Read Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) for Free Online

his own house. And the situation might have been much worse.
    Stepping back, she held the door open and waited while, leaning heavily on his cane, he negotiated the final step into the house. “Homer—my son—will bring up your bags and stable your horse.”
    “Thank you.” Head rising, he halted before her.
    She looked into eyes that were a mixture of browns and greens—and a frisson of awareness slithered down her spine. Her lungs tightened in reaction. Why, she wasn’t sure. Regardless, she felt perfectly certain that behind those eyes dwelled a mind that was incisive, observant, and acutely intelligent.
    Not a helpful fact, yet she sensed no threat emanating from him, not on any level. She’d grown accustomed to trusting her instincts about men, had learned that those instincts were rarely wrong. And said instincts were informing her that the advent of her until-now-absent employer wasn’t the disaster she had at first thought.
    Despite the damage done to his face, he appeared personable enough—indeed, the undamaged side of his face was almost angelic in its purity of features. And regardless of his injuries, and the fact he was clearly restricted in his movements, his strength was still palpable; he might be a damaged archangel, but he still had power.
    Mentally castigating herself for such fanciful analogies, she released the door, letting it swing half shut. “If you’ll give me a few minutes, sir, I’ll make up your room. And I expect you’d like some warm water to wash away the dust.”
    Thomas inclined his head. Stepping further inside as the door swung behind him, he reached for the black notebook she still held. His fingers brushed hers, and she caught her breath and rapidly released the book.
    So . . . the attraction he’d sensed moments earlier had been real, and not just on his part?
    He felt faintly shocked. He hadn’t expected . . . straightening, he raised his head, drew in a deeper breath—and detected the fragile, elusive scent of roses.
    The effect that had on him—instantaneous and intense—was even more shocking.
    Abruptly clamping a lid on all such reactions—he couldn’t afford to frighten her; he needed her to keep house for him, not flee into the night—he tucked the notebook into his coat pocket and quietly said, “I’ll be in the library.”
    One glance at the stairs had been enough to convince him that he wouldn’t be able to manage them until he’d rested for a while.
    “Indeed, sir.” His new housekeeper shut the door and in brisk, no-nonsense fashion informed him, “Dinner will be ready at six o’clock. As I didn’t know you would be here—”
    “That’s quite all right, Mrs. Sheridan.” He started limping toward the library. “I’ve been living with monks for the last five years. I’m sure your cooking will be more than up to the mark.”
    He didn’t look, but he was prepared to swear she narrowed her eyes on his back. Ignoring that, and the niggling lure of the mystery she and her children posed, he opened the library door and went in—to reclaim the space, and then wait for Fate to find him.
    W ashed and dressed in fresh clothes, Thomas made his way down the stairs to the drawing room, reaching it with five minutes to spare. He amused himself by examining the room; he hadn’t used it often in the past, but as far as his recollections went, nothing had changed.
    The door opened and Mrs. Sheridan stood revealed in the doorway. “If you’ll come through to the dining room, sir, dinner is waiting.”
    He nodded. Leaning heavily on his cane—managing the stairs had proved a challenge, one he was determined to conquer—he crossed to the door and, with a wave, gestured for her to precede him. He followed her across the hall. The lamp there and those in the dining room cast a steady, even light, illuminating his mysterious housekeeper and allowing him to see her more clearly than he previously had; as he limped to the head of the table and sat, from