Page 47 of Rose
“Ye said once that ye wanted to taste my cooking. Well, I’m going to make us a fine meal.”
~ * ~
Tristan sat in one of the chairs by the fire feeling, to his own surprise, perfectly at ease. Usually, he felt restless on dry land, even during brief visits. But at that moment, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks could be heard through the open window. And no sunset, blue sea, or distant port could compete with his current view of Rose bustling from the table to the hearth with handfuls of chopped meat and vegetables. With her simple, unembellished beauty to gaze upon and the smell of simmering stew and fresh baked bread filling the air, he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so content.
Rose caught him staring and flashed a bright smile. Her long red curls hung free down her back. Her slim figure moved about with strength and ease. She hummed as she ladled stew into two wooden bowls, which she then set upon the table near the open window.
“There now,” she said, stepping back to consider her work. The smile that played at her lips told him she was pleased by what she saw. And why shouldn’t she be? He crossed the room to stand beside her and admired the steaming bowls and plate of fresh bannock.
“Shall we?” she asked.
“It smells heavenly,” he said, taking his seat. “Thank you, Rose.”
She sat across from him, but didn’t take up her spoon straightaway. Instead, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “I love that smell,” she said. “Salt air mingling with the scent of fresh stew.”
Tristan smiled and took a bite. The meat was tender and the flavor rich. He dipped his bread in the sauce. “Rose, you’ve made a truly splendid meal. Mayhap, we can bring some of the fresh meat on board tomorrow so the crew might enjoy a fine stew such as this on the feast day of Saint Peter.”
Her brows drew together, and a darkness marred her exquisite countenance—only for a moment, a breath. But it was there—unmistakable suffering.
He reached across the table and took her hand. “Forgive me, Rose, but I can keep my silence no longer. I know you are a private woman, and that we have only known each other a brief while. But owing to the circumstances of our relationship, I feel like I’ve known you…well…my whole life somehow.”
She nodded. “I also feel that. I could almost weave stories of our youth spent antagonizing each other or rambling over the moors. ‘Tis strange, really. Ye’re at once so familiar and still more mysterious than any man I’ve ever known…” Her voice trailed off.
“There,” he said, leaning forward in his seat. “There it was again.”
She gave him a puzzled look. “What was there?”
He paused for a moment, and considered her. Then he stood and offered her his hand. “Let us walk along the shore. You seem most comfortable out of doors, smelling the sea air.”
She wore a wary expression on her face as she tentatively took his hand. He led her outside and across the field to the beach. When they reached the sand, he sat down and took off his boots. She also left behind her slippers, and they set off toward the sea, their bare feet sinking in the sand.
“I’ve never known a woman like you,” he began. “You are so much more engaged in the world around you than many of the women I’ve encountered. Privileged women, whether noble or not, are shielded from everything. They keep their eyes averted, never looking headlong. But you’re different. You’re smart, Rose, and courageous and kind.”
Then he stopped and turned to her. “Forgive me for saying so, but you are also so very sad—not all the time. It lies just beneath the surface. It flashes through you when you gaze out to sea. It is as much a part of you as your laughter and your passion. It is real, and when it comes to the surface, it twists and hurts.”
Tears stung her eyes.
He drew closer and cupped her cheek in his hand. “What is it that hides in your heart that can make you so very sad?”
A strangled sob fled her lips as her hands flew to cover her face. Her whole body tensed. He could feel her battle for control. After several moments, her hands dropped to her sides. Tears still pooled in her eyes, but they did not fall. “I did not know the date until you said tomorrow was the feast of Saint Peter,” she said, her voice strained.
“Yes, that is correct.”
She swallowed hard. She opened her mouth to speak but the words seemed trapped. He took her hand to help her. Her pain was palpable. It tore through him, tightening his chest and causing his own heart to ache on her behalf.
She pressed her lips together, fighting back her tears. “Today is my Ina’s birthday.”
He shook his head, not understanding. “Who is Ina?” he asked softly.
“My daughter.” The words blurted from her throat, hurried and steeped in anguish. She turned from him and stumbled as she started down the shore. In three strides he overtook her and scooped her into his arms. Her breaths were coming in panicked heaves. He cradled her and hastened back inside the cottage. Then he sat on the bed and held her in his lap. She gripped his tunic and looked at him with pain stricken eyes. “My three daughters and my husband were also slain during the massacre,” she whispered.
His heart shattered. “Oh, Rose.”
She nodded and took a deep breath. “Now ye know,” she said quietly as she slid off his lap onto the bed next to him.
“I am so deeply sorry for your loss, Rose,” he said, wanting somehow to ease her suffering. “I know this must be a familiar platitude by now, but I wish there was some way I could ease your pain.”
She looked at him, her blue eyes earnest. “Their bodies grew within mine. Their souls, their hearts are tied to me in a way no one else ever could be. Loss burns within me, like I’m constantly on fire, but I don’t want it to stop, Tristan. I don’t want the fire to go out. ‘Tis their souls still within me that I alone carry now, because they cannot.” She sat straighter and swiped at her eyes. “They are my angels, my precious girls. They’re always with me.”
