completely filling the narrow bed with his heavy frame. Once in a while, she heard a low, sonorous breath of deep sleep that bordered on a snore but failed.