Clara saw the shifting emotions on the young woman’s face and frowned. “You’ll not be thinking of defying me, are you? Ah, weel. I suppose you’ll not want to look lovely for just one night. You’re right, we’re all so used to you in the clown suit, you shouldn’t dare wear anything else. Michael may not like it. And you might not have the figure for it. I was quite a looker in my day.”
“I have a good enough figure,” Rosemary said indignantly. “And who said I could only wear clown suits? Michael be damned. If I want to wear this, I will.”
“That’s right.” Clara grinned. “Now I can rest in peace, knowing my tasks will be properly handled. Bless you, dear.”
As Rosemary left, Clara hid a smile. She’d seen it in the cards and had decided to intervene. Fate sometimes needed help.
Especially when dealing with a Carney.
Rosemary marched toward the tent closest to her own. Michael Wharton’s new truce was about to be tested, and she could almost predict the results. She burst into the canvas enclosure, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light. Inside, he was working, as always. Ledger books were stacked beside the crates, and an open copy, filled with green pages and columns, graced a trunk that served as a desk. A solitary taper threw a halo of light around his head. Rosemary snorted. Michael Wharton was anything but angelic, despite his appearance.
“Yes?” When he saw who his intruder was, he smiled, apparently prepared to enjoy himself. “What can I do for you? Let me guess—it’s Carney’s night, and all the clowns are getting drunk in his honor.”
Rosemary bridled, her temper flaring. “No. Clara is dying.”
The look of amusement fled from his face, and he immediately put down his pen. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. No one bothers to tell me anything around here.” His features softened, and he leaned forward, gazing at Rose with what almost seemed like concern. “I know she’s been with you for a long time. Can I do anything?”
Rosemary stared back in amazement. “Yes, we need you to stand in. I’ll play your assistant. Do you think you can do it?”
“There really isn’t any other choice.” Michael got to his feet and stood beside her, indicating a ledger book. “We need tonight’s income for the books. Everyone else, including yourself, is tied up with his own act. And we’ve already sold out. It would hurt the reputation of the show should we cheat the people out of an act.”
Everything to him was dollars and cents. “I’m sorry it’s so inconvenient,” she said sweetly, wanting to hit him. “I suppose I can ask her to die on schedule next time.” She turned to storm away from him when he caught her shoulder, refusing to let her leave.
“Next time?” One eyebrow raised mockingly.
“Yes. Clara is a clairvoyant; she’s had several near-death experiences. She always manages to pick a nice summer evening, so no one ever minds….Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You mean she dies on a regular basis?” His expression was incredulous.
“Yes. Like I said—”
“I heard you.” He glanced down at her shoulder. As if suddenly realizing his hand was on her, he let it drop, unconsciously flexing his fingers as if to keep from remembering what she’d felt like in his arms. “Do you honestly believe all that?”
Rosemary shrugged. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth—’ ”
“I know my Shakespeare,” he said, still rubbing his fingers together. He stared at her oddly, as if seeing right through her. “How do you know that quote?”
Rosemary’s nose lifted. “Just because I’m a clown doesn’t mean I can’t read. My father took care to provide me with an education, though it wasn’t like those in your fancy schools. I’ve learned what I need to know.”
“I’ll wager that,” he remarked thoughtfully, his suspicions concerning a possible lover coming back to haunt him. His pencil tapped in annoyance, but he squelched the feeling quickly. She was staring at him with a cocky assurance that almost made him laugh. Apparently, she was still convinced that he was so intimidated by Elsa that she had him quite under her thumb. It was exactly what he wanted her to think. “I’ll be your stand-in,” he agreed. “I don’t suppose fortune-telling involves any knives?”
Rosemary grinned. “No.”
“Good. I shall see you at five, then.” Dismissing her, he was buried again in his ledgers.
CHAPTER TEN
“COME ONE, COME ALL! See Lorac, the Magnificent Mystic!”
The line thickened as the crowd bought tickets to see the new fortune-teller, billed as the newest star from the East. Rosemary grinned as she realized that “the East” in this case extended as far as Philadelphia, but in the circus business, perception was everything.
She entered the tent, feeling very self-conscious in the dress Clara had given her. Her father had never approved when she’d dressed like a woman. The glittery, sultry costume felt strange against her stockinged legs, and the thin straps made her feel almost naked. Wearing it made her feel shy and awkward, and she wished she had the clown suit for protection.
“This damned turban feels like I’m wearing an oven instead of a hat,” Michael complained, trying to scratch beneath the thick linen material. He glanced at Rose, then looked back again, stunned at her change in appearance. Taking in her gold and silver outfit, his eyes traveled up and down her body in appreciation. He’d thought Rosemary could be pretty, but he never imagined just how much of a difference the right clothes could make. “You look beautiful,” he choked, almost involuntarily.
Rosemary blushed, but his words pleased her. She glanced down at the dress, which was really more of a collection of scarves that wound around her body like a glittering veil. Silver earrings completed the picture, setting off her face and making her coppery hair take on a lovely sheen. Feeling almost sinful, she glanced at the mirror, studying her appearance. “Do you really think so?”
He nodded. “Where did you get that?” He indicated the dress.
“From Clara. She insisted that an eastern mystic had to have a gypsy assistant. She used to wear this when she was younger.”
“You should wear women’s clothes more often. They suit you.” Before Rose could recover from this astonishing remark, she saw his frown as he glanced into the glass and adjusted his turban. “Do I look ridiculous?”
“You look fine.” Rosemary coughed suspiciously when he turned back to look at her. Griggs had done his face with some kind of skin-darkening concoction, to increase his resemblance to an “eastern” mystic, and now only his penetrating gray eyes stared out of a blackened face topped with a bearded turban.
Michael grimaced, then sat down at the table. The cards lay facedown on the brocade cloth, concealing their secrets until the first client entered. Rosemary stood at the tent flap, her face twitching, her eyes unable to hide their twinkle.
“Are you ready, Lorac?” Her voice broke, and Michael sent her a glare.
“As ready as I’ll ever be. This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done. If we weren’t going to lose a fortune, I wouldn’t be caught dead like this.” He gave Rosemary a sharp glance. “Now, what is your part?”
“I stand at the opening to let people in. If I discover anything that may be of use to you, I’ll try and let you know.” She held up her hand, wiggling her fingers. “One means marriage, two means illness, three means money.”
“And how will you discover all that?”
Rosemary shrugged. “Griggs is outside, remember? And people talk while waiting in line. He’ll signal to me, and I’ll relay to you.”
Michael nodded. “Then the cards are a bunk, just as I’ve maintained?”
“Clara’s always been right. But seeing as you don’t have the ‘sight,’ we decided a little help was in order.”
Rosemary stifled a chuckle while he forced himself to concentrate on the cards. He needed her to trust him for his plan to work. She looked so beautiful and accommodating, he nearly regretted what he’d worked so hard to accomplish,
but he couldn’t. Rosemary Carney badly needed to be taught a lesson, and he was just the one to do it.
A round farmwife entered, her face as full as the moon, and her hair braided in a no-nonsense style behind her ears. Taking a seat before Michael, she displayed her ticket and indicated the cards.
“I hear you’re the new reader. Paid fifty cents for this. I hope you’re good.”
“Lorac is the best, madam.”
Rosemary turned in amazement as she heard the voice behind her, obviously foreign with a soft, throaty, mystical accent. Even his tone indicated eastern imaginings and strange gods. Glancing at the farmwoman, Rosemary saw that she was properly awed and ready to believe anything this apparition told her.
After shuffling the cards with a gambler’s sure hand, Michael laid them out on the table in the Celtic Cross arrangement and glanced furtively toward Rose. His assistant, swathed in midnight black, held up one finger, then hid the gesture as the woman glanced suspiciously behind her.
“What—”
“You must be silent now, Lorac must concentrate,” Michael intoned, closing his eyes and producing a simulated trance that Rose found fascinating. “Yes, the cards foresee your future very clearly. I predict a marriage for you.”
The woman blushed, then glanced down at the lurid cards. “There is a miner who came back from Colorady when his claim ran out…”
“That is him,” Michael said softly, indicating a money card. “See the gold coins? That is the fortune that he was seeking. Now he will find his true treasure with you.”
The woman blushed and giggled while Rosemary rolled her eyes. He was enjoying this and obviously had a theatrical side she hadn’t previously witnessed. Reluctantly she was forced to admire him. They had thrown him into more pools, and the man refused to drown.
“Will we be rich?” The woman adored Michael now. Gazing at him shyly, she simpered as he turned over another card, pausing for optimum effect.
“I do not see lots of money, but you will live comfortably,” Michael said in his heavy eastern accent. “And it will little matter, since you will bear many children and find true peace.”
The woman giggled, then blushed even deeper at this intimate conversation. “I have had trouble in that area.” She touched her stomach lightly. “You’ve given my heart hope to know that I may one day have children.”
“You should stay off your feet when you have conceived,” Lorac counseled. “Only then will you become fruitful.”
Fruitful? Rosemary mouthed. Michael shot her a look, then shrugged. Lorac was from another culture, and he deemed it appropriate to use archaic language.
It was working for the woman. The reading finished, she rose from the table, then plunked an extra coin down on the cloth.
“You’re the best mystic I’ve ever been to,” she whispered. Passing Rose on the way out, she paused, casting her eyes upward. “He’s wonderful! Absolutely wonderful!” Then she was gone, and the next client hurried in.
After hearing the woman’s accolades, the people were willing to believe anything by the time they entered the tent, and Michael delivered. Rosemary watched in amazement as he contacted spirits from the dead, read the townspeople’s future, advised them regarding money and love matters, and listened to their whispered hopes and dreams. She saw nary a sneer or a scornful look when a farmer spoke of his cattle’s illness or a wife confided in their terrible loss due to drought. He helped them all, and by the end of the session Lorac had become one of Carney’s most popular acts.
The tent flat closed, and Rosemary turned to him, the twinkle in her eyes even brighter than before. “You have got to be one of the biggest charlatans I’ve ever seen.”
“What are you talking about?” Michael removed his turban. “I was the greatest. Did you hear them? Lorac is the new star of Carney’s.”
“You were good,” Rosemary admitted.
Those three words meant a lot to him, and it showed. After placing his turban on the chair, he ruffled his hair and gave her a warm smile. “I guess you have to go on now. Why don’t we go to town later and celebrate? I’ll buy the drinks. After all, tonight’s performance was found money. If I hadn’t stepped in, Clara’s act wouldn’t have gone on at all.”
Rosemary gaped, then recovered quickly, realizing that her mouth had practically scraped the floor. “You want to go out? With me?”
Michael shrugged. “Why not?” He indicated the brightly colored turban. “As Lorac, I’m a performer just like the rest of you. Doesn’t that make me acceptable?”
She was tempted, but she couldn’t let herself accept and couldn’t begin to explain.
Stiffening her resolve, she ignored the charm he was turning on her. She forced herself to forget that she’d enjoyed his company for the last two hours. The strange tension between them practically snapped, and she turned away from him, hiding her expression.
“I’m sorry, but I’m occupied tonight. Perhaps some other time.”
“Perhaps.” He was clearly disappointed, and it was all she could do to stick to her resolve. Yet, she couldn’t risk letting him get too close to her. He was beginning to pose much more of a threat to her as this kind, considerate man than he ever did as the mercenary banker.
The night was sultry, the Kansas moon full and bright. It had been hours since the clowns had come back from their nightly round of the taverns, and they were now settled in their tents, fast asleep. A hot summer wind stirred the grasses, bringing strange echoes of unseen gorges and dusty rivers, forgotten valleys and flat open plains.
Rosemary paced inside her tent, wishing she had gone with the clowns. A little whiskey might have helped her sleep, but instinctively she knew that nothing would have done much good tonight. Her mind was troubled, and as she flung herself down on a crate, avoiding the cot as she had all night, she thought once again of Michael Wharton.
He was usurping her place in the circus; tonight had proved that. The roustabouts no longer hated him the way they once had, and the acrobats were actually beginning to tolerate his presence. Even the trapeze artists ate supper with him. And for the clowns to offer to take him drinking—well that meant that they, too, were turning traitor.
She fumed, logically realizing that it was for the best, that if he had to stay, they should all try to get along. But emotionally everything in her rebelled. Especially since for a moment tonight she’d actually liked him.
That made her shudder, but it was true. Alone in her tent, surrounded by Sean Carney’s things and her own costumes, she could admit what she really thought. He’d gotten under her guard. He’d played Lorac with an enthusiasm that any circus performer would have to admire, and he’d handled the public with an understanding that she wouldn’t have given him credit for.
She had to do something. She stared out of the flap at the full moon, realizing that the real reason she had to get rid of him had nothing to do with the circus. He made her feel things, made her body turn to mush with little more than a glance, made her blood do crazy things when he smiled in that charming sort of way. Oh, he was a mercenary all right. Rose wasn’t totally deceived. But he got through to that hidden part of her that she couldn’t expose for fear of losing control, that feminine side that she didn’t understand and that had been asserting itself more and more often.
The veiled dress lay on her dressing table, shimmering in the moonlight. He’d been genuinely surprised tonight to see her dressed like a woman, and his reaction had been heady. Rosemary shuddered as she remembered that she’d bean secretly dreading walking out in front of him like that. Yet, he’d been approving, and even that was troubling. It meant that his opinion mattered, and it shouldn’t.
Frowning, her eyes wandered down to her nightgown. She had once found it in the costume trunk and couldn’t resist donning the lacy garment. The gown was pale ivory silk, fringed with lace, and cut seductively to reveal the slender shape of a feminine body. A single ribbon secured the neckline, tempting with the promise of what a tug would b
ring. It was the gown of a seductress, a woman who knew her way among men and was boldly setting a mood. Wearing it was her secret, the private feminine indulgence she allowed herself only in the seclusion of her tent.
Her hair unbound and glittering around her like a copper mantle, Rosemary slipped into bed for the first time all evening. It had been useless to try and sleep before. Her body still burned, and her mind taunted her with strange imaginings and longings. It was as if nature conspired with Wharton to provide her downfall, keeping her awake with lusty desires.
The sheets were cool and comforting to her heated skin, and her pillow felt soft and downy. Rosemary settled down, stretching in the luxurious nightgown, feeling the smooth slide of satin over her flesh. Her leg shifted to one side, then her eyes flew open as her toes touched something odd and unfamiliar.
It was cool and textured, like some kind of a hide, and felt like it was wrapped in layers against her bare feet. A warning went off in Rosemary’s head, but before she could reassure herself that she was simply imagining things, the band against her feet moved. Stifling a cry, she flew out of bed and fumbled in the darkness for a taper. Lighting the candle with shaking hands, she cautiously approached the cot and yanked down the covers.
A black snake lay coiled in the bottom of her bed, its flat eyes watching her, its body slithering in a sickening motion across the white sheets. A scream ripped from Rosemary’s throat, and she raced blindly from the tent, her flesh covered with goosebumps. The candle guttered, then fell from her hand, but she didn’t care, nor could she stop herself from screaming as she ran straight into Michael’s arms.
“Rose? What in God’s name is the matter?”
He felt warm and strong, his arms wrapping around her like a human overcoat, his body pressed reassuringly against hers. Rosemary tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. Horror filled her as she pictured the slimy reptile in her bed, and she pulled Michael even closer to her.
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