One Perfect Rose by Mary Jo Putney Page B

landlady. It came cool and fresh from a small pitcher. He sipped slowly at first, drinking more deeply when the milk began to settle his ravaged stomach. He’d always had an unfashionable taste for milk, and his consumption had trebled since his illness set in.
    After emptying the pitcher, he lay down and dragged the covers over his shivering body. This time when he drifted into restless sleep, there were no pleasant dreams.
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    Stephen awoke to morning sunshine and gray resignation. His thoughts about Rosalind Jordan the previous night had been more than a little fevered. The most she could ever be to him was a fantasy. He had too much consideration and—admit it—pride, to become involved with a woman when his future consisted of decay and death.
    He wearily got out of bed, weak and dizzy and head aching. Yet overall he didn’t feel really wretched. Tomorrow or the next day he’d be ready to go home.
    He glanced into the mirror over the washbasin and winced at the sight of his face. Between beard, bandage, and bruises, he looked like a ruffian. He went to his luggage for his razor. After shaving, he removed the bandage and examined the gash in his scalp. The doctor had shaved the area around it and neatly stitched the wound up. Since there was no sign of bleeding or infection, Stephen applied a piece of sticking plaster and combed his hair over the bare spot. The change in hairstyle made him look faintly rakish, but at least it disguised his injury.
    Then he dressed. As Rosalind had said, his boots were quite wearable, though his valet would have thrown them out immediately. But Stephen Ashe was not a duke and had no need to maintain impeccable standards. The knowledge was rather liberating.
    The routine of washing and dressing improved his mood. Since his stomach was feeling reasonably steady, he went downstairs in search of breakfast. The Three Crowns was the sort of modest, clean establishment he’d become acquainted with on this journey. At the bottom of the steps he paused. Thomas Fitzgerald’s resonant voice could be heard behind a door on the right. The family must be breakfasting in a private parlor.
    He could eat alone, of course, but he was tired of being alone and didn’t feel that another attack was imminent. He tapped on the door and entered when Maria called permission. All five Fitzgeralds were seated around the breakfast table. They were an attractive family, though it was interesting how different Rosalind looked from all her dark-haired, blue-eyed kin.
    Stephen’s entrance was met by a moment of utter silence. Then pandemonium broke out as everyone but Rosalind rose and converged on the newcomer. Even the lanky wolfhound emerged from under the table and loped forward.
    Maria Fitzgerald reached Stephen first. Clasping his hand to her bountiful bosom, she said in a rich, emotional voice, “Rosalind has told us all about you, Mr. Ashe. Bless you for saving my baby’s life. I vow before God that from now on, my life is yours to do with as you choose.”
    Stephen stared at the tears trembling in her great blue eyes, bemused by two simultaneous thoughts. One was that Maria was surely a very fine tragic actress. The other was that under her dramatic manner, she was completely sincere. If he said that he wanted to take her life, she would have handed him a pistol.
    Gently he disengaged his hand. “I did only what any man might, Mrs. Fitzgerald. And I can think of no better use of your life than the one to which you are putting it.”
    That elicited a booming laugh from Thomas Fitzgerald, who took hold of Stephen’s newly freed hand and pumped it energetically. “Well said, Mr. Ashe. But I must tell you that I share my wife’s sentiments completely.” He gave an affectionate glance at his son, who stood beside him. “Brian here is a rare scamp, but we would have missed him sadly.”
    Jessica Fitzgerald rumpled her brother’s hair.