you happy.” Her face was flushed, her nostrils slightly flared. “Never!”
Her words crashed over Thomas with the shock of icy, cold water. She stood there, still flushed, her dark red brows drawn tightly and her hands on her hips. He blinked hard.
Patience held you to blame for another man’s sins.
No. He wouldn’t listen to the traitorous whisper. He swallowed and forced himself to speak softly, “You’re wrong. I loved Patience. I respected her above all women.”
“Then why—all those weeks on the Abigail , before her death—did you look at me with softness and longing?”
It was as if a hand had tightened about his throat, choking his air. He couldn’t speak.
“Admit it. Admit you knew unhappiness with her and I shall gladly wed you.”
He put his hands up, trying to push her words back. “No!”
Her face softened. Something like pity flashed in her eyes. “Thomas, please—”
“No, just no!”
He jerked his breeches closed and made his fingers fly over the buttons, refastening them. He might have lusted for Rosalind. Yes, of course he had. But he had not felt softly towards her while his wife lived. He had not put Rosalind above Patience in his heart.
He still did not.
He bolted to his feet. Then he looked down at her, narrowing his eyes. “You’ll take back what you just said about my wife.”
She met his gaze without flinching. “I shan’t. It is the truth. I cannot lie.”
So that was it. He would not reach for Rose again. “I withdraw my offer of marriage.”
She paled. Did she care? Had she lied before? It didn’t matter. Sin or no sin, he couldn’t wed her now.
He turned and walked away.
* * * *
Rosalind stood in the backyard. For two days, the weather had turned cool and thunderstorms had pelted the land. She’d been trapped inside, haunted by the remembered pain of her afternoon with Thomas. What madness of her to think she could break through his fantasy of what his marriage had been. He would never look on another woman without comparing her to his image of Patience. A paragon who had never existed.
Well, no more wallowing. She thrust the matter from her and turned her face up. The gently misting rain wet her lips. Nature’s kiss. The only kind that was safe to enjoy. She hugged her shoulders and twirled.
“Rosalind!”
Rosalind startled. She froze and turned. “Yes, Goody Wilson.”
Wind flapped the elderly lady’s white cap and her grey eyes were stern. “Foolish girl, out in the chill and rain when there’s sickness about.”
Inwardly, Rosalind shrugged. She’d always been healthy. Shamefully healthy while those around her had fallen to illness.
“Get yourself inside and into some dry clothes.” Goody Wilson’s eyes raked Rosalind’s loosened and wildly curling dark red hair. “And make yourself look decent. Goodman Marlowe has come to fetch you home with him.”
Rosalind’s heart seemed to stop. She struggled to conceal her dismay. “What?”
“His housekeeper fell ill last night. That terrible summer’s ague that is going around.”
“But we shall be busy here, too!”
Goody Wilson waved her off. “I can spare you, girl, a day or two. I am not so old that I cannot manage the borrowed field help on my own. You go and tend his house and take care of Sally and little Hannah and old Goodman Hopton shall stay here away from the contagion.”
* * * *
“You think I arranged this?” Thomas’ chuckle was an empty, cynical sound. It sent shivers through Rosalind as they rode in the horse-driven cart on their way to his house. “I assure you, having you under my roof is the last thing I should ever want.”
His cutting tone made her throat burn. She glanced away, taking sudden interest in the dark green woods as they rolled slowly by. Rain tapped on the oilcloth she held over her head, jarring her already frazzled nerves. She compressed her lips. How foolish. He could never have loved her. His celibacy had overcome his
Her words crashed over Thomas with the shock of icy, cold water. She stood there, still flushed, her dark red brows drawn tightly and her hands on her hips. He blinked hard.
Patience held you to blame for another man’s sins.
No. He wouldn’t listen to the traitorous whisper. He swallowed and forced himself to speak softly, “You’re wrong. I loved Patience. I respected her above all women.”
“Then why—all those weeks on the Abigail , before her death—did you look at me with softness and longing?”
It was as if a hand had tightened about his throat, choking his air. He couldn’t speak.
“Admit it. Admit you knew unhappiness with her and I shall gladly wed you.”
He put his hands up, trying to push her words back. “No!”
Her face softened. Something like pity flashed in her eyes. “Thomas, please—”
“No, just no!”
He jerked his breeches closed and made his fingers fly over the buttons, refastening them. He might have lusted for Rosalind. Yes, of course he had. But he had not felt softly towards her while his wife lived. He had not put Rosalind above Patience in his heart.
He still did not.
He bolted to his feet. Then he looked down at her, narrowing his eyes. “You’ll take back what you just said about my wife.”
She met his gaze without flinching. “I shan’t. It is the truth. I cannot lie.”
So that was it. He would not reach for Rose again. “I withdraw my offer of marriage.”
She paled. Did she care? Had she lied before? It didn’t matter. Sin or no sin, he couldn’t wed her now.
He turned and walked away.
* * * *
Rosalind stood in the backyard. For two days, the weather had turned cool and thunderstorms had pelted the land. She’d been trapped inside, haunted by the remembered pain of her afternoon with Thomas. What madness of her to think she could break through his fantasy of what his marriage had been. He would never look on another woman without comparing her to his image of Patience. A paragon who had never existed.
Well, no more wallowing. She thrust the matter from her and turned her face up. The gently misting rain wet her lips. Nature’s kiss. The only kind that was safe to enjoy. She hugged her shoulders and twirled.
“Rosalind!”
Rosalind startled. She froze and turned. “Yes, Goody Wilson.”
Wind flapped the elderly lady’s white cap and her grey eyes were stern. “Foolish girl, out in the chill and rain when there’s sickness about.”
Inwardly, Rosalind shrugged. She’d always been healthy. Shamefully healthy while those around her had fallen to illness.
“Get yourself inside and into some dry clothes.” Goody Wilson’s eyes raked Rosalind’s loosened and wildly curling dark red hair. “And make yourself look decent. Goodman Marlowe has come to fetch you home with him.”
Rosalind’s heart seemed to stop. She struggled to conceal her dismay. “What?”
“His housekeeper fell ill last night. That terrible summer’s ague that is going around.”
“But we shall be busy here, too!”
Goody Wilson waved her off. “I can spare you, girl, a day or two. I am not so old that I cannot manage the borrowed field help on my own. You go and tend his house and take care of Sally and little Hannah and old Goodman Hopton shall stay here away from the contagion.”
* * * *
“You think I arranged this?” Thomas’ chuckle was an empty, cynical sound. It sent shivers through Rosalind as they rode in the horse-driven cart on their way to his house. “I assure you, having you under my roof is the last thing I should ever want.”
His cutting tone made her throat burn. She glanced away, taking sudden interest in the dark green woods as they rolled slowly by. Rain tapped on the oilcloth she held over her head, jarring her already frazzled nerves. She compressed her lips. How foolish. He could never have loved her. His celibacy had overcome his
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