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
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.”
