Her heart pounded within her ribs so loudly he must certainly hear it, as her every inhalation pressed her breasts to his chest. She was flustered, unable to stop the awareness of him as a man.
“But never forget,” he continued, leaning even lower until their breaths mingled, “that this estate is mine, that all this is mine.” His gaze swept down to her breasts as if he owned her, too.
“What are you implying?” she demanded as a curious, excited tension shivered through her stomach. When his gaze settled on her mouth, she couldn’t help licking her lips as if they were suddenly parched. Pressed so close to him, she felt his muscles tense, could see the smoldering heat of his coal black eyes, and suddenly she knew she needed to distract them both from these mad thoughts.
“Thornton, I don’t understand you. You claim indignation, abandonment, yet even the night before our wedding, you wouldn’t make an effort to speak to me.”
That certainly distracted him, and he straightened away from her, letting Roselyn come up on her knees.
The sunlight streamed in the open window, almost blinding her, but Thornton sat behind it, in the shadows of the cottage, dark, remote. He could have hurt her as she lay beneath him on the floor, but never once did she think he would use violence. Was she being foolish?
He finally met her gaze. “I handled our betrothal the way I thought best,” he said in a bitter voice.
But you hurt me,she wanted to cry. How could he do that to a young girl who would have accepted any kindness, when she had known so little?
“Well, your handling of our betrothal made sure you had no bride,” she said, “so I guess you succeeded.”
“You had your lover all ready, did you not? And I can only imagine what lure you used.”
She took an angry breath to reply, but he continued before she could.
“But none of it worked as you planned. So Grant had to be nursed before he died, did he? You bargained for a malleable husband and wealth, not this life,” he said, glancing around her cottage with obvious sarcasm. “Were all your choices still worth this? How will you feel when I go to court to break this betrothal by naming you an adulterer?”
“An adulterer! I was married.”
“And we know how legal that was. This might be our only chance to be free of one another. Don’t think I won’t do it out of some misguided notion of pity.”
Roselyn stood up, her fists clenched at her sides. “I am sick of your snide comments and your threats. I have saved your life, and instead of gratitude, I get bitter sarcasm. When are you going to let go of the past? Don’t you think I have paid enough for what I did to you? My family has cast me out; I work for every morsel I put in my mouth. I am done paying, Thornton. Go ahead and slur my name at court if that makes you feel better. It can’t be any worse than what I’ve already gone through.”
Without offering to help him up, she left a loaf of bread and piece of cheese wrapped in cloth on the table, poured him a mug of cider, then left to make her delivery to Wakesfield Manor. She muttered angrily to herself as she marched down the sunlit path, knowing that constant argument was not the way to discover the truth of his loyalties.
~oOo~
Roselyn knew that she eventually had to go back to the cottage. Daylight was almost gone, yet still she worked in her bake house by candlelight, preparing the pies ordered by the village tavern.
She couldn’t forget how Thornton had looked at her bosom, as if she should freely give herself to him to repay her debt. She should be disgusted, revolted—but instead she remembered the glimmer of hurt in his eyes.
Suddenly, she heard a noise behind her, and before she could even turn around, a filthy hand covered her mouth.
Chapter 8
Roselyn’s gasp was smothered as she was pulled against a short, wiry body. She struggled, trying to elbow her assailant, but the man cruelly pinched her breast and she froze.
She was alone in the coming night, and Thornton would not be able to help her against whatever this man intended to do. She blinked back hot tears and tried to think how to escape, but her terrified thoughts were spinning out of control. For days she’d foolishly ignored her suspicions about being watched. Never had Wakesfield been unsafe—until the war, until the battle had been within sight, until Thornton had washed up on the beach.
As if echoing her thoughts, the man spoke against her ear in heavily accented English. “I have been watching you,señorita.I saw the wounded man you keep hidden. Who is he? Where did he come from?”
She made a muffled sound against his hand, and almost retched at the bitter taste of his skin.
“I will let you speak, but if you call out, it will not go well for you.”
His hand moved away from her face and settled threateningly on her breast, which still hurt. Roselyn took a deep lungful of air and tried to still her trembling. For one wild, cowardly moment she wanted to tell the Spaniard to take Thornton away, to end her troubles for good.
“Please,” she said, surprising herself with how calm her voice sounded, “I don’t know what you mean. He is my husband, William. He was injured during the harvest.”
The Spaniard pinched her other breast so hard that she cried out. From behind her, he reached to slap her face.
“Señorita, do not think me a fool. That man is no Englishman.”
