Free The Rogue's Return by Jo Beverley Page A

one with elbow joint and all, but I can only move it with my other arm. I visited a man in Ireland who’s working on something better. Complicated matter of moving the chest and shoulder muscles to operate joints. You never know what there’ll be one day.”
    He spoke without distress, but it still sounded like an appalling problem. Simon didn’t know what to say.
    He was saved by Sal coming in, not for the dishes, but with a cloth sling full of wood for the fire. Simon remembered that most of the time Isaiah had brought in the wood. He rose and took the sling, saying he’d deal with it. In truth, he was escaping into work again.
    He brought in two more loads, taking one up to his bedroom and then, after a hesitation, filling the woodbox in Jane’s. Though he’d glimpsed into her room occasionally, he’d never crossed the threshold before and felt intrusive. He supposed a husband had the right, but he didn’t feel that way.
    He was certain he had no right to study the room, but he did it anyway, seeking answers to the conundrum she presented. It was sparsely furnished with a narrow bed, a chest of drawers, a desk, a clothespress, and a rocking chair by the fire. This all left quite a bit of space and he wondered why the bed wasn’t larger. Some other nunlike choice?
    Then he remembered that the narrow bed was because Isaiah had lovingly furnished this for two. When Jane had arrived alone, the extra bed, chest of drawers, and chair had been removed to spare her grief. It would seem that she’d not chosen to change anything.
    She’d made it her own, but probably without spending much money. Why, when Isaiah would have delighted to buy her anything she desired?
    The quilt on the bed was a patchwork of scraps—pretty enough, but not elegant—and the fine carpet was protected by the sort of country rug again made of scraps. A knitted blanket was folded over the chair. Perhaps she wrapped herself in it on the coldest days. A pleasant enough thought, but it reminded him of the dull, knitted shawl she often wore. Isaiah would have bought her the finest kashmir.
    He realized the room felt like one in a simple house, or even in a cottage. If she was uneasy in Trewitt House, what would she make of Brideswell? And yet it wasstrangely comfortable. With bits and scraps and the work of her own hands, Jane had created a pleasant nest.
    She’d surrounded herself with pictures from her past. That was hardly surprising. He had a picture of Brideswell on his own wall along with miniatures of his parents.
    Hers were all crudely framed, however, apart from the not-very-good painting of Archibald Otterburn. No mistaking father and daughter even though Simon suspected that she had more energy and strength in one finger than her father had ever possessed. He’d died from getting caught out in the rain. That didn’t surprise.
    She got her strength from her mother, as was obvious in the pencil portrait of Martha Otterburn that he hadn’t seen before. Here, caught in her kitchen, she looked more relaxed and kindly.
    Beside that was a less successful work that must be a self-portrait by the cousin. The quality of the drawing equaled the others, but the pose had the awkwardness common in self-portraits. She looked so wooden it was impossible to imagine what she’d been like, but even so, the resemblance to Jane was remarkable between distant cousins. Nan Otterburn’s face had been a little longer, perhaps her nose a little straighter, but assuming the coloring was the same, they must have seemed like twins.
    Nan’s talent had been remarkable for her age. A tragic loss of perhaps a genius. He saw no signature, but her drawings were finer work than the painting, which was boldly signed B K McKee .
    Then he spotted one other small drawing sitting framed on the desk. He picked it up to see a two-story house that was clearly part of a terrace, even though the image faded to