Sweet Briar Rose Read online

  Emmett drew closer. Inside was nothing but sticks. Nothing like the sticks or logs he used for the fire here, but wood nonetheless. He recognized the smooth grayish curves as driftwood.

  Dry enough to make good firewood was his immediate impression. Perhaps enough to get them through the day. A hopeful thought.

  “You brought a box of wood?” A scent came to him subtly, something salty and slightly fishy, but not unpleasant. It reminded him of trips to the beach back in Virginia with his family. He had a sudden vision of himself as a boy, filling his cupped hands with seashells. He and his mother used to collect them and bring them home to put into a jar. Fond memories of good days.

  Rose seemed lost to him though, at first merely looking down into the trunk as if transfixed by the contents. She reached out and laid a single fingertip on one piece, traced the lines of it, then another. And another. Almost reverently.

  He watched silently, unwilling to disturb her, strange though her actions seemed to him.

  Finally, she wiped impatiently at her cheeks, selected one piece seemingly at random, and stood before him. Her eyes were reddened and suspiciously bright. Was she crying? Crying over wood?

  Perhaps she felt it was all she had left of her beloved sea.

  She offered the chunk of driftwood to him. He tugged off his gloves and shoved them in his coat pocket before taking it from her.

  “What’s this?” he asked, turning the piece over in his hands. It seemed more than simply a hunk of driftwood. He fingered the smooth polished lines over and over, appreciating what seemed to him to be fine craftsmanship.

  She guided his hands, helping him turn the sinuous wood so it was upright. The touch of her hands on his bare skin sent a blaze of heat up his arms. And then her touch was gone, too soon. She eyed him with expectation, as if waiting for him to see the wood properly. He had to blink hard to clear his vision, she’d had such an effect on him.

  “It’s a bird,” he said, awestruck. He could see the little creature’s small round eyes, its beak, and the carved lines for its wings and feathers. How had he not seen it before? It was so obvious now.

  “It’s a shorebird,” she said. Her eyes were still bright with unshed tears, but she had controlled her emotion. Her voice was low and pleasant, informative. “I just haven’t made his long spindly legs yet.”

  “You made this?”

  “I’m a sculptress. Or I was.”

  Or I was?

  Emmett noted how tight her voice had grown, how she seemed a little too matter of fact. The words pained her. He looked at her closely, his eyes drawn to the lovely oval of her composed face. It was as if he could see a thin wall surrounding her.

  “This isn’t something you should ever stop doing,” he said emphatically. He held the bird up before her, showing her the proof of his words. She’d seen it before, of course, but evidently she’d forgotten how good she was. How much she loved making little creatures from wood. For there was love in every polished line. And a touch of good humor too. The eyes, they seemed to have a rather bright mischievous expression. How had she achieved that?

  She shrugged helplessly. “It was never my intention to stop.”

  She’d packed and lugged these here in this trunk, which revealed the depth of her connection to her art.

  “Well...” He placed the sculpture on a nearby worktable so he could explore the contents of the trunk, setting aside the pressing concerns about digging out, if only briefly. “You’ll simply have to start again.”

  She pressed her lips together. For some reason, his words appeared to cause her more pain. That hadn’t been his intention. Far from it. He wished to help her, but he didn’t know what to say.

  So he crouched down and pulled out piece after piece. He set them on the floor around him, marveling at her talent. There was a swordfish, a duck, a little field mouse on a branch, a mythical Poseidon with his forked trident—amazing!—and what appeared to be the makings of a mermaid, sadly left unfinished.

  He showed the last piece to her, raising his brows in question. How could she have begun something so promising and left it unfinished? As a forger, he knew when something he was working on was going to be special. It came into being almost like magic, the metal shaping in the fire, his hands, skilled from years of practice, seeming to move of their own accord. Such moments of transcendence happened rarely, but he knew magic when he saw it. This mermaid had the makings of magic. Yet something had stopped Rose.

  He waited for her response, searching her face.

  “It was supposed to be for my father.” Again, her voice betrayed her. She was obviously striving to collect herself, but her distress bled through. Her fingers idly worried at the neckline of her robe. She was worried, worried she’d never sculpt again. He didn’t understand why she couldn’t just pick up her tools and begin to carve. It seemed a simple task for someone so talented. But something very painful was evidently keeping her from it.

  The death of her father.

  The thought came like a whisper, then others followed in a flood.

  Moving across country. Leaving all she’d ever known. Marrying a stranger. Perhaps those weren’t choices she’d made with any excitement. Or feelings of adventure. Maybe she hadn’t dreamed of love. Maybe she’d only come to him out of necessity. Many women did just that. For financial reasons. A means to survive.

  Did Rose view him that way?

  While he’d been here waiting for her with such anticipation. Treasuring her letters. Keeping her photo always next to his heart. Had she only seen him as a means of survival?

  Emmett didn’t much like the sensation of cold that settled in his chest.

  He especially didn’t like seeing her with so much buried pain.

  “You’ll finish it,” he said, gently handing the unfinished mermaid to her. “To honor his memory.”

  “I don’t know if I can.” She rubbed her fingers over the smooth surface of the wood, as if unaware of her actions.

  “I believe you can.”

  “But nothing’s speaking to me.”

  This he didn’t fully understand. He didn’t need a rod of iron to “speak” to him in order to throw it into the fire and bend it to his will. He just did it.

  Carving a sculpture evidently demanded something very different from Rose.

  “It will,” he assured her.

  She pulled her arms around herself, the driftwood pressed tightly against her bosom.

  “How can you say that?” she whispered.

  “It will, Rose. I know it.”

  He hoped he was right.

  Chapter 8

  Rose felt perilously close to dissolving into tears, and that simply wouldn’t do. She didn’t know what to do with herself, or with the mermaid she held. Should she place it with the shore bird on Emmett’s worktable? Should she place it back in her trunk? Or on the floor with the other pieces he’d laid out to admire?

  At length, she swallowed purposefully, the sculpture still held to her. “You can use what you like for the fire.”

  His expression turned incredulous, as if she’d suggested they do something quite scandalous or immoral. Warmth flooded her cheeks, even as the bone-chilling cold crept through the thin leather soles of her slippers, into her feet, up her legs. It was so incredibly cold even here inside the house. The solution seemed obvious. They must do what they needed to do to survive. Hopefully the temperatures would rise. But what if they didn’t? What if they dropped even further?

  “We are not burning these.”

  “But...”

  “No, Rose.” Emmett took on an almost commanding air—not unlike her father with his sailors. He packed her sculptures back inside the trunk. He carefully removed the mermaid from her grasp as well, placed it in the trunk, and closed the lid.

  “We’re not burning your art.” Emmett braced himself before the trunk with his arms folded across his chest. As if she might attempt to brush past him and forcibly remove the wood herself.

  �
��There are some pieces I haven’t touched yet,” she protested. “We can burn those.”

  Truly, his defense of her sculptures brought a warm rush of pleasure to Rose that she hadn’t felt in a very along time. He was protecting her art. Even as she was giving up on it—as hard as that was to admit. She felt it much like a wrenching of her heart.

  Emmett didn’t want her to abandon hope.

  But they needed something to burn. He couldn’t get to the woodpile. At least, not until he dug them out.

  “Did you keep those pieces because they once ‘spoke’ to you?” he asked.

  Rose was sorely tempted to deny it, but Emmett’s eyes were observant. He wasn’t so much like a captain, was he? More like a castle guard defending a fortress. It was adorable, really. Touching in ways she could barely define.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “They once spoke to me.”

  “I’d as soon burn the furniture before throwing a single stick”—he gestured to the trunk behind him—“into the wood stove.”

  “You’re being most impractical.” Rose strove to hide a small smile. There were warm places softening within her toward this man. It was most...unexpected. She’d fully anticipated entering into a loveless marriage. A practical arrangement. But here in this moment, something very like affection awoke within her. It almost made her believe she could one day love this man.

  “Is the trunk special to you?” he asked suddenly, startling her from her thoughts.

  “It was my father’s,” she stammered, flustered by the direction her thoughts had taken. Was Emmett able to read them on her face? In an attempt to hide what surely was a revealing blush, she turned her attention to the trunk.

  It was old and weathered from use. To have it was almost like having a part of her father with her. Of course, she’d rather have him back, whole and well, waiting in their kitchen for his supper. She reached down and traced the edge of the lid, slightly warped from years of exposure to salty air.

  At least it was something, something of his. And it was special.

  She remembered the numb hours following the funeral, how she’d wandered the beach to the breakwater and found the driftwood for her mermaid, still there. She brought it home, thinking maybe if she completed it, she’d…not go back to the way things were before, naturally, but perhaps find a way to move forward.

  Well, though she hadn’t completed it, she had moved forward. Hadn’t she? She’d made a decision to come here. She’d packed her belongings and moved across the country.

  Emmett was watching her closely.

  She was finally able to address him with a small measure of composure. “It was his old sea trunk.”

  “I see.”

  Immediately, she knew why he’d asked. If the trunk weren’t special they could have broken it apart and burned it. He truly was the most considerate of men.

  “What about this?” Rose crossed quickly to a wooden crate. Inside were household items packed in straw, nothing breakable. Things she’d wanted with her to make herself feel more at home once she arrived here. A pewter tea service. A large two-handled chowder pot. Nesting baskets from Nantucket. That sort of thing.

  “This crate isn’t special,” she said. “I’ll just need to remove what’s inside... We can even use the straw as kindling.”

  Emmett could have kissed Rose just then.

  Instead, he drew close and extended his hands. She looked up at him, unmoving at first. His action had evidently surprised her. Then she too drew closer and allowed him to take her hands in his. Only a sliver of air separated them.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said quietly. He intended his words to encompass everything—the loss of her father, leaving her home, the sea... Losing her art. Everything.

  Her eyelids drifted closed, as if she were grieved anew, but she didn’t thrust his hands away. To his surprised delight, she moved into his arms and laid her head against his chest, so trustingly. He embraced her carefully, holding her as closely as he dared. They stood like that for an unknown amount of time. Time ceased to matter.

  He gathered her closer and rested his cheek against her forehead.

  She pulled away slightly, apologizing, “I’m sorry. It’s just your beard. It’s nothing.”

  Again she laid her head against his chest, but something of the moment was lost for Emmett. She didn’t like his beard? It was a swift thought, soon lost to the pleasure of holding his Rose, the woman he was to marry. Perhaps she could, one day, come to love him. He hoped so.

  It was only when Boston came over and bumped against their legs that they broke apart.

  Rose gave an embarrassed laugh, refusing to meet Emmett’s eyes. He wished he could read her expression, but her attention was resolutely focused on Boston, stroking the fur of his neck and patting his head.

  Their embrace had encouraged Emmett greatly. Had it meant anything to her? He couldn’t tell.

  What was she thinking?

  He wasn’t one to ask. Not now. But he was aware they needed to have a discussion soon. About their future. About marriage.

  For now, he had more immediate concerns to attend to, like breaking up that crate for firewood and shoveling out.

  Chapter 9

  Over the next couple of hours, Rose sat by the kitchen stove, feeding the fire with broken pieces of crate, which she and Emmett had dismantled together. She scouted for cooking supplies as well and began preparations for a meal.

  Emmett spent his time digging them out of the snow and ice, using what tools he had on hand: an ash shovel and the old chowder pot she’d brought from home. She ventured downstairs several times to check on his progress.

  It seemed to be tedious work, and he worked in silence. Occasionally though, he’d mutter to himself about having to keep the door open, clearly frustrated at letting out the heat.

  At present, Rose was upstairs, tending the fire. Her pile of broken boards was dwindling. They would run out soon. She checked on the loaf pans she’d left on the tabletop and frowned. The bread dough had a lovely yeasty scent, but it was rising slower than she liked. The oven had been too hot to set the loaves on the stovetop earlier, but perhaps she could move them now.

  “Rose!” She heard Emmett calling up to her from the shop below.

  She dropped her loaves on the stovetop with a clatter and rushed down the stairs into a wave of bitter cold. It was shocking and painful after the warmth of the kitchen stove. Even though Emmett had used a portion of their wood to set a fire in the small potbelly stove in the corner, the space was freezing. He’d been here the whole time at the open door, likely growing numb with each moment. He had the door closed now while he waited for her to join him, conserving their heat as best he could.

  “I’ll need you to pass me the shovel and pot once I’m outside,” he said by way of greeting, all business. She was used to the men in her family behaving the same way, all their attention focused on the task at hand.

  “Of course.” She was dressed properly by now in her navy wool work dress, with petticoats and woolen stockings underneath. She wore her winter boots as well, but even fully dressed, the cold was relentless. Frigid air filled her nostrils and lungs, stealing her breath and freezing her from within.

  She pulled her shawl around her purposefully, then picked up the ash shovel from where it rested, propped against the wall by the doorframe. The metal froze painfully against her bare fingers, and she very nearly dropped the tool. She wished she’d grabbed her gloves from her room before she came downstairs, but she’d been in such a hurry, rushing to respond to Emmett’s call. She shifted the shovel so she could hold it through the fabric of her shawl.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, observing her actions.

  He was so thoughtful.

  Rose nodded. “Go ahead.”

  Other instances of Emmett’s thoughtfulness flickered through her mind. His appreciation for her art, seeming to know how much it meant to her. His comforting embrace. His patience with her doubts. It seemed,
despite their short time together, he knew her. It felt as if she’d known him much longer too. She should at least express some appreciation. He was so respectful of her needs, so thoughtful about everything.

  He must have sensed some hesitation in her, because he asked, “What is it?”

  “I want to thank you, Emmett, for everything, but especially for saying we don’t have to decide anything right away. That means so much.”

  His brow creased. He nodded, but seemed troubled. Perhaps because he was about to go outside in this terrible weather.

  “You’re welcome, Rose.”

  He opened the door, revealing a good gap that he’d dug through, up at the top. She watched in amazed admiration as he kicked his boots into several toeholds he’d cut into the icy wall of snow and climbed outside. He disappeared from sight, and, from the sounds of it, tumbled into a deep bed of snow.

  “Emmett?” she called worriedly. Had he injured himself?

  “You can pass them to me now,” he called back. His gloved hands appeared just above the gap. She breathed a sigh and quickly handed him the ash shovel and chowder pot.

  “Close the door!” he called again. Metal scraped against snow as he started shoveling.

  Rose pushed the door closed and held it shut, saying a silent prayer—words without meaning, really. Just wanting Emmett to be safe. Surely, he must be nearly frozen. She should have insisted he warm himself by the fire. He was too driven, not sparing an instant to care for himself. Or to ask for anything. She should have at least brought down a mug of hot tea, heavily laced with honey. Why hadn’t she?

  And now he was outside in the worst of it.

  Boston sat beside her, leaning his comforting weight against her leg. He cocked his head to one side, listening along with her to the sounds of Emmett chipping away outside with his makeshift tools. Then there was a quiet spell. Rose pictured Emmett wading to the woodshed to retrieve his larger shovel.

  The cold bled through the door into her skin. She snatched her hands away, rubbing them together in vain.