Two of the brigands grabbed Spencer, and Roselyn screamed as the third covered her mouth. She tasted dirt and beer and something so vile she wanted to gag.
Though she fought, the man dragged her down a dark alley. The last she saw of Spencer, he had pulled the sword from its scabbard, and was threatening one man while trying to dislodge the other who had an arm wrapped around his neck.
Though tears of despair fell from her eyes, she forced herself to remember the pattern of the muddy streets, growing narrower and darker the farther from the riverbank they went.
She had the saddlebag with her, and began to fear that the letter Spencer so desperately needed might be taken from her. Was he even alive to care? She couldn’t give up hope yet.
The thief’s hold had weakened slightly, as if he believed her powerless. She desperately lifted her foot and kicked backward. She missed his groin, and hung off balance by one arm until he whirled her around toward him. He was laughing as she met his gaze, and she lifted her free hand and raked her nails down his face.
With a hoarse scream, he let her go and covered his eyes. She ran, clutching the saddlebag to her chest, darting down twisting, narrow streets and dodging people until her lungs burned.
Only when she believed she’d lost him did she slow down. If she returned immediately to Spencer, the two remaining thieves could still overpower them both.
But if she had help…
It took her a while to regain her bearings, but soon she was trudging through familiar streets. She knocked on the door of her friend’s home, a woman who’d sold fresh fish from a cart near Philip’s bakery. If only the family hadn’t moved.
The door was opened by a shabbily dressed man.
“George?” she whispered, then looked beyond him to see his brother Walter and George’s wife. “Ann?”
By the light of one guttering candle, she saw four tiny children watching her from behind the woman’s brown skirts.
George gave her a gap-toothed grin. “Be that you, Roselyn?”
She nodded happily, and he gave her a hug that lifted her from her feet. When he let her go, Ann turned her around and wrapped warm arms about her.
“Roselyn, when did ye return to London? Why did ye not tell us ye was comin’? And where is Philip and sweet Mary? Surely the babe must be—”
Something in her face must have made Ann stop.
“Ann,” she said gently, “Philip and Mary died of the Black Death soon after we left London.”
Ann’s eyes widened and filled with tears as she took Roselyn’s hands. “Oh, my dear,” she began.
“’Tis all right. I’ve been living on the Isle of Wight, earning my living by baking. But I just returned to London today with—”
By the saints, Spencer could be unconscious—or worse—right now!
She whirled around to face the brothers. “I need your help. My companion and I were attacked on the street, and I don’t know how he fares. We must find him!”
“But Roselyn—” Ann said.
Roselyn gave her a quick hug. “I promise I’ll return and tell you everything on another day, but I must go to Spencer. He could be badly wounded.”
The return journey was undertaken with the creeping approach of darkness, guided by the occasional guttering lantern hung outside a shop door.
Spencer was not where she’d left him—and a fresh patch of blood stained the ground.
Roselyn resisted the urge to imagine the worst. Where could he have gone? If the brigands had killed him, surely he’d still be lying in the street—
An icy calmness doused her mounting terror as she turned to George. “If the watch had taken him, where would he be?”
“One of the prisons be not far away,” he said slowly. “We’ll take ye back to Ann first, and then do yer lookin’ for ye.”
“We must check the tavern where we stabled our horses. He could be there.”
By midnight, Roselyn realized that Spencer had completely disappeared from Southwark. She tried to convince the men that he had gone home, but George refused to hire a wherry at this time of night, insisting that his brother Walter would row her across in the morning. Besides, he said, London at night was no place to be, what with the Spanish out there somewhere, waiting to attack. She just shook her head and closed her eyes.
She sat beside the small hearth, trying to pay attention to Ann’s reassuring words, while desperately wishing that morning would come.
When Rodney Shaw arrived in London close to midnight, the third horse he’d used in the last two days almost collapsed beneath him. But what was another horse, compared to arriving in time for Lord Forman’s party? Every noble family would be represented—perhaps even the queen, the old bitch, would deign to come.
Shaw himself would be seen by all those who mattered. Although only the government knew of his mission to spy on Spain’s armada, he would make certain he hinted in a few noblemen’s ears where he’d been this last year.
Nothing would stop him from convincing the government that Thornton was the traitorous spy.
And when the queen bestowed her favor and a prestigious title on him, even Shaw’s mother would be invited to the ceremony, which would please her endlessly.
His mother had done her duty to further both of their ambitions. She’d sent missives to inns and taverns along the coast, telling him the exact day and time of Forman’s ball, so that wherever he landed on English soil he’d be prepared.
When Shaw arrived at Forman’s estate on the Thames in Westminster he had no formal invitation, but the gardens near the river overlooked tall, wide doors he could easily slip through. The great hall sweltered with heat and too much perfume, while the expensive garments worn by both men and women glittered in the candlelight.
He knew his clothing was stained from travel, and caught the disapproving eye of many guests, but on the morrow all would know he was a hero. No one would dare look askance on him again—they would pay him the deference he deserved.
But for now, he contented himself by wandering the great hall and the surrounding parlors. He came to a halt on the edge of the dance floor, stunned to see Spencer Thornton partnering a woman in the dance. Thornton had been too injured to have reached London before him! Had he already spoken to the queen? Was Shaw even now about to be arrested?
As Shaw stood there, feeling the first clawing of terror, the dance brought Thornton close to him. Their eyes met and Shaw stiffened, his mind racing for the words he’d use to throw Thornton’s inevitable accusations back in his face.
But Thornton merely looked down at the stunning woman in his arms and whispered something in her ear. She giggled and patted his chest as if chastising him. Then they were gone, swallowed in a sea of dancers.
Shaw was engulfed with uneasy bewilderment. Could Thornton have a plan that even now he was setting in motion?
Shaw had survived too much to give up so easily, had risked his life to become indispensable to two countries. He had only one country left, and he would not abandon the dreams he and his mother shared. He would see her in the finest silk as she deserved, the mother of a true nobleman.
He left the party as quickly as he could, determined to go to Sir Francis Walsingham, the state secretary who’d recruited him and Thornton to spy on Spain.
And he wouldn’t wait until morning.
As dawn lightened the sky, Roselyn sat in a damp boat on a wooden seat facing Walter, who rowed upstream through the foggy mist. Holding her saddlebag in her lap, she concentrated on remembering which home was Spencer’s.
She had seen it only once, when her family’s barge had sailed past, and her mother had pointed it out with greedy pride. She could only pray Spencer had arrived there safely.
They glided past the tall, crowded buildings on the northern bank, dodging other boats and barges carrying passengers from farther upstream, hearing the occasional watermen’s cry of “Eastward ho!” or “Westward ho!” Soon the riverbanks became open stretches of well-groomed land, with archways standing sentinel before elaborate gardens. Many wealthy homes had steps rather than docks leading to the Thames.
Walter was almost certain he knew where the Thornton estate was, and he guided the wherry up against the steps. Through the arched gate, she could see a two-story manor in the distance, white stone with darker edging.
She looked at Walter uncertainly as he took off his cap and rubbed the top of his balding head.
“I be waitin’ a bit for ye, mistress. You come back if it be the wrong house.”
When she tried to pay him for his service, he refused, and she gave him a grateful smile.
Roselyn stepped out of the wherry, straightened her shoulders, and started up the steps. The stone walkway leading up to the house was deserted, and she began to feel uneasy. The gardens looked slightly unkempt, drooping in the early morning mist. The walk seemed to take forever, as the manor loomed larger and larger. When she knocked on the front door, the echo sounded cavernous—as if through an abandoned house. She waited a long time before a maidservant finally opened the door.
The girl yawned and leaned against the door frame. “A bit early, ain’t it, luv?”
Roselyn blinked in surprise and tried to reserve her judgment. Spencer had told her that his brother was taking care of everything for him, but much about this estate was amiss.
“Forgive me for intruding,” she began, “but is your master in attendance?”
The girl smirked. “’Course he is, but surely ye don’t expect him to be up and about at this hour.”
Roselyn’s relief almost staggered her, and she braced her hand on the door. Spencer was home and well, not lying injured in some hovel in Southwark—or worse. “I need to see him. It is extremely urgent.”
The maidservant rolled her eyes. “I bet it is, luv. Wait here and I’ll see what I can do.”
Before Roselyn could react, the girl shut the door in her face. She fumed for endless moments until she finally realized that she’d been abandoned.
Holding her breath, she lifted the latch and pushed the door inward. No sound greeted her, not the murmur of servants’ voices nor the clinking of pots somewhere distant in the kitchens. It was as silent and empty as any monument to wealth.
She hurried up the broad stone staircase to the second floor, then stared in dismay at the long line of closed doors. When she found an imposing set of double doors, she slowly swung one open and peered in. The draperies were closed, letting in only murky light. An enormous four-poster bed occupied the far wall, with bed curtains tied back to the posts and a mound of rumpled sheets and blankets and satin coverlet in the center.
Roselyn closed the door behind her and tiptoed toward the bed, where a man’s head was buried beneath pillows.
“Spencer?” she whispered, then hesitantly lifted a pillow.
She could see black hair draped across a slumbering face whose contours she’d memorized by sight and touch.
Relief made her tremble as tears filled her eyes.
“Spencer,” she whispered, reaching down to shake his naked shoulder.
He gave a little groan and turned away from her.
She frowned, wondering how he could sleep so deeply. Wasn’t he just as frantic about her disappearance as she’d been about his?
She shook him harder. His eyelids fluttered, then he rolled onto his back and shaded his eyes as if bright light had suddenly pierced the gloom.
Roselyn just smiled at him, and he slowly smiled back.
“Good morning,” he said softly.
“Spencer, I was so worried,” she began, kneeling on the edge of the bed. She reached out and brushed the hair from his face, then allowed her fingers to stroke his cheek. “When I couldn’t find you, I—” She pressed her lips together and struggled not to cry.
“Shh,” he whispered, drawing her down to lie against his side. “’Twill all be fine now that you’re here.”
Safe in his arms, sheltered in his big bed, she allowed herself to relax. He grinned and came up on his elbow, then leaned over to gently kiss her lips. With a sigh, she slid her hands up into his hair and held him to her, slanting her open mouth across his, suddenly hungry for the taste of him. Though they had been separated for only one day, it seemed a lifetime.
But…something was wrong. Spencer’s kiss was different—even his weight pressing her into the bed was wrong.
She twisted her head aside, and he trailed kisses down her cheek. “Spencer,” she said sternly, “look at me.”
“Oh, I’ve looked, believe me,” he murmured against her ear.
She pushed at his shoulders until he propped himself on his elbows above her, grinning down in a carefree manner that made her fears grow.
“Something is wrong,” she said slowly.
As her gaze wandered down his chest, she gave a sudden gasp and put her hands where a scar should be—but wasn’t.
Before her shocked mind could comprehend, the door opened, and a worried voice said, “Roselyn?”
The voice was Spencer’s—and he still wore Philip’s old garments and a bemused expression.
Roselyn gaped at the identical face grinning down at her in the bed.