ONCE UPON A ROSE
by
JUDITH O'BRIEN
Published by: POCKET BOOKS, 1230
Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY
Copyright 1996 by Judith O'Brien
BOOK JACKET INFORMATION
POCKET BOOKS ROMANCE
"Time-travel romance--romance of any genre
--doesn't come any better. ..."
--Publishers Weekly
For every woman there waits a perfect love
... even across four hundred years of time
Judith O'Brien is the author of two
previous highly acclaimed time-travel
romances, Rhapsody in Time and Ashton's
Bride. She also joined authors Jude
Deveraux and Judith Mcationaught with a delightful
tale titled "Five Golden Rings" in the
holiday story collection, A Gift of
Love. Judith O'Brien lives in
Brooklyn, New York, with her young son, and
she is currently working on her next novel for
Pocket Books.
Judith O'Brien writes "exciting and
thoroughly enjoyable time-travel romance," raves
Harriet Klausner in Affaire de
Coeur. Her books are "Magical!
Harmonious! Dazzling!" says Maria C.
Ferrer of Romantic Times. With sparkling
wit and delicious sensuality, her stories
capture the eternal appeal of love. Now, in
her newest book, she sends a country miss
to court--but in true O'Brien fashion, the
"country" is pure Nashville and the court is
Henry VIII'S!
"I walked into a maze and got lost on the
path to love." Rocketing country-western star
Deanie Bailey suspected if she put what
happened to her in a song, she'd earn another
Grammy--or be locked up as a lunatic.
She had been shooting a music video in England
on the grounds of Hampton Court Palace when
she ducked into the castle's famous maze for a
moment of solace. But there would be no quiet
interlude as the ground vibrated, the air
glimmered, and there, with a sword drawn and pointed
at her, was the most devastatingly handsome man she
had ever seen. From his fancy shirt and black
velvet doublet, Deanie figured he was just
another of the overblown Shakespearean actors whose
classical sensibilities she'd had to deal with
on the set. But she figured wrong by a mile and
four hundred years. Christopher "Kit"
Neville, duke of Hamilton, was an
attendant to the king. Some irresistible force had
brought Deanie into his life and to a bygone era
to change the future, fall madly in love, and
stand by her man against treachery and time itself with all the
spunky strength of a country girl's heart!
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are products of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or
locales or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.
Huge thank-yous to my agent, Meg
Ruley, my editor, Linda Marrow, and
associate editor, Kate Collins. You
guys have been great!
This book is for Radney Foster,
who has more editorial sense than a
country music star ought to.
Not only did he answer my often
inane and frequently repeated
questions with a patience bordering
on sainthood, but he left
me laughing in the process.
Thanks, Radney, for your friendship.
ONCE UPON A ROSE
Chapter 1
There was a soft breeze swirling at her
slippered feet, the wind gently snapping the
thick velvet hem across her slender ankles.
It was early spring, yet a crisp winter chill
lingered. The afternoon sun was slowly sapping the bite
from the damp air, paving the way for a glorious
day, a welcome respite from England's frigid
rains.
She adjusted herself on the ancient stone bench,
trying to ignore the cold of the seat as it snaked
across her too-straight back. Her gown, many
layered and sumptuous, glinted in the sun, riots
of gold encircling the blue velvet neckline.
The sleeves, capped tightly over her
shoulders, fanned into generous folds of gold
brocade, intricate designs studded with
freshwater pearls. At her delicate wrists
were fine linen gathers, edged in gold thread.
In her hands was an inlaid lute, which she
strummed with an absentminded grace. Yet it was
her face, petite under a peaked headdress, that
was most arresting.
Black lashes fluttered over her liquid
brown eyes, casting a shadowy fringe over cheeks
of creamy perfection. Her nose, small without
being winsome, managed to indicate a genteel
dignity, and her lips--full and moistened by a
swift caress of her tongue--hovered on the edge
of a smile. For all her grave beauty, there was
a wisp of humor as fine and silky as the stray
tendril of chestnut hair that had somehow escaped
the confines of the rigid angular headpiece and now
rested tentatively against her smooth neck.
A rustling in the dense shrubbery caught her
attention, and her hand paused above the lute strings.
A gentleman emerged from a small break in the
bushes, wearing a maroon doublet the color of fine
claret. The ruffles of his white shirt skimmed
the lines of his clean-shaven jaw. His hair was a
pallid red, matched by red eyebrows and pale
eyes. He bowed low to the seated lady, a sword
jutting behind him as his legs crossed in courtly
greeting.
"Milady." His voice was full, a startling
contrast to his undecided features. "Your lord
has returned."
The woman on the bench was about
to respond, her lips parted to reveal brilliant
white teeth, when another voice pierced the air.
"Cut!" snapped the director.
He turned to the young cameraman to make sure
he had stopped shooting. Then he focused his
full wrath on the actor in the claret-colored
doublet. "For God's sake, Stan, you can do
better than that."
Stan straightened, his face at once haughty
and defensive. "My name is Stanley." His
tone was impeccably modulated. "I am a
Shakspearian thespian, sir. I am not
accustomed to appearing in ..." He closed his
eyes as if seeking the inner strength to find
composure, stammering to continue.
"That's all right, honey," the woman with the lute
prodded, grinning as she waved her hand. "You just
aren't used to being i
n music videos, are you?"
The man nodded, his ruff bobbing with every swallow.
"Well Stan, let me tell you"--she stood
up, placing the lute against the leg of the stone bench
--"I'm not used to England, not one bit. So I
guess you could say we're even, okay?" Her
voice was a soothing lilt, unmistakably
Southern, yet filled with gentle, honeyed warmth.
The actor relaxed a little and gratefully
shook the hand she offered. "Miss Bailey," he
said, his voice again full and deep enough to reach the
last row in any theater. "I must tell you how much
I enjoy your music. Your compositions are
unique, no matter which artist performs them. I
usually don't care for--well ... I usually
listen to music of a more classical nature. But
Miss Bailey--"
"Please call me Deanie." She shrugged
in her easy manner.
"Yes, well--Miss Deanie, I believe
you have a real gift. As I said, I usually
don't listen to, uh ..."
"Country music?" she offered, raising her
dark eyebrows as she watched the actor grope for
words.
"No, I don't. I usually find it too
..."
"Twangy?" Her voice was unable to conceal a
bubble of laughter, and the actor smiled and nodded.
Even with the thick Nashville accent, there was a
richness to the way she spoke, how she rounded the
vowels and hardened the consonants, that was
undeniably appealing.
Before the actor and Deanie could exchange any
more words, the director was beside them, cracking a
riding crop against his flattened palm. A
middle-aged man with a thickening waist and thinning
hair, he shot the Shakespearean actor what
he hoped was a withering glance.
"You, Stan, may pick up your check for the
day's work. You may also tell the other spear
carriers to go home, or back to your castle,
wherever you guys hang out."
Stan gave no indication he had heard the
director. Instead, he raised Deanie's
fingers to his lips and kissed the back of her hand
as he executed a bow of serene poise.
"You are a most gracious lady, and I can
only but wish that--"
The director's eyes flickered up from the
clipboard a production assistant was holding
before him. "Stan, just beat it. Vamoose. Get
outta here."
The actor straightened and, after a curt nod,
walked over to collect his paycheck with whatever
dignity he could muster.
"Now Nathan," Deanie muttered, shaking her
head, "that wasn't nice, not one bit." She
glanced around her. "Hey, where did my
cigarettes go?"
"You shouldn't smoke," Nathan responded.
"It will ruin your voice. This is your big chance,
kiddo. Reba dropped out, and the record label
is allowing you to drop in. This isn't just a
once-in-a-lifetime chance. It's a
once-in-a-million-lifetimes chance."
"I know, Nathan," she replied softly.
"I've been dreaming of a chance like this ever since I
was a little kid. You know," she continued, as her
voice took on a whimsical lilt, "this is
sort of like an old movie, A Star Is
Born or 42nd Street or whatever.
I've paid my dues. All those years of writing
songs for other people. Now I'm getting a chance."
The director ignored her. "And about that
actor, Deanie. You don't know what these
Brits can be like." The director signed the
paper with a decided flourish, then looked at
Deanie, tapping the riding crop against the side of
his jodhpurs. He had never been within a hundred
yards of a horse in his life, yet he always
directed his videos in Prussian equestrian
regalia. That way he could imagine he was
Erich von Stroheim directing Greed, instead
of Nathan Burns directing another music
video.
"These Shakespearean actors all want to be
the next Olivier," he continued, eyeing Deanie
with avunuclar wisdom. "You've never been
to England before?" In truth, the director had never
been to England either, but he would rather be forced to ride a
horse than admit the fact.
"Nope." Deanie sighed, stretching her arms
over her head. The costume was more than
uncomfortable; it was torture, especially for a
woman who usually lived in jeans and sneakers.
The headdress alone was uniquely painful.
To Deanie's eyes it looked like a small
toolshed, with angled sides just like a Tennessee
birdhouse. The rims were studded with cut-glass
stones that were supposed to resemble rubies, but up
close one could see the glue swirls and the little
pencil marks made by the person who'd decorated
the thing. In theory it was supposed to make Deanie
look like the member of a midsixteenth-century
court. Instead, she felt like a second-rate
showgirl with a barn on her head. She had even
decorated the sides of the headdress with the words
"See Rock City" in masking tape, but
nobody thought it was funny.
"What's the name of this place again?" Deanie
yawned as she asked the question.
"England." The director looked off toward a
white trailer parked in the distance.
"I know that, Nathan," she said, grinning. "I
mean, what's the name of this house, or whatever it
is."
"Oh. Hampton Court Palace. It was the
home of Henry VIII." He swished the riding
crop in the air like a sword. "Where do you
suppose Bucky Lee has disappeared to?
We're losing the light." He squinted into the
sun, using his hands--the crop jutting
into Deanie's face--to frame an imaginary
scene.
Deanie brushed away the crop, glancing at
the trailer and the magnificent plum-colored
palace beyond. Bucky Lee Denton. If she
never heard that man's name again, it would be way too
soon.
A cigarette would be perfect right about now.
She reached behind her, adjusting the Velcro
fastenings on her gown. Bucky Lee
Denton. Who the hell was he to keep the whole
crew waiting? They had spent the day preparing the
scene, stalling with the British actors, shooting
footage that would never be used out of sheer
boredom. All the while, Bucky Lee
Denton, the newest sensation to come out of
Nashville, was cloistered in his extra-wide
trailer, sending his assistants out for more hair
spray and diet cola.
Several months earlier a well-known music
critic had dubbed Bucky Lee the "Denton
Disease." Outraged, the country music community
had rallied around Denton like a circle of
covered wagons.
And then, one by one, they got to know him. His
backstage temper tantrums and a particularly
ugly run-in with a department-store Santa made
front-page news, along with his scathing comments
about other country music artists.
Unfortunately, Bucky Lee Denton's
records were selling faster than waxed lightning.
He was impossible to ignore, and even more
impossible to like.
It was Bucky Lee Denton who had insisted
this video be shot in England. He claimed it was
his artistic vision of the song, a gentle pastoral
English setting. But Deanie knew the only
vision Bucky Lee had was of the long-limbed
teenage supermodel he was following all over
Europe like a lovesick puppy. And since
Bucky Lee Denton was basically paying the
electric bill over at Era Records, the
executives were bumping heads in frantic
efforts to make him happy. Even if it was at the
expense of Deanie Bailey.
"Is he ready yet?" asked a bored but
stunningly beautiful woman wearing a spandex
leotard and a conical damsel-in-distress
headpiece. The orange chiffon scarf attached
to the tip of the cone flapped in the breeze like an
airport wind sock.
The director smiled warmly. It had been his
idea to pepper the video with Tudor Babes--
or TB'S, as everyone on the set now called
them. "It's Monica, right?"
Tudor Babe shifted on her spike heels
and threw a swift glance at Deanie. "Yeah,
I'm Monica," she confirmed testily. "How
come she gets to wear a dress?" A manicured
thumb was aimed at Deanie.
"Ah. Because, my dear, she wrote the song and
will perform it with Bucky Lee. She's the female
element to our touching duet." The riding crop
twitched with pleasure as Nathan Burns took
a step toward the TB.
Deanie let out an exasperated sigh and shook
her head. If the director's pattern was
to remain consistent, the TB would soon be
upgraded to a serving wench. The serving wench scene
was scheduled to be shot the next day, with Deanie and
Bucky Lee lip-synching while being fed peeled
grapes. That is, if Bucky Lee could get his
hair--or, more accurately, his hair weave--under
control.
It was her song. She'd written the lyrics
and the melody, a simple love song. But
Bucky Lee had ruined everything. From the moment
her manager had told her the good news--that
Bucky Lee Denton wanted to record her
song--the tune had left her hands, spiraling out
of control until it reached this absurd point. The
budget for this video was a tightly guarded
secret, but it was generally acknowledged to make the
Michael Jackson Thriller video seem like
vacation slides.
At least she was allowed to be a part of this
project. The last few times one of her songs
had been made into a video, she had been
firmly relegated to the sidelines, watching with
clenched fists as other performers mouthed her words
to her tunes.
There was a sudden commotion in the direction of the
white trailer, and Deanie bit her lip,
wondering if Bucky Lee was about to make an
appearance. The director stopped tracing his
crop along the outside of Monica's shapely
leg and stared at the trailer. An expectant
hush descended over the cast and crew. Coffee
stirrers were stilled in foam cups. Scattered
conversations were halted midsentence. Even the birds
stopped their chirping. All eyes were on the
trailer.
The door swung open with a vigorous punch, and
out stepped Bucky Lee Denton.
From the top step of his trailer he surveyed the
scene, master of all before him. His stance of comfortable
arrogance proclaimed his confidence. He alone was
the reason they were all gathered in England, why the
cast and crew had been flown in from Los
Angeles and New York and
Nashville. In his trademark red T-shirt and
black cowboy hat, he was in total command.
But all Deanie could see was a rather short guy
in an oversized hat, looking more like Deputy
Dawg than a real cowboy. In one of the more
unfortunate instances of timing that seemed
to dominate and shape Wilma Dean Bailey's
life, she began to giggle. In the vast silence
of the sloping lawn, her voice carried as if
amplified a million times. Before she could get
herself under control, Bucky Lee Denton's
furious glare settled on her, and he cocked his
head slightly.