The Thornless Rose by Morgan O'Neill Read Free Book Online Page B

grinning.
    He grinned back. “So I’ve been told many a time!”
    Suddenly, he put an arm around her waist, his gaze on her mouth. “Thy lips are red as pomegranates,” he murmured.
    This was going too far. “No, no,” Anne said, flustered. She moved out of his embrace. “My grandmother is here—she’s, er, coming right back. Jeez, isn’t consorting with the tourists against company policy?”
    With a puzzled look, he said, “Tourists? Thy speech confounds me. But thou art beautiful, more lovely than any at court.” Taking her hand, he pulled her close and kissed her.
    She tasted wine and struggled to push him away. “Back off! You’re drunk!”
    He took a step backward and laughed. “Whatever m’lady wishes. Let it not be said that Robert, Lord Dudley, is a wanton muff-splitter who wouldst take liberties without proper invitation.”
    “A wanton what?”
    He chuckled. “An enjoyer of women!”
    Anne’s eyes widened. The guy’s vocabulary was really out there.
    He held the rose to her and bowed with a flourish.
    Anne took it and stared at the stem. There were no thorns, only small, harmless, hairlike bristles.
    Oh, jeez, is this a thornless rose? What had the tour guide said about a rose and Queen Katherine? Searching her memory, she wished she’d listened to his rendition more carefully.
    “Thy name, m’lady?”
    “Huh?” She turned her gaze back to him. “Oh, it’s Anne Howard.”
    “Thou art a Howard?”
    To her surprise, he eyed her with suspicion. What had she said?
    “The queen, Katherine, was a Howard.” He slowly nodded. “And now I see it. Thou hast the look of her.” With a scowl, he studied the camera around her neck, then her jeans and sneakers. “Woman, what is this hurly-burly?” His fingers returned to the dagger. “Art thou a witch, or some phantom of Queen Katherine come back to haunt this place?”
    “Have you lost your mind?” Anne turned away from him and ground to a halt, seeing a strange landscape. What the heck? The Pond Garden now held different hedges and flowers. Tall, striped poles topped with heraldic beasts—dragons, lions, and hounds—surrounded the pond. Beyond the garden, past the Thames’ embankment, a thick forest stretched as far as the eye could see.
    She spun about and saw the palace’s façade; there was no bay window in Hampton Court, and the bricks were painted a garish red.
    Once more, Anne felt goose bumps. She looked down at her fading self and then felt—this time she really felt—his strong hands grasp at her clothes and pull at her arm.
    …
    “Darling,” Catherine called from the path, “please, do come along.”
    With a start, Anne realized she still held her camera against her eye, as if the intervening moments with the man calling himself Robert Dudley had not occurred. Time slip? Other words from the magazine articles filled her mind. Time warp? Wormhole? Knees shaking, she knew it would take a supreme effort to keep her footing.
    “Might I remind you of the time, darling? We’ll lose our coach party if we delay.”
    Anne began to lower her camera and was about to answer her grandmother, when she felt something velvety and moist in her hand, crushed between her fingers and the side of the camera.
    “Oh!” she cried, dropping the squashy thing on the ground.
    “What is it?” Catherine rushed to her side.
    “It’s...” Anne’s tone cracked with fear. “Oh my God, it’s a rose!”
    “Well, of course it is. Lord, you didn’t pick it, did you? We’ll be run out in a thrice if they find you’ve––”
    “No, I didn’t pick it. Someone gave it to me.” Anne retrieved the rose from the ground and handed it to her grandmother. “Take a look at the stem.”
    Squinting, Catherine examined it. “I don’t understand. There are no thorns...” Her voice trailed off, then she blurted, “How in the world did you come by such a thing?”
    “You’re not going to believe this, Grandma,” Anne said, gazing at the spot where