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Lady Of The Knight
Tori Phillips
SIR ANDREW FORD WAS NOBODY'S FOOLHe knew that looks could be deceiving. And though his friends warned him that Rosie would be nothing but trouble, there was something very special about the woman beneath the tangled mane of hair and the dirt-smudged face.Indeed, something so special that he brazenly wagered he could teach the seemingly ordinary strumpet to be a lady fit to meet the king in less than a fortnight. But little did the jaded knight suspect that Rosie would be the first woman to teach him the true meaning of love!
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u91761b21-1538-5aa6-96de-d801a11edaf0)
Excerpt (#u326209ae-98d0-58d1-b5bf-611e9cdad87e)
Dear Reader (#uc843e972-6644-589f-9142-04b504686ef9)
Title Page (#u4e7a504d-3c82-53ed-89ff-e8b97f665457)
About the Author (#uf365930c-b77d-52ab-9768-c69450afd946)
Dedication (#u34ded57d-6e28-50d6-b1b8-d451fb507b60)
Chapter One (#u111763ae-6b9a-5e96-b772-416ff79d49c5)
Chapter Two (#ue91d2b7a-fa35-5edc-bf85-e54ba39cd07f)
Chapter Three (#ue4d56d62-f4f3-50ee-a8e6-182c189f883d)
Chapter Four (#ucecd6c91-2dd7-548a-9b53-119b337bc139)
Chapter Five (#u12f5a29a-51f6-5231-b1d2-01921f6f4d29)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Rosie pursed her lips. “You want me to strip naked with you standing there a-watching me?”
Andrew appeared to ponder the question. She thought she had said it plain enough.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Aye, that is the very nut and core of it. I do. Perchance you will recall that I have paid a small fortune for that very privilege, Mistress…what did you say your name was?”
She lifted her head with as much pride as she could muster. “’Tis Rosie, my lord.”
He flourished a deep bow. “I am struck near speechless by your presence, Mistress Rosie. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Sir Andrew Ford, the miracle worker.”
Rosie stared at him with a mixture of bewilderment and apprehension. She was trapped alone with a charming lunatic.
Sir Andrew softened his expression. “I do but jest, Rosie. ‘Tis my fashion. Now, for the love of warm water, will you please undress—or shall I do it for you?”
Dear Reader,
This month we’re celebrating love “against all odds” with these four powerful romances!
Never before have two seemingly ill-suited people been so right for each other as Andrew and Rosie in Tori Phillips’s triumphant new medieval novel, Lady of the Knight. On the heels of a starred review from Publishers Weekly for Midsummer’s Knight, Ms. Phillips spins the frolicking tale of a famous knight and courtier who buys a “soiled dove” and wagers that he can pass her off as a noble lady in ten days’ time. With her cooperation, he’ll share the winnings. But things go awry—most notably in their hearts—as the charade progresses. Don’t miss it!
Fate takes over in Winter’s Bride by Catherine Archer, the emotional story of a noblewoman, long thought dead, whose past and present collide when she is reunited with her beloved and overcomes her amnesia. Barbara Leigh’s The Surrogate Wife, set in the Carolinas in the late 1700s, is about the struggle of forbidden love. Here, the heroine is wrongly convicted of murdering the hero’s wife, and is sentenced to life as his indentured servant…
And be sure to look for The Midwife by Carolyn Davidson, the heart-wrenching story of a midwife, fleeing from her past, who must care for the newborn of a woman who dies in labor. The midwife and the child’s stern father marry for convenience, yet later fall in love—despite the odds!
Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historicals® novel.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269 Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Lady of the Knight
Tori Phillips
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
TORI PHILLIPS
After receiving her degree in theater arts from the University of San Diego, Tori worked at MGM Studios, acted in numerous summer stock musicals and appeared in Paramount Pictures’ The Great Gatsby. Her plays, published by Dramatic Publishing Co., have been produced in the U.S. and Canada, and her poetry is included in several anthologies. She has directed over forty plays, including twenty-one Shakespeare productions. Currently she is a first-person, Living History actress at the Folger Shakespearean Library in Washington, D.C. She lives with her husband in Burke, VA. She would love to hear from her readers. Please write to her at: P.O. Box 10703, Burke, VA 22009-0703.
To the memory of
Brian Russell Cabe
former student, henchman, fellow actor
stage combat partner and
most excellent friend
who loved
Renaissance Faires
Chapter One (#ulink_e90fbb61-abd7-5070-b84a-bde75b2db511)
“Was ever woman in this humor wooed? Was ever woman in this humor won?”
—RICHARD III
Monday, June 11, 1520
The Field of Cloth of Gold at Val D’Or Between the towns of Guisnes & Ardres, France
Rosie shifted her bare feet on the rough wood of the barrel top, lifted her chin a notch and stared squarely into the face of hell.
Despite the warmth of the evening air, she shivered inside her thin travel-stained shift and torn flax skirt. Apprehension knotted the pit of her empty stomach. Pressing her lips together into a tight line, she tried to ignore the hundreds of upturned faces around her—all male and all staring at her with undisguised lust. They had gathered outside Quince’s tent for the express purpose of debauching a virgin—her.
Rosie swallowed, then shook a hank of her tangled hair out of her eyes. She resolved not to allow anyone to see how terrified she was. In a few hours’ time, she would be ravished by one of these smirking devils, and so begin her new life as a prostitute.
Standing behind her, bawdmaster Peter Quince slapped her backside with his cudgel. “Smile, wench!” he hissed under his breath. “Show them ye have all yer teeth!”
Rosie stretched her lips into a wide grimace. The noise around the harlots’ tent rose in volume. The perspiring customers pressed closer.
“Show us the goods!” roared a drunken voice.
Others cheered and whistled their agreement with the suggestion.
Rosie ignored the sea of faces. Balling her hands into fists, she dug her nails into her callused palms.
Another man raised his voice above the general din. “More light! Let us see if the chit is as innocent as you proclaim.”
“Aye,” agreed another. “I have forgotten what a virgin looks like!”
Rosie shuddered. Not even Quince knew that she had already lost her maidenhead this past May Day. For an instant, the handsome face of her seducer flashed in her mind. Because of Simon Gadswell and his lying promises, she now found herself up for auction like a haunch of venison. All too soon, she would be sold to the highest bidder. Then she must be very clever with the little vial of pig’s blood that she had concealed inside a slit in her waistband. If she did not bleed like a true virgin, Quince would beat her even worse than before.
The bawdmaster held a flaming torch closer to her face. Rosie flinched and prayed that its sparks would not ignite her hair.
“Smile, damn yer eyes!” Quince growled. “I want a good price fer ye.”
Rosie bit back the retort that formed on her lips. The bruises from his latest punishment were still fresh on her back. She took a deep breath. A wave of light-headedness washed over her. She had not eaten a crumb since last evening when their boat had finally docked at Calais after a wretched voyage across the Channel. She prayed she would survive this next fortnight and return safely to England.
Rosie tried to distract herself from what she knew was coming. Beyond the ring of torchlight, she saw nothing in the soft blue-black darkness of the summer’s night except thousands of campfires that dotted the cloaked French countryside like an army of fireflies.
A raucous voice shattered her brief respite from her unsavory predicament. “Untie her lacings!”
Fifty more took up the cry. “Open her shift! Show us her paps.”
Rosie gritted her teeth. The bawdmaster’s whores had warned her this would happen and had told her what she was expected to do.
Quince again swatted her backside. “Rosie!” he snarled. “Do it now, or ye will rue this night, I promise ye!”
Rosie’s numb fingers fumbled at the tight leather knot that held her shift together. It took her a few agonizing minutes to loosen it. With a grunt of exasperation, Quince reached up and tugged on the garment. Rosie’s scant protection slid off her shoulders and down her arms. A low bestial roar welcomed the sight of her bared breasts.
Tears of shame pricked behind Rosie’s eyelids. She blinked them back and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from sobbing out loud. In all her nineteen years, she had never felt so alone.
* * *
Observing the scene from the fringe of the crowd, Sir Andrew Ford felt nothing but pity for the poor, halfnaked girl on top of a barrel. She blinked several times in the torchlight. Andrew suspected that she was close to crying. Her pale countenance and wide eyes revealed her terror.
A young giant beside Andrew chuckled. “I vow the wench looks the part,” Brandon Cavendish remarked to his younger brother.
“A virgin in a brothel tent?” snorted Jack Stafford, the third youth in Andrew’s party. “Tis as rare as a unicorn in London.”
“Rare, but not impossible,” Andrew mused. He held a clove-studded orange closer to his nostrils to block out the stench of the rogues and knaves around them.
Guy Cavendish cocked his head. “Even if she is a whore, she’s a pretty little thing.”
Andrew cast a wry glance at his former squire. “How now? Since when have you become a connoisseur of fallen virtue, Guy?”
The golden-haired youth rocked on the balls of his feet. “Life at court has been very…er…instructive, Andrew. And I am a knight now,” he added. “By the hand of the king himself.”
“Ah,” Andrew responded. “For two months only. What has happened since April to your vow to honor womanhood? Did you toss it overboard when we crossed the Channel?”
Before Guy could stammer an answer, Jack interrupted the bantering conversation. “To honor ladies, Andrew.” He pointed to the pitiable object of the evening’s entertainment. “Yon minx is not a lady.”
“But she could be,” Andrew murmured.
Indeed, he could see that the girl was a beauty despite the dirt on her face and the Medusalike appearance of her dull hair. “With a little cleaning and polish, she could be every inch a lady,” he continued.
Brandon chortled. “You are growing soft in the head with your advancing old age, Andrew. That girl is a strumpet, plain as daylight.”
Andrew smoothed his crimson velvet sleeve and fluffed the lace at his wrists. “Looks are deceiving,” he remarked to his three hot-blooded companions. “Tis clothes that make the difference between a prince and a pauper—or can turn a whore into a lady.”
Brandon pointed at the white-faced girl. “You could never turn her into a lady! A strumpet is a strumpet.”
Andrew lifted one eyebrow in mock surprise. “Indeed, Sir Brandon? Perchance you would care to make a wager upon that opinion?”
The elder Cavendish gaped at him. “How now? You can’t be serious!”
Andrew inclined his head. “I fear I am, my young friend. I wager that I can take that delightfully wretched creature and transform her into a duchess who will dine at King Henry’s feast in twelve days’ time.”
Guy whistled through his teeth.
Jack draped his arm around Andrew’s shoulder. “Oh most excellent jest! Pray tell me, what potent wine have you drunk tonight, old man?”
Brandon gave Andrew a calculating look. “’Sdeath! You are serious!” He grinned. “Then make haste, Andrew. The bidding for your virgin has already begun. What will you wager to shoe this goose?”
Andrew plucked Jack’s arm from around the collar of his new doublet. He readjusted his starched collar. “One hundred sovereigns.”
Guy choked. Jack roared with laughter.
Brandon held out his hand. “A princely fortune, but I know that you have enough coin to toss away on such tomfoolery. Done, and here’s my hand to it. Jack and Guy, witness this bargain.”
“Tis reckless folly!” his brother mumbled.
Andrew clasped Brandon’s large hand in his and shook it with zest. The young bear’s jibe about Andrew’s advancing years had pricked his tender self-esteem. “I trust you will earn enough at cards and in the lists to cover your wager, my noble lordling.”
Jack chortled. “Ha! If you win, Andrew. But you do not have your bird in hand as yet, and her price is already two angels.”
Andrew turned his attention to the auction. “Angels for an angel,” he murmured. “Tis fitting. Five,” he shouted.
“Seven!” bellowed another.
Andrew frowned. “Ten angels!”
“Twelve!” the other countered.
Andrew craned his neck. “What knave bids against me? I know that voice, yet cannot place the face.” He tapped Guy. “Can you see who it is?”
The blond giant made a rude noise in reply. “A slycrawling cat,” he answered. “Tis Sir Gareth Hogsworthy.”
Jack clicked his tongue against his teeth. “If he wins the girl tonight, she will be mincemeat by morn. Inflicting pain is his chief delight.”
Andrew adjusted his scarlet cap. “Then we shall do an act of mercy by saving the child from him. Twenty angels!” he shouted.
“Thirty!” Gareth answered.
“Thirty-five angels!” Andrew’s heartbeat increased its tempo.
Guy blew out his cheeks. “God’s mercy, Andrew. Tis a good thing frowns are not arrows. Hogsworthy just sent you a poisonous dart.”
Andrew shrugged his shoulders to show his youthful admirers that he did not care. The crowd murmured. Some of the bystanders turned to stare at him. He pretended to ignore them, though his mouth had gone dry. The price for this night of pleasure—even with an avowed virgin—had soared far beyond common sense.
“Thirty-eight!” Gareth bellowed.
Jack elbowed Andrew’s ribs. “That’s the spirit! You are wearing down the opposition.”
Instead of replying, Andrew fingered the money pouch that hung from his belt. He knew he had only thirty angels. “How much coin do you have on you, boys?” he asked in an undertone.
Jack grinned and shook his head. “Five shillings, a few groats and a French ecu. I have a mind to spend them on my own pleasure tonight.”
Brandon shook his head. “None but Angel-face—” He winked at his handsome brother. “Lady Luck smiled upon his jousting this afternoon.”
Andrew grabbed Guy’s arm before the younger Cavendish could punch his brother. “Temper your ire! There is more at stake than your precious vanity, Guy. How much is in your purse?”
The bawdmaster cupped his hands around his fat lips. “The last bid was thirty-eight golden angels. Are there any more bids?”
The poor wench on the barrel looked ready to faint. Guy scowled at his brother.
Andrew snapped his fingers. “Be quick, sluggard! How much?”
“Going once…” the bawdmaster shouted.
“Ten sovereigns,” Guy muttered with some reluctance.
“Going twice…”
Andrew waved his silken handkerchief. “Thirty angels and three sovereigns for the virgin!”
Brandon gasped. “You could have bought every wench in Calais for that sum!”
The bawdmaster looked as if he had been struck by lightning, then an enormous gapped-tooth smile split his unshaven face. “Thirty and three it is! Any more bids?” He turned hopefully in Gareth’s direction.
Andrew held his breath. Hogsworthy conceded with a hair-curling oath. Andrew relaxed his shoulders inside his padded doublet. He took another whiff of his pomander. “It appears that I have made a purchase,” he mused in a calculated offhand manner. He hid his growing excitement from his young companions and their vulgar humor.
The bawdmaster mopped his greasy face with his soiled sleeve. “Going once, going twice, sold to the gentleman in the feathered hat!”
The auctioned virgin peered into the darkness and chewed her lower lip. Andrew found her vulnerability particularly appealing, even though he suspected that the girl was anything but virtuous.
Guy shook his head as he handed his pouch to Andrew. “Methinks today’s sun has cooked your usual good sense, my friend.”
Andrew grasped the boy’s prize money. “Mayhap, but now my wager can begin in earnest. Make a path, Guy. Lead me to my lady fair.”
Jack whacked Andrew between his shoulder blades. “Truly the moon has addled your wits, old man! Tis the easiest wager Brandon has ever made. Practically money in his pocket!”
“Aye,” Guy agreed over his shoulder as he pushed through the crowd. “But mind you, twas my coin that bought the wench.”
Andrew inhaled another deep breath of the pomander’s spicy aroma. The overwhelming stench of the dense crowd was enough to make a pig gag. “Consider your contribution to my endeavor as an investment, my boy. You may deduct your fee—with interest—from my winnings.”
“You are very free with the money you have not yet won,” Brandon observed as he elbowed a burly varlet out of the way. “Methinks since Guy paid for part of the wench, he should take his own pleasure with—”
Andrew halted and grabbed a thick handful of Brandon’s corduroy jerkin. Even though the twenty-year-old was five inches taller and a good deal stronger than Andrew, the older man knew that his former pupil would never lift a finger against him. “You will keep a civil tongue in your mouth when you speak of yon lady. Do you mark me, jolthead?”
Brandon held up his hands in a show of defeat. “Peace, good Andrew. Put down your hackles. I only jested.” He winked at his brother and Jack.
Andrew released him. “Good! If I am to conjure a transformation with that girl, then all of us must begin right now to treat her as a lady. Is that understood by you wooden heads?”
Jack chortled. “Aye! I look forward to turning this dainty sow’s ear into a silken purse! I offer myself as her instructor in bed sport.”
Andrew looked down his nose at the prattling churl, despite the fact that Stafford towered over him. “Go hug a swine, Jackanapes.”
Jack merely laughed again. “In my own good time, old man.”
“Sir Gareth has preceded us. He speaks to the bawdmaster and looks as angry as a wet tomcat,” Guy remarked in an undertone.
“Then why do we tarry here?” Dropping all show of dignity, Andrew hurried ahead of the trio.
The bawdmaster stank of fried onions, stale sweat and unwashed clothing. Hogsworthy overperfumed himself like a courtesan. Andrew shot both men a withering look of disgust. Holding his brown suede money pouch, he jingled the coins together for dramatic effect.
“Good evening, Master of Damsels, and to you, my Lord Hogsworthy. Is it not a fine night for the procuring of pleasure?”
Sir Gareth’s face paled with anger. His thick eyebrows bristled like a badger’s. “The slut is mine, you popinjay! I saw her first. I doubt that you possess the fortune you bid.”
“Pray do not bleat like a motherless lamb, my lord.” Andrew tossed his orange pomander to Brandon. “Hold that, Sir Brandon, whilst I conclude this bit of business.”
With a flourish, he emptied his bag on the barrelhead, literally at the bare feet of the girl he had just purchased. He noticed her skin was incredibly filthy. Her toes curled when some of the coins touched her. Andrew looked up to give her a smile of encouragement and he nearly gasped aloud. Upon closer inspection, her breasts proved to be more perfect than he had first thought. Twin peaks of cream rose and fell with a mesmerizing rhythm. His dormant loins sent a flash of heat surging through him. His awakened reaction to her charms tied his tongue for a moment.
“Count it!” Gareth practically frothed at the mouth.
In silence, Andrew stacked the angels into neat piles. He had the most uncontrollable urge to stroke the lass’s bare ankle to see if her skin was as soft as it appeared. As if she could read his mind, she inched a step backward, as far as the diameter of the rough barrelhead allowed.
Gareth’s eyes glowed like burning coals when Andrew’s money ran out at thirty. “My bid was thirty-eight! She is mine!” He reached for her.
Andrew restrained himself from grabbing the man around his scrawny neck. “You are too hasty, my lord.” He produced Guy’s pouch. With a self-satisfied smile, he untied the leather strings and drew out three coins. “Tis wise never to keep all of one’s fortune in a single place. Three sovereigns.”
Gareth fumed with unsavory growls. Andrew noticed that the ragged hem of the girl’s skirt trembled, though not a whisper of wind stirred through the enormous English camp. Compassion softened his lust. He congratulated himself for saving the waif from Gareth’s brutal clutches.
He slapped the final coin on the golden pile. “Are we square now, Purveyor of Wenches?”
The bawdmaster slobbered his assent. “Take her, my lord. Pleasure yerself as long as ye like.”
Andrew cocked an eyebrow at his three companions. “Mark his very words, my young friends. The master says I may have the lady as long as I like. Trust me, knave, I intend to take my time.”
“Take all the time ye need,” the bawdmaster gibbered. His red-rimmed eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets at the sight of the gold.
Gareth ground his teeth. A thick blue vein throbbed at his temple. “Enjoy the strumpet while you can, Ford, but I will have her yet. You have made me look a fool, and I will be avenged. I swear it on my sword!”
Andrew regarded the enraged man through half-closed eyelids. “You grow tedious, my Lord Hogsworthy. I fear we must discontinue your company. Adieu! Creep back to your kennel.” Then he turned his back on the seething man and held out his hand to his prize. He flashed her a warm smile of encouragement.
“Come, fair lady. Tis time we quit these rude surroundings.”
Chapter Two (#ulink_e240a304-b00e-5388-9007-9878b18adef5)
Rosie jumped at the sound of his voice. Never had she beheld anyone so garishly dressed as the man who had just paid a king’s fortune for the dubious privilege of taking something that she no longer had.
Her new master was clothed completely in scarlet and gold from the great wealth of nodding yellow plumes on his crimson hat to the toes of his bright red leather shoes. His thigh-length scarlet doublet was trimmed with yards of golden lace. His shirt of ivory silk peeked through the slashing of his full padded sleeves. Panes of gold decorated his red trunk hose and bright yellow stockings encased his muscular legs. The magnificence of his colors put everyone else into dark shade.
Rosie presumed that the gentleman must be a cousin of the king. She wondered why he had chosen her, when he obviously could have had his pick of finer quality ladies.
Then she looked into his face. His mouth, with fine full lips, drew apart in a smile that lit up his clean-shaven countenance. Laugh lines crinkled at the corners of his hazel eyes. His nut-brown hair, shot with streaks of silver, waved over the collar of his short red cape. Rosie’s heart skipped a beat. Even though he was past his prime, the gentleman was still very handsome by any woman’s reckoning.
Quince rapped her toes. “Quit gawking, girl, and attend to yer business with this lord. ‘E don’t want to wait until doomsday to swive ye.”
The nobleman ignored Quince. He continued to smile at Rosie. “Come, sweetheart, take my hand. I will not let you fall.”
His eyes surveyed her in a kindly manner and not with the raw lust Rosie had expected. Summoning all her courage, she placed her hand in his. His gloved fingers closed around hers and he gave her a little squeeze. When she looked into his eyes again, she saw only warmth and approval. A little trill of excitement fluttered in her heart. The doeskin of his gloves caressed her work-roughened palm with butter softness.
Quince shoved her. “Take a strap to the wench, if she don’t move fast enough to yer liking,” the bawdmaster advised.
Rosie nearly fell on top of the richly clad nobleman. Her new patron tightened his grip to steady her. “Do not be afraid, my dear.”
She took a deep breath. “Haint afeared of ye, sir. Methinks ye have paid too much money to do an injury to your goods.”
His thick brown eyebrows rose up his forehead. “Well-spoken, mistress. I shall keep your opinion under advisement.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but she heard the friendly tone in his voice. She cautioned herself not to take heart from it. All men were deceivers. Holding her skirt with her free hand, she jumped lightly to the hard-packed ground. Giddy from hunger, she wobbled. She hoped that the gentleman would spare her a goodly supper after he had finished his business with her. She touched the hidden vial of blood to assure herself of its safety, then folded her arms over her bare breasts.
The noble drew closer to her. He smelled of spice and wealth, like someone from God’s side of paradise.
“Pull up your shift, sweetheart. There is no need to display your charms to this unworthy assembly,” he murmured. His low voice rolled over her like warm honey.
Nodding her gratitude, she gathered the thin muslin around her shoulders. Then her patron looped her arm through his and led her out of the ring of torchlight. The sea of leering men parted before them.
One of the crowd guffawed. “You have bought yourself a pretty posy, Ford! Phew! She reeks like a polecat.”
Rosie’s temper flared in response. She gritted her teeth.
“Lout!” the fine lord muttered. He patted her hand.
“Save a bit for me!” shouted another.
A third stroked at her as she passed him. “I will look for you in the morning, wench, when you walk with bowed legs!”
She shivered at their lewd catcalls and thanked her lucky stars that she had been purchased by the lord at her side.
“Do not tremble so,” he whispered. “I promise I will not eat you.”
Rosie tossed her matted hair out of her eyes with a bold show of courage. “Told ye afore, haint afeared. Only—cold.” She didn’t dare to look at him lest he read the lie in her eyes.
“Ah!” His gaudy plumes danced as he nodded. “You are correct. Tis a sudden night wind. Allow me to remedy your discomfort.”
He halted, removed his short cape with a swirl, then settled it around her shoulders. Rosie drew the collar close to her face and stroked her cheek against the wondrous material.
“Tis soft like a downy chick!”
He chuckled. “Tis made of velvet. Does it please you, my dear? Are you warm enough now?”
“Oh, aye, my lord. Like toast on a fork.” She snuggled deeper into its folds. His intoxicating scent clung to the material. “Tis sinful. Methinks the devil himself must wear velvet.”
Someone sniggered behind her. “The wench has found you out already, Andrew. You are truly the very devil of us all!”
Rosie glanced over her shoulder to see who had spoken. Three extremely tall young men loomed in the shadows. One of them winked at her. The naked hunger in his eyes unnerved her. She detected the odor of strong wine on his breath. She pulled the cape closer around her neck.
“Hold tight to your purse strings, my lord,” she whispered to her hew master. “Three great rogues are afollowing us.”
Her escort chuckled again. “Ignore the rascals. They love to hear themselves talk.”
The three followers chortled at this remark.
Rosie tugged at the nobleman’s arm. “We should flee, my lord.”
He squeezed her hand. “I am humbly grateful for your concern, sweetheart, but tis of no consequence. I fear they are friends of mine.” He led her into a broad avenue. “This way.”
Rosie glanced around her with growing alarm. Tents, banners and campfires stretched down both sides of the thoroughfare and disappeared into the depths of the night. She had no idea that the English encampment was so large. She wondered how she would find Quince’s tent in the morning—not that she was in any hurry to return to him.
“Where are we going, my lord?” she asked as they passed a cluster of more sumptuous pavilions.
The nobleman gave her another one of his heart-melting smiles. His white teeth flashed in the firelight. “To my humble abode.”
The three behind them broke into a chorus of riotous laughter. “Wait until you see it, little one,” one of them teased her.
Rosie didn’t like the way he had said that. She tugged on the gentleman’s sleeve again. “Are…are we going to do it there?”
His eyes twinkled. “That remains to be seen,” he replied.
The three youths erupted into more boisterous braying.
Rosie’s misgivings increased tenfold. “Are they…” She glanced uneasily over her shoulder again. “I mean, are we all going to do it—together?” No wonder the gentleman had paid so much gold for her! She could trick one with her vial of blood, but not four at the same time. Her knees grew weak at the thought.
The most outspoken of the three drew closer. “In good sooth, fair damsel, you are not ours to savor. But—”he flashed her a wicked grin “—if old Andrew tires too quickly, I will teach you to dance a merry tune.”
Rosie’s protector growled in the back of his throat. “Mind your manners, Jackanapes. There is a lady present.”
Rosie clutched the cape tighter. “Where?” she asked, peering into the darkness. She had never before met a real lady.
The three rogues nearly fell over themselves with laughter.
The gentleman shook his head at them. “Pigs,” he remarked to Rosie.
Very soon, they stopped in front of a large double tent. By the light of a bonfire at the entrance, Rosie saw that the canvas walls were painted salmon pink and embellished with gilded ivy. Her patron lifted one of the flaps, revealing a cozy interior, lighted by a wealth of candles in glass lanterns. She gasped with awe at the extravagance, then uttered a little squeal of surprise when the gentleman swept her up into his arms.
He cradled her against his chest as if she were made of the most delicate glass. The warmth and strength of his arms soothed her, though she did not understand why. Her body tingled from the contact. Her fingers ached to stroke his smooth cheek, but she did not dare to take such a liberty. She was nothing but his chattel, she reminded herself.
The gentleman glanced at the trio. “If you plan to come in, boys, doff your muddy boots out here,” he instructed them.
Rosie stared at him. “My lord?” His request seemed very odd.
To her further amazement, the three did exactly what he had commanded them.
“Tis old Andrew’s conceit, lass,” the tallest one explained, as he dropped his boots in a heap by the entrance. “He bought those new rugs before we left London and he is determined to keep them clean.”
Her protector nodded. “Just so. Turkish, my dear. Imported on the humped-back camels all the way from the Ottoman Empire.”
Rosie had no idea what Ottomans or camels were, but she could tell just from looking at the rugs, that they were the finest things she had ever seen. “If ye want to keep them new, my lord, methinks ye should roll them up, for they will surely grow filthy when it rains here.”
The tallest laughed. “She has hit the bull’s-eye, Andrew.”
“Ah!” The nobleman nodded as if deep in thought. “A point well-taken, mistress. However, be easy in your mind. I have a layer of waxed canvas beneath them.” He smiled again at her. “But I am most grateful for your consideration, sweetheart.”
Her pulse skittered when he murmured the endearment to her. Rosie quelled the warm feeling. This man was too smooth to be trusted. He meant none of his sweet words. Ducking under the overhang, he carried her inside his pavilion.
Rosie drew in her breath then exhaled slowly. The interior was even more lavish than its rich ground coverings. Rose-pink silk draperies masked the plain canvas walls. The color made the pavilion glow with a soft, heavenly light. A small, but elegantly carved table stood near the center pole. Beside it was a matching armchair with a red cushion covering its seat. A thin wisp of smoke curled from a brass brazier, perfuming the air with an exotic scent.
A second tent of equal size and lavish appointments opened into the first. Rosie could see part of a large bed draped with billowing gauze. Its covers were turned back. Fat pillows nestled against the gilded headboard. Fear swept through Rosie. That bed would be the stage upon which she must act the part of a shy virgin.
The nobleman set her down on one of the wooden stools that dotted the rug. “Keep your feet up for one minute, my sweet,” he instructed.
Rosie obeyed, too stunned by her sudden turn of fortune to ask why. Her master opened one of the many chests that lined the walls of the tent and took out a piece of plain muslin. He spread it on the rug in front of her. “There now. Put your feet on that, but do not move an inch off of it. There’s a good lass.” He stepped back to the center of the tent and regarded her as if she were a horse for sale.
Just then, a boy in his early teens stuck his head through the tent opening. “Good evening, my lord. I did not expect you to return so soon.” Then he noticed Rosie. “By the book, what’s that?”
Jack replied, “Your master’s latest bauble, Jeremy.”
One of his companions chuckled. “Tell him the price.”
The boy gaped at his lord. “You paid good coin for that guttersnipe?”
Before the gentleman could reply, Jack said, “Not a coin, but an angel. In fact, thirty of them.”
“And three of my sovereigns,” the tallest one added.
The servant blanched. “For her? With all due respect, my lord, have you taken leave of your wits? Why?”
The youths laughed again. Then Jack caught his breath. “Are you so green that you cannot guess why a man buys a wench? Methinks we need to teach you the ways of the world, Jeremy.”
The boy made a rude noise.
Rosie huddled deeper inside the cape, despite the fact that the evening was very warm. She cast a quick glance at her patron to gauge his reaction. She wished they would stop talking about her as if she were a chamber pot. She shook her hair out of her eyes and returned their stares.
The noble lord appeared to take no note of the conversation around him. Instead, he continued to look at her, cocking his head to one side then to the other. He took one of the lanterns and held it up close to her face. Rosie shied away. He winked at her, then he turned to his companions.
“Well, gentlemen, there she is in all her muted glory. By my troth, she is too low for high praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little for a great praise. In short, she is perfect for our devices.”
Panic welled up in Rosie’s throat.
The gentleman continued, “She has a good figure—once we fatten her up a bit. Hair is a rat’s nest. Can’t even tell its true color.”
Jack made a face. “I counsel you not to touch it, Andrew. The rats may still reside therein.”
Rosie murmured an oath under her breath. That flapeared knave might look pretty but he was a double-dyed churl. Then she realized that Sir Andrew had heard her. She bit her lip.
“I agree with you, sweetheart. Our Jackanapes is a bit rough around the edges,” he whispered to her. He took one of her hands in his, studied her palms and fingers then he whistled through his teeth. “Zounds, mistress, what have you been doing with these?”
Rosie curled her fingers to hide them. “Plucking geese, scrubbing floors and washing foul linen, so please ye, my lord,” she retorted.
Sir Andrew rapped her knuckles. “And biting your nails, I see.”
Humiliated, Rosie sat on her hands to avoid further inspection by the other three who had drawn closer to look at her.
“Methinks she would have a pretty mouth—if she ever smiled,” remarked the middle one.
She glared at him. What reason did she have to smile? Any minute now, they were going to ravish her. She held her tongue and prayed that the nobleman would finish his strange examination. She wanted to get the bedding over with before she lost her nerve to hoodwink him.
The serving boy cleared his throat. “May I inquire what does my lord intend to do with this piece of baggage?”
Everyone turned toward Sir Andrew. Rosie’s heart pounded against her rib cage.
He unbuttoned his beautiful doublet. “Why, bathe her, of course,” he replied. “Tell the pot boys to heat up more water. Fetch the tub!”
Jeremy groaned. “I have just now cleaned it after your own bath.”
Sir Andrew removed his coat and hung it over the back of the arm chair. “Excellent! Then you will know exactly where to find it. Be quick, sluggard! The moon begins to wane and we have not yet supped.”
Rosie licked her lips. Food! She would bear anything Sir Andrew did to her, if he would only feed her afterward.
Jeremy disappeared with a good deal of grumbling. The three youths settled themselves on the various chests.
Jack chortled. “This will be good sport, Andrew. My thanks for providing us with such unusual amusement.”
Under the cover of the cape, Rosie trembled. None of Quince’s girls had said anything about entertaining men in a bath.
Sir Andrew rolled up the flowing sleeves of his shirt. The muscles of his forearms surprised Rosie. By his exaggerated mannerisms, she had taken him to be a languid fop. Yet, when he had held her in his arms…She pushed that delightful memory out of her mind. Obviously, her empty stomach played tricks with her fancies.
He cocked an eyebrow at the others. “I fear I must disappoint you, Jackanapes. This much maligned lass must be treated as a lady, therefore she will have privacy while at her bath.”
Jack ogled Rosie. “I have seen a good many ladies of the finest quality in their baths. Indeed, I have often joined them.”
Sir Andrew snorted. “Not tonight and not with this lady. Tis time to bide your adieus, my lads. Go pester someone else with your rude company and leave me to my pleasant one.”
The three moaned in protest. Holding her breath, Rosie prayed that Sir Andrew would prevail.
“Begone at once!” He raised his voice slightly.
The youths roused themselves and padded in their stocking feet to the entrance. They made a great show of struggling to pull on their boots.
“Tis a cruel thing that you do to us, Andrew!”
He planted his hands on his hips. “I have heard that complaint far too often to be moved by you, Brandon. Everything is cruel if it does not suit your fancy. Now, out!”
Jack bestowed a final wink on Rosie. “Remember, wench, if old Andrew goes to sleep on you—”
Sir Andrew tapped his foot. “I hear only a breeze whistling in my ears and not your words at all. Good night, my Lord Stafford.”
The tallest of the three was the last to leave. For the first time that night, he gave Rosie a genuine smile that held no lechery in it. “Mark me, lass. Andrew is a good man, despite his peculiar ways. He will treat you well.” Then he ducked low to avoid hitting his head on the cross pole.
Just as they departed, Jeremy pushed a round wooden tub into the tent. To Rosie, it looked no bigger than the wash tub she had slaved over in the scullery of Quince’s bawd house in Bankside. It was certainly too small for her, much less for the two of them. She glanced at Sir Andrew.
“Haint ever had a bath in my life before,” she murmured.
Sir Andrew opened one of his coffers. “That is quite obvious, my dear.” He took out several small bottles and lined them up on the table.
Jeremy poked his head and shoulders inside the tent. He carried a wooden bucket full of water. A curl of steam wafted from it. Without a word Sir Andrew took the bucket, poured its contents into the tub, then returned the bucket to his servant. Jeremy disappeared only to reappear a minute later with another bucketful. Rosie chewed her thumbnail.
Sir Andrew glanced at her. “You spoke, sweetheart?”
“Ye want to scald me like a goose for plucking.”
Andrew chuckled as he emptied the contents of one of the bottles into the hot water. “Tis an interesting simile, but I doubt you will cook in this broth. By the time my creeping squire and his minions have filled this tub, the temperature will be merely warm.”
Jeremy reappeared with two more brimming buckets. Rosie eyed the tub as if it might suddenly attack her. Sir Andrew removed his short gold brocade vest and stepped out of his trunks, leaving him clad only in his shirt, his bright stockings and the most unusual codpiece Rosie had ever seen. Red silk tassels hung from each of its three corners. Sir Andrew noticed her fascination. He cleared his throat.
“Is something amiss?” he asked with a wide smile.
Rosie dropped her gaze to her toes. “Nay, my lord,” she murmured. “I was just wondering why ye…that is…what manner of…A pox upon it, my lord! Why do ye truss yourself up like a mummer at a fair?”
Instead of striking her, Sir Andrew threw back his head and roared with laughter. “How refreshing you are in this old world, sweetheart! My attire is all the fashion in Italy and France, though, in truth, many Englishmen would rather die than wear such finery.”
Rosie eyed the intriguing apparel. “Then why do ye?”
Sir Andrew sprinkled some shredded herbs into the water before he answered. “Tis my own fancy and conceit, I warrant. And to amaze the ladies. Confess it— aren’t you amazed?”
She nodded. “Beyond belief, my lord.” She tried not to stare at the dancing tassels. They made her heart skip in the most wanton manner. “Are ye going to do it now, my lord?”
His eyes twinkled with pure mischief. “That depends on what it is.” He unwrapped a waxy green tablet from a piece of linen and sniffed it with appreciation. “Ah! The finest milled soap this side of Castile.”
Jeremy returned with yet more water. By now the tub looked almost too full. Sir Andrew nodded to the boy. “Good! Now away with you, my sprite. Find us something edible in the cooks’ tent. Spend an hour, and do not reenter until I call you.”
Jeremy bowed his head, then turned on his heel. He gave Rosie a nasty smirk. “Methinks you are in a fine pickle now, wench.”
Sir Andrew pointed to the entrance. “Peace, knave! Such carping is not commendable. Begone! And tie down the flap behind you.”
Black terror engulfed Rosie. She was now alone with the man who presumed her virginity. She touched the hidden vial of blood. “Are we going to do it now?” she repeated.
An easy smile played at the corners of his lips. “If it means taking a bath, you will do that now. If it means that I take my pleasure with you, the answer is—not yet.”
She released her pent-up breath.
He arched his brow. “Take off your clothes,” he murmured.
Fury almost choked Rosie. The handsome peacock had lied—just like all the knaves in her life. “But ye said—”
Sir Andrew snapped his fingers, though he continued to smile warmly at her. “Hurry, my sweet, before the water cools.”
Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Rosie stood up. She was careful not to move off her allotted piece of muslin. She untied her skirt and allowed the ragged garment to fall around her feet.
Sir Andrew cocked his head. “Everything.” He opened another chest and took out a comb, a brush and several more bottles.
Rosie wet her dry lips. “What are ye going to do with me, my lord?”
He grinned. “I am going to give you the most thorough scrubbing of your life.”
She fumbled with the laces at her neckline.
He straightened up. “Do you have a troublesome knot?”
Rosie blew her hair out of her eyes. “Tis no matter. We can do it with my shift on, my lord.”
Slowly he shook his head. “Not in my tub. Now, off with it. Every last revolting stitch you have on.”
Rosie pursed her lips. “Ye want me to strip naked with ye standing there a-watching me?” He appeared to ponder the question. She thought she had said it plain enough.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Aye, that is the very nut and core of it. I do. Perchance, you will recall that I have paid a small fortune for that very privilege, Mistress…What did you say your name was?”
She lifted her head with as much pride as she could muster. “Tis Rosie, so please ye, my lord.”
He flourished a deep bow. The red silk tassels below his waist swayed with erotic abandon. “I am struck near speechless by your presence, Mistress Rosie. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Sir Andrew Ford, the miracle worker.” He bowed again.
Rosie stared at him with a mixture of bewilderment and apprehension. She was trapped alone with a charming lunatic.
Sir Andrew softened his expression. “I do but jest, Rosie. Tis my fashion. Now, for the love of warm water, will you please undress—or shall I do it for you?”
“Nay!” Rosie loosened the bandstring that held her shift together, but she clutched the material to her bosom before it slipped off her shoulders. “I have nothing else on underneath this, my lord.”
He held out his hand to her. Cheerful expectation deepened the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth.
“Delighted to hear that, Rosie!”
Chapter Three (#ulink_4871b24c-025e-5509-9f36-a0e04c850dcc)
A ripple of tenderness crept into Andrew’s heart as Rosie reluctantly untied the last lace of her ragged shift, but his feelings changed into unexpected heated ones once she dropped the garment. He sucked his breath through his teeth though he maintained an outward calm.
Rosie’s beauty far exceeded his original estimate. In spite of the mud and filth that clung to her skin, she looked like a Venus come to life. Reed-slender, she carried herself with a certain unconscious grace that reminded him of a young willow tree. Rosie squared her shoulders, as if preparing for a battle. This action drew his immediate attention to her firm, uplifted breasts. Below them, her slim waist flared into softly rounded hips. When she noticed that his gaze moved lower, she covered her most private part with her hand. At the same time, she crossed her other arm over her bosom, hiding her tender pink nipples. It was a most unnatural pose for a prostitute, and Andrew found it highly provocative.
His loins stirred and grew hot.
Rosie shot him a wary look. “Is there something amiss, my lord?” she asked in perfect innocence.
Andrew cleared his throat before he trusted himself to frame a sensible answer. “Nay, my dear.” He pointed to the tub. “Hop in quickly before the water has lost all its heat.”
Rosie tiptoed across the rug then paused beside the bath.
He smiled encouragement, while his heart raced. “You will not drown, I promise you.”
She tossed an unruly tangle of hair out of her eyes. Her full lips twisted into a cynical expression. “I have heard men’s promises afore and they proved to be nothing more than chaff on the wind.”
Andrew ran his finger around the inside of his collar. “I am not like other men, Rosie. And that is a promise you can trust.”
She turned away. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the tub.
Andrew exhaled. “Excellent! Now sit down, Rosie.”
Without comment, she sank into the water. Andrew walked over to her discarded clothing. He pushed the motley garments into a pile with the toe of his shoe.
Rosie stared at him through the snarls of her hair like a cornered rabbit. “What are ye a-doing with my clothes?” she yelped. Her emerald eyes darkened with genuine fear.
In answer he kicked her rags toward the closed tent flap.
She gripped the rim of the tub. Water sloshed over the side onto the rug. “Hold, my lord! Tis all I have in this world.”
Andrew gave them another kick. “Good!”
Just then something within their folds crunched under his heel. Rosie gasped and started to rise.
Andrew pointed at her. “Sit back down and soak!” he ordered in the same tone of voice he had often used on the Cavendish brothers when they had been his pages.
He lifted his foot and examined the bottom of his shoe. Blood dripped onto the clothing. More blood stained Rosie’s sorry excuse of a skirt. A grin threatened the corners of Andrew’s mouth. An old bawd’s trick! So much for the proof of his sworn virgin. Assuming an expression of innocent surprise, he glanced at Rosie. She had turned white under the layer of dirt. He shook his foot. A few crimson droplets spattered onto the rug. “Od’s bodkins, my sweet. What do you suppose I have stepped on?”
Rosie ran the tip of her pink tongue across her top lip in the most enticing manner. “Methinks ye have killed a monstrous fat beetle, my lord, and ye had best keep an eye on your bedding in case there are more.”
Andrew chuckled and silently applauded Rosie’s quick thinking. She would have to use those clever wits in the near future if he was going to successfully pass her off as a lady.
Aloud he remarked, “Aye, my very thought indeed, Rosie. I will instruct Jeremy to henceforth wield his broom with a vengeance.” He wiped his shoe on her shift, then kicked the lot under the flap. “Ho there! Timothy!” he called to one of his young servants who hovered outside the tent. “Burn those at once and mind you—there may be a large dead beetle within.”
Rosie sloshed more water onto the rug as she started to stand up again. Her pallor had now changed to bright red and her eyes glowed with green fire. “What right have ye got to destroy my things?”
Andrew crossed to the tub in two strides and pushed her back into the water. Then he knelt behind her and whispered into her ear, “You are mine, Mistress Rosie. I own you for as long as I please.”
She opened her mouth to say something but stopped when she saw him lathering his hands with soap. With a snort, she turned away from him. Pleased with his command of the situation, Andrew hummed a little ballad under his breath as he scrubbed her neck and shoulders. Rosie said nothing, but his fingers felt the tension in her muscles. Despite the heat of the water and the warmth inside the pavilion, she trembled.
Rinsing her back, he saw a number of purple bruises staining her fair skin. He touched one place lightly and gritted his teeth when she flinched. His mind clouded with anger at the sight of her mistreatment.
He massaged the back of her neck as if she were a child. “Rosie, who did this villainy to you?”
She would not look at him. “Tis nothing, my lord,” she snapped. “Are ye going to do it now with me all soaped up like a greased pig?”
Andrew sighed, and added more oil of roses to the bath water. “Nay, Rosie. I am not going to do anything to you but wash the grime of the ages out of your sweet skin. But, by the rood, I will punish the foul knave who did this piece of mischief. I warrant twas that whoremonger who sold you to me. I will slit the villain’s nose.”
Rosie hung her head, but said nothing.
He scrubbed one of her arms with a small brush. “That vermin is nothing to you now. You need not fear him.”
“Humph!” she retorted. “Tis easy enough for you to say. You do not have to face Quince in the morning.”
“Neither do you, sweetheart,” he murmured softly.
Slowly, she turned around. A sheen of tears filmed over her eyes. Andrew almost kissed away those bitter drops, but he checked himself in time. It would only reinforce her mistrust if he had.
“How now?” she jeered. “Is this another one of your tricks to drive me mad? I pray ye, do not jest with kind words.”
Andrew dipped a soft cloth into the water, soaped it, then gently held her chin between his thumb and forefinger while he washed her face. “I swear a solemn oath upon my word as a knight—oh, aye, Rosie, for all my fripperies and silvered hairs, I am a true swordsman—I swear that I do not make sport of you.”
Her lips hardened into a thin line. “That is a pretty promise, my lord, and as solid as smoke.”
He tenderly wiped the soap suds from her cheeks. “Mark me well, Rosie. I paid enough money for you to last a lifetime—both yours and mine. As of this night, you are bound to no man but me. You will never return to that abominable villain again, I promise.”
She stared at him searching to find a falsehood in his eyes. Then she wrinkled her nose. “I will believe you when pigs sprout wings, my lord.”
He chuckled. “You never can tell, my dear. Pigs are uncommonly intelligent. Sometimes they surprise us.”
Rosie almost smiled. Andrew yearned to kiss her lips, but the voice of prudence warned him in time. This girl was a skittish colt. He knew he must exercise great restraint and patience to win her trust, especially if he wanted her cooperation to turn her into a lady within twelve days. He picked up a jug from the floor.
“Bend over and close your eyes,” he instructed.
Rosie’s expression immediately hardened. “A blister on that sweet tongue! I spy your deceit, my lord. First you make me half believe you, then you show your true colors!”
Her sudden mood swing caught Andrew off guard. “’Sblood, Rosie, what brought on this tempest of fury?”
She glared at him. “Myself, my lord! Ye tell me that I should not fear ye, then, in your very next breath, ye tell me to bend over and close my eyes while you use me like a dog. I am a puling fool to have believed your honey words!”
Andrew beseeched heaven for patience. He sat back on his heels and held up the jug for her inspection. “I must wash your hair, Rosie, or else the whole bath will be for naught. I merely asked you to bend your head over so you will not get soap in your eyes.”
She studied his face for nearly a full minute. Finally she nodded. “So please your lordship. I had forgotten that ye own me.”
Andrew opened his mouth to defend himself, but instead he decided to seize the moment of her docility. He filled the pitcher and poured it over her hair. She screamed like a scalded cat.
Andrew paused. “What now?”
She hunched her thin shoulders. “Tis mickle wet!”
He chuckled. “Water usually is. Tis its God-given property. Now close your eyes and hold still.”
She squinted at him through her wet lashes. “Why?”
He poured some pale cream into his palm. “Because this will sting if it creeps into your eye.”
He lathered the wilderness of her hair. Patiently, he worked his fingers through the tangles. Rosie sat very still while he added more soap, then more water. The scent of roses grew stronger after each rinse.
Andrew discovered that he was enjoying himself. He liked the way her wet locks tended to curl around his fingers. He caressed her neck and behind her delicate ears. He traced his finger down her bowed spine. She shivered under his touch. Andrew brought himself up short. Attend to your business. He soaped her tresses a fourth time.
“Ye have done that already, my lord,” she sputtered.
“Aye, and I will do it again, if tis necessary.” He poured several more jugfuls over her.
As the last of the soapy water ran down her back, her dull grayish hair turned into an ash blond. He whistled under his breath.
“What?” She patted the top of her head. “Have I gone bald?”
He smoothed her crown. “Nay, I have discovered a rare beauty.”
“M…me?” she asked with an incredulous voice.
He smiled into her brilliant eyes. “Aye, my sweet. I will show you anon.” He cleared his throat again. “But first you must attend to your personal needs.” He handed her the scrubbing cloth and the diminished chunk of soap. “Wash your paps and your…ah…nether area. Tis not proper for a gentleman to perform that service.”
He levered himself onto one of the stools and watched her as she continued her ablutions. He could not remember the last time he had grown so hot at the mere sight of a beautiful wench. He welcomed the pleasurable ache that he feared he had lost with the lusty days of his youth.
Rosie wrung out the washcloth. “Water’s getting cold.”
Her words snapped Andrew out of his erotic reverie. He pulled himself together and hoped she would not notice the physical change in him. He opened another chest and took out several pieces of clean toweling for her and his blue silk brocade dressing robe for himself. He put on the robe first before turning around to hand her the towels.
“You may get out now, Rosie, and dry yourself off with these.”
She took the towels. “Ye look flushed, my lord,” she observed.
“Tis the heat. France is quite warm for this time of year.”
She turned her back to him, then stood up and stepped out of the tub. Andrew collapsed into his armchair. He could not believe Rosie’s transformation. Her skin glowed like pink roses floating in a bowl of cream. A little rivulet of bathwater meandered down the hollow of her spine and disappeared between her softly rounded buttocks.
His mouth went dry as he watched the drop’s sensuous journey. He wished he were twenty years younger.
Someone scratched on the tent flap. “My lord?” Jeremy called through the canvas. “I have returned with your supper.”
She glanced at the entrance with a sudden spark of interest. Andrew shot to his feet. He would not allow that young coxcomb of a squire to spy Rosie in all her naked glory. “One moment!”
“Food!” Rosie inhaled the aroma of roasted fowl with closed eyes. A radiant smile touched her lips. The sight of her bliss nearly undid all of Andrew’s good intentions toward her.
He moved quickly behind Rosie and took the towel from her limp fingers. He dried her with considerable speed. She tried to squirm away from his vigorous ministrations.
“Soft, my lord! First ye cook me, then ye flay me. Ouch!”
Andrew murmured soothing nonsense. Rosie’s loud protests subsided into small kittenish sounds. He gentled his touch, patting her across her shoulders, down her lovely back and around her delicious bottom. He enjoyed touching her soft curves through the damp cloth. Giving Rosie this bath had been worth every groat he had paid that abominable villain.
Rosie leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder. Her damp golden hair smelled of roses and almonds. Andrew slipped his arm around her waist. He suspected that she would not protest if he chose to take her straight to his bed. He glanced at the linen bedcovers that were turned down so invitingly. After all, it was what she expected him to do.
Andrew steeled his resolve and banished the tempting idea before it grew to full flower in his imagination. He had never used his wealth to buy either a man’s good opinion or a woman’s favor, and he refused to begin now. He hugged Rosie as if she were a beloved daughter—the child he had never had. He reminded himself again that he needed her goodwill to win his madcap wager.
Just then Rosie looked up at him. The candlelight made her green eyes luminous. “If ye do it now, I will get your fine bed all wet.”
Andrew put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Rosie, my sweet, we are not going to swive now.”
She regarded him with that soul-plumbing stare. “Ye want to,” she observed in a soft tone. “I can see it in your eyes. Am I not clean enough for ye yet?”
Andrew framed her lovely face in his hands and traced her high cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs. “Aye, Rosie. You are as clean as an angel’s wing, but I have other plans for you.”
She stepped away from him and drew the damp towel tighter around herself. “Ah, ha! Now I begin to understand. Ye have different tastes. I have heard that there are men who like to hear a girl scream in pain afore they are aroused. Trust me, my lord, I will scream this bloody tent down to please ye, but…” She paused, gulping for breath, then folded her hands as if in prayer. “I beseech ye for the love of God do not beat me.”
Her plea took him aback. How could she say that when he had already told her how much he hated to see the bruises on her young skin? “Rosie, I have no intention of beating you, nor do I wish to hear you scream. That behavior is not to my taste either. Trust me. Please?”
Rosie lifted her chin. “Then what are ye a-going to do with me now that I have no dirt and no clothes?” She took another step backward, narrowly missing the tub of dirty water.
The poor girl looked like a hunted doe. Instead of trying to placate her fears with more words, Andrew turned to the nearest coffer, opened the lid and drew out one of his plainer shirts.
“Will this garment suffice for the time being, my lady?”
Rosie caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Haint ever been a lady, but that is the finest-looking shirt I ever did see.”
He waved it back and forth. “Tis yours, Rosie. Take it. Put it on.”
Like a spark of summer lightning, she reached out and snatched it from his fingers. In one fluid movement, she dropped it over her head as she let the wet towels fall to the rug. The hem fell just above her dimpled knees. Andrew tied the neck laces high above her collarbones.
Rosie ran her hand over the ivory lawn material. “Tis like wearing a spider’s web,” she whispered. “Haint ever had so fine a shift.”
Andrew resisted his latest impulse to kiss her. Instead, he draped his red cape over her shoulders to ward off both the night chill and his squire’s lusty gaze.
Then he stepped to the middle of the tent and bellowed, “Are you still out there, Jeremy?”
“Aye, my lord,” the boy replied, “together with your cooling supper.”
Andrew winked at Rosie. “Well, maltworm! Bring it in!”
A cloud of succulent aromas followed the squire into the tent.
Rosie nearly swooned when she smelled the delicious mixture of roast chicken, warm yeast bread and a cinnamon-spicy scent that she couldn’t quite place. It smelled heavenly. Her stomach rumbled with her hunger. She longed to snatch the huge covered platter out of the boy’s hands, but Andrew intercepted her and guided her to a stool.
Jeremy cast her a quick glance through the shaggy fringe of his dark bangs. His jaw dropped. Rosie pulled the cape across her bare knees.
Sir Andrew took a comb and began to pull it through her tangled locks. “Mind the platter, clodpate,” he growled at the speechless boy. “I much prefer to take my supper off a table than off the floor.”
Jeremy gaped at Rosie. She returned his penetrating stare.
Sir Andrew chuckled while he worked on a particularly stubborn snarl. “You remind me of a goggle-eyed turbot, Jeremy. Have you never seen a lady with her hair unbound before?”
The boy swallowed. “Not like her,” he muttered.
Rosie stiffened. The young churl was making fun of her predicament. She glared at him. “I may not be a lady, but haint ever been a mermaid either, so ye can put your watery eyes back in your sockets, boy!”
Sir Andrew patted her shoulder. “Well-spoken!” he whispered into her ear. Then he continued to torture her scalp.
Jeremy stepped closer and peered at Rosie as if she were a creature from the New World. “Tis the same wench as before?” Disbelief spread over the boy’s face.
Rosie whispered a tavern oath.
“The very same lady indeed!” Sir Andrew worked on another tangle.
“Haint ever been a lady,” Rosie muttered, then she squealed. It felt as if he had ripped off half her scalp. “Pray, my lord, I beg ye stop! Are ye a-trying to make me bald?”
He massaged her tender skin. “May I be boiled in a suet pudding if I ever inflicted such a dire punishment upon you, my dear. Jeremy!” he snapped at the transfixed youth. “Attend to your duties! Set the table for two. Use my silver gilt service.”
Jeremy slid the platter onto one of the nearby chests. Then he opened the coffer next to it and took out golden plates, goblets, eating utensils and folded pieces of white damask. He set all these items on the table, and arranged them in a pattern. Rosie couldn’t understand why her master waited so long before eating. The food must be half-cold already.
She twisted on the stool. “I pray ye, my lord. Leave my hair in peace. Let us eat now.”
Sir Andrew clicked his tongue against his teeth. “You must be patient, Rosie. Patience is a virtue, you know.” He continued to work with her tresses as if he had all the time in the world.
She eyed the tempting tray and fumed at his delay. “Haint ever had a virtue,” she muttered under her breath.
Sir Andrew chuckled. “How now? What about the virtue of chastity? Remember, I paid a great deal for that particular virtue.”
She shifted again on the stool, then rubbed the side of her nose with her forefinger. “Aye, my mind mistook that for a moment.”
“Of course it did,” he agreed in a soothing tone of voice.
Her lie made Rosie feel sick.
Jeremy poured red wine from a large clay jug into a silver pitcher. The polished metal gleamed in the candlelight. Then the squire shook out one of the cloths, folded it in the artful shape of a swan, and placed it on the table. When he noticed Rosie’s attention, he made an exaggerated display of his surprising skill with the second snow-white cloth.
She hid her amazement behind a look of disdain. She didn’t want this green stripling to think that she had no idea why he had wasted his time to make two such fantastic shapes. She would rather eat a swan than look at one. From under the tantalizing cover of the tray, Jeremy extracted a small bowl of salt and a larger bowl filled with assorted fruits. He put the salt on one end of the table and the fruit on the other. Finally, he wedged a beeswax taper into the golden candlestick, and lit it.
Rosie had never seen such a lavish table setting. The squire lifted the cover from the platter with a flourish. The supper’s delicious aroma filled the air. “Tis a torture,” she moaned.
Sir Andrew chuckled. “Tis merely combing your hair.”
“Nay! That!” Rosie pointed to the steaming dishes on the tray.
He stopped his painful occupation with her locks, and placed his hands on her shoulders. “When did you last • eat, Rosie?” he whispered.
“Yesterday after we landed in France, but twas only some stale bread crusts.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. His hazel eyes returned her look with a heart-melting warmth. She forced herself to ignore the confusing feelings that stirred within her. “We had a dinner of tripe at a public house in Dover, but the journey over the water was too rough. I puked it all away afore we were even out of sight of land. God shield me, twas a hellish trip.”
Sir Andrew put down the comb and brush on a chest. “Then I shall not make you wait any longer.” He stood and held out his hand to her. “Come, Rosie, tis now or never.”
Rosie groaned. Now the perfidious rogue had finally decided to debauch her! Just when she could almost taste the princely banquet set before her. Her empty stomach roiled with fear. Sir Andrew would soon discover her deceit, and she would never taste a mouthful of that delicious-looking supper. She stared at his hand, then at his grinning face. She cast a farewell glance at the roast chicken.
“Where do ye want me to lie down, my lord?” she murmured.
Chapter Four (#ulink_6a78469a-8121-5ed9-988a-098618a0bd64)
Sir Andrew’s smile broadened, making him look even more handsome than before. “Tis not yet time for bed, Rosie, but for supper, if it would please you to join me.”
With a great sigh of relief, she jumped up so quickly, she knocked over her stool. Andrew restrained her before she could lunge for the food.
He tucked her hand firmly within his. “A lady does not charge the groaning board like a battering ram,” he admonished her.
Jeremy smirked, though he was wise enough not to look Rosie straight in the eye.
Anger mixed with her hunger. “Haint a lady! And I am perishing for want of food. Is it your cruel jest to make me grovel for your pleasure?”
Sir Andrew chuckled in the back of his throat, though he still held her tight within his grasp. “My pleasure is to escort you to the table.”
Rosie tugged at her pinioned arm and shot him a frustrated look. “I can get there well enough on my own. In sooth, I can get there a good deal faster than ye, my lord. Tis but two short steps away.” The aroma of the roasted fowl enveloped her. “Let me go, for sweet charity’s sake!”
Andrew checked her second lunge. “A lady is led in a docile and demure fashion with downcast looks.”
She blew a damp curl out of her eyes and glared at the pigheaded gentleman. “Told ye afore, haint a lady.”
He planted his feet on his red-and-blue patterned rug, and gripped her arms. She lifted her chin and glared at him.
The laugh lines around his eyes crinkled in a maddeningly delightful way. “Attend upon this most important point, my dear. If you desire to partake of the delectable victuals that my good squire has procured for our enjoyment, you will act like a lady. That is my pleasure. Tis what I paid good coin for. Now, what say you?”
Rosie suppressed her immediate inclination to tell him exactly what she thought of his delusions. Instead, she decided to humor his whims while the food was still warm. She drew herself up and tossed her wild hair over her shoulders. “Then lead me to yon table, my lord, if that’s what pleases ye. But, prithee, do it quicklike.”
Sir Andrew beamed at her as if she had just said something clever. “Your dulcet voice is a delight to my ears, even if your words are a bit rough around the edges. Let us repair to our feast—my lady.” He cocked his head and grinned at her.
Rosie almost corrected him again, but she closed her mouth at the last split second. This stubborn lord would only argue the matter further while the food congealed in its sauces. Andrew led her to a folding chair, then he stepped behind it and gestured for her to sit. Rosie eyed the sway-bottom leather seat and wondered if it would fold up with her inside of it.
She twisted her fingers behind her back. “I do not know what ye want me to do.” She eyed the tempting dishes arrayed before her.
He gave her another one of those melting smiles. “You thank me very prettily, and allow me to push the chair closer to the table.”
Rosie cleared her throat. “Thank ye kindly, my lord.” She didn’t move. Her mouth watered.
Behind her, Jeremy snickered.
Andrew leaned over the back of the chair and whispered, “Rosie, you are supposed to slide in front of it and sit down when you feel the seat touch the back of your knees.”
Rosie wiggled her nose as she regarded the flimsylooking thing. She didn’t trust Sir Andrew. This could be a daft prank. He would pull the chair out from under her and laugh when she landed on her bum. She didn’t trust him an inch. He grinned at her and waited. No one uttered a word. The lure of the tantalizing supper grew stronger. Rosie’s stomach growled out loud.
“Trust me,” his lips mouthed the words.
Flinging her usual caution to the wind, Rosie took a deep breath and did as he had instructed. To her surprised delight, he seated her exactly as he had said he would. Once she was in place, he went around to the other side of the table where Jeremy seated his master in similar fashion. Rosie reached out to wrench a plump leg off the golden chicken, but Sir Andrew clasped her hand in midair.
He clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. “We say grace first and thank the good Lord for this bounty.”
Rosie snorted. “Why? He never did cook it.”
Jeremy gasped while Sir Andrew merely raised his brows at this bit of blasphemy. She curled her fingers into a fist to keep herself from attacking the chicken.
“Have you never prayed before a meal, Rosie?” her patron asked.
She decided to tell the truth. This peacock of a gentleman should learn something about poverty. “Twas more like a-praying for a meal, and the Lord did not see fit to listen much to me.”
Sir Andrew’s face lost some of its mirth. His eyes glistened. “Then we shall make our thanksgiving mercifully brief.” He folded his hands and bowed his head without waiting to see if Rosie did the same. “Lord God, we thank you for this food and for the good company who share it. Amen,” he murmured quickly.
“Amen,” Rosie breathed with relief. She reached for the chicken leg again, but Sir Andrew caught her hand once more. Rosie nearly swore at him, but bit her tongue instead.
“A lady is always served her food,” he instructed with a grin.
She wanted to scream the tent down. “Haint ever been a lady and haint ever been served!”
The frustrating lord nodded as if she had spoken a grain of pure wisdom. “Then Jeremy will serve only me and you can watch me eat.” With his free hand, he snapped his fingers. The squire lifted the roasted chicken out of Rosie’s reach, carved several large portions and heaped half of it on his master’s plate.
Her lower lip quivered. “Ye said I could eat if I sat like ye wanted me to and if I said grace,” she muttered. “Ye are no better than any other deceiving man even if ye do wear finer clothes.”
He caressed her hand. The action warmed her despite her anger. “If a lady desires to partake of a meal, she is served,” he repeated with the tenacity of a billy goat.
Rosie swallowed her last shred of pride. “So serve me then.”
Sir Andrew smiled, then leaned over his mound of food. His lips brushed against the back of her hand. Rosie inhaled sharply at the contact. Her pulse quickened. She felt she might swoon. With a gentle squeeze, he released her. She hid her hand in her lap. Her skin burned with the imprint of his lips. When she glanced at him, she was startled to see a smoldering intensity darken the hazel of his eyes. Then the raw look disappeared and his usual smile returned.
Rosie was only dimly aware that Jeremy had spoken to her. Having no idea what he had asked, she merely nodded. All the while she stared at her host as if she had never seen him before. What spell had he cast upon her with such a simple gesture that it made her forget her hunger—except for more of his touch?
Sir Andrew’s mouth twitched. “Eat your supper, my dear,” he suggested in a husky whisper.
The poor girl gasped when she looked down at her plate. Jeremy had piled it high with the other half of the roasted capon, a wedge of cold mutton pie, a large slice of soft white cheese over which he had spooned the honey-mustard sauce and a side dish of spiced peaches. Rosie lost the disturbing pallor in her face as she fell to eating with both hands. The capon’s lemon glaze ran down her bare arms to nearly her elbow before she stopped its journey with a quick lick of her dainty pink tongue.
Andrew opened his mouth to instruct her in the proper use of her untouched napkin and the pearl-handled fork that lay by her plate. Then he checked himself. Plainly, the child was starving. Etiquette lessons could wait. He cursed himself for teasing her. He should have realized that the whoremaster would not have wasted his own coin to feed his wenches when there were rich gentlemen like Andrew to do it for him.
He drained the smooth claret and beckoned his squire to refill his goblet. Had the evening turned intensely hot or was it the wild creature opposite him that made the air seem thick with tension and his clothing uncomfortably tight around his tender parts? He had no idea what had prompted him to kiss Rosie’s hand, nor did he understand why the experience now made him feel like a callow youth green-sick with his first love. Andrew was too jaded for such childish feelings. He had kissed a hundred ladies in his day and few of them had ever made his heart leap into his throat or his blood pound against his temples. Obviously his discomfort was due to the headiness of the French wine and the close perfumed air inside the pavilion.
Rosie looked up from her feast, her complexion now as rosy as her name. She licked her fingers clean of the honey-mustard sauce. “Is there something amiss with your food?”
Andrew merely shook his head. How could he tell her that her fresh-washed beauty had stolen his appetite for food? She fully expected him to rape her at any moment. His honest admission would only confirm her worst fears.
He dipped a sliver of capon into its sauce and ate it before answering. “Your presence has given me much food for thought, sweetheart. And, in truth, I ate overwell at dinner today.”
She cast him a shrewd look. “Methinks I spy disapproval all over your face, my lord. What have I done wrong now?”
He shifted in his chair while he strove to think of some acceptable answer. This chit was too clever by half if she could read his expression so well on such short acquaintance.
He cleared his throat. “A lady eats with small mouthfuls so that her cheeks are not puffed out like a squirrel at nutting time.” He sipped his wine and expanded on this safer theme. “Ladies do not pounce upon their food as if it would disappear before they could taste it, nor do they discourse with their mouths full.”
Rosie swallowed her spiced peach. Then she remarked in a low tone, “Ladies and their gentlemen know there will always be another dinner for them to enjoy. Poor folk do not. Tis the difference between yourself and me.” She picked up the capon’s wing. “And haint ever seen so much food in one place afore, so pardon my appetite.”
He inclined his head to her. “Your philosophy smacks of the Greco-Roman—eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die.”
Rosie furrowed her delicate brows, then looked over her shoulder at the grinning squire. “Does Sir Andrew always speak with such a mickle mouthful of words like that?” she asked Jeremy.
The boy attempted to look solemn as he nodded.
Rosie returned her gaze to Andrew. Her green eyes sparkled in the candle’s light. “Methinks you are happier to dine on your speech than your food, my lord, so can I have your cheese?”
He stared at her for a moment, then he burst out laughing. “You will be ill if you eat too much rich food all at once.”
She twirled her fork. “Haint ever,” she remarked as she skewered the cheese on his plate.
Rosie could not remember ever eating to the point of bursting. When Jeremy offered her a selection of thin sugar wafers she waved him away, just as she had observed Sir Andrew do. She sat back in her chair and patted her full tummy with the satisfaction of an overly fed kitten. She closed her eyes with a sigh of contentment. Surely this was how the angels in heaven felt all the time.
Sir Andrew snapped his fingers. “Wake up. We have work to do.”
Rosie winced inwardly. Now was the moment of reckoning. She steeled herself for the coming battle. At least, he had fed her well. She would always be grateful for that. She opened her eyes slowly. “My lord?” She hoped her voice did not sound as nervous as she felt.
Sir Andrew produced a silver coin from his clothing and tossed to his squire. “Clear away these dishes and yourself, my boy. The lady and I have a need for some privacy.”
Jeremy caught the money with one hand. He winked at Rosie when he removed her silver plate. “He’s a kind man,” he told her in an undertone. “So do not disappoint him. Be generous with your favors.”
Rosie glared at the boy. “Ye mind your business and leave me to mind mine,” she whispered back.
Sir Andrew took a long drink of his wine, then wiped his mouth with his napkin. He smiled at her as he did so. Rosie’s heart tumbled over. She felt like a rabbit caught in a velvet trap. To hide her unease, she picked up her own untouched napkin, shook out its artful folding and followed Sir Andrew’s example. His smile broadened as he watched her.
“You are a quick study, my sweet,” he remarked. “Let us pray that you will continue to be so.”
Rosie chewed her fingernail. How was she going to play the part of a virgin when her vial of blood was now only a stain on the sole of his shoe? She stared at the claret in her goblet and wondered if she could trick him with that. Probably not. Sir Andrew struck her as a very clever man, even if he was somewhat addled in his wits.
She drank more of her wine. The bedding might not be too bad if she were a little bit woolly-headed. “Whatever ye say, my lord.”
Sir Andrew snapped his fingers again. “Be off, sluggard!” he told Jeremy. “And mark you, guard my plate well and see that you return no later than the midwatch and with most of your faculties intact.”
The boy hefted the large tray filled with the leavings of their meal onto his shoulder. “Aye, my lord, and a merry good evening to you. A very merry one indeed!” With another wink at Rosie, the squire disappeared through the tent flap. The pavilion suddenly seemed a great deal larger to Rosie.
“Where do ye want to do it, my lord?” she asked in a small voice.
Sir Andrew slammed the flat of his hand down on the tabletop. His goblet rattled. “Od’s bodkins, Rosie! You try a man’s soul to the very nub! Understand this—I am not going to take my carnal pleasure with you tonight or any other night.”
She sat up straighter. “Your pardon, my lord, but if ye are not in the mind to swive me, then what do ye want me for?”
Sir Andrew drew his chair closer, then he rested his elbows on the table. “Do not draw hasty conclusions as to my natural desires and appetites, my dear. I am as lusty as any man would be when in the company of such a beauty as yourself.”
She rubbed the side of her nose. The gentleman had obviously drunk more wine than she had thought if he now called her a beauty. Perhaps he had drunk so much that he couldn’t…perform. “Ye talk in riddles, my lord. I am not much good at riddling.”
He chuckled. “Then I will speak plain. I enjoy making love with a woman, but I prefer not to buy the lady’s favor.”
Rosie narrowed her eyes. “Then why did ye pay a bloody great fortune for me just to drown me and feed me?”
His smiled widened. “Because I need your help, Rosie. I have made a great wager with one of those young lions whom you met earlier. I have told them that I will turn you into a proper lady within twelve days and that you will be so perfect a gentlewoman that none shall be the wiser. What say you to that?”
All the breath went out of Rosie. She opened her mouth to tell him he was moonstruck, but no words squeaked forth. Instead, she hiccuped.
He reclined against his chair back and looked even more pleased with himself. “Aha! I perceive that you have grasped the full import of my words. Sip some wine slowly, sweetheart, and twill cleanse you of that bothersome annoyance.”
Rosie needed no urging. She wished she could dive into the bottom of her goblet and never come up again. Sir Andrew Ford, Esquire, was stark, staring mad.
He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Slowly, my dear. Ladies do not gargle in their drink.”
“Haint any kind of a lady,” she mumbled between sips.
“But you can be,” he whispered. His silky voice held a challenge. “Will you help me, Rosie?”
Not trusting herself to look into his beguiling eyes, she replaced her goblet on the table with deliberate care. Her mind spun like a whirligig out of control. If she said nay, he would toss her back to Quince in a heartbeat, and he would probably demand his money back. Quince, in his turn, would beat her, then sell her again. She recalled the sea of leering faces and shuddered. The next lord who took her could be considerably worse than this affable lunatic.
Rosie toyed with a droplet of wine on the tabletop as she pursued her deliberations. Her protector would lose a fortune to those laughing striplings, not to mention losing the respect of that sneering squire of his, if she did not play the part he asked. Despite his odd behavior, Sir Andrew seemed a good man and he deserved better than what she could give him.
“Well, Rosie?” he murmured, his wonderful voice soft and low.
She ignored the strange fluttering in her stomach. He had offered her a business proposition, not his heart. She hunched forward and plopped her elbows on the table. Their faces were only inches apart. He smelled of wine, sweetmeats and an intriguing exotic scent that was his alone. He raised his dark brows with silent inquiry.
“And what do I get?” she asked with bold directness.
One brow rose even higher. His eyes widened with his surprise.
Rosie hurried on before he had time to grow angry. “Ye say ye need me to help ye reap a bloody great fortune. What do I get in return?”
Sir Andrew folded his hands and looked up to the sloping roof of his tent as if he prayed to the Almighty for advice. “What would you like?” he finally asked. “Ribbons? Laces? A new gown?” He tapped the plate of tempting marchpane between them. “More sweetmeats?”
She shrugged away his limpid offers. “I was given ribbons and sweets once before and it came to nothing. That reeky coxcomb tricked me even though he wore pretty clothes and smelled so clean.” She pushed Simon’s lying handsome face out of her memory.
Sir Andrew cocked his head. “How now? And what, pray tell, did this rascal trick you out of?” he purred.
“My—” Rosie stopped herself before she blurted out the fearful truth. Her presumed virginity was the only ploy she had. “Something that was mine to give and not his to take.”
“Ahhh!” Andrew nodded as if he understood exactly what she meant. “So if you do not require fripperies and sweets for your reward, what do you have in mind?”
She took a deep breath. “Profit. Ye pay me a part of your winnings so that I can be my own self and beholden to no man. Tis what I want.”
“Independence.” His expression changed and became more sober. “I perceive that you are a woman of business, Rosie. Therefore, allow me to make you this offer. I will put a penny into your account for every lesson of mine that you learn correctly.”
She licked her lips. “I be a fast learner, my lord.”
He gave her a look of faint amusement. “And I will take away one penny for every mistake you make. Are we agreed?”
She felt as if he had dropped an icicle down her back. “Fie upon it, my lord! I cannot help making mistakes. Haint ever seen a lady close up.”
His full lips quirked with humor. “Very well, I will grant you three errors. After that, one penny gone.” He whistled to illustrate her new fortune flying out of his tent. “Now, are we agreed?”
Rosie crossed her arms over her breasts. “Hold, Sir Andrew. How will I know if I have a penny or not? I see no pennies on the table. I will not be cozened with your flowery speeches.”
He tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. “A good point.”
He pushed back his chair and rose. He padded across the rug to another one of his chests, opened it and rummaged through a great quantity of clothing. Rosie craned her neck to see what he was looking for. He had more clothes in that one box than her whole family had ever possessed. At last, he withdrew a slate and a thick piece of chalk. He kicked the lid shut, then returned to the table.
“This is your account, Rosie,” he said, tapping the slate. “Whenever you have earned your wage, I will make a stroke on it like so.” He drew a fat line. “If you lose a penny, I will erase it—like so.” He smudged the line with his thumb until there was nothing left but a splotch of chalk.
Rosie said nothing, but she eyed the account board. No one had ever taken her so seriously, nor even acknowledged that she was good for anything except as a drudge or a whore.
He propped the slate against a stack of books on a side coffer. “We will keep your account here, so that you may peruse it—that is, look at it—whenever you wish. Do my terms meet with your approval?”
She could only nod. Excitement welled up within her. The future opened before her like a flower-strewn high road.
“Aye? Then let us shake hands upon it.” He held his out to her.
Rosie wiped her greasy fingers on the front of her shirt, then gave him her hand. In formal silence, they shook upon their bargain, but afterward he refused to let go. Instead, he turned her hand over and studied her palm and nails like a blacksmith before shoeing a horse.
He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Rosie, nail biting is a nasty habit. I will take away a—”
She tensed and curled her fingers into a ball. She hadn’t even earned a penny yet, and he already threatened her with debt. She knew she should never have trusted him.
He looked at her annoying amusement. “I shall take away a halfpenny for each infraction.”
Rosie tried to snatch her hand away from him. “Infrac…what?”
He chuckled. “For each time you bite your nail’s.”
She gasped. “I be out a shilling’s worth afore this night is gone!”
“Ladies do not chew on their nails, Rosie.”
“Haint a lady,” she reminded him, twisting out of his grasp.
His eyes gleamed in the low candlelight. “Not yet, but by all that is holy, you will be!”
Chapter Five (#ulink_a9c1a605-608e-5d9e-bfa6-6bfd14d13815)
The hubbub of the great English encampment settled into muted revels as the night reached its midpoint. Andrew saw that Rosie fought to keep her eyes open, but the lure of Morpheus fast overwhelmed her. From what she had told him, it had been a hellish day for the lass. The hours of anxiety together with the large supper and the quantity of wine she had consumed had finally taken their toll. Still, she forced herself to stay awake in an effort to preserve the virtue that he knew had already been taken from her. He gave Rosie full marks for the effort, and vowed to add an extra penny to her account.
Rosie’s head bobbed. She desperately needed her sleep. He had a full day planned for her on the morrow. He smiled to himself. He could not remember passing such a enjoyable evening as this one for a long time— especially when he had no intention of bedding his fair company. He sighed over his self-imposed denial. Truly, the pretty creature was extremely enticing.
Rosie blinked and yawned without bothering to cover her mouth. Andrew shook himself from his pleasant reverie. He stood, stretched, then yawned loudly for her benefit.
“What be ye a-doing?” she asked in that velvet-edged voice of hers.
He drank in her sweet tone. Rosie had no idea how seductive she sounded, especially when laced with wine. “Preparing for repose,” he replied in a forced, lighthearted manner. “Going to bed—and so should you, my dear.”
Her upper lip curled back. “Aha! Just like a man! Ye make lovely promises one minute then take them back with interest the next.”
Andrew furrowed his brow. He had no clear idea what Rosie meant or why her mood had changed once again. He was far too tired to begin another argument with her now.
She gripped the edge of the table. “Ye told me that ye did not buy a woman for your pleasure, yet now ye be a-talking about going to bed.”
Andrew groaned inwardly. He thought he had settled this particular sticking point already. “To sleep, Rosie. Perchance to dream. Tis been a most fatiguing day, though I admit that you have made the evening stimulating.” Much too stimulating.
He ambled toward the four-poster bed that Jeremy had prepared. The swans-down pillows had been plumped just the way he liked them. The sheets of softest lawn had been sprinkled with lavender water to discourage both fleas and odors of the night. A coverlet of mint green taffeta lay folded at the bed’s foot. Taken altogether, his makeshift bedchamber beckoned with irresistible invitation to his tired body.
Rosie struggled to her feet and gripped the center tent pole to steady herself. “Ye are a-going to sleep?”
He yawned. “Aye, tis my sole intent at this particular moment.”
She blinked like an owlet. “Then where do I go?”
Andrew lifted one of the lanterns and shed its light into the second chamber’s far corner. “There.” He pointed to Jeremy’s truckle bed.
Rosie closed her eyes and sagged against the pole. Andrew moved closer in case she collapsed, but she rallied before he touched her. Without a word, she scurried to the cot, pulled back the cover and tucked herself between the sheets.
“Sweet heaven!” She sighed. She burrowed as far down as the straw mattress allowed her. “Tis a wonderment, my lord!”
He knelt beside her. “Clean sheets?” he inquired.
She rolled her eyes. “Haint ever had sheets, my lord.”
Andrew shuddered inwardly. He really had to do something about her butchery of the king’s English but it could wait until dawn. Then Rosie looked up at him and actually smiled.
The unexpected sight nearly overthrew all of Andrew’s high-minded principles. He felt as if he had been struck by a bolt of lightning. He thanked assorted guardian saints that neither one of the hot-blooded Cavendish boys nor the lust-driven Stafford had seen that smile of hers. There would have been blood on the rug by now and it would not have come from Rosie’s pathetic ruse. He leaned over her.
Her smile fled. She stiffened and cringed as if she expected to be struck. Her bee-stung lips compressed into a tight line. Andrew reversed his lustful intentions. Instead, he planted a chaste kiss on her forehead.
“God give you sweet repose, Rosie,” he murmured in a husky voice that barely cloaked his passionate urgings. “Sleep well and safely. I swear upon my honor as a knight, no harm shall come to you.”
Her shoulders relaxed. A glimmer of her smile returned. “And to ye, my lord.” Then she turned over onto her side and closed her eyes.
With a whisper of regret, Andrew rose, blew out the lantern and made his preparations for his own slumber. He poured some rose water in the basin of his portable washstand—a device of his own invention—and rinsed his face and hands. The cool ablutions did little to quench his inner fever. After he brushed his teeth with a peeled stick from an elm tree and polished them with a piece of tooth linen, he went around the tent and blew out the rest of the candles. The campfire outside the entrance bathed the interior of the pavilion with a golden glow. He shook out a spare pallet for Jeremy—whenever the scamp decided to return.
Andrew shucked his dressing robe, then he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it over a coffer. He loosened his codpiece, stepped behind a painted screen and made use of his new close stool. It was as elaborate as the one Great Harry himself had for his most personal needs. Ever since Andrew had inherited his late wife’s fortune, he had indulged himself in all the finest accoutrements of gracious living. Yet in the depths of the night, he admitted to himself that all his refinements and luxuries had not filled the yawning emptiness in his life.
Returning to his sumptuous bed, he sat on the edge of it, and peeled off his dusty, sweat-soaked hose. He balled them up and tossed them beside his shirt. Jeremy would take care of the laundry in the morning. For all his put-upon airs, his squire was a good lad, though Andrew missed Guy. Now that the younger Cavendish had become a knight, he no longer had to wait upon Andrew’s every whim. Yawning, he stretched his arms over his head and basked in the freedom of his nakedness.
He heard a small, muffled giggle behind him. He looked over his shoulder. Rosie’s eyes twinkled from the depths of her little bed.
He felt a flush steal up his neck and around his ears. He blessed the darkness and wished it were darker still.
“Methought you were asleep,” he muttered, jumping into his bed.
“With ye a-splashing and grunting like a hog in a mud wallow?”
Andrew pursed his lips. “I marvel at your eloquent description of myself, dear Rosie. Have you been acquainted with many hogs in your short lifetime?” Her unappealing appraisal stung his vanity.
She had the gall to giggle again. “One or two, my lord, but methinks ye are the best of the lot.”
He fumed in the luxurious sanctuary of his gilded bed. “I give you thanks for your kind words,” he growled.
“How old are ye, my lord, if ye do not mind me asking?”
Injury to insult! “Eight and thirty years since this Shrovetide.” He laid down amid his flock of feathered pillows and pouted.
“Ah!” The chit was mercifully silent for a moment, then she said, “Ye should not let those minions of yours call ye an old man, Sir Andrew, for ye have a good strong body that gives the lie to your years.”
A ridiculous warmth flooded Andrew. He grinned in the darkness. What an intelligent girl he had acquired! Rosie obviously possessed an innate sense of good taste.
He cleared his throat. “Ladies should not observe a gentleman when he disrobes, Rosie.”
She snorted. “Haint a lady—yet! Good night, my lord.”
Andrew blew her a kiss. “Good night, sweet Rosie,” he whispered.
Despite his fatigue, he discovered that he could not sleep. Rosie’s even breathing told him that she had at last slipped into the healing grace of slumber. He laced his fingers behind his head and stared into the blackness of his silk-swathed ceiling.
Rosie danced through his thoughts like a maddening sprite. In his imagination, he heard her smoky voice and her sudden silvery laughter. Since he could not banish her from his mind, he turned his powers of concentration fully upon his latest acquisition.
It was already evident that she had teased a new vigor in his body. He sighed. Too evident. He would have to watch himself in the coming days if he was going to have her full cooperation. Any dolt could tell that she had been ill-used by men in her past. He swore to himself that he would try to make her future much more pleasant, even if it meant denying himself the pleasure that was his by right of ownership.
Andrew rolled onto his stomach and punched his pillows into a mound. Rosie had surprised him with her quick wit. True, she was entirely uneducated, but her natural instincts proved to be razor-sharp. He could tell that she would be an apt pupil. His hopes rose. It was not the money, but his pride that was at stake. He chuckled to himself when he imagined how Brandon would writhe when Andrew unveiled his little bit of mummery at the king’s banquet. Let the young cockerel sweat out the consequences of his rash gamble for a few days. Then, when he had learned his lesson, Andrew would return his losses to him.
Then there was Rosie. Andrew curled on his side. Was she really only a gleaning from the gutter? His observation differed. There was something about her that hinted of better blood—something familiar that he couldn’t quite recognize. Her face was too fine and delicate to be that bred from a mere peasant. Her complexion, kissed by the sun, reminded him of the petals of a flower. And her hair!
Andrew threw off his sheet, swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up. He fumbled for the tinderbox on his bedside table and after a few moments, lit his candle. Jeremy had not yet returned. Wastrel!
Holding the candle aloft, he crept around the foot of the great bed. The light fell upon Rosie. Her hair cascaded over the white pillowcase in a tumble of sun-kissed curls. Andrew knelt and touched the nearest one. Pure silk under his fingers. His loins stiffened and grew hot. He cursed himself for his weakness but did not move.
He continued to stroke the soft curl as he imagined all the delicious possibilities that making love with Rosie would present. Her veil of hair would clothe him as it enticed him. He longed to bury his face in her fragrant tresses. To bind himself with them. To taste their strands, to die—
The tent flap opened and Jeremy stumbled inside with a whispered oath. His load of cleaned supper plate clattered to the floor. Andrew stood up quickly and blew out the candle before the squire got a good look at his master’s rejuvenated body.
“Silence, churl!” he whispered to his tipsy squire. “I have only just now soothed her to sleep.”
Jeremy giggled like a wench. “And was she easy to leap upon, my lord? Did you have much good cheer?”
“I’ll leap upon you, you quirt, if you do not stop that damnable bleating, and I warrant you, the experience will bring you no cheer at all. Get you to bed!” He pointed to the pallet by the entrance.
Jeremy half sat, half fell onto it. “Your pardon, my lord,” he mumbled as he pulled off his jerkin.
Andrew climbed back into his own bed. “Granted, but not a word to the young lady on the morrow or you will rue it forty days, I promise you.”
“Aye, my lord,” Jeremy yawned. He lay down still half-dressed. “I am right glad that she pleased you.” He ended with a soft snore.
Andrew shook his head at the general folly of youth. “That she does,” he whispered to himself. “She pleases me well.”
Tuesday, June 12
Angry voices pulled Rosie from her slumber. From habit, she curled tight into a ball and pretended that she still slept even though she was now fully awake. Then she realized that the voices did not belong to her foster parents, nor was she shivering under the eaves of their cottage in Stoke Poges. A white sheet smelling faintly of lavender covered her and the morning’s sun bathed the interior of Sir Andrew’s tent with a soft glow.
“Surely ye have done with her by now, my lord. Tis near the dinner hour,” Quince whined on the other side of the canvas wall.
Rosie shivered despite the warmth of her bedding. She pulled her sheet up to her chin.
Sir Andrew chuckled. “By my troth, I have barely begun taking my pleasure with Mistress Rosie, and you said to take all the time I wanted.”
Quince stammered, “B-but another gentleman has already paid me a pretty penny for her. He waits for the wench now.”
Rosie chewed on her thumbnail. She couldn’t go back to Quince. She had never done much praying before, but now her lips framed a silent plea to heaven for deliverance.
“That other gentleman’s name had better not be Cavendish or Stafford,” Sir Andrew remarked in a dark tone.
“Nay.” Quince’s whine increased. “Tis a very insistent lord named Sir Gareth Hogsworthy, and methinks his patience is shorter than gunpowder.”
Rosie slid deeper under her covers. She remembered the man from last night because he reminded her of her foster father. She instinctively knew what sort of a beast Sir Gareth would be. Heaven help the woman who fell within his sadistic grasp.
“And what did Sir Gareth pay you for the attentions of the fair damsel?” Sir Andrew inquired. Danger lurked in his voice.
Quince hesitated. Rosie guessed that the bawdmaster was calculating a greater profit. She wanted to cry out a warning to Sir Andrew, but her sense of self-preservation silenced her.
“Twenty gold ryals, my lord,” Quince finally replied.
Ten times Quince’s highest price! Sir Andrew would never pay it. Rosie moaned into her pillow. Her sweet holiday from reality was over.
Then she heard someone swear softly inside the tent. She opened her eyes and peeked over the covers. Jeremy stood with his back to her while he listened at the closed entrance. He held a naked sword in one hand. By his stance, Rosie realized that the boy knew how to use the weapon.
“The devil take you, master of flesh!” Sir Andrew raised his voice.
Rosie cringed. She pushed back her covers and searched for another way out of the tent. They would have to catch her before any man could have his cruel way with her.
“Jeremy!” Sir Andrew bellowed. “Fetch my purse!”
The squire turned around and saw Rosie. She froze, barely daring to breathe. Jeremy unlocked a brass-bound trunk and lifted out a brown leather pouch. From its shape and size, Rosie guessed it contained a fortune.
The boy curled his lips at her. “You must have pleased my lord past all remembrance, wench,” he whispered with a rough edge to his voice. “Sir Andrew has never spent so much money on a woman before except his wife.” With that, he batted the flap aside and strode out.
Rosie didn’t know whether she felt flattered, appalled—or hurt. Sir Andrew hadn’t mentioned anything about having a wife. Rosie had assumed he was a bachelor. She should have known better. What a deceitful devil he was! Of course a rich and handsome lord like Sir Andrew would be married, and he probably had a castle filled with children as well. She cursed her naivetе, then cursed herself even more for caring. What was he to her but a slim respite from the hell of her life? What was she to him but a whore with whom he would play an outlandish jest upon the king? Why did she care?
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