Page 26 of The Thorn and the Rose

Everett snorted in disgust. “I can imagine. I expect he promised to care for you, to take you to his mother, perhaps? Except she would never have materialised, I’m afraid, my dear. Did he swear to do anything to keep you safe? Yes, of course he did. I’m sure it was a most touching scene.”

It had been, Rosemarie thought with the ache of regret heavy in her heart, remembering the man who had sat beside her, who had taken her in his arms and…

Her breath caught, her cheeks heating, and she turned her head swiftly away from her brother to look out of the window, blinking back tears. Save the kiss she had dared press to Mr Barry’s lips before he had left her after those weeks in the cellar, she had never been kissed before. Rosemarie had heard the serving girls giggling about their beaus, and she had read more romantic novels than were good for her. Yet nothing had prepared her for the touch of his lips, for the feel of his powerful arms around her. The illusion of safety, of being cared for, had been so strong it had been the hardest thing not to give in and say she would go with him, at once, anywhere he chose to take her. It had shaken her, quite literally, for she had trembled in his embrace, overcome by emotion, by the strength of feelings that threatened to overpower her own will. She had wanted to cling to him, to beg him to keep her with him always. What nonsense, she told herself. It had been just a kiss. Nothing more. A kiss from a man who looked like an angel.

Oh, Lord, and he had, too. Tall and lithe, with broad shoulders and hair the colour of old gold that had glinted in the sunlight. His eyes had been such an unearthly blue she had struggled to look away from them. Rosemarie had known he was handsome beneath the bruises and the swelling of the beating he’d suffered, but nothing had prepared her for the truth of him. When she had first seen him beneath the portico she had almost turned and fled, instincts telling her she would not survive an encounter with a man who looked like that with her heart intact. Not when she already knew he was funny, and kind, and self-deprecating, and so… Stop it.

She hadn’t run, though. She had steeled her spine and turned back to meet him, and she knew now that he was no angel. His words had been exactly those Everett had promised her he would use. A faint voice in the back of her head whispered the possibility that it did not mean they were not sincere, but she did not dare put any faith in it. He would use her just as Everett would use her… if she let him.

“Yes, it was touching. He offered to rescue me,” she agreed blandly. “He said he would take me to Gillmont.”

The explosion of rage from the other side of the carriage would have shocked her once, but she had known it was coming and had been ready for the litany of curses that rained down on Mr Barry. Everett seemed to have forgotten that a gentleman did not swear in front of a lady, or perhaps he no longer saw her as a lady. He was certainly using her in a manner no gentleman would ever dream of treating a lady of quality, let alone his own sister. Rosemarie kept her breathing shallow, determined he would not see her shock, nor her fear. By the time he had exhausted himself and fallen quiet, she felt sick with apprehension at what might come next.

“Go home, Rosemarie.”

“I am going home. We both are,” she said in some confusion.

His eyes were glittering too brightly, his jaw tight as he replied. “I’m staying in town.”

“Everett, no, you cannot—”

“Cannot? You dare to tell me what I can and cannot do?” he demanded, every line of his body taut, his fists clenched.

Rosemarie swallowed, forcing herself to moderate her words. “I beg your pardon, brother. I meant only that I cannot travel alone. I am sorry to be a burden to you, but my reputation—”

Everett muttered an oath and glared at her. “Fine. I shall escort you home and then I shall return to town.”

Rosemarie licked her lips nervously. “Everett, I had cause to look at the account books and we are running very low on funds. Might we talk a little about ways to economise? For the staff have not been paid in weeks and the chimney really must be repaired, you know, and—”

“God damn the chimney to hell,” he growled and, even despite his recent behaviour, Rosemarie felt the shock of his words like a slap to the face. “I’ve money enough.”

“B-But, Everett, there’s none. I looked and—”

With a snarl of impatience, he wrenched a heavy money purse from his pocket and tossed it to her. It landed with a thud in her lap and might have bruised her if not for the thickness of skirts and petticoats covering her thighs.

Rosemarie lifted it in silent astonishment. “How?” she asked helplessly.

Everett reached over and snatched it back, staring at her defiantly. “I sold fifty acres to old Loughton.”

Rosemarie stared at him, too stunned to speak. Her breath caught. “W-Which fifty?”

Everett sent her a look of contempt. “The fifty he’s been after for the past twenty years.”

Rosemarie closed her mouth against the litany of words crowding inside her, desperate for release. If she let so much as a word pass her lips, she would not stop. She would berate her brother for a wastrel and a fool and accuse him of setting out to ruin them, for that was what he was doing. The fifty acres had been the best grazing land for miles, and everyone knew it. The one reliable source of income they had came from the fat sheep the estate produced each year, and now that was gone. And for what? For a bag of coin, which would be spent on Everett’s vengeance.

Rosemarie sat in simmering silence, aware of her brother watching her. He must know, she realised. He might be losing his reason, but he was not a fool. Everett knew what she was thinking and was waiting for her to break, to rant and rage so he too might vent his spleen on her.

She refused to give him the satisfaction. Instead, she let out a steadying breath before she spoke, her voice firm and perfectly calm, the words designed to hit him in his most vulnerable spot. For she was no coward, and though she may not have the strength to fight him like a man, she’d not be thought weaponless in this bloodless war they waged between them.

“Do you think Miss Nichols would approve of your actions, Everett, dear? Do you think she’s looking down on you with more favour than she showed you in life?”

It was cruel but in that moment she did not care. She cared more when he lunged at her, his hand closing around her throat. He did not squeeze, but he did not need to. She still had bruises from the last time she had defied him. Rosemarie felt the power there, the unspoken threat. He leaned close, his mouth brushing her ear, his breath fluttering over her skin, the scent of brandy distinct and it was not yet much past midday. “Never, never speak of her, or of what you do not understand, Rosemarie, my pet. Miss Nichols is my cross to bear, and I will take my vengeance for the innocent girl who could not.”

He released his hold and snatched up the bag of coin, sitting back down again, offering her a bland smile that chilled her to the bone. Rosemarie raised her hand to the place where the bruises dwelt beneath the silk scarf and swallowed carefully. It felt as if her heart was lodged in her throat, the sound of it thudding in her ears.

“Here.” She started as Everett tossed a heavy coin at her, the sovereign gleaming in the dim interior of the carriage and reminding her of Mr Barry’s golden colouring. Somehow, she caught it before it fell to the muck on the filthy carriage floor. “Get us something nice for dinner. Roast lamb, eh? Mama will like that,” he said, looking for all the world like a doting son wishing to treat his beloved parent. “And do whatever pleases you with the rest of it.”

Powerless to do or say anything else, Rosemarie nodded. “Of course, Everett. Roast lamb it will be,” she murmured, sickened when he reached over and patted her hand.