Page 56 of Almost a Bride
Spencer listened to the door slam and knew just where she was going. He rolled off the pallet onto his stomach—which was an uncomfortable position since his arousing encounter with Roselyn—and inched backward until his legs hung over the edge of the loft. The rope ladder was tricky, and he almost slipped and broke his fool neck, but soon he was safely on the floor. He blew out the candles, hopped to the window overlooking the courtyard, and slowly opened it.
Roselyn had already finished filling the barrel by lantern light. The rain clouds had finally blown away, and under the starry, moonless night she took down her hair. Each pin she dropped onto the wall nailed home how this desire for her had sneaked up on him. When the dark mass of her hair unrolled past her shoulders, his skin twitched as if she’d touched him. She had glorious, womanly hair, hair that was made to curtain him as she rode his body through desperate pleasure.
Then she began to remove her garments.
Spencer knew this was only further torture, but he couldn’t stop himself from watching. He’d touched parts of her through her clothing, and now his eyes wanted to devour her as well.
Her black gown fell to the ground, leaving her smock to glow under the stars. His eyes were drawn to the pale skin of her shoulders. She unlaced the smock and allowed it to sag to her waist, revealing breasts as perfect as pearls adorning the night sky.
He stopped breathing as the smock joined the gown in the grass. Though Roselyn was delicately small, the curve of her hips was lush and full and made to comfort a man. When she stood on the crate and lifted one leg to step into the barrel, he groaned and turned away, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor.
The sound of splashing water did nothing to cool his ardor.
By the time she returned to the cottage he was lying on his pallet, facing the wall, trying to keep from panting like the lustful beast he was. Six days seemed too far away—and much too quick.
~oOo~
Spencer opened his eyes in the morning, and was glad that the day already seemed cooler. He lay still for a moment, staring up at the loft, wondering what had awakened him besides frustrated desire.
Suddenly Roselyn appeared at the edge of the loft, neatly dressed for the day in her usual black.
He quickly closed his eyes, then peered 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 reject her 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-imposed departure. 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 himself limping 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 think it 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. “Did you 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. “But do 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.
