Free Defiant Rose by Colleen Quinn

that matter.
    Fury boiled up in him as his thoughts settled blame on one red-haired wench. God, how she must be laughing at him now! He remembered her telling him about the position, knowing that he would rise to the bait like any half-starved flounder, then hook himself neatly. He remembered her in the tent last night, charitably putting cold cloths on his head and sweetly helping him to sip whiskey. Surely she expected him to leave now, tail between his legs, having learned his lesson in the most dramatic way possible.
    He clenched his teeth, poured water into the basin, and splashed his face, rubbing as if to take the skin from his bones. She would pay for this, for frightening him, humiliating him in front of all those townspeople and performers. He cringed as he thought of himself dangling from the wheel, fainting like his grandmother. Heat rose in his face, and he combed his hair with a vengeance. God, when he got through with Rosemary Carney, she would rue the day she ever crossed him.
    Damned if she wouldn’t.
     
     
    It was late when he stepped outside, moonlight silvering the encampment. For a frightening moment he almost expected to see the field empty, that the troupe had departed again while he slept. But rows of tents rose up before him reassuringly, along with an eerie silence. Belatedly he realized where they had gone.
    To town. Michael remembered that Jake had invited him to come with them later, strictly as a gesture of supposed friendliness. It was another of their damned traditions, that the circusmen painted the town red after a performance. He could just hear their whiskey-laden voices, chortling at the banker who’d nearly lost his life at the whim of William’s knife.
    A man moved at the edge of the field, near the animals’ pen, and Michael breathed a sigh of relief as he recognized Griggs. The silent clown sat on the steps of a wagon, watching as he approached, his perpetually sad face quizzical.
    “They’ve gone to town, I take it?” Michael could not keep the caustic tone from his voice and didn’t even try.
    Griggs nodded, indicating with a pantomime that the men were drinking. His hands fell to his sides as Michael appeared to grow even grimmer, gesturing toward the tents.
    “And Miss Carney? Did she go with them?”
    The clown shook his head, then pointed to Rosemary’s tent. Michael turned on his heel and strode toward the tiny canvas shelter, unaware of Griggs’s disapproval or frustrated protest.
    He couldn’t have cared less, even if he had seen. He was going to have it out with Rosemary Carney, and a thousand clowns wouldn’t stop that.
    Rosemary sat in a round wooden vat filled with hot water and suds. Unable to sleep, her thoughts entirely too turbulent, she had decided to take a bath and soak some of the guilt from her bones.
    A moonlit shadow fell across the floor, and she glanced up, the soapy washcloth at her face. Startled, she saw the object of her thoughts walk determinedly into her tent, then take a seat directly across from her. A look of smug satisfaction creased his pale but handsome face, and a strange glitter came to his narrowed eyes.
    “You!” Rosemary almost thought her mind had materialized him, but as he crossed his legs, watching her discomfort with glee, she realized he was altogether too human. “What are you doing here?”
    Her voice had risen an octave higher than normal, but she couldn’t prevent that, any more than she could prevent the color from rising to her face. She tried to hide behind the washcloth, but the thin square of fabric was not very accommodating.
    “I came to talk with you.” His voice was mocking, with an underlying strain she didn’t entirely understand. “It seems we need to get a few things straight.”
    “Then leave until I get dressed.” Drawing on her bruised dignity, she gestured to the tent flap.
    “Forget it.” Michael smiled, that look in his eyes growing hotter and more amused. “It’s not nearly as much fun