But it had beenhimshe’d fled, his heritage, his position just on the edge of society. It only confirmed Spencer’s thoughts—so why did this tight ball of a lifetime of misery still linger in his chest?
Chapter 7
Roselyn strode to her bake house, carrying her tray of meat pies, trying to wipe Spencer Thornton and his cruel words from her mind—but it was no use.
How had he dared to imply that she needed a man to take care of her? She had spent the last two years learning to rely on herself, not her family’s riches. She’d gone through abuse and heartache and despair, and she would not turn back into the girl she used to be.
She would not allow Thornton to make her forget that considering John Heywood’s suit was actually a courageous decision on her part. She was willing to try to love again, even if it meant a safe sort of love—the only kind that seemed real anymore.
After she put the meat pies in to bake, she arranged the courtyard for a simple supper. Off to the side of the cottage, a small window was open. She hoped Thornton would hear the entire conversation, so he would know she didn’t need a man with a title and wealth. She could be content with good friends—and a man who cared about her. Life needed no more than that.
Except the courage to unmask a spy, and in her anger, she was forgetting her purpose with Thornton. Was he deliberately trying to distract her?
As dusk was falling, the Heywood brothers returned from the fields, stopping at her well to wash away the dirt. Roselyn studied John as he wiped down his face and neck. She thought she should feel something more for him than affection, but then she hadn’t had much practice being a wife after Philip had so coldly rebuffed her. She should be moved by John—but in her mind flashed the memory of Thornton naked beneath her hands, his large body at her mercy.
~oOo~
The sun had long since set when Roselyn said good night to the two brothers, cleaned her supper dishes, and went into the cottage. She brought the last meat pie to warm by the fire for Thornton.
As usual, he was sitting on his pallet in the shadows as she came in. She tried not to look at him, but she sensed his tension, his anger, and she wondered how she had ever thought him easygoing.
Kneeling before the fire, she said, “Your supper will be ready in a moment.”
He didn’t answer.
As she lit candles around the room and cleaned away her supper preparations, she couldn’t help wondering how he felt lying motionless all day. Did he dream of Spain or England?
When the meat pie had heated through, she started to bring it to him, but he said, “No,” quite forcefully. She watched him brace himself and rise onto his good leg. He didn’t ask for her help, nor would she have readily offered it. As he hopped toward the table on one bare foot, he used the stone chimney to brace himself, then a cupboard, and lastly the table. She pulled out a bench for him and he sat.
Even dressed in Philip’s old garments, Thornton looked every inch the nobleman holding court. His bruises were gone, showing the classic strength of his face and his proud, strong nose. His beard and hair needed trimming, but other than that he looked aloof, above his meager surroundings.
Roselyn was once again thankful she had not married him.
When Thornton finished eating, he stood up again, and this time swayed. She took a step forward without thinking, then stopped. He caught hold of the table and slowly straightened.
“I have to regain my strength and learn to walk again,” he said, eyeing her. “If you want me gone, you’ll help me.”
“I was helping you without your threats. I’m not about to stop now—especially with the added temptation of your imminent departure.”
He gave a cold laugh. “Then come here.”
She approached him slowly, uncertain why she hesitated. Their gazes remained locked together, even when she was forced to arch her neck to see his face. He seemed surprisingly intent, distracted from his anger.
Sliding her arm so intimately about him was dangerous to herself and everything she believed in. His rib cage was broad and strong, and already he seemed healthier. The muscle at his waist made her feel strange and fluttery and uneasy.
His arm came about her shoulders until she was pressed to the warm length of him. She looked away, breathless and uncertain.
And so they started to walk, back and forth across the room until even Roselyn grew tired.
“Since we both want me gone as soon as possible,” Thornton finally said in a tight voice, “how should I get off this cursed island?”
“You can take a ferry at Cowes, on the north side of the island,” she answered, trying to sound calm instead of burdened by his weight. “Take the one to Southampton, where the road to London is better. There’s a decent inn right by the dock, should you need to eat or rest.”
“Trying to make my leave-taking as enticing as possible?”
Not bothering to answer, she bit her lip and struggled to hold up his weight. Showing weakness would only please him.
But he wouldn’t stop walking until he staggered and almost sent her tumbling to the floor with him.
