He couldn’t have left the island, Roselyn told herself as she dressed; not when he couldn’t mount a horse alone or defend himself on a dangerous journey.
She descended the ladder and walked quickly out the door. Would he go to Wakesfield Manor, now that Charlotte had met him? He’d originally wanted no one to know where he was, but he’d allowed her to choose whether to tell the truth to Charlotte.
Roselyn was so confused that she didn’t know what to believe anymore.
But Wakesfield didn’t seem like the right destination, so she swiftly headed through the meadows toward the ocean. The sun was just beginning to peer over the horizon, and by the time she neared the cliff, her face was bathed in warmth from running.
She finally saw Thornton, silhouetted against the dawn sky, the sun streaming brightly around him. Roselyn took a deep breath. She wasn’t certain why she felt relieved—or why she’d worried at all. Surely it was just fear for his safety.
She suddenly remembered that when he had mentioned the Heywoods last evening, something had not sounded right. He’d tried to cover it up, but she had not been fooled. For a moment she thought he’d felt inadequate, but she’d put such a ridiculous idea from her mind. With his arrogance, he would hardly feel inadequate about anything.
She calmed her breathing as she came up behind him.
“Did you think I’d gone for good?” he asked without turning around.
Startled, she came to a halt at his side. He looked down at her, and when his eyes widened and a slow smile lit his face, she knew immediately how she must look to him—flustered, unkempt, with her hair down as if she couldn’t take the time to dress properly in her haste to find him.
And it was all true.
She caught her lower lip between her teeth, and turned to look out over the ocean. It was low tide, and gulls swooped and darted amid the wet rocks at the base of the cliff, looking for food.
“No, I didn’t think you’d gone,” she said, “I just thought it might be too soon for you to walk very far with the cane. What if you fell and hurt yourself, and I had to drag you back to the cottage alone?”
By the saints, she was babbling like an idiot. Her dreams last night had been full of his face above hers, his mouth so near, his thigh between hers—it was a wonder she could even look at him.
Yet Thornton drew her eyes until she could no longer resist. He was gazing out over the ocean, his face bathed in warm sunlight, his expression pensive.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I was just remembering. It wasn’t too long ago that there were ships as far as one could see.”
Roselyn felt a little crackle of excitement at the perfect opening he’d given her. “Do you think the Spanish have tried to invade England by now? I heard that below London, they’d felt the need to stretch chains across the Thames to keep ships out.”
He shook his head. “No, that kind of news travels quickly. Your reliable Francis Heywood would have heard by now. I’m sure the Spanish are limping toward their own ports. From the few days my ship trailed their fleet, I could tell they didn’t approach this invasion very intelligently.”
The tone of his voice when he talked about the enemy was particularly mocking. “But your mother is Spanish,” she said.
The smile he gave her was not pleasant, but he remained silent.
“Does it…bother you?”
“What? To have Spanish blood which everyone hates?”
She was surprised at his open bitterness. Wouldn’t a Spanish spy pretend to be happy as an Englishman? “Surely that is only due to the war,” she said.
“There was no war during my childhood, but it seemed the same to me.”
“Did people treat you so differently?”
“Always. Didn’t you?”
She wanted to defend herself, to say that his mother’s nationality had nothing to do with his poor behavior as a groom. But their betrothal was not what she wanted to explore right now.
“Did you ever see my mother before the eve of our wedding?” he asked coldly.
“I cannot say I did, but then again, I didn’t see you, either.”
“It was understood from my earliest memory that my mother was not welcome where my father and brother and I were.”
“Oh no, surely you were just a sensitive child—”
“You think I am sensitive?” he said with angry disbelief.
“Well—”
“My mother came to England when Philip of Spain married Queen Mary. For a few years, my mother was a part of the court. Sometimes I think her life would have been much better had she just stayed in Spain.”
“She wouldn’t have met your father.”
“No.” His voice became low, tired. “And she wouldn’t have been alone, either, whenever my father and Alex and I had to leave the estate.”
Roselyn didn’t know what to say. She had never thought that his childhood might be painful. She had only seen him as a scandalous nobleman who lived for pleasure and danger, little caring how it affected anyone else.
Yet wouldn’t such bitterness be cause for a man to turn against the country that had so shunned him?
“I’m going back,” Thornton said shortly, and turned away from her.
For a few moments, she watched him walk awkwardly with the cane. He maneuvered so slowly she knew he could not think to leave Wight yet. Deep inside she relaxed, telling herself she had more time to try to understand him.
She caught up and walked beside him. “I have to go to church today,” she said.
He didn’t respond.
“I didn’t go last week—”
“Because of me.”
“Yes. The Heywoods wouldn’t understand another excuse. And they would like me to attend supper at Wakesfield tonight.”
“Do they always tell you what to do?”
“Of course not,” she said, linking her hands behind her back. “It is simply that I always attend services with them, and I always have a Sunday meal with them. I would ask you to attend, but you would have to create a whole life for ‘Mr. Sanderson,’ and soon enough, they would know you don’t live in the garrison. I just can’t risk them getting involved in this—this—”
“Scandal?” he asked wryly.
She stiffened.
“Do not worry. I don’t wish to make our situation any more complicated than it already is. And as for church, I seldom go.”
Roselyn hesitated, then couldn’t resist asking, “Are you Catholic?”
He looked down at her, and though his smile had returned, it was wary. “Why? Think you to curry favor by revealing all my secrets?”
She blushed. “Of course not. But your mother is from Spain. Surely it must be difficult to be caught between two religions.”
Spencer didn’t choose to answer immediately, watching instead where he placed the cane. He was tired from not sleeping well, and the exertion of regaining his strength. He’d spent almost two years choosing each word carefully, constantly on his guard to keep himself alive. His exhaustion was so deep, he couldn’t even trust himself on the subject of religion.
But he glanced down again at Roselyn. Her hair was wild and windblown this morn, and he knew she had come out of worry for him—either worry he’d escape, or worry he’d hurt himself. Suddenly her questions did not seem such an intrusion.
“My mother is Catholic,” he admitted slowly. “I was raised with the religion in secret. My father loved her so dearly that he could not deny her this. But in my adulthood, would my mother consider me a Catholic? Most likely not.”
He watched a brief, wistful look cross her features. “Your mother sounds like a woman I would like to meet.”
“Why?”
“From what you’ve said, she seems to have such integrity, such bravery. She didn’t care what it cost her, as long as she had her family to love.”
Spencer looked toward Wakesfield in the distance. “I’m not sure if that was more foolish than brave. Surely your mother was much more practical than mine.”
“Practical? Is that what one would wish for in a mother? My mother’s motivations are greed and ambition, and if you consider those ‘practical,’ then that word suits her.”
“Surely she and your father thought of your welfare when they negotiated with my family.”
Her eyes seemed a vast gray emptiness, forlorn with long-accepted knowledge. “No, that wasn’t a concern. Obedience was all that mattered, and I…didn’t obey.”
He remembered his own parents’ reaction to his many scandals. They hadn’t needed to become angry; their sad disappointment was worse than any lashing. He would probably have to commit murder before his mother would disown him.
“Someone’s watching us,” Roselyn suddenly said in a low voice.
Spencer’s first reaction was an instinctive need to hide. Had Shaw sent another henchman? He calmed his racing heart and looked out across the meadow. Far in the distance, he saw someone herding a flock of sheep. He murmured, “Do you know this person?”
“’Tis Abigail with her family’s sheep.”
Roselyn surprised him by waving at the girl, who cheerfully waved back.
“Is she coming our way?” he asked.
“No, she’s heading for the village.” Roselyn looked up at him. “I had to wave, or she’d know something was wrong.”
“Of course. But you seem worried.”
“She’ll wonder who in the village is using a cane.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “You think she might talk to someone—maybe even Charlotte—and then tell everyone in the village I’m something I’m not.”
She shrugged, and a moment later murmured, “I never wear my hair like this. What must she think?”
He considered Roselyn thoughtfully. The wind swept her wild hair off her face, and it fluttered about her shoulders. The severity of her normal expression was somehow softened, but a bleak sadness shadowed her eyes. Once he would not have cared; now he had to force himself to think of something else.
Why had he revealed so much of his childhood to her? He’d never before been tempted to tell a woman of his past. But there was something about her patience and calm nature that made her easy to confide in.
He wondered what she must think of him. She surely must be congratulating herself on escaping their marriage.
When Roselyn came back from services, Thornton seemed to retreat inside himself. He wasn’t rude, nor did he talk much. He just walked about the cottage, getting in her way, obsessive about using his cane. She sat before the hearth and tried to concentrate on reading her Bible, but he kept knocking into her chair.
Though she felt like challenging his behavior, she had a vivid memory of the gentle way he’d touched her, of the heat and intensity of his eyes. She felt confused and overly warm and suddenly frightened. She had succeeded in burying the last of her volatile emotions when she’d buried her baby and husband—but now the wild, irresponsible Roselyn seemed to be rising up, taking over, and that frightened her more than the closeness of any man.
But she couldn’t bury her awareness of Thornton, of his large body moving back and forth across the room. She didn’t know what she wanted more—the truth of his loyalties, or for him just to leave her alone. Unbidden, she remembered how his eyes had gazed upon the wildness of her hair that morning. The thought of endless silent evenings by herself was no longer comforting.
Supper with the Heywoods was just what Roselyn needed to lift her spirits and make her forget Thornton and all the problems he’d caused. She loved feeling part of such a boisterous, happy family. She helped Charlotte and her mother with the last-minute food preparations, then sat between the women as if they were her sister and mother. When it seemed apparent that Charlotte wasn’t going to bring up the subject of Mr. Sanderson, Roselyn allowed herself to relax completely.
Yet as the evening went on, more and more she could actually feel John watching her. Surely it was just her imagination—having Thornton in her home had made her too aware of a man’s eyes.
When Thornton watched her, she felt distracted, too aware of him as a man.
But John’s gaze was different. She felt nervous, exposed, wondering if he knew the secrets she now guarded. When he offered to walk her home she tried to refuse, but Francis insisted, and even he watched her with a thoughtful frown.
There was no moon in the dark sky as John walked at her side carrying a lantern. The wind whistled forlornly through the orchard, and she pulled her kerchief tighter about her shoulders. She told herself she was ridiculous to feel so uneasy.
After several quiet minutes, he cleared his throat. “My father was talking to Abigail after services.”
Roselyn’s stomach knotted with dread. “What did she have to say?”
“She said she saw you walking with a man she didn’t recognize, a man with a cane.” John hesitated, and in the meager light, he looked apologetic. “Charlotte said that she even met him. Normally there aren’t many strangers on the island, but this is a time of war. Please don’t blame me for being concerned—you live alone.”
She smiled at him, thankful she had spent some of her sleepless hours concocting a story to explain Thornton. “Thank you for your concern, John, but really, you mustn’t worry. He is just a soldier from the garrison in Shanklin. I’ve seen him by the cliffs before. We sometimes happen to walk in the same direction, and occasionally talk. He’s a very polite man.” She forced herself not to hold her breath.
John seemed relieved. “I’m glad. But you can understand why I—why we worry about you.”
As they approached her cottage, Roselyn’s nerves stretched taut. She could only see the barest glow of the fire through the windows, but not the shadow of a man moving about.
“Thank you for walking me home,” she said, turning to face John.
“Might I come in to talk with you for a while?” he asked, and his gaze on hers was warm.
Before Thornton had come, she had often wondered what she would do when her time of mourning was over, when John pushed his interest in her past friendship. Now she felt unprepared, too flustered knowing that Thornton was but mere feet away, possibly even listening.
She couldn’t even think about marriage. Being once again under a man’s control seemed dangerous.
“I’m sorry, John, but ’tis late, and I’m tired.” She smiled up at him tentatively, then felt her smile fade as he took her hand in both of his.
“Then I’ll visit another time, when we have the evening to talk.”
Her breath caught as he leaned down and kissed the back of her hand. Wide-eyed, she watched him straighten and grin.
“Go on in, Roselyn. I’ll stay until you’re safe.”
She nodded and fumbled behind her for the latch, unable to take her eyes off him. When the door swung open, she entered and closed it without looking at him again.
In the warm darkness she leaned her forehead against the wooden door and closed her eyes. She had known of John’s interest in her, of course, but it was still a surprise to find him beginning a sort of courtship.
John’s presence was soothing and pleasant. He didn’t make her heart feel as if it would explode from her chest; he didn’t make her thoughts lose focus. If there was anyone from whom she could protect her feelings, who wouldn’t endanger her with another wild passion, it would be John.
Thornton’s sarcastic voice dissolved her thoughts. “Out for a pleasant walk with your latest conquest?”