Baroness (11 page)

She stood there, a strange warmth simmering through her. He extended his hand. “Rolfe Van Horne,” he said.

“Rosie Worth,” she said.

He smiled. “I know.”

She stared at him, nonplussed. “What—”

“Red!”

She turned and spotted Dash coming toward her from the direction of the statue. How could she have missed him? “Dash,” she said, more surprise than enthusiasm in her voice. She cleared her throat, brightened. “I didn't see you there!”

“Clearly,” he said, and his gaze shot to the man next to her.

“Nice to meet you,” Rolfe said, then nodded toward Dash.

“Nice to meet—you—too….” But he had already turned his back to her and was walking away.

Dash caught up to her. “Who was that?”

“Some man who helped Finn get his boat back.” She turned to Finn. “You stay here on shore while I talk to Dash, okay, Finn?”

He held up his arm, the one with the string attached. “I'm a sailor!”

“Indeed you are, little man.” She turned to Dash, who still had his gaze on Van Horne. “Forget about him. I'm so glad to see you!” She slipped her arms around his waist, not caring that she might be making a spectacle.

He closed his around her shoulders, but she felt stiffness in his response. “What's this all about, Red? I show up at your house, and you won't see me, and then Blanche sends me this cryptic note about meeting you in the garden.” He pushed her out to arm's length. “I thought we were having fun.”

She frowned. “It's not what you think, Dash. My mother and stepfather came home the other night. They—they don't want us to see each other.”

He made a face. “Sounds about right. I wondered when the news from Page Six would find them.”

Oh. “So it's true?”

He lifted a shoulder. “She says so. I don't know.”

Rosie stared at him, coldness sliding through her. “You…you slept with her?”

“Rosie, come on, don't be like that. I'm here with you, today.” He took her hand and tugged her down onto the bench. “Now, tell me how we're going to sneak out and have some fun.” He traced a finger down her cheek.

She swallowed back her hurt, forcing a smile. “You're right. It doesn't matter. It's nothing.” She leaned into him and raised her chin. “How much did you miss me, Dash?”

He pecked her nose. “Terribly. I've had no fun at all the last few nights. Tell me that you'll find a way to come 'round with us tonight.”

She fiddled with a button on his jacket. “What if you could have me all the time? Would you like that?”

A dangerous smile tweaked his face. “What do you mean, Red?”

She drew in a breath, tried not to rush. “Do you love me, Dash?”

“Sure, darling. I love you lots.” But something sparked in his eyes.

“Me too.” She couldn't look at him. She pressed her hand against his chest. “Let's elope.”

He stilled under her touch. “Now, Red—”

“I have an allowance, Dash, and we'll be fine. Mother wouldn't dare cut me off, and we can leave tonight if we have to. I have a plan.”

He caught her hand on his chest, pulled it away. “Rosie—”

“I know you need money. I can give that to you….”

Dash sat up, scooted away. “Rosie, I'm my father's only son. I promise you, I don't need your money.” His tone had changed, added a chill.

“Fine. Of course you don't need my money. But…” She feared what she'd see in his eyes. “My mother wants to marry me off to some duke from Belgium. I want to be with you.” She looked at him then, and her heart died at his expression.

“Rosie, I don't want to marry you.” He drew in a breath.

She held herself fast, willing her voice calm. “But you said—you said I was your inspiration.”

“Oh, Red. Of course you are. Look at you. You're a dish, doll, and you look good on my arm. But we're just having fun. You're my good-time girl. But I don't want to get married. I'm sorry, I guess, if that hurts you.” He reached to touch her face. “Don't blame me. You said you didn't want to get married, if I recall.”

She had said that. Because that's what he'd wanted to hear.

She pushed his hand away. “Finn!”

“Red, don't be like this. You know I like being with you. We have the whole summer—we'll figure something out.”

She marched over to Finn, began to drag his boat in.

“Rothie! I want to stay.”

“No, we're going home, Finn. Our walk in the park is over.”

Dash touched her on the arm, and she jerked away, losing her balance. She fell and hit the water, her hand sinking in to her elbow, the cold bracing upon her skin.

“Let me help—”

“Get away from me,” she hissed. “Just…get away.”

He held his hands up in surrender. “If that's the way you want it. Good luck with your duke, Red.”

“You swine.”

Finn reached up and tried to help her out. He wore fear in his eyes as he glanced at Dash, who was backing away, shaking his head.

Rosie climbed out, turned her back to him. Her eyes burned, and she sank down beside Finn. She began to tremble, her hand over her mouth. Her breaths began to shudder through her.

No. No. She wouldn't break down, not here, not—

Finn put his arms around her neck, burying his face in her shoulder. “I love you, Rothie. Don't cry.”

She pulled him tight against herself, holding onto his tiny, strong body, so full of grace, and wept into his shoulder.

It wasn't until she had found herself again, mustered her composure, until she'd pulled the boat to shore, that she saw Rolfe Van Horne watching her from across the pond.

She ignored him, gathered up Finn and his boat, took his hand, and trekked toward home, the sunset bleeding into the horizon.

She should have known Dash would turn on her. Should have known he was just using her, that he didn't truly love her.

In fact, she'd never met a man who truly loved her. Her father hadn't—not with the way he treated her, as if she were a reminder of his unfaithful wife. And Jack—well, if Jack truly cared for her, he would have never run away and left her. And Bennett—how could he possibly care for her after what her father did to the woman he loved? Besides, she wasn't his daughter.

She had Finn, of course, but he was too young to betray her.

No, she shouldn't expect anything from a man, except to use her for what she could give him.

“Rothie, you're hurting my hand.”

She loosened her grip. “I'm sorry, Finley.” She stopped at the edge of the park, crouched down to face him. “Listen, let's keep my…conversation with my friend a secret, okay?”

“And your crying?”

“That too.” She reached over, scrubbed dirt from his face with her thumb. “I'll be fine. I was just sad.”

“I'm sad when you're sad,” he said, and looked like he might cry.

“Thanks, Finn.”

She stood up and took his hand. They crossed the street and headed down the boulevard. She bought a bouquet of peonies and drank in the smell.

No, she'd never trust a man again. At least unless she had something to barter, something to keep his love.

As she entered the house, she bent down to unbutton Finn's jacket, take his hat. “Run and tell Mother we're home.”

“We're in here.”

Jinx sat in the parlor, her needlepoint on her lap. She looked up at Rosie then frowned. “Where's Lilly?”

Where was Lilly? She knew the question would come, but still, it stripped her. “Lilly?” she said, as if she'd never heard of her cousin before.

Jinx set down her needlepoint. Stared at Rosie. Then, her voice dropped, realization in it. “Oh no, what have you done, Rosie?”

“Uncle Oliver!”

Rosie heard Finn's greeting down the hallway.

“Finley! You've grown a mile since I saw you last.”

Rosie closed her eyes. Drew in a breath. She hadn't expected him until tomorrow, or later.

He always scared her a little, his history as a stringer for the paper, living on the streets in his eyes. He knew how to make his own way and bore it in his demeanor. “Hello, Rosie,”he said as he walked down the hall, holding Finn's hand. “Amelia said you were in the park. Is Lilly up in her room?”

Rosie saw Jinx's mouth tighten around the edges. She got up just as Finn looked at Uncle Oliver and said, “No, Lilly left with that man. At the park.” He looked at Rosie. “'Member?”

Oh, yes, she remembered. And as long as she lived, she knew she'd never forget the darkness that washed over Oliver's face, nor the way he turned to Rosie and said, “Tell me where she is, Rosie. Right. Now.”

* * * * *

Lilly had never seen such courage—or foolishness—as the fatal ballet between the midnight-black bull and the young matador. The matador moved with grace through the sand of the amphitheater, as if the entire event might be choreographed, his crimson robe a partner as he danced around the bull.

“He's going to get killed.”

“I know. After three or four of the bulls are down, you can smell the blood,” Rennie said.

She'd been near blood during the cattle drives of her youth, during the castrating of the cattle, the birthing of calves.

But this taunting of danger wheedled inside her, churned up something ugly, even repulsive, as the bulls became angrier, the matadors more daring.

They'd started the
corrida
with six bulls and three toreros—older men who paraded into the ring all in bright pink or white. And then came the young one—possibly still a teen, dressed in a shiny gold vest and dark pants, a bright yellow shirt that would surely emphasize his blood. He stared into the audience with the rest of the toreros and, for a second, met her eyes, almost with a dare. Then he moved on to the other side of the stadium, whipping the crowd's adoration to life.

Behind them came the
cuadrilla,
the team of bullfighters mounted on horseback, and the flagmen, to keep them safe.

When the bulls trotted out, their white horns sharpened into a fine point and pawed the ground, Lilly gripped her seat, leaning forward and holding her breath.

“Look away,” Rennie said as the picadors stabbed each bull, letting the first blood run.

Lilly had the strangest urge to cry.

“It makes them lower their head, a more daring charge for the matadors.”

“It's cruel.”

Presley, beside him, laughed.

“Just wait,” Rennie said, and echoed Presley's laughter. He had beer on his breath from the hours before in the café, and in the hot sun it probably only soaked into him.

The young matador flicked his cape as the bull swung around him then let it charge so close she thought the horns had grazed him. But he held his ground, and the
banderillas
closed in with more barbs.

“I can't bear it. They look like buffalo.” She held her hand to her mouth, turning her head away as the matador waved his cape on the long dowel, moving it from one side to the next as the animal charged him.

The crowd roared as the bull chased him, but he turned at the last moment then let it pass.

“He's magnificent,” Hem said.

Presley clapped.

“You'd better turn away again, they're about to stab the bull through the shoulder blades and pierce his heart.”

She stared at Rennie. He didn't seem to be kidding. She got up. “I—I don't feel well.” She moved to leave, and fast.

Rennie got up to follow her, but Presley put a hand on his arm. “I'll go with her.” She rose. “Trust me, after a few days of gore, you'll get used to it. That, or enough beer to not care anymore.” She winked.

“No—I'm fine.” Lilly managed a smile. “I'll find my way back to the hotel.”

She stepped past Rennie before he could stop her and climbed down out of the stands. Already, her head felt less hot, her stomach settling, away from the blood and violence.

She wanted to cry at her stupidity, at the fear and revulsion that had risen inside her. What would Rennie think? But the entire event conjured up the brutality of the buffalo massacres she'd read about in the West. She hated it.

Lilly walked through the grounds toward the gate and noticed the traveling cages that had transported the bulls from their ranches outside the city. Some of them were empty, but others hosted bulls still waiting to be let out into their corral. Did they know that they would be released only to their deaths?

One of the bulls nudged up against the bars. She saw the hairy, black head, and one dark eye, wild with fright.

She'd known better than to get near the buffalo on her ranch back home, but sympathy welled up inside her, and for a second she reached up—

“Alto!”

She jerked as a wrinkled man wearing a basque beret strode up and slapped her hand away.

She curled into herself and hurried out the gate, onto the street.

Her hotel was located on the plateau behind the city, and she ordered a carriage from the man at the gate and gave the name. The carriage drove her through the city, a plume of white dust rising to obscure her view of the bullrings. Everywhere she looked, bougainvillea twined up whitewashed buildings, chickens ran through the streets chased by little girls in bandannas. Clouds hung in the distance over the far green mountains, and the farther she went from the bloodletting, the stronger she became.

She thought of the young matador, the way he played with the bull, his face tight, his eyes growing. The bull had charged, and he'd barely moved, unshaken. If she didn't let the blood and gore turn her away, she might see the courage.

She longed for that kind of courage. Thought she'd had her hands around it once again over the skies of Paris, and in the last week.

Clearly, she wasn't the daredevil she hoped to be.

Yet.

The carriage bumped along the dirt road, up the hill toward the hotel. She'd paid for her own room—insisted upon it, after hearing about Hem's lack of fortune. She feared Rennie might be in similar dire straits, although they'd all had a rich lunch of poached fish and hard bread and cold cucumber soup. She'd stuck to lemonade again, while Presley led the men in consuming frothy cold beer that teared down the sides of the glass. Presley offered Lilly a sip, and her mouth puckered at the bitterness.