Page 62 of Almost a Bride
“And maybe he thinks I’m cruel for imposing on you. But I made it clear you had nursed me back to health, and it was only my stubbornness alone that was keeping me in this cottage.”
“Is it?” she whispered, glancing at him. His face was much too close, his dark eyes too powerful. Why did he touch her with such familiarity, when she knew he was only going to leave?
Spencer’s gaze dropped to her mouth, and she felt that same answering warmth, the way her body lit like a new candle.
“What else did you and Francis discuss?” she asked breathlessly.
He no longer seemed to hear her. His lips were near hers, and his free hand touched her knee.
She bolted from his lap and ran.
Chapter 18
The next morning, Roselyn dressed and left the cottage as silently as she could, so as not to awaken Spencer. As the sun rose, she gathered together the breads and cakes the Heywoods had ordered into two large baskets, and set off across the estate to the manor.
She’d spent much of the night wondering what Francis must be thinking of her. Was he disappointed—or angry? Now she would have to face himandhis family, and her stomach churned with tension.
When she reached the doorway to the kitchens, she stopped cold, her head aching with worry and fear. Would they hate her now, think her a fallen woman to be living with a man?
She’d done nothing wrong except exchange a kiss.
But in her heart, she’d begun to long for more than just a kiss from Spencer Thornton.
But such worrying was only delaying the inevitable. She opened up the door—
—and found them all sitting solemnly at the table watching her.
Roselyn stood frozen in the doorway, feeling her face drain of color, until Margaret Heywood rose from the table with a warm smile.
Roselyn felt the sting of grateful tears as Margaret took the baskets from her arms and said, “Come, dear, sit with us and tell us everything.”
Charlotte made room on her bench for Roselyn, giving her an encouraging smile. Roselyn could have hugged her. When she glanced at Francis, she saw that although he wore a serious expression, his eyes were kind.
Thomas scratched his head. “So what is the new owner like?”
“Thomas!” Francis said sharply, glancing at Roselyn.
She sighed and looked at her plate, which Margaret filled with porridge and bread.
“Lady Roselyn,” Francis said in a solemn voice, “forgive me for not telling you the truth about Wakesfield’s ownership. When you first arrived, your husband and child were ill, and I just didn’t feel—”
“Francis, no!” she interrupted, taking hold of his hand. Her last hope that Spencer’s claim to the estate was a lie faded into ashes. “Do not apologize for trying to spare my feelings. I should apologize to you for the lies I’ve been forced to tell.”
Margaret put an arm around her shoulder. “If you’d told us you’d found a sick man, we could have helped you, dear.”
“I couldn’t,” she whispered, finally glancing at John to face the disappointment that saddened his eyes. “I didn’t know who he was at first, and thought he might be a Spanish sailor. How could I put you in such danger?”
“There is more you’re not telling us,” Francis said.
She hesitated, then whispered, “Yes,” begging him with her eyes to understand. “I promise you’ll know everything the moment I can tell you.”
“Is it about the war?”
She nodded.
“Then tell us what you can. I’d like to know how you found him, how you saved his life.”
She recounted the events of the last fortnight hesitantly, thinking through what she could tell them and what had to be hidden. She painted a picture of two people trapped together by circumstance, distant and polite, with nothing in common and nothing to say to each other.
