Spencer’s uneasiness increased as he read the inscription on the headstone:
MARY GRANT
AGE 2 MONTHS
He awkwardly knelt down. Roselyn had lost both a husband and a child—why had she never told him?
With almost grim self-punishment, he thought back to his comments on her mourning clothes, as if she didn’t have a right to mourn.
He had had little time to mourn his father before he left for Spain. To survive, he’d been forced to adopt another identity. He had put his family—even his father—away in his mind, as if they didn’t exist.
He had left the comforting of his mother to Alex, and could only hope his brother had been up to the task.
But who had comforted Roselyn? Who had been with her when she’d held her dying child—or had she been alone?
As the sun disappeared behind a cloud, he leaned forward and touched the letters spelling the baby’s name. There were dying flowers laid on the grave, as if Roselyn couldn’t visit frequently. It had been a year now, and maybe the hurt wasn’t as fresh—and he himself had kept her busy.
But how did a mother get over the death of a child?
At the nearby crackling of dried grass, Spencer whirled about on his knees to find a thin, older man staring down at him, wearing a large mustache on his lined face. Spencer was aghast that he’d allowed someone near without hearing him, and that he’d never thought to carry his knife for protection. Had Roselyn so befuddled his mind?
The man made no threatening moves, so Spencer took his time using his cane to stand.
“I am Francis Heywood,” the man said gruffly, “the bailiff of Wakesfield Manor. You seem to be the soldier my daughter Charlotte met.”
Before Spencer could speak, Heywood continued, “But I must say, I asked at the garrison about you, and there is no soldier with a broken leg.” He looked pointedly at the splint on Spencer’s right calf.
“Determined, aren’t you?” Spencer said.
The bailiff shrugged. “It is my duty to protect those on the manor—especially the women. My daughter warned of a man bothering Roselyn Grant. Now who are you, and why do you keep wandering this estate?”
“I am Spencer Thornton.” What was the point of keeping his identity secret from the Heywood family now, when even the Spanish knew where to find him?
Heywood’s only visible reaction was a slight widening of his eyes. “How long have you been on Wight, my lord?”
“Over a fortnight.”
“Why did you not come to Wakesfield Manor?”
“So you knew about the betrothal contract?” Spencer asked.
The older man nodded.
“Why didn’t Roselyn know that this manor is now mine?”
“When she came here, her husband and child were dying. This was the only place she could go—how could I tell her that it was no longer in her family? Wight is so far from London, that I did not think you would visit often.” He paused. “I assume she knows the truth now?”
“She doesn’t believe me—she doesn’t believe her father could do such a thing without telling her.”
Heywood looked grim. “Lady Roselyn usually sees the good in people—and when she doesn’t see it, she pretends it is there.”
“Did she pretend with Philip Grant?” Spencer asked, surprised at how tense he felt.
“Why do you care, my lord?” Heywood studied him with an uncomfortable intensity. “I thought you did not desire marriage to Lady Roselyn.”
“She made her own decision on our marriage. But what about Grant?” He pointed to the grass-covered grave between them.
“My lord, I still don’t understand why you’re here—”
“Let us make a bargain, you and I. I’ll answer some of your questions if you’ll answer some of mine.”
“Some?” Heywood repeated, his mustache twitching with the beginnings of a smile.
“Let’s not make promises we can’t keep, Heywood.”
After a slight hesitation, the bailiff said, “Very well, my lord. But perhaps you would like to sit.”
Spencer limped away from the grave and sat down on a stone bench in the chapel’s shade.
With knees creaking, Heywood sat beside him. “My lord, might I ask the first question?”
Spencer nodded.
“Where have you been staying? No one in the village has seen you.”
Spencer knew a lie would be best, if only to protect Roselyn, but Heywood would never do anything to harm her. “I’m staying at Roselyn’s cottage.”
Heywood stiffened. “My sons never saw you.”
“I assure you, I was in no condition to do harm to your Lady Roselyn. She tells me I almost died.”
“A fortnight ago, the channel was filled with ships,” Heywood said slowly.
“My ship went down during the battle, and I washed ashore. I was bleeding from a sword wound in my chest when Roselyn found me on the beach.”
“How fortunate to come ashore near your own estate.”
Spencer smiled. “Believe me, I knew where the battle was taking place, that I had somewhere to go.”
“But you didn’t come to the manor—you stayed with Lady Roselyn. Surely you must not look upon her in a kind light.”
“When I finally discovered her identity, I was less than gracious. I felt her caring for me was perhaps…an atonement for her sins.” Spencer stretched out his leg, wondering what Heywood would think about that statement. “So tell me what happened with Roselyn’s ‘marriage.’”
“They are her secrets to tell, my lord.”
“I don’t ask you to reveal Rose’s secrets, Heywood. Just tell me what you saw.”
“Rose?” Heywood echoed softly.
“A slip of the tongue,” Spencer said with a shrug, feeling as uncomfortable as if he’d revealed his own dark secrets.
“Lady Roselyn and Philip Grant were handfasted in London, where they lived for almost a year.”
“Roselyn says he taught her the baker’s trade.”
“Yes. And she insists on using it here to support herself.”
“And you buy her bread,” Spencer said.
“The estate buys much of it, yes. After Roselyn gave birth to Mary the Black Death broke out in London, and she brought her husband and child here, the only place she could think of that was safe.”
“But they died of it anyway.”
“Yes,” Heywood said, gazing out over the rolling fields with a sad, faraway look. “She wouldn’t let us help her as her husband and babe lay dying.”
“She didn’t want you to sicken.” Spencer’s voice was low, as he thought of Roselyn all alone, surrounded by illness and death. No wonder she seemed almost too calm at times. How else could she live with what she’d seen and felt? “Why did she stay?”
“She insisted she couldn’t return to her parents, and I knew there was nowhere safer for such an innocent girl. She wouldn’t accept my hospitality in the manor, so I gave her a cottage. She insisted on paying rent.”
“I’m not surprised.”
They were both silent, listening to the rustle of the grasses and the squawking of birds.
“My lord,” Heywood began hesitantly, “now that we know of your visit, perhaps you will stay at the manor.”
“No.”
Heywood rose swiftly to his feet. “Surely you know it is unseemly to remain with Lady Roselyn.”
“Perhaps,” Spencer conceded, looking up at the bailiff, “but if you tell no one I’m here, who will know?”
“But she is only a poor widow—”
“Who was to be my wife,” Spencer interrupted, but without the anger he’d come to expect. “Let us say that she and I have our own bargain.”
“Do you plan to marry her?”
“No,” he said flatly, and was surprised by a flash of regret. “There are things I can’t tell you, ways she is in danger. But I won’t be here much longer.” Only five days.
As Spencer rose and began to limp away, he said over his shoulder, “Remember—tell no one I am here.”
“My family will have to know.”
“You have my permission,” he said, thinking wryly of John Heywood. He turned around to pin the bailiff with his gaze. “But no one else.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Spencer found Roselyn kneeling in her kitchen garden, the hot sun making waves of heat rise from her black dress. In between weeding, she wiped her face with her forearm.
He stepped into the courtyard, knowing she heard him. She didn’t bother to get up, so he sat on the bench and watched her.
“Why didn’t you tell me about your baby?” he asked in a low voice.
He saw her shoulders stiffen, imagined the pain she must be feeling.
And then he understood.
He saw her serenity for what it was—a mask to disguise her feelings, to keep everything inside. When she stood up to face him, she was as dry-eyed and remote as he knew she’d be.
“Who told you?” she asked.
“I found the graveyard.”
Roselyn remained calm, letting the spasm of old grief slumber again. She wiped her hands on a rag and finally looked up at Spencer.
So now he knew. Would he mock her child as he’d mocked her marriage, calling Mary a—
But she stopped the word from even forming in her mind, and knew suddenly that he would not hurt the memory of a child.
“So why didn’t you tell me?” he asked again.
“It is not the first thing I share with strangers.”
Was his smile sad? she wondered, and felt the prick of tears she despised shedding.
“I understand you better,” he said softly.
“Oh, do you think so?” she asked with a touch of bitterness.
“I met your bailiff.”
She stiffened. “You didn’t tell him—”
“He knows who I am. Aren’t you happy not to have to lie to him anymore?”
A rush of anger shot through her, and she stepped closer to look down on him. “Happy that he’s now in danger?”
“Roselyn—”
“One Spaniard followed you—who knows if there could be another? Don’t you think I lie awake enough nights imagining—” She broke off as her voice cracked. She had tried so hard to protect the Heywoods. “And now they know I’ve been lying to them. What must they think?”
“Come here.”
His low, rumbling voice set off a jangle of nerves inside her. “No.”
He caught her skirt with one hand and pulled her between his outstretched legs. When she would have fled, he forced her to sit down on his thigh. Roselyn perched there, feeling awkward and ridiculous—and blinking back frustrated tears.
“Heywood is very worried about you,” he began.
She felt his arm settle around her waist, while his hand rested on her hip.
“And maybe he thinks I’m cruel for imposing on you. But I made it clear you had nursed me back to health, and it was only my stubbornness that was keeping me in this cottage.”
“Is it?” she whispered, glancing at him. His face was much too close, his dark eyes too powerful. Why did he touch her with such familiarity, when she knew he was only going to leave?
Spencer’s gaze dropped to her mouth, and she felt that answering warmth, the way her body lit like a new candle.
“What else did you and Francis discuss?” she asked breathlessly.
He no longer seemed to hear her. His lips were near hers, and his free hand touched her knee.
She bolted from his lap and ran.