Hunting Memories vm-2

by Barb Hendee

  "It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul." The actor's voice rang loud and deep, reaching the very back of the crowd. "Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!"

  He took another step and faltered again. "It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood. Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, and smooth as monumental alabaster."

  He unsheathed his sword and dropped it. The audience was en raptured, but Rose spotted a few lines in his makeup. She focused her eyes, trying to see his face more clearly, and she realized he was sweating in the cold day.

  Her feeling of unease grew stronger.

  "Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men." Othello's voice rang out. He wavered during the next line. "Put out the light, and then put out the light."

  He collapsed onto the stage, his head hitting the floor with a thudding sound.

  For the span of a few breaths, the audience remained quiet, thinking this part of the show, but then the woman on the couch rose up and cried, "Henry?"

  She ran to him, and the crowd began to murmur in confusion. Seamus was at the edge of the stage, his face concerned, and he grabbed the side to swing himself up.

  Rose's feeling of unease exploded into fear as she remembered his earlier words at the house.

  All the way from London.

  "Seamus!" she shouted, shoving her way toward the stage. "Don't touch him!"

  Rose was strong, and she reached the stage in seconds, but Seamus was already kneeling beside the sweating, unconscious actor.

  "Don't touch him," she repeated. "Get back."

  "What is it?" Briana asked, rushing up behind and grabbing Kenna, lifting her off the ground.

  "Fever," Rose answered.

  Two days later, the actor died.

  Four days after that, Seamus fell ill, along with others in the village. Soon after, half the town was moaning and sweating. In the de Spenser house, only Rose did not contract the sickness. She worked day and night to care for her family.

  In a matter of weeks, a quarter of Loam Village was dead. Nearly everyone had lost family members, but the de Spenser house was hardest hit. Gregor, Briana, and Kenna all passed over, leaving Rose and Seamus too shocked to even mourn.

  Worse, Seamus blamed himself.

  Rose had survived the untimely death of her father, but this was almost too much to bear, and at the same time she was forced into dealing with business matters-as there was no one else. Seamus was too young to take over his father's profession, and yet he inherited the house and his father's money. Old Quentin, one of the village elders, helped Rose to sort these matters, and she was surprised to learn the size of her brother's wealth. She and Seamus would want for nothing… except for their lost family.

  Sometimes, later, looking back, Rose did not know how she and Seamus survived the cold, empty sorrow of those first few years together. She loved him, but she was not his mother. She was not even the mothering kind.

  Still, she did her best.

  They were both comfortable that he never called her «Mother» or even "Auntie," and he always called her "Rose."

  She went on working as a midwife, and he took over some of the household tasks. She continued teaching him his numbers and reading and writing-as his mother had. Day by day, they slowly created a life together.

  In his early teens, he talked her into going to a horse fair, and she let him buy two half-wild colts. He brought them home and put countless hours into training them, and then sold them to a young lord in Inverness for a decent profit.

  He had stumbled upon his own path, as a horse trader.

  One morning, Rose woke up and made their tea and walked out to watch him patiently training his newest acquisition, a lovely dappled gray. She smiled.

  "I'll get breakfast," she called.

  Two hours after washing the dishes, she had her first conscious painful thought that day of Gregor, Briana, and Kenna. But then she realized this was the first morning since their deaths that half the morning had passed before such pain hit her.

  The next day, she did not suffer their loss until midafternoon.

  And she knew she would recover.

  At seventeen, Seamus had grown taller than Rose. He was strong and honest and sure of himself. Between his house and his inheritance and his growing reputation as a horse trader, he was considered by far to be the best «catch» in the village, and several families approached Rose with possible offers.

  But she heard none of it.

  If Seamus wished to hook himself to a girl, that was his choice, not hers.

  As of yet, he'd shown no interest in taking a wife.

  Perhaps he was like her, and he never would marry.

  Staring into the looking glass one night, Rose wondered what had become of the girl who felt such joy at bringing him into the world, holding his squirming warm body to her breast. At the age of thirty-four, her face showed no lines, but her long, brown hair held streaks of silver.

  Just as when she was a child, she knew some of the villagers were beginning to view her as strange. A peculiar spinster, obsessed with new babies, but wanting none of her own.

  Why had she never married?

  Perhaps because no man ever stirred her.

  That all changed one night after supper when Seamus suddenly announced he felt like going to the pub.

  "The pub?" she asked. "When did you ever feel like going to the pub?"

  "Tonight." He smiled. "Come with me."

  She picked up his plate. "There must be some crowd from the horse fairs visiting?" she ventured, teasing him. "Some men you want to buy a colt from cheap? Or maybe it's a girl you're chasing?"

  He shrugged. "A few men from the horse fairs. I see nothing wrong with sharing a pint and starting a conversation."

  She laughed and got her cloak. In truth, a pint and a little company appealed to her tonight. Spring was just around the corner, and the gray days of winter would soon be past.

  She did not remember what she and Seamus chatted about that night as they walked into the village proper and down the main path toward the Black Bull-one of only two pubs in Loam. She remembered going inside, feeling the welcome warmth, closing the door while removing her cloak… and then hearing a voice from somewhere across the room behind her.

  "This ale is first rate tonight, Gareth. What did you do, wash out the mug first?"

  People laughed.

  His accent was smooth-English, not Scottish. The sound of it melted into her skin as she turned around slowly to find its owner.

  A man she'd never seen before stood by the bar, chatting with the pub's owner, Gareth. The stranger was neither tall nor short, with a medium build. He had dark brown hair and green eyes that she could see all the way from the door. He wore polished boots, new breeches, and a white shirt. His black jacket hung over his arm. Although well-heeled, he was not particularly handsome-at least not by Scottish standards-and yet everyone in the place was watching him, listening to him. She should have been warned by this, as the English were not well liked this far north.

  But even Seamus stopped and stared.

  "Ah, Edward," Gareth said. "You insult me. You know I never wash my mugs. Kills all the flavor!"

  Edward. That was his name.

  She moved deeper into the room. He looked her way and froze. His green eyes locked into hers. His gaze slid upward, to the top of her head, and then down her long silver streaks. She could not read his expression, but he seemed so… interested.

  He glanced quickly at Seamus and turned back to his banter with Gareth.

  Rose's heart was racing. She tried to recover.

  "So, where are your horse traders?" she asked Seamus.

  He looked around and then pointed. "Over there. I may have to pry their attention. Who is that Englishman?"

  "I don't know." Several tables were empty. "I'll just sit here awhile. You go and do your business."

  "You don't mind?" he asked.

  "Go on."

  In truth, she needed to gather he
r wits. Every time Edward spoke, his voice seemed to penetrate right through her skin. Seamus made his way toward a small group of men, and she sank into a chair, grateful for a moment to herself.

  But a moment was all she had.

  Then she heard Edward say, "Gareth, would you introduce me to that lady?"

  She looked up. They were coming to her table!

  Other patrons murmured disappointment as Edward left the bar.

  Dressed in a faded purple gown with brown laces and her hair hanging down her back, Rose hardly felt like a lady. Her thoughts were wild. Whatever would she say? But why did she care? In all her life, she'd never cared what others thought of her.

  "Edward Claymore," Gareth said, arriving at the table with a sweep of his arm-like some foppish gentlemen. "May I present Rose de Spenser, Loam Village's own midwife. And a good one, if I may say."

  "De Spenser?" Edward repeated, his voice landing like music on her ears. "French?"

  "No, sir," she managed to answer.

  Up close, she realized he was handsome, with fine features, and he was so charming, so polite. She'd never noticed nor favored such qualities in a man, but right now, she could barely breathe. He sat down.

  "Away with you, Gareth," he said cheerfully, offering no of fense. "I wish to speak with fairer company than you. Bring us some wine."

  Seamus looked over and stood halfway up. She shook her head at him and motioned him back down. He frowned but turned back to his companions.

  Other villagers glanced their way and murmured in low voices, probably wondering why this well-to-do Englishman chose to bestow his company upon Rose. But she did not care. She stared at Edward. For a short while he simply stared back.

  "Well," he said finally. "This is unprecedented. I am at a loss for words."

  "You seem to have plenty to me," she answered.

  He smiled. "Yes, quite. Getting me to talk is normally easy. Shutting me up is the challenge."

  Unable to stop herself, she smiled back. "Gareth spoke no title with your name, but you dress like a lord."

  He was taken back by her blunt statement. Perhaps the English did not speak so openly. Yet he also seemed unable to stop making jokes and lowered his voice. "If you must know, I am a spy for the king, here on a secret mission to compare the taste of Scottish cheeses to English ones and steal your secrets."

  Rose did not respond to this evasion, nor did she blink, but sat watching him with her large serious eyes.

  Gareth brought them two cups of wine, looked at them both curiously, and then went back to the bar.

  Slowly, Edward's expression lost its humorous glow, and she felt the tingle on her skin fade away. When he spoke again, he sounded more like any other man.

  "Good God," he said, as if slightly shaken. "You want a real answer, don't you?" He paused. "No, I am not a lord. I serve a Scottish noble named John McCrugger. Have you heard of him?"

  She shook her head. She knew little of nobles. They rarely touched her world.

  "I am his manservant," Edward went on. "But my master is away, and I am free to do as I please for now. Does that make you like me less?"

  "No, it makes me like you more. At least you perform honest work."

  He laughed, and for the first time, it sounded genuine. "Honest work. Heaven preserve us."

  When she did not laugh in response, he looked at her intently. "Most of the time, I am very alone. So are you. I can see it."

  "I am not alone," she answered. "I have my nephew, Seamus." She pointed to him. He was speaking heatedly with the visiting horse traders.

  Edward's gaze did not follow her hand but rather moved to the silver streaks in her hair. "But you've lost someone… something painful happened."

  Rose had never spoken of those nights where Kenna, Briana, and Gregor died in turn. How could this man see inside her? Without knowing why, she wanted him to know. "Yes, something that left me broken for a long time."

  He leaned forward and sipped his wine, waiting quietly, and Rose began to speak, keeping her voice low, so only he could hear, and she told him everything from the night her father died until that morning when she made it well past breakfast without remembering everyone she had lost.

  He did not interrupt. He just listened.

  When she finished and fell silent, he waited in silence a little longer and then said, "I understand loss… Not my family, but I have lost more than I can say."

  She looked at him, puzzled, and without warning, he fell back into his cheerful, charming pose. Her skin tingled again when he spoke.

  "Well, you have managed a great feat of magic tonight," he said. "I have not thought about myself in nearly an hour! Unbelievable."

  In spite of being soothed by his voice, Rose felt a sudden pang that he'd banished one of her few moments of real intimacy with another person. She blinked and did not know what to say.

  Then Seamus looked over at them, and his eyes narrowed at the sight of Edward still sitting at her table. He left the horse traders and came over, ignoring Edward.

  "It's late, Rose. We should go home."

  She was unsettled, her stomach rolling, but she managed to ask, "Did you strike a bargain?"

  "I've arranged to have a look at a few colts." He tossed his head toward the door. "Let's go."

  His tone carried authority. When had he become a man?

  She didn't wish to leave, but she knew the magic of the night was over-gone. Whatever link Edward created between them to help her talk, it had evaporated. She stood up.

  "Thank you for the wine," she said.

  His green eyes were startled and sad. "You are most welcome."

  She followed Seamus to the door.

  That night, she lay in bed for hours, thinking, rolling. She could not sleep. She knew Edward was only passing through the village, but it cut like a knife that she would never see him again.

  The following afternoon, Seamus left to go look at some horses, and Rose was glad to have the house to herself. Her experience the night before had left her shaken, uncertain. Somehow, she'd managed to go her whole life without getting lost in a man's eyes. And now, she could barely eat for the churning in her stomach.

  Fool!

  She scolded herself.

  A polished man had paid her a little attention, and she was swooning like a maid.

  But no, she felt more than swoons. He had allowed her to let out the pain, to speak… and he had listened.

  Well, he was probably three villages away by now. As she had recovered from death, she could recover from a few moments of vivid life. She just needed time.

  So she busied herself by scrubbing the kitchen floor and preparing some loaves of bread to bake. The sun set and dusk fell. She tried to eat some leftover mutton stew but made sure she left enough for Seamus. Hopefully, he would be home soon tonight with a new colt or two. It was always pleasant to watch him begin a fresh round of training.

  She was just settling down by the fire to mend one of his shirts when a knock sounded on the door.

  Who could that be? To the best of her knowledge, none of the pregnant village women, even in the outlying areas, were close to their time yet. She hoped someone was not delivering early, and she ran to the door.

  Her breath caught when she saw who was standing on the other side.

  Edward Claymore.

  He and Rose were the same height, so she could look directly into his eyes. His brown hair was windblown, as if he had been traveling, but his expression held her attention the most: confused, even desperate.

  "Rose," he began in a familiar manner, as if he had known her a good deal longer than one night. "Forgive me. I…" He stopped.

  Her heart pounded in disbelief. He was here. She stepped back and opened the door. "It's all right."

  He walked past her, not even looking about at the pleasantly furnished sitting room. "I left, but I had to come back. I wanted to see you again."

  "And why is that?"

  "I don't know."

  Hi
s voice held no music or charm tonight, and her skin did not tingle at his words, but she preferred him like this, as if he was showing her a side of himself he shared with no one else. Could this be real? Did she affect him as he affected her?

  She had no idea what to say. Words had never been her strength.

  "Are you hungry," she asked lamely. "Would you like to sit by the fire?"

  "Why am I here?" he whispered, and he did not seem to be speaking to her. The confusion on his face spread, only now he seemed alarmed as well.

  She feared he would leave, and she had no idea how to make him stay.

  "Last night," he said, looking at her hair. "You made me feel as I haven't felt in a long time. You made me forget."

  She did affect him the same way! Is this why people married each other? Did they meet someone who caused turbulence in their stomachs and chests, and then feel a need to make a permanent bond?

  "Edward," she said, reaching out and grasping his pale hand, drawing him over to a low couch by the fire. Words were wasted now. She did not know what to do but believed that he did. Pulling him to sit beside her, she touched his face.

  To her surprise, he grabbed her hand and stopped her. His grip was strong. "Don't," he said as if warning her.

  But he was wrong. And if he would not act, then she would. She moved closer to him, and this time, he did not stop her but simply watched her with fascinated green eyes. She leaned over to kiss him, wondering what his mouth would taste like. He remained frozen for a few seconds and then began to kiss her back, letting go of her hand and holding on to the small of her back.

  His mouth opened slightly, moving against hers, softly first and then harder. She responded, running her hands up his chest, finally understanding why women risked so much to experience these moments. She never wanted this to end.

  He pushed her back against a thick pillow, and she tried to hold him closer, to kiss him harder, but she could feel something building in his tense body, in the fierce movement of his mouth.

  He took his lips off hers and buried his face in her throat.

  She had never experienced anything like this. Why had so much time passed before they found each other?

  "Edward," she whispered.