“Leave?” Roselyn protested. “But it’s late! Surely dawn would be soon enough—”
“We can’t risk it,” he said, picking up her cloak and bundling it around her shoulders.
She felt like a little girl as he lifted her chin to attach the clasp.
“Here’s your saddlebag,” he said, handing the pack to her so quickly she almost dropped it. “I had not yet unpacked, so I’m ready.”
She stared at the scabbard he strapped about his waist, the hilt gleaming dully in the candlelight.
“Spencer,” she said, striving for a calm voice, “you need your rest. Surely your leg—”
“I’ve been resting since I arrived in Southampton this morn. I’ll be fine, but will you?”
“You don’t mind taking me with you?”
“I’ll not send you back into the path of Shaw,” he said grimly, grabbing her hand to drag her while he limped down the stairs with his cane. “We need to put as much distance between us and him as possible. I only hope the horses are up to it.”
As they reached the taproom, he slowed to a more moderate pace and motioned Roselyn before him.
“Just follow my lead,” he whispered. As they entered the crowded room, he raised his voice. “But I tell ye, wife, ’tis a good chamber!”
She fixed a suitable frown on her face. “It’s not large enough.”
“But they don’t ’ave more,” he said, looking at the innkeeper, “do ye, sir?”
The man with the large apron over his belly shook his head. “That’s the last.”
“Well, it won’t do,” she said firmly. “Give the man the key. And I’ll not be needing supper, either.”
Grumbling, Spencer did as she asked.
Outside, his good-natured frown vanished, and he walked as fast as he could to the stables. Only when their horses were saddled and they were on the road did he seem to relax.
The night was dark and overcast with the threat of rain in the air, which made Roselyn sigh in resignation. The horses picked their way through the narrow, garbage-strewn streets of Southampton, and the occasional late night reveler stumbled out of their way.
Finally the road widened, and the trees encroached to the edges, and they left behind the comforting lights. Spencer slowed his horse until she caught up and rode beside him.
She sighed again. “I don’t understand why we could not at least sleep for a few hours.”
“If we’d stayed at the inn, I would not have given you the opportunity to sleep,” he said in a low voice.
Even in the darkness, she felt smoldered by his glance, and a warm blush stole across her cheeks. She should be angry that he thought he could so easily seduce her again; instead she imagined that dark garret room beneath the eaves, a narrow bed, and the two of them entwined on it.
“But Rose, we also don’t know how long Shaw kept looking for me on the island,” he continued in a more sober voice. “If he reaches London first and tells the court his lies, how will they know whom to believe? ’Tis my word against his—and what if he’s somehow concocted convincing proof?
“The sooner we get to London, the sooner I can have you safe in my home. My brother will take care of you while I see the queen.”
“We’ll need sleep at some point,” she said with exasperation.
“Yes, and now Shaw can’t be certain which road we’ll take. I promise we’ll make an early stop in the evening.”
“You mean tomorrow evening?”
“Yes. But don’t worry—if you fall asleep, I’ll make sure you stay in the saddle.”
Fine comfort that was, she thought irritably. They plodded along for several minutes, and Roselyn stole glances at him. She couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d told her, wondering how she could know the truth.
“Spencer?”
“Hmm?”
“What was it like to spy against Spain?”
In the moonlight she saw the grim set of his mouth.
“Lonely.”
She would have thought “dangerous” to be the first word he’d use.
“I had to pretend I was one of them,” he said. “Sometimes I…lost myself, what it felt like to be Spencer Thornton. I had to become Miguel de Velasco, to think—even dream—in Spanish, for fear of making a mistake that could get me killed.”
“It sounds terrible,” she whispered, wishing she could lean across and hold his hand.
“The worst part was being able to trust no one. My assignment included very little contact with other British agents. My sole duty was to get myself aboard whatever fleet sailed for England, and to report on their ability to invade us.”
“So you had no one to talk to for well over a year?”
Spencer looked down at where he gripped the reins. “My duty was to talk to people, to find out things. Along the way there were soldiers I worked beside, men who had no say in what their government did, who only wanted to survive.”
“But no women,” she said softly.
“No women.” He gave her a bitter smile. “It would have been too dangerous—what if I somehow compromised my identity?”
He seemed so sad that Roselyn felt the need to lighten his mood. “So you gave up all your mistresses.”
She thought his smile softened. “Yes, it was a hardship. I thought of them constantly, of course.”
“Of course.” She wished she could wholeheartedly believe his words. She wanted to comfort him, to take him into her arms and hold him through the dark night.
“You must know about loneliness,” he said in a hesitant voice. “Since Grant and your baby died, you’ve deliberately kept yourself alone. Why?”
The old pain had mellowed, and she smiled wistfully. “You already understand the answer. ’Tis easier, isn’t it? When you don’t care about much, you have nothing much to lose.”
“You cared about Philip Grant.”
He didn’t even ask it as a question.
“At the beginning, certainly, but not after that.”
“But I thought he was what you wanted?”
“So did I. But it was all a ruse to obtain my dowry. After my parents disowned me, he became very bitter.”
Spencer’s stillness was loud. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, not how you think. But the absolute withdrawal of his affection hurt me worse than a blow. It had been what I cherished about him. I continued to work hard at his side to at least win his respect.”
“Did you?”
She shook her head and gave a sad smile. “No. And when Mary was born, we were both a burden to him.”
She felt strangely relieved to be saying the words.
“Tell me about her,” he whispered.
She glanced at him. “I don’t understand.”
“I know she was young, but I would like to hear about Mary.”
She stirred in the saddle, feeling confused, sad—but grateful. The Heywoods never mentioned her name, as a way to protect Roselyn, of course. Yet she had felt as if she was supposed to pretend Mary had never been born.
“She was a good baby,” she began, and before she knew it, she was telling Spencer Thornton about Mary’s smile.
By the time the sun dawned, Roselyn’s backside ached with every movement of the horse. It had been two years since she’d regularly ridden, and she was paying for it now.
Yet she said nothing to Spencer, who with each mile grew more and more somber. He often looked over his shoulder and would give her a bracing smile when she caught him at it. He pushed their pace as hard as he dared, resting only when he felt the horses needed to.
She knew that it was worry for her rather than himself that drove him. It warmed her, yet made her feel terribly confused. He never complained that she was slowing him down, or that he was sorry she’d followed him. Although he was the one using a cane, he helped her from Angel’s back whenever they rested, made sure she was comfortable before seeing to himself.
No one except for the Heywoods had ever treated her with such consideration, and it made her feel adrift in feelings she was afraid to explore.
By nightfall, even those thoughts were driven aside by bone-deep weariness. She would do anything to get off Angel, and when Spencer called a halt at a small inn in Guildford, she gladly tumbled into his arms and let him steady her.
With wobbly legs, she followed him to the stables, but he insisted on seeing to the horses himself while she watched. Again, he implied to the innkeeper that they were husband and wife, and she accepted it without even a twinge of guilt, her hand resting in his bent elbow as if it belonged there.
They would be in London on the morrow, and she could tell by Spencer’s shadowed eyes that he dreaded it as much as he welcomed it.
They ate dinner quietly in their room, which had a tiny table before the hearth. But he ate little, and soon began to pace from the door to the window, as if he expected an attack at any moment.
There were enemies behind Spencer, and enemies before him, and Roselyn knew he would find no peace this night, or probably rest, either.
She suddenly knew what she would do, without a conscious decision.
She set the wooden tray of supper dishes outside their door, and locked it. Then she slowly began to unbutton her bodice. He did not notice what she was doing, and she felt nervous about his reaction as she shrugged the gown off her shoulders and let it fall, revealing the linen smock that hung to her knees.
Yet she also felt heady with the knowledge of what she meant to do, the chances she was ready to take. By following Spencer she’d once again become wild Roselyn, and she couldn’t—wouldn’t—stop now.