Page 3 of The Thorn and the Rose

Thorn nodded, accepting her explanation as far as it went. Packing boxes lined the walls. He watched the woman closely as she perched on the edge of the bed. Her eyes were thickly lashed, her skin fair, and her mouth a soft pink, the bottom lip full and plush, the upper a perfect cupid’s bow. She seemed nervous, as well she might.

“What’s your name?”

Colour rose to her cheeks, and she bit her lip. “You may call me Marie,” she said, avoiding his eye and reaching for the napkin on the tray. She laid it over his chest. “Eat now. You must regain your strength.”

She dipped the spoon into the bowl of soup and held it to his mouth.

“I can do it,” Thorn protested, reaching for the spoon, only to discover his hand was shaking too badly to manage.

Marie returned a wry look. “You’ve not seen your bruises. You’re black and blue, I think you’ve got broken ribs and you’re certainly concussed.”

Thorn glanced down at himself. He wore only his shirt. Had she undressed him? Had she investigated beneath? How the devil had she managed it alone? What other tender ministrations had been dealt him whilst he’d slept?

Her cheeks burned a darker pink as he glanced back at her, obviously realising what he’d been thinking. Anxious he do nothing to distress her, Thorn accepted the spoonful of soup, quickly devouring the entire bowl. He soon discovered his jaw was too painful to chew and so she soaked the bread in the soup, feeding him the kind of nursery pap he despised under normal circumstances but was more than grateful for now.

“I must send word to my family,” he said as she gathered up the bowl and folded the napkin. She darted a look at him, her eyes wary. “They’ll be very grateful to you for everything you’ve done,” he added, wondering if the promise of a reward would help.

She nodded, heading for the door.

“So, if I could send them a message…” he persisted.

“Yes, of course… later,” she added, and hurried from the room before he could protest.

Thorn frowned as he was plunged into darkness again. Damnation! She’d taken the candle. Uneasy at the strange state of affairs, he shifted carefully on the bed trying to move himself into a more upright position. Pain lanced through his head, and he lay down again, breathing hard. Perhaps he would stay still and sleep… just a little longer.

Thorn woke with a start, and the disquieting sensation of being watched.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He stared at the lovely face in front of him, his bleary brain trying to put the pieces together. His memory felt like a blurry puzzle, with bits missing or in the wrong place.

“Marie?” he dragged the name up from somewhere, remembering that she had helped him.

She smiled and, if he hadn’t had a concussion before, he did now. Her lovely face lit up, glowing in the candlelight and sending a peculiar sensation shivering through him. Christ, but he’d never seen a girl like this before. She was… His mind groped about for words but found nothing that did her justice. It was not just that she was lovely, that her figure was deliciously slender and rounded in all the right places. There was an air about her, mysterious and elusive, the sense that she was hiding something bright and lovely, and that he might find it if he tried hard enough.

“Here, I’ve brought more soup.”

She busied herself rearranging his pillows so he could sit up a little and settled his napkin in place before sitting beside him and holding the bowl in one hand, the spoon in the other.

Thorn sighed, wishing fervently he was not so incapacitated and undoubtedly looking such a fright in front of this enchanting creature. As there was nothing to be done about it, he studied her instead. The gown she wore was severely cut and plain, in a deep shade of green. She wore no jewellery, no ear bobs or necklace, though the gown seemed to his eye to be of excellent quality. There was undoubtedly a strange quality about her, though, something remote and untouchable, like a veil of sadness hung about her, smothering the girl beneath. Thorn itched with the desire to tear it away and make her smile.

She fed him the soup, a thick vegetable mixture this time, which he ate with relish. The food seemed to revive him somewhat, and he remembered what he’d so urgently wanted to speak to her about.

“I must contact my family,” he said, watching her closely. “My poor mother will be beside herself. You would not want her to worry?”

She glanced at him, her lovely eyes wide with regret. “N-No. Oh, no, of course not. I’m so sorry. Truly, I… I am. I shall bring you paper and ink and you will tell me what to write for you. I will see it sent,” she added, giving him a determined little nod.

“Thank you.” Thorn sighed with relief. Now that was arranged, he was eager to know more about her, to know why she was so anxious and so shrouded in sadness. “You must tell me a little about yourself. Have you lived here long? What about your brother? Does he live with you? Why did you not tell him about me? Will he punish you? Surely, he is bound to discover me eventually.”

The colour drained from her face, and he realised too late he had pushed too hard, too fast. Marie hurried to her feet, gathering bowl and napkin to her. Thorn reached for her hand, but she darted back and ran for the door.

“Don’t forget to come back with the paper,” he called, but the door closed behind her.

With a growl of frustration, Thorn tried once more to get up. At least she had left the candle this time. He got himself to the side of the bed and pushed to his feet, only to discover the room whirling around him, his head throbbing until he felt the soup would make an unwelcome return. Dizzy and nauseated, he collapsed back on the bed with a muttered oath. Well, he wasn’t escaping this room under his own steam any time soon. He could only pray Marie came back with the paper.

Fatigue rolled over him again, and he slept.

Marie did come back, and she brought paper and ink, though Thorn had lost any sense of time passing. It might have been minutes or hours since she’d been with him last. His head felt fuzzy as well as painful. It seemed as though he had taken laudanum, which usually left him feeling foggy like this, but he did not remember being given any since those first, pain filled days. His stomach growled, and he pressed a hand against it to silence it. How long had it been since he’d eaten last? It seemed an age since she had brought the soup, and he was famished again.