“She’ll wonder who in the village is using a cane.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “You think she might talk to someone—maybe even Charlotte—and then tell everyone in the village I’m something I’m not.”
She shrugged, and a moment later murmured, “I never wear my hair like this. What must she think?”
He considered Roselyn thoughtfully. The wind swept her wild hair off her face, and it fluttered about her shoulders. The severity of her normal expression was somehow softened, but a bleak sadness shadowed her eyes. Once he would not have cared; now he had to force himself to think of something else.
Why had he revealed so much of his childhood to her? He’d never before been tempted to tell a woman of his past. But there was something about her patience and calm nature that made her easy to confide in.
He wondered what she must think of him. She surely must be congratulating herself on escaping their marriage.
~oOo~
When Roselyn came back from services, Thornton seemed to retreat inside himself. He wasn’t rude, nor did he talk much. He just walked about the cottage, getting in her way, obsessive about using his cane. She sat before the hearth and tried to concentrate on reading her bible, but he kept knocking into her chair.
Though she felt like challenging his behavior, she had a vivid memory of the gentle way he’d touched her, of the heat and intensity of his eyes. She felt confused and overly warm and suddenly frightened. She had succeeded in burying the last of her volatile emotions when she’d buried her baby and husband—but now the wild, irresponsible Roselyn seemed to be rising up, taking over, and that frightened her more than the closeness of any man.
But she couldn’t bury her awareness of Thornton, of his large body moving back and forth across the room. She didn’t know what she wanted more—the truth of his loyalties, or for him just to leave her alone. Unbidden, she remembered how his eyes had gazed upon the wildness of her hair that morning. The thought of endless silent evenings by herself was no longer comforting.
~oOo~
Supper with the Heywoods was just what Roselyn needed to lift her spirits and make her forget Thornton and all the problems he’d caused. She loved feeling part of such a boisterous, happy family. She helped Charlotte and her mother with the last-minute food preparations, then sat between the women as if they were her sister and mother. When it seemed apparent that Charlotte wasn’t going to bring up the subject of Mr. Sanderson, Roselyn allowed herself to relax completely.
Yet as the evening went on, more and more she could actually feel John watching her. Surely it was just her imagination—having Thornton in her home had made her too aware of a man’s eyes.
When Thornton watched her, she felt distracted, too aware of him as a man.
But John’s gaze was different. She felt nervous, exposed, wondering if he knew the secrets she now guarded. When he offered to walk her home she tried to refuse, but Francis insisted, and even he watched her with a thoughtful frown.
There was no moon in the dark sky as John walked at her side carrying a lantern. The wind whistled forlornly through the orchard, and she pulled her kerchief tighter about her shoulders. She told herself she was ridiculous to feel so uneasy.
After several quiet minutes, he cleared his throat. “My father was talking to Abigail after services.”
Roselyn’s stomach knotted with dread. “What did she have to say?”
“She said she saw you walking with a man she didn’t recognize, a man with a cane.” John hesitated, and in the meager light, he looked apologetic. “Charlotte said that she even met him. Normally there aren’t many strangers on the island, but this is a time of war. Please don’t blame me for being concerned—you live alone.”
She smiled at him, glad she had spent some of her sleepless hours concocting a story to explain Thornton. “Thank you for your concern, John, but really, you mustn’t worry. He is just a soldier from the garrison in Shanklin. I’ve seen him by the cliffs before. We sometimes happen to walk in the same direction, and occasionally talk. He’s a very polite man.” She forced herself not to hold her breath.
John seemed relieved. “I’m glad. But you can understand why I—whyweworry about you.”
As they approached her cottage, Roselyn’s nerves stretched taut. She could only see the barest glow of the fire through the windows, but not the shadow of a man moving about.
“Thank you for walking me home,” she said, turning to face John.
“Might I come in to talk with you for a while?” he asked, and his gaze on hers was warm.
Before Thornton had come, she had often wondered what she would do when her time of mourning was over, when John pushed his interest in her past friendship. Now she felt unprepared, too flustered knowing that Thornton was but mere feet away, possibly even listening.
She couldn’t even think about marriage. Being once again under a man’s control seemed dangerous.
“I’m sorry, John, but ’tis late, and I’m tired.” She smiled up at him tentatively, then felt her smile fade as he took her hand in both of his.
“Then I’ll visit another time, when we have the evening to talk.”
Her breath caught as he leaned down and kissed the back of her hand. Wide-eyed, she watched him straighten and grin.
“Go on in, Roselyn. I’ll stay until you’re safe.”
