Roselyn stiffened at the sound of Thornton’s voice, yet the thought of verbally dueling with him challenged her. She turned around and found him sitting in her chair before the fire, watching her with a dark, knowing look.
What was wrong with her that even arguing with him made her feel more alive than she’d ever felt? It frightened her to feel like this—she wanted to be numb again, to be calm, but Thornton was always waiting to outwit her.
“John is not my latest conquest,” she said, walking slowly until she stood before him, and he was forced to look up at her. “Francis insisted he walk me home.”
“Did Francis insist the boy invite himself inside?”
“What is wrong with you?” she demanded, tilting her head as she studied him. “Am I not even allowed friends?”
He met her gaze boldly. “Your flirting with that carpenter risks my safety.”
“I am not flirting with him—and how are you at risk? To reveal your presence would bring only me public scorn. After all, you claim this estate is yours.”
What secrets could she lull from him? Anticipation made her shiver with excitement.
Thornton rose to his feet and leaned on his cane. “Don’t play the fool with me. We already had one Spanish visitor; we don’t need more.”
“Fine,” Roselyn said, stepping even nearer to stare up into his face. “Then do not question how I live my life.”
She could tell he wanted to speak—would she finally know the truth? She sensed an undercurrent of anger moving through him, and it couldn’t be because of their betrothal. He had already vowed to have her declared an adulterer to break the contract between them.
With mounting astonishment, she realized that she was trying to provoke him.
She was suddenly frightened of herself, of the wild Roselyn waiting deep inside her. She had worked too hard on her restraint to allow it all to be destroyed because of Spencer Thornton.
Breathing deeply, she took a step back. “How does the wound in your ribs feel?” she asked, to distract them both. “I noticed that you’ve stopped wearing the bandages.”
“’Tis fine,” he said shortly, leaning both hands on the cane.
Even injured, he so dominated her small cottage that it sent a flutter of nervous excitement through her.
“Have you been watching for signs of infection?”
“I told you I feel fine.”
Not breaking their shared gaze, she said, “Lift your shirt and allow me to look.”
His mouth twisted into a smile within his beard. “Didn’t quite get all you wanted with the carpenter?”
“What?” she asked, feeling confused and suddenly naive.
He stared at her for another moment, then looked away. “Never mind. Here, see for yourself.”
Lifting up his shirt, Spencer watched the concentration that turned Roselyn’s wide-eyed look into a frown. Briskly she took his shoulders and turned him toward the fire, and he found himself holding his breath. Of course he was only concerned about whether he was healing well.
Then her cool hands touched his ribs, and the shock astonished him, sending an unwelcome flare of heat to his groin. When had she gained such power over him? Wasn’t it she who was supposed to be distracted by his presence? His mind was filled with her touch, her scent; he remembered her long wild hair that morning on the cliff, as the ocean breeze had played with it.
As she lowered his shirt, her palm brushed against his nipple. He could barely disguise the shudder that made him want to take her into his arms and teach her what touching a man could do.
She claimed herself a widow—wouldn’t she already know how to tease him? Yet when she looked up at him, her eyes held an innocence that seemed too real. He wanted to hold her face between his hands and make her confess all her secrets, so that the puzzles surrounding her no longer drew him.
Only nine days left—and strangely it didn’t seem enough.
When she moved away from him to clear his supper dishes from the table, Spencer leaned back against the door and let a smile play on his mouth as he boldly studied her. Her nervousness obviously grew with each clatter of the dishes, each distracted glance over her shoulder at him.
“Roselyn.”
She caught a bowl before it crashed to the wooden floor.
He grinned. “Am I healing to your satisfaction?”
She nodded.
“Are you certain? Perhaps you should examine me again.”
“What is the purpose of such teasing?” she demanded, turned to face him. Red stained her cheeks but she met his gaze coolly.
“Purpose?” he echoed, smiling as he limped forward. “Perhaps it merely gives me something to do. You keep yourself busy every moment of daylight, while I can only walk—and talk.”
She tilted her head to look up at him as he stopped before her. He had to admire the fact that she didn’t retreat.
“You do enough talking, that is true,” she said dryly. “But I don’t appreciate being used as a distraction.”
He pitched his voice lower. “But you are distracting, even in those widow’s garments. Surely you have worn them long enough.”
Her face paled into an icy stillness. “My grief is not your concern, and I will not discuss it with you.”
For a moment he stared into her eyes, glimpsing the heartache before she shuttered her emotions away from him. He thought of what she’d borne in the last year with such obvious courage.
It made him uneasy.
Roselyn climbed up to her loft as quickly as she could, and lay wide awake on her pallet. He’d said she was “distracting.”
She covered her ears with both hands and squeezed her eyes shut, but she could still hear Thornton moving about below. What could he be doing?
Reluctantly she lowered her hands and listened, finding herself barely breathing. It sounded like he was hopping about again, since the pounding of the wooden floor seemed to shake clear up to her loft. When she heard an occasional grunt of exertion, her curiosity became an itch beneath her skin.
Cautiously, she left the pallet and crept on her belly to the edge of the loft. She peered over only as much as she needed to, and saw that Thornton had blown the candle out. The room was dark with shadows, lit only by flickering firelight.
Then she saw him, and the breath seemed trapped in her lungs. He’d removed his shirt, and stood with the knee of his broken leg propped on a bench, holding his cane up like a sword. He wove and ducked and thrust, as if fighting an imaginary opponent. She could see the strain of his muscles, the perspiration on his back, and she felt as if the fire from the hearth had risen to engulf her. Occasionally he hopped away from the bench, and the vibration that moved through the loft made her feel dizzy and strange.
When he finally stopped training and began to wash himself from a basin of water, she told herself to go back to bed.
Yet she remained trapped at the edge of the loft, her wide eyes watching as he scrubbed his face and chest.
He grew unnaturally still, and his head lifted until he met her eyes. She wanted to retreat, but his gaze held hers, burning with a dark fierceness that enthralled her. An answering heat burst to life in her veins.
Without breaking their gaze, he slowly continued to wash himself, moistening the dark hair on his chest, leaving soap trails that dripped down his well-muscled arms.
The heat inside her grew overpowering, then spread down between her thighs, until she felt restless, yearning, close to forgetting everything she’d worked so hard to become.
His mesmerizing eyes were alive with awareness of what he did to her—and that finally brought her to her senses. Without a word, she backed away and lay down on her pallet. For a few moments longer he washed, and then there was only silence—except for the rapid beating of her heart.
For two days an uneasy truce lay between them, but there was still an unnamable tension that seemed to be slowly enveloping her. Roselyn had no way to fight it, no way to stop this awareness of Spencer Thornton as a man, rather than as a monster from her past.
Whenever they were together she felt his gaze like an intimate touch, and shivers spread out across her skin. His deep voice could make her jump and clatter dishes together as she cursed her clumsiness. When he smiled, she remembered his mouth so close to hers, his body touching every part of her as they lay in the grass. His gentleness had surprised her, and she would never forget his touch.
He could be so charming, so amusing, that sometimes she almost wanted to laugh aloud, something she couldn’t remember doing since her daughter had died.
But she had every reason to be wary and distant—she could not forget the Spanish letter hidden in her shed, the possibility that he was a traitor to England.
He was dangerous to her in so many ways.
The day was hot and sultry, and a steady rain fell throughout the afternoon. Everything seemed wet, and her black gown clung to her uncomfortably. The laundry she’d done before the storm hung limply over the chairs and tables, refusing to dry.
Her nerves were frayed at being confined all day with Thornton, and he made it even worse by removing his shirt. His skin glistened with perspiration and renewed good health. When he wasn’t exercising with his cane, he lounged before the bare hearth, watching her with hooded eyes.
Just as dusk settled over the island and she felt tense enough to scream, he stood up and limped to the window to look out over the estate. Her relief at being free of his gaze was fleeting.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “You have company,” he said, his mouth curling up in one corner with sarcasm. “That boy is persistent.”
She groaned. “John?”
He leaned back against the wall, arms folded across his chest. She thought he would be amused, but she sensed something darker inside him.
“So you have other suitors?” he asked in a low voice.
“He is not my suitor. And don’t let him see you!”
“That might be difficult.”
Roselyn sighed. “We can’t sit in the courtyard, because of the rain. You’re going to have to hide.”
“Hide? Where? There’s only one room in here—and don’t tell me to squeeze into a cupboard.”
“The loft,” she said, her spirits lifting with relief. “If you’re quiet, he shall never know you’re here.”
“Send him away,” Thornton said, with all the stubbornness of a child.
“I can’t—that would only make him suspicious. He’s been a good friend.”
Though he rolled his eyes and sighed noisily, he glanced at the rope ladder.
“I still can’t use my right leg; it will be difficult to climb.”
“Just try—and hurry!”
Roselyn scurried about the cottage, catching up wet laundry, putting away the double settings of tankards and plates from supper. But when she glanced over to check Thornton’s progress, she stopped as she watched his powerful arms pull his weight up each step of the ladder to the top.
The knock at the door came too quickly; she could still hear Thornton’s slow steps across the wooden loft.
“How the hell do you fit up here?” he hissed.
“Just lie down!”
There was a crack of something hitting the wooden beams, and a muffled oath. The following silence seemed loud but for the muted sound of the rain falling.
John knocked again, and she heard him call her name.
“I’m coming!” She smoothed out her dress, wishing she didn’t feel so hot and uncomfortable.
But deep inside her glowed the thrill of doing something so unexpected and dangerous.
She opened the door to find John standing beneath the edge of the thatched roof, his cloak soaked, his brown hair dripping as it curled beneath his chin.
“Oh John, do come in out of the rain,” she said, stepping back so that he could move past her. “Whyever are you out in such weather?”
“I thought you might be lonely, trapped here all day.”
She motioned to her only chair before the fire, then pulled up a bench for herself. She gripped her fingers together tightly in her lap. “You know I enjoy my solitude, John. The weather doesn’t bother me.”
He gave her a crooked, sweet smile. “Then you are a better person than I. I spend so much of my time in my woodshop that I’ll use any excuse to escape outdoors.”
“Ah, then I shouldn’t feel guilty for imposing on you to harvest my grain.” She smiled, but she couldn’t help wondering what Thornton was thinking.
“Never feel guilty. I appreciate any chance to spend time with you.”
A blush stole across her face, though she willed it to stop. “I seem to remember a time when you preferred that I play with Charlotte.”
“That was when we were children. Since you’ve come back—”
He broke off, suddenly seeming embarrassed. But why should he be? She and John had always had this comfortable closeness. She had even begun to accept the possibility that she might wed him one day, that this easy familiarity would be the best marriage for her. She would know what to expect, and he would never hurt her.
She felt no wild emotion when John looked at her, only friendship and respect—and she needed those to survive.
He smiled. “Since you’ve come back, I feel…”
He hesitated, and Roselyn held her breath.
“…differently. I grew up thinking I would live elsewhere, that I would explore England and maybe even travel over the seas. But I could be content here if—”
He broke off again, and she wanted to groan in exasperation. What had he been about to say? His gaze caught on Thornton’s pallet, and her stomach seemed to plummet to her toes.
“Roselyn, you don’t normally sleep down here, do you?” he asked in a puzzled voice.
For a moment her mind became an absolute blank. What could she say—that she’d been caring for a man who was possibly an enemy?
“No, I usually prefer the loft,” she said, her voice almost trembling with relief as an idea surfaced, “but last night it was too hot up there beneath the roof.”
“You would be much more comfortable up at the manor.”
“John, please—”
“Mother keeps your room ready, in case you change your mind.”
“Please tell her to use it for guests, because I will never stay there again.” Her voice sounded sharp, and she forced a smile. “I won’t endanger your family by claiming a place at Wakesfield that I no longer deserve.”
“Roselyn—”
“And how is your mother? I haven’t seen her since Sunday.”
She forced him to answer mundane questions about his family, hoping he would leave. Usually she looked forward to his visits, but today all she could do was imagine that every creak of wood was Thornton announcing his presence.
“John, it’s growing late,” she finally said. “Would you like a lantern to light your way home?”
He rose with obvious reluctance. “No, I know the estate too well. Don’t you remember the night walks Charlotte used to insist upon?”
Roselyn stood up, the pleasant memory soothing her nerves. “You’re being too kind—forgetting my part in her schemes. You’re such a good brother to Charlotte.”
He took a step closer and she felt a momentary panic.
“I don’t wish to be a brother to you,” he murmured.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. When Thornton looked at her like that, she felt the wild Roselyn struggling to break free. With John, there was no sense of imminent discovery, of restlessness born of need.
He put his hands on her arms and drew her nearer. She felt like an observer, urging herself to experience her first kiss.
At the last moment, she turned her head aside and offered her cheek. His lips were soft, but there was none of the magic she experienced when Thornton merely brushed her skin with his fingers.
“Good night,” she murmured, her thoughts confused. Didn’t she want the safety of John’s name, of such a calm, unthreatening life?
He walked to the door, giving her a regretful smile over his shoulder. “I’ll return again,” he promised, then closed the door behind him.
Roselyn sagged against the trestle table, then crossed to the window, looking through the murky glass at his retreating back. She put her hot face in her hands.
“He’s gone,” she finally called.
She could hear Thornton’s sigh. “You’d better come up.”
She glanced up sharply. “Why?”
“I believe I’m stuck.”