Page 33 of Almost a Bride
“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 gladly risk 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 down to 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 living alone, 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 he was in 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, especially not 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 over her 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 towards the manor. “You grew up there?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “When we weren’t in London, we were usually here.”
“Does it not bother you to live in a cottage, forever staring at a manor you claim you’ll never live in again?”
For once, he seemed sincere instead of sarcastic. Where could these questions be leading?
“No, I was grateful for a place to live. I’ve only been back a year.”
“A year?” he said with a frown. “Has it not been almost two years since” –he broke off, and this time his smile had the faintest tinge of mockery—“since you decided not to marry me?”
Her brows rose in surprise at the tactful way he spoke. “We lived in London at first.”
“But I was there—I never saw you.”
Roselyn hadn’t thought he would be capable of such naiveté. “You wouldn’t have—unless you frequented Southwark.”
Thornton leaned his head back against the tree and studied her with narrowed eyes.
She went to stand above him. “Do you think I’m ashamed? When I make decisions I live by them, no matter the consequences.”
“Are you implying I didn’t?”
She sighed. “I was implying nothing, merely answering your questions. Philip was a baker before he worked for my father, and he went back to that trade.”
“And he taught you?”
“I worked alongside him, yes. Our home was also our store.” She could still remember how cold their front parlor was in the winter, with the shutters opened onto the street so customers could peruse their baked goods.
“Then why return here? Surely there were more customers in London.”
