Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) by Stephanie Laurens Read Free Book Online Page A

insisting, albeit with consummate grace, on helping her and the children to clear the table, and to wash the dishes and put them away.
    “It’s only fair if I’m to share your meals.” He made the comment to the children but then looked up, questioningly, at her.
    When she didn’t look convinced, he added, with a suggestion of a grin, as if he understood her position perfectly, “Put it down to my years in the priory—there, everyone helps with the chores.”
    With the children looking on, it was impossible to refuse him, so the four of them worked together to clear, clean, and tidy the kitchen.
    When all was done, the children went up to their rooms to read. She fetched her sewing basket and set it down beside her chair. When she looked up, Glendower was watching her. In response to her questioning look, he inclined his head.
    “I’ll be in the library should you need me,” he said.
    She nodded, then asked, “Would you like me to bring you some tea?”
    “Later.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Perhaps sometime after nine?”
    She nodded again. “I’ll bring it in to you.”
    He turned away and, using his cane, gimped toward the archway, but then he paused and glanced back at her. “I daresay it will take a little time for me to adjust to life outside the priory. I would appreciate it if you could see your way to humoring my what might occasionally seem rather eccentric ways.”
    She met his gaze, held it, and equally directly replied, “As long as those ways hold no harm for the children or myself, I see no reason we won’t be able to reach an accommodation.”
    His lips curved in that peculiarly engaging smile he had. Inclining his head, he turned and left her.
    Unwillingly intrigued, Rose watched him go and wondered at the conundrum that was Mr. Thomas Glendower.
    T homas’s first day at the manor had, in fact, proved more interesting than he’d expected.
    Draining the cup of tea Mrs. Sheridan had duly delivered, along with two shortbread biscuits that had proved decidedly delicious, he swept his gaze once more over the shelves of the small library he’d so long ago assembled. It wasn’t extensive, but all the works he regarded as critical were there.
    Setting down the empty cup, he glanced out of the window, but it was full dark, with only a glimmer of moonlight; he couldn’t make out much at all.
    Grasping his cane, he levered himself up and headed for the door.
    The stairs were a trial; he had to step up with his right foot, then pull his left up to the same step before repeating the process. Still, purely from having gone up and down earlier, the ordeal was easier, the effort less.
    Reaching the head of the stairs, he paused to marshal his strength, then limped along the corridor to the door to his room. The largest bedroom in the house, it faced south. He’d left the window uncurtained. Closing the door, he didn’t bother to light the lamp but walked through the shadows to stand before the window and look out at the view across the cliffs to the rippling darkness of the sea beyond.
    Moonlight shafted from the heavens to his right, a silver beam lancing down to dance on the waves, leaving eerie phosphorescence gilding the crests. Clouds gathered in clusters, splotches against the black silk of the night sky, blocking the faint light of the stars.
    Often along this stretch of coast, the view would be stormy, turbulent, the seas a churning mass of green-gray. But tonight, the wind was mild, the ocean calm. All was peaceful.
    He looked, saw, and drank in that peace.
    He’d bowed to Fate and had taken the next step, had come out into the world, and here he was.
    What now? was the question in his mind. He was there, ready, waiting, and willing to do whatever Fate would decree as his final act of penance.
    Yet beyond being there, out in the world, he wasn’t sure what more he could do to actively seek his true path.
    After five more minutes of staring at the view, during which nothing