Once Upon a Rose

  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.