He took a last swallow of ale and handed her the tankard. “Are you ready, Rose? Forgive me, but I’ll have to lean on you.”
Nowhe treated her cordially, though she was but a stranger to him. When she was his betrothed, a frightened young girl, he’d been cruel. She would not forget.
“Very well, Mr. Thornton,” she said, remembering not to use his title, which simple Rose Grant wouldn’t know. She took his hands and placed them on her shoulders, trying not to notice the warmth of his callused palms. “Use me to stand.”
With a grunt of exertion, he rose up on his good leg. Wincing at the pressure on her shoulders, she slid beneath his arm.
She reached for the lantern and blew out the candle, saying, “I can’t have the bailiff seeing us—unless you’d like to be taken in and nursed by his family.”
“You are doing a fine job,” he said—too quickly.
He obviously didn’t want anyone else to know where he was.
Together they set off across the estate, guided only by the moon and Roselyn’s sure knowledge of her home. In every shadow she thought she saw the villagers watching them, prepared to spread the word that she was housing a strange man. Perhaps John had been suspicious, and still lingered nearby. It was difficult to put her nervousness aside, especially when the hair on the back of her neck prickled with strange awareness.Wassomeone out there in the darkness?
A quarter hour had not passed before Thornton’s breath was rasping in his chest, and his perspiration soaked her clothing. Finally, she saw the faint light in the window of her cottage, and she breathed a shuddering sigh of relief. She pushed open her door and almost dragged him inside.
Awkwardly holding him while leaning over, she pulled a bench away from the table. “Sit here, Mr. Thornton. Give me a moment to prepare a pallet for you.”
She brought her own goose-feather mattress from the loft and made his bed in the corner closest to the hearth.
She could make herself another mattress on the morrow.
As she helped him to his feet, he staggered forward and slung both arms over her shoulders in the semblance of an intimate embrace. She felt herself blush as her face was pressed to his chest, and she had no choice but to grip his waist to keep him upright.
“Forgive me,” he murmured into her hair.
She remained silent, frozen, too aware of him.
“You smell wonderful.”
When she didn’t answer, his chest shook in a laugh. “I’ll wager I don’t.”
Roselyn couldn’t stop the smile that fleetingly crossed her face. Why did he have to be charming, even in sickness? She hadn’t suspected he had this side to him.
Together they managed to get him onto the pallet, where he collapsed back and closed his eyes as she covered him with a blanket.
“I must leave you for a few moments,” she said. “I have to return for the tray and the lantern.”
When she reached the shed, she began to dig in the pile of grass for his pouch. She found it quickly, then held it up in the meager light. It was still damp, and tightly tied at the neck. It took her endless minutes to loosen the leather laces.
She found herself opening the pouch slowly, not eager to know what was inside. She had nursed Thornton and held off death for him, and though she longed for him to be gone from her peaceful island, she didn’t want him arrested for treason.
And yet—that would be proof that she’d made the right decision in not marrying him.
Her hand shook as she pulled out several sheets of parchment, folded and sealed with an unfamiliar wax imprint. Only hesitating for a moment, she carefully lifted the wax and spread open the letter. Her stomach sank in immediate distress.
The words were in Spanish.
Roselyn stared at the unintelligible letter and gritted her teeth; anger raged through her as quickly as gossip at court. Would an English viscount actually betray his country for the sake of his mother’s people?
She told herself to remain calm, that this could be just a letter to Thornton’s mother. But would he have asked for such a simple thing the moment he had his wits about him?
She couldn’t give it back to him; she’d already lied and told him she didn’t have it. She couldn’t give it to the militia, either. If no one understood Spanish, they could very well arrest him as a precautionary measure—or God forbid, hang him as a spy on his appearance alone.
She couldn’t allow that to happen. She would have to be satisfied that he wouldn’t betray his country before she allowed him to leave her home. She would watch him, even make him feel comfortable around her. And she would listen to every word he said, in hopes of piecing together the puzzle that was Spencer Thornton.
She reburied the oilskin pouch and its questionable contents beneath the cut grass.
