Page 35 of His Betrothed
She set the knife down quickly, hoping he didn’t see her trembling. “No, Francis, you merely startled me.”
He took a step toward her. “I have done that before, andyou’ve never felt a need to defend yourself, my dear.”
She gave him a weak grin. “The battle in the channel must have upset me more than I thought.”
He set his hand on hers, his eyes full of concern. “Is that all that’s bothering you, my lady? You have not seemed yourself, and John agrees with me.”
For an insane moment, she wanted to fall into his arms and tell him about Thornton, and spying,and the Spaniard. She was tired of feeling alone and wondering if she was making the right decisions.
But just the memory of the dead Spaniard was enough to keep Roselyn quiet. Franciswould insist she come to the house; he would turn Thornton over to the garrison. Since it was frightening to contemplate bringing such danger to the Heywoods, she would have to continue doing this alone.
She smiledand squeezed his hand. “I’m having a hard time realizing that Mary and Philip have been dead a whole year already. I still can’t believe I forgot to visit their grave.”
Francis looked almost disappointed, as if he expected her to say something else. “I was worried you felt this way, my lady. It is only natural for you to go on with your life.”
“I know. Sit with me awhile and keep me company.I’ve missed talking to you.”
The sun had already risen before Roselyn returned to the cottage, with flour covering her apron and a smudge of it across her cheek. She stood above Spencer as he sat at the table, and he was amazed that he felt an urge to chuckle. He wouldnotbe swayed by her. She took his elbow to help him up, then pulled his arm across her shoulders. She felt small and fragile,and it made him imagine that Spaniard straddling her, his hands about her neck.
She should still be frightened from her trauma of the previous night, but she seemed no longer affected, and he couldn’t help being impressed by her fortitude.
Outside, she helped him walk from the courtyard to the bake house and back. He noticed that she constantly watched the surrounding estate. Was she worriedabout another Spaniard—or the Heywoods?
Since he didn’t feel as weak as before, he said, “Let’s walk to the orchard.”
She stiffened.
“I honestly don’t believe there are any more Spaniards lurking in the trees. And this boot of Grant’s is almost comfortable. Do you not want me to get well quickly?”
He knew that would work. And he was so desperate to regain his strength that he would gladlyrisk discovery. With a long-suffering sigh, she opened the gate and led him from the courtyard.
He hadn’t imagined the distance as great as it really was. Soon he was perspiring, and his good leg felt afire. When they reached the orchard, he gratefully leaned against an apple tree.
“Why don’t we rest awhile?” she said.
We? Spencer told himself he should feel affronted; instead he sank downto the ground, keeping his broken leg carefully out before him. Roselyn walked a little away from him and stood looking out over the estate.
In the distance, he could see Wakesfield Manor. She had grown up there, yet claimed she would never live there again.
He wondered about the woman behind the reserved face, who defied her parents for the love of a man beneath her, who could be content livingalone, doing menial work. She stood alone now, the wind catching her black gown, teasing strands of her light brown hair loose.
He tried to put himself in her place—hell, two years ago hewasin her place, told by his parents whom to marry. He wanted to hate her, but he couldn’t—nor did he forgive her, either.
Roselyn told herself that she should not have brought Thornton to the orchard, especiallynot with Francis dropping by so unexpectedly.
But last night had changed things between them, and she no longer knew what to expect, or how to treat him. For the last few days he’d spoken to her with bitter, angry words, but now his voice sounded grudging, reluctant. Did he feel guilty for the Spaniard’s attack? What was she to make of that except that he was guilty of treason?
She looked overher shoulder and found him staring at the manor, a pensive look on his face. Why was it so difficult to admit to herself that he could be a spy? So he had expressed sympathy for the bruises she’d suffered; it could merely be the result of a guilty conscience.
He’d even apologized for that harsh word he’d called her.
Yet he’d been almost defensive when she’d told him of the rumors about him.He was such a puzzle to her!
Thornton glanced at her and their eyes met. She wanted to look away, but she lifted her chin and refused to give ground.
He nodded toward the manor. “You grew up there?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “When we weren’t in London, we were usually here.”
