Once Upon a Rose Read online

she thought.

  Alone once more, she returned her attention

  to the guidebook, increasingly aware of her vast

  ignorance. She had felt strangely compelled

  to write her name in the booklet, a gesture of

  ownership she rarely bothered with. This was her book.

  The thought of someone else walking away with it

  bothered her somehow.

  Scanning the pages, she bit her lip as she

  came across unfamiliar phrases such as "barber

  surgeon" and "liturgical reformation" and terms

  she could only guess were Latin. It was the same

  feeling she'd had when she first read the show business

  trade papers so many years earlier. There was a

  realm of knowledge she never imagined existed. A whole

  universe had prevailed happily without her.

  Something in the guidebook caught her eye,

  tearing her away from her musings. It was a stark

  black-and-white photograph of a massive

  hedge. Leaning closer into the book, hastily

  reaching up to push her tilting headdress back

  into place, Deanie read about a miraculous

  maze on the grounds, one so ornate that people were lost

  in it for hours. It warned tourists to avoid the

  maze if they had theater tickets that evening.

  Deanie grinned. The warning may have been

  tongue-in-cheek, but the effect on her was

  instantaneous. She didn't just have theater

  tickets for that evening; she was to appear at

  Wembley Stadium to sing the duet with

  Bucky Lee Denton during his concert. Her

  manager would have a fit, while Nathan Burns,

  who was filming the concert for an upcoming video,

  would pull out what little hair was remaining on his

  head. To enter the maze at this hour would be more than

  irresponsible. It would be sheer folly, a career

  risk few stars would even contemplate.

  It was absolutely irresistible.

  According to the map, Deanie was within yards of the

  maze, and as she walked in what she hoped was the

  right direction, she continued to scan the booklet.

  The maze was almost as old as the palace itself, the

  guidebook cooed. It had been created for

  Henry VIII'S second wife, Anne

  Boleyn, to remind her of the maze at her

  childhood home of Hever Castle. It had

  taken decades for the hedges to become truly

  inaccessible, and by that time both Anne and Henry had

  returned to dust.

  Deanie peered over the guidebook, and at

  once she spotted the maze. Its rusty

  turnstile was chained, with a hand-lettered sign propped

  on top of the lock with a single word: "Closed."

  How could it be closed?

  With a swift glance over one shoulder to assure

  herself she was alone, she squeezed between the edge of the

  metal turnstile and the rough hedge. Luckily,

  she had spent her childhood gaining free access

  to amusement parks and fairs, and her slender

  build could still wiggle through small spaces.

  The inside of the maze was something of a

  disappointment, although Deanie wasn't sure what

  she had been expecting. There were corridors of

  shrubbery, green and twisting, jutting off in

  unexpected directions. She wandered the maze,

  pausing to touch the knotty, gnarled branches.

  They were thick and coarse, roughened by centuries of

  rain and sunshine and snow.

  Suddenly Deanie stopped, unable to walk any

  farther. The sun was about to set, and she glanced about

  at the incandescent last light, the final golden

  explosion before the day became dusk.

  Something was wrong.

  She held out her hand to steady herself, grasping a

  hoary shrub, ignoring the slivers of wood and

  bark that cut into her skin. The booklet fell

  to her feet, and she gasped for breath, momentarily

  blinded by the sun reflecting off the soda

  bottle. It hit the bottle at odd, sharp

  angles, glinting blue, so vibrant she

  was forced to close her eyes.

  One thought penetrated her consciousness:

  earthquake. Who else but Wilma Dean

  Bailey would get caught in a British

  earthquake?

  The vibration became more intense now, a deep

  baritone rumbling that seemed to ripple the very

  ground, defying the solid feel of the earth. Her

  whole arm began to shake violently, just her arm,

  unable to release the soda bottle. In the midst

  of the quake she opened her eyes and heard a

  hissing noise, like droplets of water on a

  hot frying pan. The rest of her cola

  evaporated, and the peanuts hopped at the bottom

  of the bottle like Mexican jumping beans.

  There was one final roar, a terrible, almost

  human scream. White-blue lines bounced off

  the cola bottle, enveloping her in a pulsating

  prism. Then all was silent.

  Her breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, and the

  soda bottle, suddenly hot to the touch, came

  crashing to the ground. A small puff of dirt

  rose as it landed without shattering. Her hands were

  trembling, and she instinctively clutched her

  throat, feeling the frantic pounding of her heart,

  every beat ringing in her ears.

  She took a few deep breaths, trying to get

  her terror under control. And when she found her

  voice, it wasn't to scream but to laugh at herself.

  She slumped against a bush, its tender branches

  giving way under the weight of her back. Her

  eyes darted to the bottle, and she reached over

  gingerly to pick it up.

  The peanuts were blackened and smoking.

  Deanie inhaled the scent of the burned peanuts,

  as if proving to herself they were really scorched. She

  hadn't imagined it, whatever had just happened.

  "I must have been hit by lightning," she marveled

  aloud, her voice tense and high pitched.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and leaned

  back against the comforting embrace of the shrub. There was

  something wrong, something that didn't seem right. What

  could it be ...

  The bush.

  Her eyes flew open and she spun around,

  ignoring the headdress as it drooped forward.

  Instead of a mammoth, ancient shrub, there was a

  young hedge, only just reaching over her head. Its

  branches were slender and smooth, its buds full

  and pale green.

  All of the bushes were new. Everywhere she

  looked, she saw fresh young plants and could

  smell the unmistakable scent of soil mingled with

  manure.

  "How now, art thou foe or friend of the king's?"

  Deanie gasped, startled by the sudden intrusion.

  She hadn't heard anyone approach. Her first

  thought was of the kindly Mr. Williamson. Perhaps

  he had returned to take her to tea. Perhaps he

  had come to see if she was badly shaken in the

  earthquake. She turned in the direction of the

  rich, masculine voice.

  It was not Mr. Williamson.

/>   She was stunned by what she saw. It wasn't that

  he was inordinately tall, or bulging with

  muscles. The man before her had a magnetic

  presence, an aura that jolted her every bit as much

  as his unexpected voice.

  He was an actor, of course. An extra in

  the video, judging from the costume he wore.

  Unlike Stanley and the other Shakespearean

  actors, this guy's outfit was less

  flamboyant: just a black velvet doublet and

  hose with a full white shirt underneath. At his

  left side was an elegant scabbard, black as

  the doublet, with the ornately carved hilt of a fake

  sword just visible under the folds of his costume.

  There were no gaudy paste-jewels, no fancy

  gold thread. But his stockings seemed a little

  baggy.

  Deanie breathed a sigh of relief and smiled.

  "Hey," she said, her voice still betraying

  uncertainty. "That was some earthquake. Did

  Nathan send you to fetch me? You're one of the

  actors, right? I think you can collect your

  paycheck."

  The man, his gaze steady, drew the sword.

  "How now? Be thou a friend of the king's?" His

  manner was terse, and his teeth, very white, remained

  clenched as he spoke.

  "Me? Heck no. I'm a little young to have known

  the King personally, although I've seen some of his

  later stuff. You know, the Vegas recordings,

  when he wore those white jumpsuits and aviator

  sunglasses."

  Now that her initial fear had vanished, she was

  able to properly appraise the actor, and she

  decided he had most certainly picked the right

  profession.

  He stood about six feet tall, perhaps

  a little less, but his bearing seemed to voraciously

  consume the surrounding space. His hair was close

  to Deanie's in color and thickness, a rich

  mahogany. There was a decided curl to it, and the

  ends rested lightly against his expansive

  shoulders.

  Yet it was his face, more specifically his

  eyes, that gripped her attention. They were a

  strange shade of hazel, dark brown circling the

  irises, and they seemed to see through her, with a sharp

  intelligence that made Deanie feel

  uncomfortable.

  His face was lean, almost gaunt, with hollows in

  the cheeks and a very slight cleft in his chin. His

  forehead, high and smooth, was free of the creases that

  were at the corners of his eyes and bracketed his

  mouth.

  His mouth. Even as he spoke, she pulled her

  gaze from his eyes to his mouth, a mesmerizing

  study in contrasts. The upper lip was rather thin, but the

  lower lip was full and generous, hinting at a hidden

  sensuality that his brusque manner so

  effectively masked.

  He had spoken, and she realized she hadn't

  heard a word he said. She cleared her throat.

  "Excuse me?"

  A look of irritation passed over his

  features. "Canst thou not hear? I quoth, how

  now--"

  "Brown cow?" she replied.

  His eyebrows, unexpectedly lush on a

  face so free of any other excess, rose

  slightly, briefly marring the smooth forehead with

  lines. His sword was still pointed at her, but he

  seemed to have forgotten it.

  Deanie reached out and pushed the sword away.

  The moment she touched the blade, the flesh on her

  palm exploded in pain.

  "Hey, what are you doing!" she cried,

  withdrawing her hand as tears flooded her eyes.

  "Y'all aren't supposed to use real swords."

  Her voice broke as she examined the gash,

  several inches long and bleeding freely.

  From the corner of her eye Deanie saw him

  make a sweeping motion with his arm and heard the

  metallic sound of the sword slipping into its sheath,

  an exasperated sigh escaping his mouth. He

  stepped toward her and tenderly cupped her wounded

  hand in his.

  The last thing on her mind was her hand as

  she felt his warm breath on her cheek. "Doth

  thou know not of weaponry?" Now his voice was soft,

  as if soothing a frightened child.

  Deanie stared at his hand, surprised at how

  such rough, callused fingers could bring such comfort. His

  scent tingled her senses, musky and spicy,

  unlike any bottled fragrance.

  "Your aftershave," she whispered. "It sure

  isn't Brut."

  He turned his eyes to hers. Even in the

  encroaching darkness, they were even more extraordinary

  than from a distance. She could see the distinct

  flecks of sea green and sable brown.

  "I apologize, my lady, if thou doth

  think me a brute."

  With that he ripped the left cuff of his shirt,

  several inches of snowy-white fabric that extended

  from the close black velvet sleeve, and

  fashioned a makeshift bandage.

  "Awe," Deanie said, smiling, "you didn't

  have to go and wreck your costume." He made no

  notice of her comment, intent on tying the bandage

  over her palm. "You know," Deanie added,

  uncomfortable with the silence and his nearness, "that's a

  dandy outfit."

  His eyes flashed to hers, and she sniffed once,

  the tears evaporated. "I mean, it's sort of

  like one Wynonna has." She caught herself. "I

  mean, not that you look like a girl, nothing like that.

  It's just the black velvet and the white, well, you

  know ..." Her voice trailed off and he stepped

  back, as if seeing her for the first time.

  Deanie licked her lips, her mouth suddenly

  gone dry. "Why do you speak all backwards like?

  I mean, stuff like "from where art thou" and all

  that?"

  There was a small pause before he spoke again.

  "From where art thou?" he repeated.

  She closed her eyes, trying to form a reply.

  At last she took a deep breath and opened them.

  "Nashville from am I," she answered

  triumphantly.

  For the first time he smiled at her, an

  expression that transformed his entire face. The

  hollows of his cheeks became elongated

  dimples, and the lines around his eyes crinkled.

  Instead of looking menacing, although admittedly

  attractive, he was accessible and easy.

  Deanie felt a strange, roller-coaster tumble

  in her stomach.

  He reached for her soda bottle and examined

  it, the grin still on his handsome face.

  "Nashville," he repeated, although from his lips the

  word sounded exotic and foreign. He was so close

  that she could see the separate strands of his hair,

  some very dark and coarse, others burnished golden

  by the sun, and a very few gray. Only up close

  were the gray hairs visible.

  His eyes met hers. "Tell me again of your

  king." This time his voice was expressionless, and his

  thumb traced over some writing on the glass. It

  was the copyright
label and the date the product had

  been bottled.

  "Well, he's dead, of course."

  That caused a reaction. The man stiffened, as

  if not believing her.

  "Hey, are you all right?" The smile faded from

  Deanie's face as she realized he seemed to be

  ill. A sheen of perspiration formed on his forehead,

  reflecting the fading light, and Deanie touched his

  arm.

  He jumped, as if surprised she was still there.

  With admirable aplomb he recovered and pushed his

  palm over his forehead, absentmindedly wiping the

  perspiration on the shoulder of his doublet.

  "Please, tell me again of your king's ...

  glasses." He seemed to struggle for the words.

  "Those ugly aviator things?"

  "Aviator," he breathed. "Aviator."

  She was about to suggest they go to the medical van,

  the emergency vehicle insurance companies demand

  be present at all location shoots. But before she

  could speak, she heard the sound of men's voices

  shouting into the night, footsteps crunching on the

  gravel.

  The actor seemed to snap out of his daze. He

  turned to face her, his expression once again

  clear and direct.

  "I am Christopher Neville, duke of

  Hamilton," he rasped. The intensity in his

  eyes, his searing gaze, prompted Deanie to step

  back, but he gripped her upper arm painfully,

  pulling her closer. "You are my cousin.

  Remember that. You are my cousin, and you are from--"

  "Hey, let me go!"

  "You are my cousin," he repeated more

  emphatically. For a moment he seemed to be thinking

  out loud. "I must somehow explain your speech."

  A flicker of amusement laced his words as he

  pronounced, "You have just arrived from

  Wales."

  "You're crazy," she gasped, genuinely

  alarmed.

  Instead of becoming enraged, or at least

  insulted, she saw his teeth flash white, a

  smile in the darkness.

  "No." She could hear the delighted

  satisfaction in his voice. He grabbed the cola

  bottle and lobbed it into the bushes, where it would be out

  of sight. "You, my dear, are addled. Your

  family has just sent you here in hopes of finding you

  a husband, and you will remain with me at Court

  until--"

  "You just littered," she snapped accusingly.

  "Do you know what the fine for littering a landmark

  is?"

  "Hamilton! Art thou within?" The call came

  from just beyond the shrubs.

  "What is it with you people?" Deanie asked. "This

  backwards talk is driving me nuts."

  Christopher Neville, duke of

  Hamilton, stared at her face for a moment, not

  answering. With a thumb, he gently tilted her

  face toward him. "Art thou painted?"

  "Huh?"

  "Thy face. Be that paint?" He lifted the

  remaining cuff on his other sleeve and, without

  waiting for a reply, scrubbed her face.

  "Hamilton!" This time the cry was more insistent.

  "Aye, within." he responded, removing the

  last traces of mascara and lipstick from her

  face.

  Deanie, who had been too stunned

  to respond, was suddenly infuriated.

  "Hey, you!" she shouted to the unseen voices.

  "There's a nut job in here--one of those damned

  actors Nathan hired. Get me out of here!"

  There were muffled sounds of men conferring, and then, in

  the final light of dusk, Wilma Dean

  Bailey came face-to-face with the rest of the

  mad acting troupe. The man in front was older

  than the rest, perhaps in his fifties or sixties,

  and he carried what looked like an overgrown

  baseball bat. Again, there was some sort of

  shuffling as a new person entered the maze with a

  similar bat, but this one was on fire.

  "Someone, quick!" Deanie cried. "Get the

  extinguisher!"

  But all they did was light the old guy's

  bat. At that point she realized these were

  torches, like at a pep rally. Even in the

  flickering darkness, the men saw her blush

  furiously.

  "Gentlemen," said Christopher Neville in

  a voice smooth enough to announce a game show.

  "May it please you, this is my dear cousin."

  Deanie waved a weak greeting, still mortified

  by her gaffe. How was she to know they actually meant

  to carry flaming sticks?

  "Hey," she said. "I'm Deanie

  Bailey."

  The older man with the torch held it to her face,

  and she flinched, but she had the good grace not to back

  away. The poor guy was probably a fan.

  "Dean of the Bailey?" His voice was

  incredulous. She could see him more clearly now, and

  he sure was an ugly old coot. His teeth were

  yellowed or missing altogether, and his eyes were beady and

  black, peering suspiciously over a large, thin

  nose. Even though he was lacking in the looks

  department, he wore a lavish, fur-lined robe

  and a strange dark velvet hat. All of the men were

  dressed in garish costumes, and someone--Deanie

  wasn't sure who--needed a bath. Badly.

  "My cousin," Christopher repeated, smiling,

  "hath but just arrived from Wales." He then turned

  to the old man with the torch. "Cousin, may I