Page 37 of The Thorn and the Rose

He saw her then and stilled as she too froze in place. Suddenly, she was afraid. She had her plans; she knew just what to say, how to arrange things, and yet now, seeing him again, made it so very difficult to fight against the foolish notions that lit joyously inside her. Could he really be a hero, a man she could rely on, and put her trust in? He had seemed to like her well enough, admire her even. Were all the things he had said to her, his promises to keep her safe, true? Was it possible he might still hold a little affection in his heart for her, despite everything she’d done?

“Marie,” he said, and those notions burst like delicate soap bubbles at the hard, distrustful tone of his voice.

“As you see,” she replied, drinking in the sight of him, wishing those blue eyes did not look so cold, but warm and full of desire as they had that day in the park at Lincoln’s Field.

Such a long time ago now. Too long. Perhaps he might have been her hero then, but now she disgusted him. That much was obvious.

He looked her over, and she was glad the frigid wind had already made her cheeks burn, so he could not tell the difference between that and the shame she felt in meeting his eyes. For a moment, though it was impossible and foolish, she wished desperately that they had met in other circumstances, that he had known her before everything had gone wrong. Might they have been friends then, perhaps more than friends? Once upon a time she had dreamed of coming out to society, of having pretty dresses and meeting a man who loved her wildly. Might it have been him, if things had been different? Did he think her shabby garments appalling, that they were part of an act, a ploy to trap him, perhaps? Well, she had worn her tattiest dress, the one she used only for cleaning, intending to pluck at his heartstrings—not that the others were in much better condition—but now she wished she had not.

Rosemarie groped for something to say but words eluded her. His eyes seemed to bore into her, as if he could read her thoughts, as if he were weighing her up and deciding if there were any value here. Mistrust echoed in every line of his body, and in the cool expression on his face. This man seemed so different from the one she had met previously. He had been warm and unguarded, the openness of his nature shining from him. Now he looked at her with suspicion… as he should, she reminded herself, bearing in mind her plans. And yet her heart ached with regret.

If she told him the whole truth, would he save her? Or would he be just what Everett said he was, and take advantage of her? How could she know? How could she risk everything, not only herself but Mama and Mills too? No. If her brother could treat them all so ill, with so little regard for their lives, their feelings, why should this man who knew her so little and trusted her not at all be any different?

“Going somewhere?” he asked, his gaze falling upon the small portmanteau she carried.

Rosemarie could not read the tone of his voice.

“Y-Yes,” she said, not having to feign nervousness. Though she had her own agenda, putting herself in his power was still a dangerous path to set foot on. “You said you would take me to Gillmont, the house in the country you told me about. That I would be safe there.”

“And you did not wish to go,” he reminded her.

“Desperation and poverty have a detrimental effect on one’s pride, Mr Barry.”

“I’m not Mr Barry,” he said tersely. “As you well know. I am Lord Thomas Barrington, younger son of the Marquess of Montagu.”

Marie’s breath caught. Everyone knew of Montagu in this part of the world. Dern was not so very far away, and stories of the handsome, proud marquess were legend. Marie had even read The Eagle and the Lamb, which was supposed to have been based on the love story between the marquess and his wife. This man’s mother. Suddenly, her wild fantasies of being saved seemed foolish indeed, not only unlikely but preposterous. As if a man like that would look seriously at her, the impoverished daughter of an ordinary man. Not even a baron, like Everett’s father.

Not knowing what else to do, Rosemarie curtsied. “My lord,” she said, bowing her head so he would not see the devastation in her eyes.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he said in disgust. “I didn’t tell you so you’d bow and scrape, Marie. If I’m going to help you, I’ll have the truth, by God, or you can turn around and take yourself off again.”

Rosemarie nodded. Her teeth were chattering now, and the wind was making her eyes water. Sea spray made the chill wind damp, settling over her cloak and no doubt turning her hair into a frizzy mess.

“We can’t talk here,” he said, terse now. “My carriage is waiting for me. I can’t keep the horses standing long. If you want to discuss things, if you are prepared to be honest with me, then come with me and I will do what I can for you. Do you agree?”

Rosemarie nodded, and for a moment, his harsh features softened.

“Come along then. Give me your bag.” He took it from her, walking off, his boots crunching on the shingle as he went, and leaving her to follow if she would.

Rosemarie took a deep breath. Son of the Marquess of Montagu. It was better than she could have hoped, she told herself sternly, ignoring the way her heart ached with regret. The greater the name, the bigger the scandal would be. Steeling herself for what was to come, Rosemarie followed her fate.

Thorn studied the woman opposite him. The past months had not been kind to her, judging from the state of her clothing and the dark circles under her eyes. She looked exhausted and fragile, and Thorn steeled himself against the surge of pity and protectiveness that rose in his chest. She could not be trusted, he reminded himself.

“Are you going to tell me your name?” he demanded once they were settled in the carriage. He’d given the driver orders to take them to The George in Battle. It was far enough away from here that he hoped it would be discreet if he hired a private parlour for them. Then they could eat and warm up, and perhaps he could figure out what the hell she was up to and what to do about it.

Marie licked her lips and, despite himself, Thorn’s eyes fell to her mouth. She might look tired and wan and hardly at her best, but desire still thrummed beneath his skin at her nearness. What was it about her that called to him so fiercely, he wondered. Yes, she was beautiful, but he’d seen plenty of beautiful women in his day and none of them had ever disturbed his peace of mind like this one. Was it just that she was a puzzle he wanted to solve? Was that it?

“Well?” he pressed. “You know who I am. The least I’m owed is a name, is it not?”

She nodded but her eyes were downcast as she answered. “You deserve that and a good deal more, my lord, but I cannot tell you.”

“Will not,” he amended.

Another nod and still she avoided his gaze. Thorn reached out and lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. She swallowed nervously.

“If I tell you my name, you will discover my brother, too. I have done everything in my power to stop his vendetta against you. I have even left him to rot in prison rather than allow him to continue with his madness and ruin us entirely. As it is, he has reduced me to this state, but there is my mother to consider. She still has a home and a servant to care for her for now, but I don’t doubt my brother will decide that pitiful comfort must also be sacrificed. Perhaps he will break the entail on our home and leave us destitute. So, I leave him to his fate to protect us all. Yet he is still my blood, and I cannot betray him entirely.”

Thorn studied her face. Her words sounded sincere, the desperation in her eyes too tangible to be simulated. Yet he did not trust her.