“Oh John, do come in out of the rain,” she said, stepping back so that he could move past her. “Whyever are you out in such weather?”
“I thought you might be lonely, trapped here all day.”
She motioned to her only chair before the fire, then pulled up a bench for herself. She gripped her fingers together tightly in her lap. “You know I enjoy my solitude, John. The weather doesn’t bother me.”
He gave her a crooked, sweet smile. “Then you are a better person than I. I spend so much of my time in my woodshop that I’ll use any excuse to escape outdoors.”
“Ah, then I shouldn’t feel guilty for imposing on you to harvest my grain.” She smiled, but she couldn’t help wondering what Thornton was thinking.
“Never feel guilty. I appreciate any chance to spend time with you.”
A blush stole across her face, though she willed it to stop. “I seem to remember a time when you preferred that I play with Charlotte.”
“That was when we were children. Since you’ve come back—”
He broke off, suddenly seeming embarrassed. But why should he be? She and John had always had this comfortable closeness. She had even begun to accept the possibility that she might wed him one day, that this easy familiarity would be the best marriage for her. She would know what to expect, and he would never hurt her.
She felt no wild emotion when John looked at her, only friendship and respect—and she needed those to survive.
He smiled. “Since you’ve come back, I feel…”
He hesitated, and Roselyn held her breath.
“…differently. I grew up thinking I would live elsewhere, that I would explore England and maybe even travel over the seas. But I could be content here if—”
He broke off again, and she wanted to groan in exasperation. What had he been about to say? His gaze caught on Thornton’s pallet, and her stomach seemed to plummet to her toes.
“Roselyn, you don’t normally sleep down here, do you?” he asked in a puzzled voice.
For a moment her mind became an absolute blank. What could she say—that she’d been caring for a man who was possibly an enemy?
“No, I usually prefer the loft,” she said, her voice almost trembling with relief as an idea surfaced, “but last night it was too hot up there beneath the roof.”
“You would be much more comfortable up at the manor.”
“John, please—”
“Mother keeps your room ready, in case you change your mind.”
“Please tell her to use it for guests, because I will never stay there again.” Her voice sounded sharp, and she forced a smile. “I won’t endanger your family by claiming a place at Wakesfield that I no longer deserve.”
“Roselyn—”
“And how is your mother? I haven’t seen her since Sunday.”
She forced him to answer mundane questions about his family, hoping he would leave. Usually she looked forward to his visits, but today all she could do was imagine that every creak of wood was Thornton announcing his presence.
“John, it’s growing late,” she finally said. “Would you like a lantern to light your way home?”
He rose with obvious reluctance. “No, I know the estate too well. Don’t you remember the night walks Charlotte used to insist upon?”
Roselyn stood up, the pleasant memory soothing her nerves. “You’re being too kind—forgetting my part in her schemes. You’re such a good brother to Charlotte.”
He took a step closer, and she felt a momentary panic.
“I don’t wish to be a brother to you,” he murmured.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. When Thornton looked at her like that, she felt the wild Roselyn struggling to break free. With John, there was no sense of imminent discovery, of restlessness born of need.
