“But your leg—”
“I won’t put weight on it—but neither will I regain my strength just lying here.”
Roselyn was fighting a losing battle with herself. How was she to discover the truth and be free of her past?
His dark eyes hid secrets behind their friendliness. She found herself strangely fascinated by the differences between him and other men. Even when she played her role of healer, she saw not his wounds but his body, so large and different from Philip’s.
Her palms were suddenly damp, and she had a hard time meeting his gaze.
Thornton tried to lift himself onto his good leg, but even across the room she could see his arms tremble. Roselyn found herself at his side, putting her arms beneath his shoulders, bracing herself against his weight. He finally rose up on one leg—and would have gone down again if she had not slid beneath his arm and held him steady.
She absorbed the lean, muscular length of him along her entire body. His hip pressed against hers, and she could feel the faintest touch of his breath against her cheek. She couldn’t look at him, knowing she must be blushing. Why did her body betray her like this, when all she wanted to do was remember how cruelly he’d once treated her?
Thornton was tall and imposing in her tiny cottage, but even more intimidating was the penetrating way he studied her. She couldn’t look away as his gaze roamed her face, alighting on her mouth for just a moment too long.
She was trapped by his awareness of her as a woman. Why had he never bothered to treat her this way when they’d been betrothed? Those long-ago memories stiffened her resolve and she coolly asked, “Shall we begin?”
Together they managed something more than a hop, but not quite a stagger. When they reached the end of her one-room cottage, they turned and started back toward the pallet. She knew he must be in pain, but he never showed it.
“I’d like to go outside,” he said.
“I’m not sure that’s wise.” She thought of John appearing in her bake house, of Charlotte’s habit of stopping by.
But when she tried to steer him away from the door, he wouldn’t be moved. His strength only reminded her of how quickly he could turn against her if he knew her identity.
“Allow me to sit in the sun for just a little while,” he said, reaching for the door latch.
For a man who wanted to stay hidden, he was proving stubborn in his recklessness. Roselyn had no choice but to give in, knowing that only kindness would win the revelation of his secrets. “Then we must walk as quickly as possible to the courtyard behind the cottage. It looks out over empty cottages, and you won’t be seen.”
Their journey seemed to last forever, and she had to constantly resist the urge to look over her shoulder. When they reached the courtyard, she helped Thornton to a bench near a tree heavy with green apples. He sat down with a sigh and stretched his leg before him.
“I’ll be weeding the garden,” she said. “Call if you need me.”
“Rose?”
She looked back, and in the sunlight, he seemed a reminder of the night, dark, full of shadows and shades of truth. He leaned back on the bench, and in his relaxed pose was power restrained. She felt something strange uncurl into life deep in her belly. She didn’t understand what she was feeling; she only knew she wished she could run to safety, to the time before he’d come.
He cocked his head as he studied her in return. “I don’t think you ever told me the name of this estate.”
She wanted to lie and live with the consequences later. But she couldn’t keep secret the name of a place like this, so well known on the island.
“Wakesfield Manor,” she said, lifting her chin.
His eyes narrowed, and as he opened his mouth to speak, she braced herself.
She suddenly heard a voice shouting greetings from the front of the cottage, and felt the shock clear to her fingernails—it was Francis Heywood.
Chapter 5
Spencer watched Rose Grant lose all the color in her face at the man’s shout.
What was going on? One moment he was relaxed, imagining the peace of being married to a woman like her—pretty, capable, easily satisfied. In the space of a heartbeat, his suspicions of Rose flared back to life. Why hadn’t Spencer brought the knife with him, even if it was only an eating knife?
“You must hide!” she said, her voice higher than normal.
“Where shall I go? Who is this man?”
“I—oh, just wait here,” she said, both hands raised as if by sheer will alone she could keep him where he didn’t want to be. “He mustn’t see you!”
