Later in the afternoon, Roselyn returned to her cottage and found Spencer pacing the courtyard. She watched in silent surprise as he began resting a little weight on his broken leg.
“You could worsen your injury,” she said.
He whirled around, and she was stunned to see a dagger in his hand.
“Don’t surprise me like that,” he said sternly.
She continued to stare at the weapon. “Where did you get that?”
“At the manor. When Francis came upon me at the chapel yesterday, I realized I was foolish to be so unprepared.”
She sat down on the bench. “You might have even more cause to be wary. They found the Spaniard’s body on the beach today.”
“Did the villagers think he was from the battle?”
“Yes, but it aroused everyone’s suspicions. Apparently there are strangers on the island, asking questions.”
Spencer stiffened. “About me?”
“Not that I know of. But you must understand that every visitor to Wight is a stranger, especially during these times of war. A man could have asked for simple lodging and been viewed suspiciously.”
He shrugged and resumed his pacing, occasionally resting weight on his broken leg.
Now he was certain to leave soon, and nothing was resolved. He was not telling her all the truth, and for a moment she debated giving him the pouch anyway.
But what if that was all he was waiting for? Could she live with herself if something dreadful happened, if he was the traitor she suspected?
And that was the true dilemma of her situation: she couldn’t trust him, yet she was drawn to him with a power she never would have imagined. Just watching him move made her feel pleasurably languid, made her body not her own anymore, but his.
What was she to do—just let him go?
But then she’d never know one way or another what he was, what he meant to her.
Meant to her? Even if he turned out to be the most patriotic of Englishmen, he was still dangerous. She needed to get back to her sedate life, to her solitary cottage, to her ordinary days.
Roselyn eyed him speculatively. “Why didn’t you tell me you would be coming to Wakesfield this morning?”
He leaned against the low wall and the beginnings of a smile played about his lips.
“I didn’t know myself until after you’d gone.”
“You couldn’t bear the thought of your own company?” she asked, trying for sarcasm, and realizing she sounded almost playful.
He looked away with too casual an air. “Something like that.”
Something caught and held deep inside her, something more than the attraction she felt for him. He seemed almost…sad. Did he miss his family, his old way of life? Maybe he wasn’t used to being alone—though surely he could have had female companionship whenever he wanted.
The thought of him with other women unsettled her. How foolish! Of course he would have other women, probably even a wife, once he broke their betrothal contract.
He turned his head and looked at her. She almost gasped at the intensity of his heavy-lidded, smoldering gaze, the black depths she couldn’t begin to understand.
Almost without volition, Spencer found himself walking toward Roselyn. He waited for her to run from him, from what he represented, as she’d done so many times now. But she sat unnaturally still on the bench, only her head moving as she tilted back to keep their gazes locked.
Had he embarrassed her this morning? Was it because of her reputation, as she kept insisting, or something more?
He stopped before her, so close their knees brushed, and her skirts covered his boots. Her storm-cloud eyes glittered as she challenged him—or herself—by holding his gaze, while her chest rose and fell at a more and more rapid pace.
Not fear, no.
She should fear him—everything inside him demanded he put her on her back on the table, take her here in the sunshine, regardless of who would see.
Was it possession he wanted, or just proof that she lusted as much as he did?
And if she pulled away, it would tell him nothing about what she protected—her reputation or herself or even her family.
Ah, but he wanted to touch that creamy, freckled skin that he could still remember wet under the starlight.
As he stared down at her, Spencer heard himself say, “Your carpenter wasn’t pleased to see me.”
“How would you feel if another man overheard you courting a woman?”
“Especially when he was overheard by the woman’s betrothed.” He regretted the words almost immediately.
She drew a deep breath and her eyes glittered, but he quickly covered her mouth with his fingers.
“I didn’t mean to start another argument,” he began. “I didn’t want—”
But the soft, moist feel of Roselyn’s mouth beneath his fingers stoked the blaze of the irrational desire he had for her. All his focus suddenly concentrated on keeping his hand from trembling; there was no will left to stop his fingers from wandering.
Bending low, he cupped her face with both hands, letting his thumbs follow the curve of her full lower lip. Her eyelashes fluttered and lowered, and her breath was almost a gasp now.
A sudden desperation welled up inside him. He thought of leaving her in four days, of going to London to face possible death. For the first time, he didn’t feel in such a hurry. Was it solace and comfort he wanted, he who knew better than to expect that from any woman? He’d never wanted it from any woman—until now.
His thumbs traced her eyelids, then the light brows that arched across her forehead. The fragile line of her cheek aroused him, and suddenly he was dying to taste her there. He dropped to his knees, the pain from his healing leg just a vague call in the distance. Leaning against her tightly clasped knees, he held her face before him, then pressed his lips to her cheek.
Inhaling brought an exquisite, painful pleasure—she smelled like Roselyn, like baking bread and wildflowers and woman.
He leaned more against her legs, but still her knees did battle, though her hands remained clenched in her lap. Ah, how she struggled against herself. The familiar rush of excitement, of the forbidden, held him in its grip.
With his hands on her shoulders, he arched her back against the table, until her throat was bare to him. His lips nibbled wandering paths across her white skin; he licked at the little hollow where her pulse thrummed at the base of her throat.
Her black garments hid the rest of her from him, and he felt a primitive urge to rip them from her, claim her there.
Claim her? What claim could he have anymore, what promises could he offer? Besides money, what had he ever had to offer? She had realized that long ago.
Spencer straightened, placing his hands on the bench on either side of her with the greatest care, as if he didn’t trust his fingers to stop caressing her.
Her thighs suddenly parted, and he found himself falling between her legs. Roselyn’s face was a bare whisper away, and before he could register any shock, she kissed him.
There was an innocence to her kiss, but she was only tentative, not shy. She wanted to kiss him, and that knowledge sent his lust roaring to new heights.
Their open mouths clung together, their tongues searching and tasting, their bodies straining for even greater closeness.
He was mindless, drowning, lost, and he allowed his hands to find their way beneath her skirts, to skim up over her stockinged calves. He shuddered at the bare flesh behind her knees—then froze as he realized what he was doing.
Lifting his head, he looked down to see Roselyn’s eyes closed, her head back, passion like a rose-colored flush across her skin.
All under the late afternoon sun, in view of anyone who might come by.
Her eyes opened, then blinked with a slow, languid awareness that made him think of awakening at dawn in her arms.
“What are we doing?” he whispered, while his fingers crept upward behind her thighs.
“I—I should go. I have so many orders from the tavern to bake.”
She stumbled over her words, and he wanted to kiss them away. Instead he teased even higher, until he could feel the roundness of her backside against his fingertips.
She gave a little squirm and a gasp, and everything shuddered inside him, off-balance.
Still on his knees, he moved back, then pulled her knees shut. She stood so quickly that she almost knocked him over.
“I have work to do,” she murmured, not looking at him.
Spencer watched her stride to the gate. More and more he realized she was not like other women. And there was the danger—to them both.
Roselyn did not return to the cottage until close to midnight. She released her breath as she saw that Spencer was asleep.
Her arms ached from kneading; her fingertips were sore from peeling fruit.
And her nerves were at a fevered pitch.
She had spent every moment waiting for him to come to her. Wild Roselyn, her old self, had taken possession, pushed away all her rational objections. She wanted to experience everything she never had with Philip.
But the new Roselyn she’d fashioned was so afraid—her voice was like that of a child wailing alone out on the open moor, growing ever softer, ever more plaintive.
When she awoke the next morning, Spencer was already gone. He was probably meeting with Francis, or going on one of his long walks.
But a deepening feeling of dread made her rush through her morning rituals.
It was all going to be over soon—she’d done what she could, short of confronting him or handing over the pouch to the authorities.
A restlessness gripped her that had nothing to do with his questionable loyalty—she was overcome with needs she hadn’t imagined existed. This was a more powerful lure than anything that had drawn her to Philip.
But she had to attend to her business, or risk losing the tavern owner as a customer. She had baked far too many goods to be carried in baskets—she would need to borrow a workhorse and cart.
As Roselyn entered Wakesfield’s main barn, she pulled a carrot from her pocket for Angel, but found the stall empty. Before she could even wonder who had taken the mare for a morning ride, Spencer rode into the barn on Angel.
She stood still, awed and impressed. He looked whole, well, a powerful man in his prime. She felt too warm and flustered as he grinned down at her.
“I saw you come in,” he said, pulling Angel to a halt. He patted the mare’s neck, but his gaze caught Roselyn’s, then wandered leisurely down her body. “She’s truly a beautiful animal. It was a lot easier to mount her today.”
She wished she could take back the wild coloring sweeping her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. “You’re healing, so naturally you’re stronger,” she said, keeping her voice as normal as possible.
“Do you mind if I exercise her this morning?”
She shrugged, trying to ignore how her palms were sweating and her heart raced as if she’d just ridden the length of the island.
“Very well,” he said. “I shall see you at dinner.”
She stood watching him as he rode off, knowing he might as well be riding out of her life.
She was overwhelmed with a sudden regret—had she made a terrible mistake when she’d abandoned their wedding?
No, she had found the right life for her—the safe life. When Spencer was gone, everything would be normal again; she would know how every day would unfold, without this horrible, aching uncertainty.
But after she hitched a workhorse to a small two-wheeled cart and led it back toward her cottage, she couldn’t help watching Spencer gallop across the horizon.
By the time Roselyn returned to Wakesfield in the early evening, the heat was oppressive, and dark clouds seemed to capture the air and hold it still. Her gown clung to her back as she walked along beside the horse, whose head drooped forlornly.
As they neared the barn, she heard the distant clash of metal on metal. She thought at first that the blacksmith might be working inside, but this was a lighter, deadlier sound.
She left the horse tethered outside, then went around to the rear door of the barn, which let her into the shadows behind the stalls.
Spencer was holding a sword on Thomas Heywood.
For a moment, Roselyn’s dread became an all-encompassing pain that threatened to shatter her. By her foolish desire, had she brought danger to them all?
Spencer grinned. “Now, see how I’m holding this, Tom? Try my grip.”
Her mouth dropped open, but when she noticed the sword in Thomas’s hand, she felt like her bones had melted clear out of her. Spencer was teaching the young man.
She wanted to giggle in sheer, draining relief and collapse back into the straw. But that lasted only a moment—she found her eyes drawn to Spencer, and she realized with a start that he had altered his cane, nailing a piece of wood perpendicular to it, like the hilt of a sword. His right knee rested on the cross, holding him up and freeing his hands. As long as he didn’t try to walk, he could balance and fight.
She stayed hidden within the empty stall, watching. Of course he would be good with a sword—he would naturally have had to defend himself after any number of his famous scandals.
But the patience he showed impressed her. He didn’t belittle or scold the boy for his lack of knowledge, even though she knew that at Thomas’s age, eighteen years, Spencer must have been far superior with the weapon.
Their voices became murmurs as she found herself studying his body, watching the way every muscle moved. She remembered his naked chest, gleaming during his bath. Cocooned in these new and heady sensations, she wasn’t surprised when Spencer looked over Thomas’s shoulder, right toward her hiding place.
She was trapped in his gaze, knew he could see her, but he merely smiled and continued teaching Thomas.
But his awareness of her was potent, powerful, and when he complained of the heat and removed his shirt, she knew he did it just for her.
She could see the lines of his hipbones disappearing into his low-slung breeches. His skin glistened beneath the scattering of hair across his chest.
Roselyn knew with wicked certainty that if Thomas left, her wild self would emerge from long slumber, and she would draw Spencer into the shadows with her, and pull him down into the straw. She licked her dry lips and clenched her shaking hands, and wondered what he was thinking as he glanced at her again, his face intent—and not on sword fighting.