The Forbidden Rose Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Teaser chapter

  “Revelatory within the genre.”

  —Dear Author

  Praise for

  THE SPYMASTER’S LADY

  An American Library Association

  RUSA Reading List Award Winner for Romance

  “What a terrific story! One of the most unusual, resourceful, and humorous heroines I’ve ever met, a spy to swoon for, and a great twisty plot with a sense of genuine danger.”

  —Diana Gabaldon, New York Times bestselling author of An Echo in the Bone

  “Love, love, LOVED it!”

  —Julia Quinn, New York Times bestselling author of What Happens in London

  “Wow, what a captivating, unique heroine! Joanna Bourne’s voice is distinct, fresh, and engaging.”

  —Madeline Hunter, national bestselling author of Ravishing in Red

  “A breathtaking adventure that kept me turning pages with breathless anticipation. Joanna Bourne is a master of romance and suspense! I can’t wait to read her next book!”

  —Teresa Medeiros, New York Times bestselling author of Some Like It Wild

  “This is a flat-out spectacular book . . . I cannot say enough good about The Spymaster’s Lady. It is smart, masterful writing and I cannot wait to see what Bourne does next.”

  —All About Romance

  “As a long-time reader of romance I can say that it is a rare novel that leaves me speechless. Yet, this rather new author has done just that . . . What makes this book truly stunning is the beauty of the writing. Everything about the book is a revelation . . . This is no ordinary romance novel. Give yourself time to savor this read. It took me nearly two sleepless nights to finish it—and then I wanted to start reading it all over again.”

  —Rakehell

  “A masterful work . . . The storytelling is amazing . . . The writing is simply superb . . . I was awed by the writing, captivated by the heroine, thrilled by the plot, intrigued by all the secondary characters, and I cannot praise this book highly enough. It is hard to believe this is her first book and I have only one question: What’s next?”

  —The Book Smugglers

  “Spectacular . . . What a struggle I had with writing this review. I know some ask what are the hardest reviews to write and I am convinced, after drafting and redrafting this one, it is the review of the book that you love. Because as a reader, I am trying to convey the beauty that is someone else’s writing so that others will see the same beauty. The best thing I can say to readers is to go to the bookstore and read the first chapter.”

  —Dear Author

  “Take a British spymaster and a resourceful French agent, spice with clever banter, toss in a refreshing and unexpected plot, add a heaping measure of sexual chemistry, and the result is an irresistible read.”

  —American Library Association (Best Genre Fiction of 2009)

  Praise for

  MY LORD AND SPYMASTER

  Winner of the RITA Award for Best Regency Historical

  “Bourne’s latest espionage-based series historical entices with subtle subterfuge and heated romance. Glimpses of the leads’ sordid pasts add depth, and Bourne’s consummate way with a story line and an explosive denouement do the rest.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A very, very good historical romance featuring complex and flawed characters far out of the typical wallpaper mode . . . Bourne is an undeniably powerful new voice in historical romance.”

  —All About Romance

  “Readers who adored Bourne’s debut will be enthralled with her new novel. Brimming with adventure, intrigue, wit, sensuality, and colorful historical details, this is an adventure reader’s dream come true.”

  —Romantic Times, 4½ stars

  “Ms. Bourne proves to be an excellent storyteller. [Jess is] one of the most complex and interesting heroines I’ve seen in a long time.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “A fantastically clever tale with twists and turns aplenty. The setting and characters will have you quickly entrenched in the time period, and the witty dialogue and steaming sexual tension will keep you happily wrapped in Ms. Bourne’s world.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “This tale drenches itself in sexual tension so taut that there are times you can hardly catch your breath . . . Steeped in rich historical atmosphere and superbly written, My Lord and Spymaster is a definite all-nighter and must read for anyone who relishes a really good book. You won’t be disappointed.”

  —Romance Reader at Heart

  “Another notch in Joanna Bourne’s belt for a job well done. No, not just well—but excellently well.”—Romance Reviews Today

  Berkley Sensation Titles by Joanna Bourne

  THE SPYMASTER’S LADY

  MY LORD AND SPYMASTER

  THE FORBIDDEN ROSE

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) .

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

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  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  THE FORBIDDEN ROSE

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with
the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / June 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Joanna Watkins Bourne.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18824-8

  BERKLEY® SENSATION

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Acknowledgments

  This book is dedicated to Lily and Maya.

  I would like to thank my wonderful editor at Berkley, Wendy McCurdy, and my agent, Pam Hopkins, of Hopkins Literary Associates.

  I am endlessly grateful to my tireless and patient beta readers: Leo Bourne, Mary Ann Clark, Laura Watkins, and Wendy Rome. I thank the Ladies Who Drink Coffee for support and friendship. I owe much to the excellent folks at the Compuserve Books and Writers Community: Diana Gabaldon, Deniz Bevan, Beth Shope, Jenny Meyer, Jennifer Hendren, Donna Rubino, Susan Adrian, Julie Weathers, Linda Grimes, Tara Parker, and others too numerous to mention.

  I could not have written this story without the expert advice of David Barnes and Hugo Clément, who know much about geology and caves, and Linda Weaver, who knows much about donkeys. The Beau Monde, a special interest chapter of RWA, has provided endless expertise on all things 1800-ish. Anything I got right is because of these wonderful people. All mistakes are my own.

  A special thanks goes to Franzeca Drouin, researcher, editor, and general all-round expert on all things having to do with history and historical language.

  One

  “YOU HAVE NOT BEEN FOOLISH,” SHE SAID. “BUT YOU have been unlucky. The results are indistinguishable.”

  The rabbit said nothing. It lay on its side, panting. Terror poured from it in waves, like water going down the steps of a fountain.

  Her snare circled its throat. She had caught it with a line of red silk, teased and spun from the torn strip of a dress. It could not escape. Even when it heard death coming toward it through the brush, it didn’t struggle. Being sensible, it had given up.

  “The analogies to my own situation are clear. I do not like them.” Marguerite de Fleurignac sat down and pulled her skirts to lie smooth over her knees. The grass was slick and sharp-edged on the bare skin of her ankles. Behind her rose the ruins of the chateau. She did not look in that direction if she could help it. “I am starving to death, you know. Not as one starves in stories, nobly and gracefully. I starve stupidly. I scrape up oats from the bottom of the feed bins and pick berries. I pull wild carrots from the earth and gnaw on them in my cave under the bridge. None of this rests easily in my stomach. It is very sordid. I will not share the details with you.”

  The rabbit’s eyes stared beyond her.

  “Life is not like the fables. No magical bird alights on the rooftop, bearing messages. You do not offer me three wishes in exchange for your life. No prince rides up on his white horse to rescue me.”

  Rabbit fur was a brown made of many shades, like toast. The guard hairs were darker than the down that clung close to its body. Inside its ears was a delicate velvet, pale as cream, and she could see the pink skin underneath. Its eyes were fringed on top with a row of short, thick hairs. It had eyelashes. She hadn’t known rabbits had eyelashes.

  Terror terror terror.

  It had been a mistake to look so closely at the rabbit. She should not have talked to it.

  When she was five or six, Old Mathieu, the gamekeeper, had let her tag along behind him through this wood. He set snares and made great slaughter among the rabbits and put them in a big leather game bag to carry home.

  He had been dead fifteen years. In his last illness, she’d visited him every day in his dirty, crowded hut by the river. She’d brought him the best brandy from the chateau cellars to ease the pain.

  Uncle Arnault, who was marquis then, had scolded and given orders, which she had ignored. “You spoil these peasants. You make pets of them.” Papa had pointed out that spirits were not good for the humors of the body. She should take the man seawater and a mash of beets. Cousin Victor sneaked after her and pushed her down and spilled open the basket and broke everything inside.

  Uncle Arnault was long dead, having discussed politics with the guillotine. Papa was marquis now, inasmuch as anyone held the empty title. Victor had joined the most radical of the revolutionary groups, the Jacobins. The casks of brandy had exploded in a ball of blue flame when the fire fingered down to the wine cellar. It had never mattered a bean that she had given brandy to a dying man.

  Old Mathieu’s sons had been in the mob that came to burn the chateau. She’d seen them with the others on the lawn in the light of torches.

  A pulse rippled in the rabbit’s throat, under the fur. That fluttering beat, in a hollow the size of a copper sou, was the only sign of life.

  “I make up stories in my head and I am always remarkably heroic in them. When men actually came to destroy me, I ran like a rabbit, if you will forgive the comparison.” She wiped rain from her face. Her forearm was gritty and smelled like crushed grass and sweat. And smoke. “You are doubtless stultified with boredom to hear my problems. One’s own disaster is of compelling interest. The disasters of others, less so.”

  Clouds hung flat and close overhead, the color of old bruises. A few sharp tiny points of rain hit her face when she looked up. Even this far from the chateau, thin black flakes of ash had caught in the leaves of the trees. The rain fell with ash in it.

  “Here is the story, if you wish to read it.” She caught drops on the palm of her hand. “This,” she lifted one speck of black onto her forefinger, “came from the destruction of curtains in the blue salon. And this,” another bit of ash, “was a page from a book in the library. A mathematics text. This . . .” She picked a fleck of ash from her forearm. “This is the period at the end of a sentence in one my notebooks. That was the only copy of an old tale of the people. It is lost now.”

  She let the drops of water run away. She was very tired. She had been up all night, two nights in a row, walking the last shipment of sparrows to safety. She had taken three men, three women, and a child through the dark fields to the deserted mill that was the next waystation. She’d waited with them till Heron’s son came to take them onward. Then she had trudged the long way back. Because Crow—careful, reliable Crow who never missed a meeting—had not yet come. He was late, and she worried.

  The sparrows had complained a great deal that she had no food to give them. No one had asked what had happened to her in the burning of the chateau.

  They would go to London, those sparrows, and tell everyone how brave they had been and what dangers they had undergone, fleeing France. None of them would speak of the bravery of Heron’s young son who came at night, alone, to lead them onward. Or of Jeanne, who was the Wren, who risked death to smuggle them out of Paris. Or of Egret and Skylark and the others who hid them along the way. The sparrows would take it all for granted.

  She shivered, which was what she deserved for sitting on the ground in this small rain, talking to a rabbit. “I will tell you what I should do. I should go deep into the woods, carrying—you will forgive me for being blunt?—carrying your dead corpse, and light a fire and put you on a spit and cook you. Then I should begin my walk to Paris in the dark of the night.” Rubbing her arms did not make them any warmer. “Crow is more than wise. I should leave him to take
care of his own sparrows and go warn the others.”

  The rabbit’s fear was like the whine of iron on a grindstone. Terror terror terror.

  The wind coming from the chateau pushed at her back, smelling of smoke, ugly and somehow metallic. “Do not expect pity, Citoyen Rabbit. I am without a heart. It was the first thing I ate when I became hungry.”

  The rabbit did not flinch when she laid hands upon it, but inside its fur, it shivered. The knife in her pocket was sharper than it had been four days ago when it lived the placid life of a letter opener. She worked a finger into the snare of silk that held the rabbit. “Instead of being sensible, I will chew on parched grains that do not agree with me and let you go free.” She cut the red thread. “You will not be grateful. I know. You will come back tonight with a hundred rabbits and burn down the bridge and me underneath.”

  It did not move.

  “Go. Go. You annoy me, lying there. Go, before I change my mind and eat you with wild onions and watercress.”

  The rabbit shook from end to end and wobbled to its feet. It lurched off into the drab grass of the drainage ditch. The waves of terror departed with it.

  It was a relief to be free of that. “It would have made me sick, I think, to eat something so afraid.”

  Two

  SHE WAS A LITTLE DIZZY, SO SHE SAT A MOMENT longer, looking down the parting in the grass where the rabbit had disappeared, wondering whether it would live to a ripe old age and become a patriarch with grandchildren at its knee or be eaten, almost immediately, by a fox.