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

more, but she couldn’t risk being seen with him. The pair of them together would be much more identifiable than either of them individually. Yet, equally, she couldn’t allow him to venture forth on his own. . . .
    Shifting her gaze to Thomas, she nodded. “All right.” Thomas would keep Homer safe; she knew that to her bones. Allowing Thomas to take Homer out for the day was the perfect solution to her problems on that front; aside from all else, if the pair were seen, given the way they interacted—Thomas with Homer, and Homer with Thomas—they would be assumed to be father and son.
    Yet another distracting veil to add to hers and the children’s safety.
    Homer whooped.
    Rose glanced at Pippin, now frowning slightly, her lower lip starting to protrude. Rose looked at Homer. “Consider being allowed to accompany Thomas as a reward for working so hard at your studies, and, after all, your birthday is coming up.”
    Homer simply grinned. Stuffing the last of his toast into his mouth, he raised his mug and drained it, then pushed back his chair. “I’ll go and check the cow and the stables.” He glanced at Thomas. “Will you be long?”
    “Maybe an hour.” Thomas looked at Rose. “We’ll have lunch there, and be back for afternoon tea.”
    She nodded crisply. A glance at Pippin showed a much more amenable, accepting face; the mention of Homer’s birthday had done the trick.
    Homer dashed to the back door and went out.
    Thomas pushed back his chair. Rose glanced at him and realized he’d followed her gaze to Pippin. “Pippin,” he said, “you were going to show me the dress you’ve made for your doll. If you like, you could show it to me now—I have a little time before we go.”
    Pippin’s little face lit. Nodding, she gulped the last of her milk, then flung a smile at Rose and pushed back her chair. “I’ll go and get Dolly—she’s still asleep.”
    Thomas nodded solemnly. “I’ll be in the library—come and show me there.”
    Pippin raced off, shoes clattering.
    Down the length of the short table, Rose met Thomas’s gaze. “That was . . . brave of you.”
    His lips quirked lightly. “I’m sure I’ll survive.”
    Pushing up from the table, he started gathering plates.
    She rose and did the same, taking the stack to the sink.
    He followed with the rest.
    They’d fallen into a small domestic ritual; she would wash the dishes and he would dry them and put them away.
    She was very aware that neither of them had been born to such duties, yet they performed them now without complaint; their lives, the decisions they had made, had brought them to this.
    She knew that was true for herself, and she intuitively knew it was true for him, too.
    But that morning . . .
    Standing before the sink, the plates she’d ferried from the table already in the bowl, she waited for him to set the stack he’d carried on the bench-top beside her.
    He did and paused, looking down at her. His gaze was on the side of her face; she could feel it.
    And awareness flared—the sensual yearning both of them were being so careful to hide, to suppress.
    Regardless, its very existence made her feel alive.
    Alive in a way she’d never felt before.
    Even though nothing could ever come of it, it still stole her breath, still made her blood sing.
    Raising her chin, she stared out at the rear garden, fighting the compulsion to shift her gaze to him, to his face, to his fascinating eyes. Eyes that seemed so clear, so open—unrestricted gateways to his soul.
    Her lungs had grown tight, but she found breath enough to say, “I’ll take care of all this today—you’d better get into the library, or Pippin will be disappointed.”
    He didn’t immediately move. After a moment, he said, “I really don’t know anything about dolls.”
    She smiled. “But you do know something of dresses.” She cast him a very brief sidelong glance. “The trick is to pretend the doll is real, like a frozen lady, and comment