One Perfect Rose by Mary Jo Putney Read Free Book Online

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “It’s the man I noticed at the show last night—the handsome one.”
    For the first time Rosalind looked at the man as a whole rather than as a casualty to be examined. “I believe you’re right. Keep your hands off the poor fellow until he’s conscious and able to defend himself, Jess.”
    Jessica gave a contemptuous sniff as she knelt beside her sister. “He might not be a lord, but he’s certainly brave.”
    Rosalind nodded in silent agreement as she studied his face. Handsome, certainly, but also stern. There was passion in that sensual mouth, and lines of strict control around it. He was a man used to being obeyed, she guessed. Not surprising since the cut and quality of his clothing clearly stated that he was a gentleman. Yet, paradoxically, his hard hands and lean, fit body showed that he was not a stranger to physical exertion.
    â€œShould we see if he’s carrying anything that has his name and address?” Jessica asked. “There must be someone we should notify.”
    Rosalind hesitated, then shook her head. “I’d rather not look through his things unless we have to. He can tell us himself when he wakes.”
    â€œThat will ruin the mystery,” Jessica said with regret. “He’ll probably turn out to be sober and pompous, with a wife and eight children.”
    Perhaps. But as Rosalind gently tucked her shawl around his wide shoulders, she knew that none of that would matter. To her he would always be a hero.
    Â 
    Stephen returned to consciousness gradually. He was swaying. A ship, perhaps? No, a carriage of some sort. He was lying on his back with very little room to move. And he ached in a variety of places.
    Christ, what if he had been wrongly declared dead and was in a coffin? There were ghoulish tales of those who had been prematurely buried. His eyes snapped open. To his relief, he saw that he was in a canvas-topped wagon. His movement was restricted because he was surrounded by chests and boxes, but he lay on a comfortable pallet, and a soft quilt had been tucked around him.
    His head ached. He raised an unsteady hand to it, only to have his wrist gently caught in midair. “Better leave the bandage alone,” a husky contralto voice said. “You took quite a knock on the head.”
    He glanced to his right, then blinked. Kneeling beside him was Lady Caliban. Or rather, Mrs. Rosalind Jordan. As she laid his hand down, a stray shaft of sunlight transformed her tawny hair into burnished bronze and gold and amber. All of the colors of autumn, though the unimaginative might call it light brown. Her expression had the humor and intelligence he had seen when she was onstage.
    What he had not expected was the profound warmth in her dark brown eyes. He stared into the chocolate depths, mesmerized by the fact that all that kindness and concern were focused on him.
    â€œHow are you feeling?” she asked. If her eyes were chocolate, her voice was like the finest brandy, where rich smoothness concealed a powerful punch. And he mustn’t forget the cream of her complexion. She reminded him of every delicious thing he’d ever tasted in his life.
    She was also going to think him an imbecile. He tried to say “Fine,” but the word emerged from his dry throat as a croak.
    She reached for a jug beside her. “It sounds ironic after what you’ve been through, but would you like some water?”
    When he nodded, Mrs. Jordan lifted the jug and poured water into a tin cup. Then she held the vessel to his lips so he could drink. When he was done, she sat back on her heels. “Do you remember what happened? The river?”
    He thought back, then shuddered at the vivid memory of the water dragging him down. “Is the boy all right?”
    â€œBrian is fine. Rather better than you, actually. He’s my little brother. We’re getting you to a physician, to make sure