Spencer awoke at dawn, having slept poorly. He couldn’t stop thinking of the rumors Roselyn had hinted at. He’d been gone from England well over a year, and his brother was supposed to be taking care of everything.
What was being said about him in London, and how could he pry for more information without sounding suspicious?
He heard the wood creak above as she dressed, and he cut another mark in the floor. Eleven days left.
She descended the ladder, giving a start as she looked at him. “You’re not usually awake,” she murmured, turning away.
“I couldn’t sleep well.”
She hesitated, glancing toward the door he’d barricaded with the cupboard. “Neither could I.”
He waited to be overwhelmed by his usual anger toward her, but couldn’t summon it as easily. She brought him bread and cider before he could come to the table, and he pushed himself to a sitting position.
She straightened, and in the firelight he saw a shadow on her neck that disturbed him. “Come here,” he said, frowning.
She seemed too tired to protest as she knelt down. “Is something wrong with the food?”
He ignored her words, reaching out to lift her chin, making himself ignore the softness of her skin. She inhaled swiftly, but didn’t pull away. Spencer saw faint bruises around her throat, the kind that could come only from a man’s hands.
“The Spaniard tried to strangle you,” he said, as a wave of frustrated rage swept through him.
She tried to pull away but he grasped her arm and held her near. He brushed the back of his finger against a bruise and she flinched, the pulse beating at the hollow of her throat. Her skin was translucent, delicate.
“Are you going to finish the deed for him?” she asked.
“Of course not!” He let her go, not quite certain what he’d meant to do.
She stood up and he took a quick gulp of cider, unable to meet her eyes. For a moment he’d felt fiercely protective, outraged that someone had dared to touch…whom? His nurse? His betrothed? What was Roselyn to him now, that he should feel such emotion?
He didn’t like it, but seeing the wounds she’d suffered because of him made things…different.
“Roselyn.”
She looked over her shoulder at him.
“I need to walk again today.”
She raised an eyebrow and waited. Why didn’t she just nod her head in agreement?
He let out his breath in a sigh. “Would you help me, please?”
She leaned back against the cupboard and folded her arms over her chest. “I could return from my chores in an hour or so and work with you, and then perhaps later in the afternoon again.”
“Thank you,” he said, studying her until she turned away. “And Roselyn, if you must go outside, be very careful.”
He saw her stiffen, saw the shudder she couldn’t hide. “Do you think another Spaniard could be out there somewhere?”
“I doubt it. If he had a partner, they would have come together to overwhelm us.”
“I won’t go farther than the bake house,” she murmured, sitting down at the table to break her fast.
After milking the goats, Roselyn was kneading dough in the bake house, wondering if she would ever get over the feeling of being watched. Just when she was starting to relax, instead of looking over her shoulder constantly, she heard footsteps in the courtyard.
Her heart suddenly pounding, she picked up a knife and whirled toward the door.
Francis Heywood stood in the doorway, gazing at her in concern. “Lady Roselyn? Is something amiss?”
She set the knife down quickly, hoping he didn’t see her trembling. “No, Francis, you merely startled me.”
He took a step toward her. “I have done that before, and you’ve never felt a need to defend yourself, my dear.”
She gave him a weak grin. “The battle in the channel must have upset me more than I thought.”
He set his hand on hers, his eyes full of concern. “Is that all that’s bothering you, my lady? You have not seemed yourself, and John agrees with me.”
For an insane moment, she wanted to fall into his arms and tell him about Thornton, and spying, and the Spaniard. She was tired of feeling alone and wondering if she was making the right decisions.
But just the memory of the dead Spaniard was enough to keep Roselyn quiet. Francis would insist she come to the house; he would turn Thornton over to the garrison. Since it was frightening to contemplate bringing such danger to the Heywoods, she would have to continue doing this alone.
She smiled and squeezed his hand. “I’m having a hard time realizing that Mary and Philip have been dead a whole year already. I still can’t believe I forgot to visit their grave.”
Francis looked almost disappointed, as if he expected her to say something else. “I was worried you felt this way, my lady. It is only natural for you to go on with your life.”
“I know. Sit with me awhile and keep me company. I’ve missed talking to you.”
The sun had already risen before Roselyn returned to the cottage, with flour covering her apron and a smudge of it across her cheek. She stood above Spencer as he sat at the table, and he was amazed that he felt an urge to chuckle. He would not be swayed by her. She took his elbow to help him up, then pulled his arm across her shoulders. She felt small and fragile, and it made him imagine that Spaniard straddling her, his hands about her neck.
She should still be frightened from her trauma of the previous night, but she seemed no longer affected, and he couldn’t help being impressed by her fortitude.
Outside, she helped him walk from the courtyard to the bake house and back. He noticed that she constantly watched the surrounding estate. Was she worried about another Spaniard—or the Heywoods?
Since he didn’t feel as weak as before, he said, “Let’s walk to the orchard.”
She stiffened.
“I honestly don’t believe there are any more Spaniards lurking in the trees. And this boot of Grant’s is almost comfortable. Do you not want me to get well quickly?”
He knew that would work. And he was so desperate to regain his strength that he would gladly risk discovery. With a long-suffering sigh, she opened the gate and led him from the courtyard.
He hadn’t imagined the distance as great as it really was. Soon he was perspiring, and his good leg felt afire. When they reached the orchard, he gratefully leaned against an apple tree.
“Why don’t we rest awhile?” she said.
We? Spencer told himself he should feel affronted; instead he sank down to the ground, keeping his broken leg carefully out before him. Roselyn walked a little away from him and stood looking out over the estate.
In the distance, he could see Wakesfield Manor. She had grown up there, yet claimed she would never live there again.
He wondered about the woman behind the reserved face, who defied her parents for the love of a man beneath her, who could be content living alone, doing menial work. She stood alone now, the wind catching her black gown, teasing strands of her light brown hair loose.
He tried to put himself in her place—hell, two years ago he was in her place, told by his parents whom to marry. He wanted to hate her, but he couldn’t—nor did he forgive her, either.
Roselyn told herself that she should not have brought Thornton to the orchard, especially not with Francis dropping by so unexpectedly.
But last night had changed things between them, and she no longer knew what to expect, or how to treat him. For the last few days he’d spoken to her with bitter, angry words, but now his voice sounded grudging, reluctant. Did he feel guilty for the Spaniard’s attack? What was she to make of that except that he was guilty of treason?
She looked over her shoulder and found him staring at the manor, a pensive look on his face. Why was it so difficult to admit to herself that he could be a spy? So he had expressed sympathy for the bruises she’d suffered; it could merely be the result of a guilty conscience.
He’d even apologized for that harsh word he’d called her.
Yet he’d been almost defensive when she’d told him of the rumors about him. He was such a puzzle to her!
Thornton glanced at her and their eyes met. She wanted to look away, but she lifted her chin and refused to give ground.
He nodded toward the manor. “You grew up there?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “When we weren’t in London, we were usually here.”
“Does it not bother you to live in a cottage, forever staring at a manor you claim you’ll never live in again?”
For once, he seemed sincere instead of sarcastic. Where could these questions be leading?
“No, I was grateful for a place to live. I’ve only been back a year.”
“A year?” he said with a frown. “Has it not been almost two years since”—he broke off, and this time his smile had the faintest tinge of mockery—“since you decided not to marry me?”
Her brows rose in surprise at the tactful way he spoke. “We lived in London at first.”
“But I was there—I never saw you.”
Roselyn hadn’t thought he would be capable of such naiveté. “You wouldn’t have, unless you frequented Southwark.”
Thornton leaned his head back against the tree and studied her with narrowed eyes.
She went to stand above him. “Do you think I’m ashamed? When I make decisions I live by them, no matter the consequences.”
“Are you implying I didn’t?”
She sighed. “I was implying nothing, merely answering your questions. Philip was a baker before he worked for my father, and he went back to that trade.”
“And he taught you?”
“I worked alongside him, yes. Our home was also our store.” She could still remember how cold their front parlor was in the winter, with the shutters opened onto the street so customers could peruse their baked goods.
“Then why return here? Surely there were more customers in London.”
“We came here to escape the Black Death, but it was too late.”
His eyes widened before resuming their shuttered, suspicious look. “Your stable groom died of the plague?”
She nodded, noticing that he did not call Philip her husband. But she couldn’t bring herself to argue about it.
“And you…?” he continued.
“Though I nursed him, I did not become sick.” She still thanked God each night for not letting her spread death to the rest of the islanders. She would never have forgiven herself if even one other person besides her husband and child had died.
He studied her for an uncomfortable moment before he looked back toward Wakesfield Manor. “Have you tried to see your parents since his death?”
“No, they made their feelings clear.”
Spencer was rather shocked that she had made no effort to mend the rift. “But it might change things.”
Roselyn seemed genuinely puzzled. “Why should it? My parents are not people who forgive, let alone forget, nor do I wish to return to their treatment of me. Though this last year has been difficult, in many ways I am more content.”
“You can’t be serious,” he said, studying this serenity she wore like a garment.
“You are a man, free to do as you please. For the first time, I, too, can shape my own destiny.”
“Few people can do as they please. Like anyone, I have obligations—and my family is one of them.”
“Mine no longer are,” she said softly.
“Yet this is your destiny? Up before dawn to bake for strangers, harvesting your own food, exhausted and spent each night?”
“Do not mock my life!” she said, leaning over him.
“But I’m not—”
“I know the contentment of providing for myself. Can you say the same?”
Using the tree for support, Spencer struggled up onto his good leg. Her usual serenity was replaced by unexpected fire in her wild gray eyes.
“I do what’s necessary,” he said slowly. “I can be proud of that.”
“Not from the things I’ve heard and seen.”
“You don’t know everything, Lady Roselyn. And if you believe rumors, then you are too naive.”
“So you’re denying these stories?”
“I have heard nothing to deny.”
Though there were enough true stories about him to make a virgin quake in fear. Roselyn wasn’t a virgin—and he found himself wanting to shock her out of this prim, sanctimonious frame of mind.
“Go ahead,” he continued, smiling. “I want to hear one of these rumors.”
“This is hardly a rumor, not when all the court knows what you did six months ago.”
Spencer felt an inkling of disquiet. Six months ago he’d been in Spain, spying for the queen, but no one knew it.
“How can you stand here and pretend you do not remember such a scandal?” she said, throwing up her hands and stalking away from him.
What had his brother done?
“Lady Roselyn, I pretend nothing. There are just so many…rumors to choose from.”
She looked disgusted with him, and suddenly he noticed the blush stealing up her neck and reddening her pale skin. She was embarrassed—he could hardly allow her to back down now.
“Go ahead, Lady Roselyn.”
“Stop calling me that,” she said crossly.
“I cannot show you the respect of your rank?”
“Not when you don’t mean it—and I do not go by my title anymore.”
“But I heard my bailiff call you that.”
“Let us go back now,” she said sternly, marching up to slide her shoulders beneath his arm.
Spencer didn’t quite know what came over him: he caught her against his side and held her still, until she looked up at him with wide, astonished eyes. He should avoid the subject of these recent London scandals, but he wanted to see how shocked she would be to repeat them.
“The rumors?” he prompted. Standing so close to her, he suddenly realized he could see the faint shadow of the valley between her breasts.
Color blazed across her face again, and she stared straight ahead, not up at him. “What were you thinking of to send such a statue to Her Majesty?”
That distracted him from his earthy, dangerous perusal of her. What statue? What had his brother done in Spencer’s name?
His mind worked frantically. “How can one enjoy life without causing an occasional shock at court?”
“But a statue of yourself?” she said, clearly aghast, as her wide gray eyes lifted to his.
He allowed himself a smile, while inside he was laughing. Oh, Alex, he thought with grudging respect. “Well, the queen always said I had a fetching profile.”
She made a strangled, choking sound. “Thornton, how many innocent young girls do you think this statue corrupted with your naked profile?”