She helped him down to the pallet, put her hands on her hips and studied him. “You need to wash now.”
Slowly he opened his eyes. “Enjoyed my bath, did you?”
“Enjoyed—!” She clamped her mouth shut and whirled away from him. From the kettle over the fire, she poured hot water into a basin, tossed towels and clean garments onto his pallet, blew out the candles, and climbed up to her bed.
In the darkness she lay awake, listening to the splash of water.
~oOo~
After Roselyn had left for her morning chores, Spencer came up on his elbow and stared at the closed door. He wondered how many times a day, as she milked cows or baked bread, did she wish she had not left him at the church on their wedding day? Did she long for servants to attend her, or would she have been content had her stable groom lived? He thought of the two of them alone together in this room, and his gut churned with nausea. Was he even lying on the pallet they had shared?
He couldn’t remain on his back for another moment. He angrily slashed another mark in the floor for the ninth day—only twelve left—got unsteadily to his feet, and, clutching the furniture, hopped across the room. He repeated the process until he tripped over Roselyn’s chair before the fire, and on his way to the floor hit his forehead on the stone chimney—another new bruise, he thought in anger and disgust.
Of course, Roselyn arrived at just that moment, so she could see him on his hands and knees, his aching head dropped between his shoulders. Clenching his jaw, he looked up at her.
She had come to a stop just inside the door, carrying her basket full of round loaves. She said nothing at first, her face so proper and prim she probablyboredher family into abandoning her.
“What are you looking at?” he demanded in a low voice. “If I do not work on my strength, we’ll never be rid of one another.”
“If you insist on forcing yourself into things you’re not ready for, you’ll reinjure yourself.Thenwe’ll never be rid of one another.”
She set her basket on the table as Spencer failed to raise himself up onto one foot, while the room swam about him and his head throbbed. He felt frustrated, despairing, raging with anger at the things he couldn’t control, at the way his life might soon end.
The last thing he needed was Roselyn Harrington taking hold of his arm as if he were an infirm old man. He tried to shake her off and couldn’t even manage that.
“Release me,” he said, his voice a low growl.
“You need help, even though I don’t want to give it.”
She dropped to her knees and when he tried to push her away, she toppled over onto her back. She didn’t even look rattled to be lying there, and he despised her serenity.
“Are you used to lying on your back?” he said, the angry words tumbling unbidden from his mouth.
He wanted her to fight, to scream, to hit him, but instead she raised up on her elbows, her eyes glittering and her lush mouth mutinous, kissable.
Kissable?
Leaning over her body, he braced himself with one hand. He didn’t know why he felt this need to wound her. “While we’re on the subject of your back, tell me about your stable groom. I never did hear his name.”
Her chest rose and fell at a quick pace as she glared at him. “Philip Grant,” she said between her teeth.
“How long ago did he die?” Spencer watched her eyes narrow. He had a sudden memory of her hair long and wet, reaching to her hips.
“I owe you no answers.”
“You owe me much more than that.”
“So it’s back to our betrothal again, this contract you say you never wanted. If you are convinced you’re owed this land, why don’t you just go up to the manor for Margaret Heywood’s care? She helped me when I nursed—”
Roselyn knew she should not even mention the Heywoods to him, let alone Philip, but the threat of his body above her made her nervous. Thornton had trapped her in her cottage, trapped her in lies, just as he now trapped her with his body. He was large and strong, and every day he seemed more powerful to her.
But at the mention of Wakesfield and the Heywoods, he narrowed his eyes at her, then looked away—almost guiltily.
“Why do you hesitate?”
When his eyes returned to her face, she felt the fire of his regard.
“I do not need to force strangers to care for me—you owe me.”
