Page 60 of His Betrothed
Suddenly Roselyn appeared at the edge of the loft, neatly dressed for the day in her usual black.
He quickly closed his eyes, thenpeered up between his lashes. She had turned her back and begun her descent. Beneath her skirts he could see her stockinged calves, and the faintest blush of bare thighs before she reached the floor.
And he was as aroused as if she still lay beneath him. In his mind, he saw her naked, wet, her arms lifted to him.
By God, why did he allow her to affect him like this? His plan to arouse and rejecther was turning back onto him.
He lifted up on one elbow to watch her, but except for a raised eyebrow, she ignored him, appearing as calm and serene as if they’d never shared passionate kisses.
Damn, but she was frustrating.
After she’d left the cottage, Spencer slashed another mark in the floor—day sixteen of his sojourn on the Isle of Wight. There were only five days left until his self-imposeddeparture. Five days and he hadn’t been able to practice riding a horse or even wielding a dagger. Roselyn occupied far too many of his thoughts.
He broke his fast with hard black bread and hard cheese. Last night, she had said that John knew everything about her. Were there other secrets in her past, things she kept hidden from him?
He took up his cane and went outside, only to find himselflimping toward the bake house. He could hear her singing softly to herself, as if nothing he did could ever bother her. He leaned in the frame of the open doorway and watched her knead dough at a stone table, a floury apron pinned to her dress.
He knew the moment she was aware of his presence, and felt satisfied as she stiffened and turned to face him. By the blush in her cheeks, he didn’t thinkit was annoyance she was experiencing, either.
Because she was a woman of obvious passion, he couldn’t help wondering what kind of man her groom was; why she’d deserted her betrothed for him, beyond the obvious reason of Spencer’s treatment of her. For a woman who considered herself widowed, she seemed to have the innocence of a newly bloomed flower.
Roselyn turned back to her worktable. “Didyou need more to eat?”
“No.” He continued to study her until the silence between them stretched taut. “Do you miss him much?” he finally asked.
“John?”
“No, the stable groom. What was his name again?”
Her hands stilled as she softly said, “Philip Grant.” She gave him a steely glance over her shoulder. “My husband.”
It was a direct challenge, one he didn’t wish to take up at the moment. “Butdo you miss him?”
“The state of my widowhood is no business of yours.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“Of course I miss him,” she grudgingly said, turning away.
But he thought he heard the slightest hesitation in her voice, and for some strange reason,it pleased him. “I only asked because I wondered if our kiss bothered you.”
“It was more than a mere kiss,” she said with sarcasm, glancingat him.
“Very well, our mutual fondling.”
“Mutual—”
Roselyn turned away again, and he couldn’t tell if she was withholding a smile.
She slowly began to knead the bread. “I guess those intimacies do not matter to one such as yourself.”
“Such as myself?” he repeated, limping over to sit on a stool near her.
“You have surely exchanged much more than ‘mutual fondling’ with your mistresses.”
“Ah yes, all fifteen of them.”
“Fifteen—” She whirled to face him, scattering flour in her wake.
