The Shamrock & the Rose by Regan Walker

damned.
    Rose looked down at the footman lying on the
ground, but Morgan restrained her, not wishing her to see the
blood.
    “I must see to Albert,” she said.
    “No, Rose. Allow me.”
    Before Morgan could reach the footman, the
coachman and a second footman arrived; they had gotten worried
after Rose failed for so long to appear. Morgan briefly explained
what had happened, and the footman knelt before Albert the moment
he was certain Rose was unharmed.
    “He’s still breathing,” they were told. It
was very good news.
    Morgan held Rose more tightly. She was still
shaking, perhaps from the cold as well as from fright. He needed to
see to that.
    “You’re safe now, Rose,” he promised. When
she leaned her head on his shoulder and began crying he whispered,
“Shhhhh. It will be all right now.”
    Her attacker was still unconscious. The
coachman and Robert the second footman agreed to summon help from
the theatre to deal with him before seeing the injured Albert back
to Claremont House.
    Morgan asked Rose, “Did you recognize
him?”
    “I cannot be certain,” she said, “but he
looks like one of several men who have been in the front row at all
of my performances.”
    “He said something about you replacing
another. Perhaps he lost a woman who looked like you…? It matters
not. The magistrate will deal with him. Come, I must get you out of
the cold and home. We can take my carriage.”
    All the way back to Claremont House, Morgan
held Rose. She had stopped crying but appeared exhausted.
    “You were quite brave tonight, my love,” he
announced. “You striking the man gave me the time I needed. Not
many women would have done that.”
    Rose looked taken aback. “Why, I had to! I
could not allow him to hurt you.”
    “Ah, my brave Portia.” He smiled and kissed
her forehead, relieved she was safe.
    “I was rather brave, wasn’t I?” She had a
satisfied look on her face, and it was all he could do to stifle a
laugh of pure joy.
    * * *
    By the time they arrived at Claremont House,
Rose had fallen asleep in his arms. He carried her through the
front door and, barely acknowledging the alarmed Cruthers, took her
into the parlour and laid her on the sofa. A fire warmed the
room.
    The countess entered shortly thereafter.
“What has happened?”
    Rose began to wake. Morgan explained from
where he sat beside her, holding her hand. “A man waited in the
shadows at the side of the theatre, and when she came out after the
performance attacked Albert and tried to take her. Fortunately I
was there.”
    “How dreadful!”
    “Countess,” said Rose. “Mr. O’Connell
rescued me.”
    “I believe he did, my dear,” the countess
said. Walking forward, she saw their joined hands and stared
pointedly at them, then at Rose still reclining on the sofa. “You
are well, my dear?”
    Rose sat up but kept Morgan’s hand. “I am
fine.”
    “I was not quick enough to save your
footman,” Morgan admitted.
    “Give the girl some brandy, Mr. O’Connell,”
the countess said with a small smile, “and I’ll see to Albert.”
    Morgan poured Rose a glass as the older
woman departed. When she had taken some, he raised her hand to his
lips and pressed a kiss on her knuckles.
    “It seems you need looking after,” he
began.
    “Do I?”
    That was more than just gratitude in her
eyes, he believed. He hoped. “Yes, and I’m just the man to do it.
You have a spirit I cannot resist. I believe I love you, Rose
Collingwood, so you’d best marry me. My shamrock and your rose. I
like them together. I like us together.”
    Desperate to kiss her, he took her in his
arms and pressed his lips to hers. His kiss must say what words
could not.
    * * *
    Rose gave in to Morgan’s strength and the
comforting warmth of his embrace. She didn’t seem to be able to
tell the Irishman no…but she didn’t really want to. He was
intelligent, dashing and daring. He was the adventure she’d come to
London to find—or at least the start of it. She