Roselyn was torn about her role in this farce—should she play the shy maiden and turn away, or boldly watch Thornton disrobe as if she were a wife in truth? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen him naked before.
But this was different—he was no longer unconscious, or even badly wounded. He knew what he was about as he began to remove his garments, pausing to look up at her, his mouth quirked in half a grin as if to say, Well?
“You forget,” she said, “I have been a wife.”
His smile died, and she knew with sickening certainty that angering him would not help her cause.
“And Grant did not require you at his bath?” he asked.
“He did not need such help—he was not a child.” She could have also added that Philip wouldn’t bathe more than a few times each season.
She held her breath, waiting for Thornton to erupt because she’d implied that he was a child.
Instead, he grinned. “The man didn’t know what he was missing.”
She was thankful for the dark, so he couldn’t see her blush.
“But you are right,” he continued. “You’re not my wife, and ’tis unfair of me to shock you. Help me into the barrel, and then I’ll remove the breeches.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I only allowed this to go on so long because I thought you would surely realize how impossible a bath is.”
“Lady Roselyn—”
“I will not help you in this foolishness which, should you hurt yourself, would set back your recovery by days.”
By candlelight she could see the anger and indecision in his eyes. “Very well,” he said abruptly. “I shall wash outside tonight, where I can thoroughly soak myself. But don’t go running off.”
“And why not?” she asked unsteadily, trying to chase away the image of Thornton naked in the yard, with streams of water running down his body. “Surely you want privacy.”
“What if I fall? I don’t want to have to yell when I need you—we mustn’t awaken the Heywoods.”
She glanced longingly at the dark cottage, knowing that he was right.
Softly he said, “You forgot to set the soap within reach.”
Gritting her teeth, Roselyn strode back to the half wall where she’d left the supplies. Keeping her gaze on the ground, she set the linens and dish of soap on the crate beside the barrel. Her hands shook just knowing that he was nearly naked, that he stood so tall and confident, affecting her in ways she didn’t want to contemplate.
She returned to sit on a bench in the courtyard, beneath a black sky freckled with stars. The air was warm, though a breeze ruffled her skirts.
She glanced once at Thornton, then gave a little gasp as his flung his breeches onto the stone wall, which thankfully hid him from the waist down.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he called, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “After all, you tell me you’ve seen all this before.”
She silently refused to give him the satisfaction of looking away. The lantern didn’t illuminate him well, and he was only a glimmer of moving shadows as he washed himself. Very faintly, she heard him humming a tune she recognized.
With a start, she realized she didn’t want to believe the worst of him—for all his arrogance, he didn’t seem like a traitor.
Yet he would be no good to the Spanish if he weren’t convincing as an Englishman.
Covering her face with her hands, she tried to remain calm, something she’d perfected before his arrival. Now it was a struggle not to react to his words, to the growing temptation of his body.
“Roselyn?”
His whisper made her stomach clench. “Yes?”
“Can you wash my back?”
He quickly added, “I know I made a joke about it before, but honestly, I can’t reach it well.”
Spencer’s skin itched from the soap, and suds trailed down his neck from his hair, but he felt almost truly clean for the first time in months.
“Put on a towel,” she said in a low, tight voice.
He chuckled as he imagined the scowl she wore, but did as she asked.
He watched her appear out of the dark courtyard and into the lantern light, and was struck again by the simple prettiness he had never noticed in London. She still looked at the ground, but he thought she was not as unaffected as she appeared.
Turning his back to her, he braced himself against the barrel, then winced when she set to work scrubbing his back as if he were a dirty wooden floor.
“Roselyn, you’re going to knock me over.”
She eased up on him, but soon he began to think he preferred her strength. Now it was too easy to feel the cloth touch every part of his back, to imagine there was nothing between his skin and hers. The towel at his waist would be rising if he didn’t concentrate on something else.
He looked over his shoulder into her frowning face. “I don’t suppose you’d want to rinse me?”
Her eyes widened and lifted to his. Just for a moment she looked impossibly young and innocent, and he had to remind himself that she was otherwise.
“There is the bucket,” she said briskly, pointing to the ground, “and there is still fresh water in the barrel. Help yourself.”
She kept her back turned while he filled the bucket and thought of ways to make her look at him again, to remind her of what she’d given up. The first bucket of water was still hot enough to make him shudder, and the second sluiced the last of the suds from his body. He pushed the hair out of his eyes and turned to face Roselyn, who held out a towel, in command of every situation.
He reached for the towel, then deliberately lost his balance. With only the slightest squeak of surprise, she rewarded him by throwing her arms about his waist.
She made it so damn easy.
She was a small thing, he thought as he looked down at the top of her head, but she fit very comfortably in his arms, and she had strength enough to bear his weight. That put his mind in a decidedly different direction, one he was not comfortable with.
“Can I let go now?” she asked, her voice muffled against his chest.
A shudder moved through him at the touch of her lips on his bare skin. This little play he’d staged was rapidly falling apart.
Spencer leaned close enough to smell the clean scent of her hair. How often did she bathe out here at night, naked under the stars?
“Don’t step away,” he murmured, “I fear the sagging towel will drop to my feet.”
She gasped and pressed even closer to him as he fought a groan. Soon she’d know that she’d affected him, and he didn’t want to give her that kind of power.
She leaned to the side and surprised him by blowing frantically.
“What are you—” He started to chuckle when he finally understood. “Are you trying to blow the candle out? I thought nudity didn’t bother you, that you’d been—” He was about to say “married” but the word wouldn’t leave his mouth.
She gripped his arms, and he knew she was frozen, uncertain what to do next. He felt the smallest warmth move deep within his chest.
“Roselyn?” he whispered.
She looked up at him, and he could see the lantern reflected in her eyes. His arms were around her shoulders, and his hands itched to trace her back lower and feel the swell of her backside.
She looked at his mouth, and his body was no longer his to control. As his erection strained between their hips, she gave another gasp.
“I suggest,” he said dryly, “that you close your eyes while I conquer this towel.”
Her eyes snapped shut so quickly that he chuckled again. As he grasped the sagging towel, he wondered why she so amused him, why he enjoyed upsetting this little world she’d created for herself.
Spencer turned away and pulled the towel tight, his humor fleeing. Was it because his own world might be gone, that he’d be returning to imprisonment—and maybe death—if Shaw convinced the queen he was a traitor?
Behind him, he could hear Roselyn letting the water out of the barrel.
“Are you ready to go back inside?”
He looked over his shoulder into her shadowed face. He couldn’t see her well, but knew the calm, collected Roselyn had once again returned. She had enough mastery over her expressions to make a good spy.
He allowed her to slide beneath his arm. “I’m sorry to get you wet.”
“You weren’t sorry moments ago.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
She helped him into the cottage, then brought him clean breeches, looking at him with a speculation he found the slightest bit unnerving.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
“Wash?” he answered, smiling.
She wasn’t distracted. “Why did you touch me? We both know how you feel—how I feel. What purpose does it serve to annoy me?”
Spencer rested back against the door for balance and considered her. “You didn’t seem annoyed.”
“I don’t like to be trifled with—to be teased,” she said in a stern voice. “Is this a game of revenge to you?”
“No.” He said the lie easily. “Roselyn, you don’t know me well, so don’t pretend you understand the motives for everything I do.”
“But I know things about you,” she said.
Keeping the tension from his face took all the deception he’d learned to master.
A cool gleam lingered in her eyes. “You enjoy scandal and the attention it brings you.”
He let out his breath, feeling suddenly weak and tired as his tension drained away. “So what if I do?”
“I played a part in your scandals once, and I won’t do it again. My life is devoid of scandal, and I intend to keep it that way.”
“You ‘played a part’?” he echoed, surprised at how close to the surface his anger was. “You caused the biggest scandal of my life, and I have yet to live down the humiliation. You don’t think your life is still full of scandal? If your parents knew what you’ve been doing—”
“Are you threatening to tell them?” she asked coldly, stepping toward him.
“No, I only seek to show you that you’re deceiving yourself; you like scandal every bit as much as I do.”
She drew herself up. “Obviously you know nothing about me. Good night.”
She climbed up her ladder, leaving him to dress alone.
The next morning when Roselyn left the bake house, she gave a little start as she saw Charlotte standing in the courtyard, grinning at her.
“Good day, Roselyn!” the girl called. “I tried the cottage first, but no one answered. I should have known you’d be here.”
Roselyn gave her a weak smile, leaning her hand against the apple tree to steady herself. “Have you come for a baking lesson today?”
Charlotte nodded. “Mama agreed I could finish my other duties later. But first I have a question.” She glanced at the half wall. “Whose are those?”
Nervousness shot up Roselyn’s spine as she realized she’d left Thornton’s breeches outside all night. How stupid could she be?
She forced a smile. “Those are Philip’s.”
Charlotte looked uncomfortable. “Forgive me for intruding on your grief, but why do you have them out now? It has been a year.”
As Roselyn frantically searched for a good excuse, she slowly folded the breeches, then put her arm around the girl. “Charlotte, you mustn’t worry for me; I promise that I’m not dwelling on my grief. I was searching through a chest of my own garments and found these at the bottom. After I pulled them out, I—I accidentally spilled something on them, so I had to wash them.”
Charlotte’s smile was full of sympathy and trust, making Roselyn’s guilt all the harder to bear.
“Just let me know when you’re ready to part with his garments,” the girl said. “I know the church would appreciate them, and Mama and I would help you carry them.”
Roselyn leaned over to kiss her forehead. “You’re too dear to me. Thank you. Now, come inside the bake house and we’ll try a new recipe.”
After Charlotte had gone, Roselyn found Thornton dressed in a clean shirt and breeches, sitting at the table. An empty bowl of porridge sat before him, and he leaned back on the bench, looking at her as if he’d been waiting. She suddenly remembered being pressed to his damp body, feeling his aroused manhood against her stomach. She didn’t understand why such a thing had happened between them, and she could hardly ask him. Even now a flush of heat worked its way up her face, and she told herself it was embarrassment.
“Was that Charlotte Heywood?” he asked.
She nodded. “Thank you for not making a sound. She came for a baking lesson.”
“The breeches—”
She raised a hand. “Do not say it. I was foolish to leave them out there.”
“I was only going to apologize for the same offense. You have been good enough to clothe me—the least I can do is keep track of the garments.”
She couldn’t look at him anymore. Feeling a jitter of nerves, she stacked the dirty wooden bowls from the table.
“Roselyn?”
She almost dropped everything. What was wrong with her? “Yes?”
“I’d like to go for another walk today.”
She wanted to close her eyes and groan. “You exerted yourself enough yesterday.”
“No,” Thornton said, sitting forward and resting his arms on the table. “If I’m ever to be well, I need to bolster my strength. By God’s blood, Roselyn, I could hardly wash myself!”
She felt her lips twitch and she lowered her head.
“You’re smiling!” he exclaimed. “Don’t try to deny it.”
“I am trying not to grimace with impatience. Truly, I have much work to do.”
“Are your Heywood brothers coming back?”
“They’re not mine,” she said crossly. “They’re finished here, since my fields are small and quickly harvested.”
“So where are they now?”
She wondered at such speculation, and wished she didn’t have to worry about his every motive. “Probably in the estate fields. There aren’t enough men on the island for a proper harvest, so they’re working dawn to dusk. That probably helped in keeping your presence here a secret.”
“Ah, so you enjoy being alone with me.”
“You do yourself too much credit,” she scoffed, carrying the bowls to the cupboard. “They’ve been working too hard to visit much, is all.”
“So the brothers visit you often.”
“No, just—” She caught herself before mentioning John. “Let us be about this walk quickly, for I have to go into Shanklin later today.”
Thornton pushed himself up on one foot. “I’m ready.”
“Must we go outside? Surely—”
“Open the door, Roselyn,” he said sternly, but she thought she saw a wicked gleam in his eye.
When they stepped outside, the sun was so bright that he shaded his eyes with his hand. “Never again will I allow myself to spend this much time indoors.”
He’d given her the perfect opening. “From what I’ve heard, you like the indoors.”
“What does that mean?” he demanded.
She didn’t look at him, knowing she’d see only his dark frown. “I told myself we would not argue today. Just ignore what I said.”
He gave a little grunt, but said nothing else. That was fine with Roselyn; she didn’t want her curiosity to win out over her good sense.
This time she led him away from Wakesfield, south through the rolling meadows. In the distance were the high downs at the southern end of the island, covered in purple heather. Soon grasses swished about their lower legs, mixed with yellow vetches and thyme, forcing them to slow their pace.
Roselyn could usually tell when Thornton was tiring by his increasing grip on her shoulders. But not yet this day. Blue butterflies danced on the wind around them, and he watched it all with a small smile. Did he appreciate the beauty of Wight as much as she did—or was his the smile of ownership?
She was so busy trying to study his face that she didn’t watch the ground before her. Her foot caught in a hole, sending her down onto her backside. She tried to let go of Thornton—but he crashed down on top of her.