The impact of Thornton’s body should have crushed Roselyn, but the grass and moss beneath her were like the softest mattress, cushioning her body—and his. She didn’t feel pain, only the width of his chest pressed to hers, his thigh nestled between her thighs.
She felt like a silly fool as her breathing quickened. Surely her heart only raced because she’d been startled. Not because he smelled different from her—masculine, even with traces of her soap mingled in.
She didn’t know what to do with her hands, which rested on his back. They practically shared a lovers’ embrace, and when she tried to move, she felt the strangest sensation low in her belly and between her thighs, where he rested.
The sudden flexing of his arms and back made her feel as if she embraced a wild animal who struggled to be free. She lifted her hands from him, but he only propped himself up on his elbows and stared down at her.
Her hands fluttered like restless birds until they came to rest against his sides. She had touched more than this in caring for him, but it was no longer the same.
Thornton stared down at her with dark eyes full of secrets she couldn’t guess. His black hair hung toward her, and she wondered how it would feel brushing against her face. Again she felt that strange heat move languidly inside her.
His gaze delved into her eyes and held her trapped, expectant with wondering. She took her first shallow breath when his eyes began a search of her face that felt as if he touched her. When his gaze lingered on her lips, a little gasp escaped her.
The high grasses made her feel as if she reclined in the most intimate, private place, where no one could see what she did.
But she would know.
Roselyn dropped her hands into the grass. “Thornton—”
“Spencer,” he interrupted.
As his low voice rumbled against her stomach and up through her chest, a little shudder swept through her.
His Christian name held the same intimacies for her that his body did; it wasn’t right.
“Thornton,” she repeated.
A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, and he leaned his weight on one elbow, freeing his hand. Her eyes widened, her mouth went dry as she held her breath, waiting for whatever he would do.
The back of his fingers slid gently down her cheek, and she felt the prick of tears in her eyes.
“What—what are you doing?” she whispered, and her voice sounded as light as the clouds in the sky.
“Hush, Rose,” he murmured as his breath touched her face, “be still.”
She was caught in the spell of a gentleness she’d never known. She hadn’t imagined a man’s skin could feel so soft as he traced her cheek again, then around her chin. His touch brought her to life like a blossom spreading open with the sunrise. Her chest tightened painfully to feel so much, to take chances she swore she’d never take again.
She looked at his mouth then. She wondered what it would be like to be kissed by a man—something she’d longed for as a silly, headstrong girl, and as a sober, married woman.
But she’d never known. It had been Philip’s punishment to deny her the most basic affection between husband and wife.
Were Thornton’s lips as soft as hers? Would his mouth be as tender as his fingers—or hard and dangerous? Just the thought of it sent another uncontrollable shiver racing down to her toes.
But he didn’t kiss her, though his fingers stroked her throat so slowly she wanted to scream with the unbearable tension. They lingered in the hollow between her collarbone, then dipped just beneath the neckline of her gown. Once again, she felt the hard ridge of his erection.
Roselyn swallowed a gasp, and her scattered mind finally directed her speech. “You must do this often—I mean this must seem so familiar to you.”
He’d been contemplating her garments—or so she told herself—but now he looked up into her face.
“What?”
“From the rumors that spread from London—”
“London?”
His puzzled frown at least let her know that he’d been as distracted as she was.
“Was there somewhere else you did the majority of your carousing?”
His eyes narrowed. “My carousing?” He suddenly lifted himself off her and rolled onto his back.
She told herself to be thankful that she had escaped from some dark knowledge about herself that didn’t bear contemplation. Yet lying in the prickly grass, looking up at the wide sky, she felt vulnerable and unprotected without his body above her.
“I know how you love a good scandal,” she said, thankful that her voice grew stronger.
She glanced at Thornton. His mouth was a hard slash through his short beard, and his eyes were narrowed.
“I’m good at scandal,” he said softly. “So why don’t you tell me the one you’ve been dying to share all day?”
“I just…heard things.”
“From Heywood.”
“Yes.”
With a “hmph,” he closed his eyes. “I’m waiting.”
Roselyn felt ridiculous lying out in the open at his side but she was glad of this chance to understand the man she almost married. “This scandal took place at one of the parties you attended, but I guess you must have begun it long before.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Scandal and riddles?”
“How can you not remember? There was fighting and screams, and then they—they pulled at each other’s hair!”
“Who?” he asked, lifting his head to look at her.
She sat up and leaned back on one arm to better see his face. “Your mistresses, of course.”
“My mistresses?”
“All three of them had been invited to the party—did you know that would happen?”
“Naturally not,” he said, without even a good pause that she could read something into. “I tried to keep the silly chits away from each other, but they so enjoy my company.”
Thornton gave her the perfect rakish grin.
She was partly amused, partly horrified. Why would one man need so many women?
“What did everyone do when the one woman pulled off the other’s wig?”
He only laughed and shook his head. “I don’t tell tales, as you seem fond of doing.”
He sat up so quickly, his shoulder brushed her chin. “Be a dear and help me up.”
A dear? What was she, his grandmother? No, she was his nursemaid, the betrothed he hadn’t bothered to woo—not when he had so many other women fighting over him.
As she stood up, a feeling of shame and embarrassment swept over her. But lives were at stake here, not her silly pride. She wasn’t any closer to discovering whether he was a Spanish spy or not.
Spencer took Roselyn’s hands in his own, and as he rose, tried not to pull too hard. When he stood upright, he rested his hand on her shoulder for balance, and even the touch of her collarbone sent his blood thundering through his body. Never had he thought he would be affected by her, not after what she’d done two years before. She was supposed to be aroused, and he was supposed to remain distant. He told himself that this…awareness between them must bother her more than it did him, but maybe that wasn’t true. Maybe once again, he was the foolish one.
But he’d wanted to kiss her, God help him. It was getting to the point where he couldn’t keep his gaze off her mouth, so full and perfect for kisses. Did she know how tempting she was? She certainly couldn’t have missed how tempted he was.
And what would a kiss hurt? He would be gone soon—just ten more days—and she would hardly be damaged by it.
They started walking slowly back the way they’d come, his arm around her shoulders. He was forgetting what it was like to walk alone.
He tried to think of nothing but the vivid sky, where gulls wheeled about. He could hear the crash of ocean waves, and even catch sight of that endless blue expanse when they crested a small hill.
But the ocean reminded him of his mission, and his mission reminded him of his brother—and this latest scandal Roselyn mentioned.
What the hell was going on in London?
Far in the distance, a shout broke through his reverie, and his head came up in a sudden sharp awareness. He felt a tremor shake Roselyn, and he wondered for a moment if another Spaniard had been sent for him.
But it was only a young woman, running toward them across the meadow, waving. He allowed himself to relax slightly, but noticed that Roselyn didn’t.
“’Tis Charlotte,” she hissed, even while she put on a false smile and waved back.
She glanced up at him, and her eyes were narrowed and thoughtful, making him uneasy with suspicion.
“Do you want to reveal yourself yet?” she asked.
Spencer felt confused and trapped as the girl drew ever nearer, wearing a large welcoming smile. If it became known he was at Wakesfield, Shaw and his men might find him before he could tell the queen his side of the story.
He felt a chill at the thought of luring even more of his enemies to Wight, where Roselyn—and the Heywoods, of course—would be in the way of danger.
But he had to play this carefully, so as to make her no more suspicious than she already was—luckily she’d seemed downright reluctant to reveal his presence to anyone. “You make the choice. You have hidden me for almost a fortnight now.”
“At your request.”
“Yes, but you don’t seem to want my presence known, either.”
Before Roselyn could answer, the girl was within yards of them. He saw a country miss on the brink of womanhood, wearing an innocent, happy smile.
“Roselyn!” she called, but her curious gaze lingered on him.
He could tell by Roselyn’s reddened cheeks how embarrassed she was to be caught with him, held so intimately against his body. He let himself enjoy the moment—her annoyance, the chance that he could be discovered, even though it could be dangerous for him.
“Hello, Charlotte,” Roselyn said, with warmth in her voice.
He thought for certain there would be an awkward moment as the two women decided what to say to each other. But the girl looked at him and grinned.
“Hello,” she said. “I’ve never seen you before.”
He found himself smiling.
Roselyn quickly said, “This is Mr. Sanderson, a soldier with the garrison in Shanklin. Mr. Sanderson, this is Mistress Charlotte Heywood, daughter of the Wakesfield bailiff.”
“Mr. Sanderson” gave a bow. “Good day, Mistress Charlotte.”
“Good day, sir,” she answered, looking down at the splint that bound his lower right leg. “I do hope your wound is not paining you greatly.”
“It is healing, thank you, due to the considerable help of Mistress Roselyn.” Let Roselyn make of that what she would, he thought, looking down at her with a polite smile tinged with intimacy.
Roselyn quickly said, “I have not done much, merely walked with Mr. Sanderson when I am able to.”
He could see Charlotte’s high spirits dim as she considered the two of them. Of course, she was John Heywood’s sister, and would naturally want her brother to have Roselyn’s attention.
“I enjoyed our baking lesson this morning,” Roselyn offered. “Did your mother like the pie?”
Charlotte’s voice was subdued. “Yes, but she thought that I shouldn’t have bothered you, that you might be too busy with the harvest.”
“It’s over now, so perhaps I can come up to Wakesfield. I’ve missed working with both of you.”
“I don’t mind coming to see you at the cottage,” Charlotte said, with more determination in her voice.
“Of course,” Roselyn murmured.
Charlotte glanced at Spencer with a bold challenge he found amusing. “Well, I must be off on an errand for my mother. Good day, Roselyn—Mr. Sanderson.”
She walked away from them toward the village with a determined stride. Roselyn said nothing as she watched Charlotte go.
“Why did you decide to lie about my identity?” Spencer finally asked.
She began to walk him back toward Wakesfield. “I couldn’t stop myself from thinking of that Spaniard, and wondering what would happen if more were sent after you. I must do all I can to protect Charlotte and her family.”
He sensed she was withholding more, but could hardly confront her about it—not without revealing the things she needed protection from. “And how did you come up with a lie quite so quickly?”
“I’ve had that story prepared for a long time.”
“It will be easy enough for her to discover the truth,” he said.
“I know that. The sad thing is, I’m counting on her trust in me.”
“Then why didn’t you discourage the baking lessons? Surely that will only increase the risk of her seeing me again.”
“I know, but she looked so…disappointed.”
He knew it wasn’t the baking lessons Roselyn was talking about.
She sighed. “And now I have to dread what she’ll tell her father.”
That evening after supper, Spencer stood at the window and looked out across the estate. It was getting easier to stand on one leg, and his returning strength should have cheered him.
But he was so bored and restless that he’d even begun paging through the Bible. He was tempted to ask Roselyn to find him something else to read, but he could hardly have her stealing books from Wakesfield. Yet he was getting desperate to stop his morbid thoughts.
He watched her leave the barn and walk toward the cottage as the setting sun cast the island in a hazy glow. She walked with proud grace, like a woman who actively used her body and didn’t just sleep between parties like the idle women at court. He thought back to this afternoon, when she’d lain beneath him. She could have probably pushed him off, or at least struggled.
But she hadn’t. She’d only come up with another scandal, as if she had known just how to upset him.
Spencer rested his chin on his folded hands and stared at her with narrowed eyes. He suddenly noticed that she carried a stick.
He turned as she entered the cottage, and raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to beat me for my impertinence?”
Roselyn held out the stick. “It’s time you had a cane.”
He stared at her, uncertain whether to feel chagrined that he hadn’t thought of it first, or amused that she no longer wanted to touch him. He grasped the stick.
“Will this help your soldier story?” He gave her a slow smile, and though she had an uncommon mastery of her emotions, she blushed.
“If I give you a knife,” she said, turning away to light candles against the gloom, “could you carve it to the correct height?”
When she mentioned a knife, he looked down to keep a straight face. “I may not be able to do as much as your Heywood brothers can, but as a boy, I was always whittling.” He stood up and held the stick out before him, judging the proper height for a cane.
“What did you mean about the Heywoods?” she asked with obvious curiosity.
Why had he said such a foolish thing? “Oh, just that they’re so competent at their farm skills.” He drawled the words as if it were all so beneath him.
But she didn’t look angry or offended, merely thoughtful.
When Roselyn awoke before dawn, she knew immediately that something was wrong. The cottage had a peculiar stillness that unnerved her. Perhaps she was just being foolish—it had been almost a fortnight since Thornton had barged into her life, and she was growing accustomed to the sounds of a man breathing and moving about in his sleep.
Even last night, long after she’d gone to bed, she’d listened to him working on his cane.
But this morning she heard nothing, and tension fluttered through her stomach. Wearing just the smock she slept in, she scrambled on her knees to the edge of the loft and looked down.
Thornton’s pallet was empty.