The Rose of Winslow Street (15 page)

He seemed nonchalant. “It was four years ago, and I do not dwell on it anymore. I am sorry she is not here to help teach Andrei and Luke because she was a good mother. Still, I see her in my boys. Marie was a big and strong woman. A real farmer's wife. Our boys will grow to be just as strong.”

As always, when Michael spoke of his children he seemed to be bursting with pride, but his comments confirmed what Libby was coming to believe about Michael Dobrescu. He was no aristocrat. He spoke of learning the farming trade from his father. The old photograph of the Duke of Vlaska showed an imposing man draped in medals, not at all the sort of man who worked a farm. Nor would the wife of a duke's son labor like a common field hand. Hauling fertilizer and cutting it into the soil was backbreaking work, and it sounded as though such a chore was commonplace for Marie.

A fat drop of rain struck her hand. The wind was picking up, carrying the scent of newly mown hay and the promise of a summer rainstorm. They were still four miles from town, but a glance at the sky made Libby skeptical they would make it even another mile before the deluge began.

Michal flicked the reins and the horse moved into a canter. “Do you know anyplace to seek shelter?” he asked.

A few more cool drops of rain splashed onto her skin. The chill of the raindrops did not bode well. Cold rain meant it would likely be a powerful thunderstorm. “There is an old threshing barn on the far side of the orchard,” she said. As they rounded the bend she could see the ominous dark clouds on the horizon and hoped Jasper's horse was not the kind to be spooked. The rain was liable to catch them before they reached the barn.

She cast a worried glance at Michael, but a grin had split his face wide open. “You look like a frightened mouse. A little rain will feel good in this heat.”

Normally Libby would be cataloguing the reasons she loathed being caught in the rain. Her dress could be damaged and the cart mired in mud, not to mention the risk of pneumonia, but somehow she knew that even if the worst happened, Michael would extricate them from whatever difficulties arose. Even as the rain gathered momentum, he appeared to savor the sensation of the cool drops striking his face and the wind blowing in his hair.

Libby spotted the badly overgrown path leading through an abandoned apple orchard to the barn. Michael turned the horse, steering the wagon over the ruts and grooves that had been worn into the soil in earlier generations. The barn loomed only an acre off the road, but even from this distance Libby could see daylight filtering though the cracks in the weathered planking. When they pulled up to the barn, she could see that the hinges of the oversized door had long since rusted through, leaving it propped at an angle to cover the opening. It was impossible to swing it open, but Libby's eyes widened as Michael squatted down to work one hand beneath the door and another along the side. With a mighty heave and the sound of ancient wood creaking in protest, he pushed his legs straight and hoisted the door out of the way to place it against the side of the barn.

With rain rolling through the dust on his face and a grin that could melt a sheet of arctic ice, Michael turned to welcome her inside the barn. Libby darted inside to escape the downpour that was imminent, while Michael grasped the reins of the horse and drew him through the oversized opening, cart and all.

The barn was spacious and musty with nothing but a little old straw covering a dirt floor. Michael got the horse inside just as the sky opened and released the cooling rain it had been harboring for hours. With big, well-built hands he stroked the coat of the horse, rubbing him down and patting him affectionately. Even the way Michael looked after the horse made Libby's heart ache.

She had failed on all fronts today. She was still inexplicably besotted with the most inappropriate man in all of America, and she had learned nothing useful about Michael Dobrescu. Libby had taken Regina's advice to ask a series of sidestepping questions, but all they had done was reveal more contradictions. Perhaps it would be best to follow her own instincts and confront the problem directly.

The sound of raindrops pelting the ancient boards of the roof echoed through the barn. Libby stared at the downpour falling from the sky and formulated exactly what she wanted to know. She drew a steady breath, turned to face him, and asked. “When did you first learn about the old Cossack's will? And why did it take you so long to come here?”

His hands stopped stroking the horse. He froze for a moment, but she caught the look of fierce concentration that lit his eyes as he averted his face. “I was fighting a war. I could not leave without being branded a coward.” His hands went back to stroking the horse, but he did not meet her gaze.

She crossed in front of the doorway and to the other side of the horse, where she could have a direct view of his face. “Who is your father?”

“The Duke of Vlaska.” There was no hesitation in his voice, just a simple statement of fact.

“I thought he was dead,” Libby said. “Are you suggesting you are the current Duke of Vlaska?”

This time he looked directly at her, although in the dimness of the barn all she could see was a face carved in shadows and a curious glint in his eyes. “Succession in Romania works the same as in the other European countries. The oldest son is the Duke's heir.”

“And are you his oldest son?”

“I am.”

“Then why are you here? Don't you have a palace somewhere you can claim as your own?” She kept her head high and the bitterness from her voice, but knew she was treading on dangerous territory. Michael kept stroking the horse, his gaze never leaving her face. Finally, he stepped around the horse and casually sauntered to within a few inches of her. She was tempted to withdraw deeper into the shadows of the barn, but she would not let him see her flinch. Not even when he lifted his hand and tipped her chin up to see her better in the gloom.

“I find I no longer care for the scent of roses,” he said. “And there are roses all around the duke's estate.”

She jerked her chin away, the destruction of her mother's rose garden brought fresh to her mind. “You expect me to believe that? You seem to be quite adept at annihilating roses you do not like.”

He stared at her for a long moment before turning away to tend to the horse. The jangling of metal buckles filled the silence as he loosened the harness. “I do not wish to argue with you over this,” he said tightly. “The decision to uproot my family and travel halfway around the world was not made lightly. It was no longer possible for us to continue living in Romania, so I came here.” There was an edge to his voice and grim resolution in his eyes.

She remembered something Mr. Auckland had said about how war could be hard on aristocratic families. Was it possible the dukedom had been a casualty of the war? If a chunk of Romanian territory had been ceded to the Turks or the Russians, perhaps the duchy of Vlaska no longer existed. If his home had been swallowed into another nation, the duke's family would have been driven from the land.

A cold fist of fear clenched her belly. If Michael was in fact the son of the duke, and if he had nothing to go back to in Romania, there was no power on earth that would stop him from taking possession of the last remaining property to his name. Men with few options fought hard.

She walked to the open doorway of the barn, watching the sheets of rain pouring from the sky. She had no idea how much longer she was going to be trapped with Michael Dobrescu, but she wanted to get away. She wanted to forget she had ever met the big, blunt, and oddly charming man who loved the scent of perfume. She did not want to see him and his family driven from the only safe harbor they had left in the world, but neither could she let her father be thrown onto the street. Everyone in this town knew it was Professor Sawyer's home, and surely no judge from Colden, Massachusetts, would condone their eviction from it.

The strength drained away from her limbs, and she leaned against the side of the barn opening. Was it only a few minutes ago she had laughed when Michael picked up the massive door and heaved it to the side? Now all she felt was despair as the mist from the late afternoon storm penetrated her clothing and weighed down her spirits.

“I wish I could have found the red juniper for you,” she said softly. It seemed such an insignificant gift to offer, but finding the tree was important to Michael and the only thing she could do for him.

A rustle of fabric and the tread of his boots signaled that he had come to stand behind her, so close she could smell the scent of leather and sweat and man. “I wish I could build a castle for you,” he said simply.

He settled his hands on her shoulders, their weight and warmth soothing. She closed her eyes and leaned back against him, knowing he would not push her away. Her head rested alongside the strong column of his neck, and never had she felt so oddly comforted as his strength radiated into her. She felt every breath of air he pulled into his lungs, his big chest expanding and contracting as she leaned against him. It was the most intimate moment of her life.

It was possibly also the saddest, because Libby could not ignore the fact that the court case that would drive a wedge between them forever was only two days away.

The sun was setting behind a blaze of red and purple clouds when Michael drove the cart back to Jasper's house. The journey was silent except for the rhythmic clopping of hooves against the cobblestone street. An occasional gust of wind sent droplets spattering off the heavily leafed trees, but Libby already felt grubby and damp. And she knew her day was about to get worse when she saw who was waiting for her on the front porch of Jasper's house.

Her father's steely glare blasted her as Michael reined the horse to a stop in front of the house. She had not expected his return until tomorrow, but what her father discovered in Washington must have brought him home early. Jasper was sitting casually on a rocking chair, but her father shot to his feet, a book clenched in his hand so tightly his knuckles turned white. Libby wanted to wilt and dissolve as she sat beside her father's sworn enemy. She cringed, knowing the fragile bond she had forged with her father over these last few weeks had just been shattered.

“You'd better leave,” she whispered to Michael. “Take the horse to the carriage house and get out of here as quickly as possible.”

“No. I shall escort you to the door,” he said calmly.

Obviously, Michael had never seen her father in a rage. Not that Willard Sawyer ever became violent, but the sheer force of his anger could be a blistering thing. The rage would only last for an hour or two. He would catalog her shortcomings as a daughter and as a woman, listing the burdens she had brought into his life, the embarrassment of her mental deficiencies, his charity in supporting her. After his rage had run its course there would be days of stony silence, his anger simmering just beneath the surface.

“I'm not in any danger from my father, but you should go. Just go,” she said.

Michael pulled the breaking lever and sprang down from the seat. Libby tried to scramble down, but the hem of her dress became snagged in the wheel axle and her urgent tugs did nothing to free it. In an instant Michael was by her side, leaning across her and pulling the trapped muslin free. Libby's eyes widened in horror as his two hands encompassed her waist and she was bodily lifted from the cart and set on the cobblestone street as gently as if she were made of porcelain.

“Get your hands off my daughter.”

She startled at the venom in her father's voice and scurried toward the house, but she was no match for Michael's long-legged stride as he caught up with her at the base of the porch. Didn't he realize that he was making the situation worse?

Michael looked her father directly in the eye. “Mr. Sawyer—”

“Professor Sawyer.”

“Professor Sawyer,” Michael amended. “Your daughter has been very gracious. Her knowledge of the plants in the area is astounding.”

“Her
foolishness
is astounding! And I ought to have you arrested . . . taking liberties with a mental deficient too stupid to know your motives.”

Libby flinched at the fury in her father's voice and heat gathered in her cheeks. Michael's brows lowered and he moved to stand between her and the professor. “My English is not perfect and I do not understand what you just called your daughter, but I understand the tone,” Michael said calmly. “You have cause to resent me, but Libby does not deserve to be the target of your anger. I will not leave her in a house where she may be treated harshly.”

Her father's mouth compressed into a hard line, and even Libby was startled when he drew his arm back and hurled his book at Michael's head. The cover of the book splayed open and the pages went flying in the breeze. Michael knocked the book away as if it were no more bothersome than a flea. Never had she seen her father become physical in any way. Her father fought with words that cut, not fists, and certainly not by throwing things.