July 1588
In the growing darkness, Spencer Thornton stood by the rail and watched the frantic sailors scrambling up the masts of the Spanish ship, loosening the ropes and sails in a desperate effort to alter their course. The English fleet still sailed behind, sending cannonballs screaming through the sky to topple masts and puncture ships.
Death had been stalking him for days now. He was so weak from lack of food that his pretense of being a seasick soldier seemed real. He couldn’t allow himself the solace of sleep because one by one, other British spies were being murdered—and he might be next.
He gripped the rail and stared hard at the Isle of Wight, with its shadowed cliffs and beaches. He had made plans to jump ship there, where he now owned dower property from that ill-fated betrothal.
At least some good had come from his last London scandal.
He would have done anything to escape the notoriety of his missing bride, and the British government had presented him with a way to be needed—a way to prove himself loyal. He’d spent over a year pretending to be Spanish, gathering information on the pathetic condition of the Spanish soldiers and sailors. The armada’s food and water were spoiled, and they lacked ample supplies of powder and shot. He was all but certain the Spanish couldn’t invade England. All he needed to do was get his information to the queen—unless the traitor killed him first.
The ship was in an uproar: soldiers huddled in sobbing groups, while sailors crawled through the rigging. Now might be his best—and only—chance to get the proof of treachery he needed.
Spencer leaned over the side to check that the boat he’d lowered earlier was still lashed to the hull. Then he headed for the cabin of Rodney Shaw, a highly placed British spy—and the man Spencer believed was betraying his country. As he reached the door, an explosion rocked the ship and the shouting intensified.
He ducked inside the dark cabin, feeling his heart pounding against his ribs and the sweat rolling off him in the stale air. Footsteps pounded overhead; the ship shuddered with the impact of another cannonball. He frantically ran his hands over the table, through the trunks, beneath the bedclothes. He found only one sealed letter, and by the light of gunfire outside the porthole, he was able to make out the first few sentences. It was written by Shaw’s Spanish superiors—just what Spencer needed.
After stuffing the letter in an oilskin pouch, he strapped it to his chest beneath his shirt and was soon back in the shadowy corridor. He had taken only one step when he felt the prick of a sword in his back.
“Señor?” said a voice.
Spencer held his hands out to his sides to show he was unarmed, then slowly turned around. He looked into the dark, smirking eyes of a Spanish soldier.
Spencer braced himself against the bulkhead and wiped his shaking hand across his forehead. “Forgive me, sir. I am sick, and I was trying to find my way below deck to rest.”
The soldier leaned closer, keeping his sword at the ready. “My master is looking for you. And where do I find you? Right outside his door.”
Unease spread through Spencer’s chest. This man worked for Shaw—but did he know what Spencer had found in the cabin?
He allowed himself to be prodded on deck, where the growing darkness was lit with gunfire. He could just see the island disappearing off the port side—so much for his plans to jump ship before he was caught.
The bow was all but deserted except for the shadowy figures of two men. Spencer approached warily and received another sword prick in the back to hurry him up.
Rodney Shaw—dark-haired and still amazingly well dressed—stepped forward and smiled. “Lord Thornton, how good of you to deliver yourself into our hands,” he said softly in English.
Spencer answered in Spanish. “You didn’t cover your treachery well, Shaw. Did you not think we would discover your secret?”
“There is no longer a ‘we,’ Lord Thornton. Every other spy is dead.”
Spencer kept his rage contained. “I don’t understand why you would do this. Surely you knew that your loyalty would have been well rewarded by the crown.”
Shaw only shrugged. “Now I can be well rewarded no matter which side wins. And imagine how grateful the queen will be when I hand her the name of the traitor—Spencer Thornton. I’ll tell her what a shame it was that I had to kill him before he could kill me. And then of course, when the Spanish invade with my help, I shall be a hero to them as well.”
Spencer’s arms were suddenly gripped from behind. Before he could do more than briefly struggle, he felt a blow to his stomach, then to his face. Pain shot through him, and he tried to pull away. Shaw and another of his henchmen took turns pummeling him, and Spencer knew they intended to beat him to death. He deliberately sagged in their arms, and when one of the henchmen leaned over him, Spencer plucked the man’s sword away and rolled to his feet.
Shaw’s own sword suddenly glittered in the moonlight, and he laughed. Swaying, Spencer blinked his eyes as his vision blurred, but he fought to hold his hand steady. When their swords arced overhead and rang together, he felt the rippling shock of it clear down to his chest. He desperately fought on, wondering which blow would be his last.
His breath came in labored gasps, and sweat dripped into his eyes. When he stumbled to one side, he felt Shaw’s sword pierce between his ribs. And even if he managed to defeat Shaw, the Spaniards were just waiting to take Shaw’s place.
With one last blow, Spencer knocked Shaw a step backward, then grabbed the rail and vaulted overboard. For a moment, the wind whistled past his ears. He landed in a crumpled heap in his boat, feeling a shattering pain in his leg where it slammed into the wooden seat. Somehow he managed to pull the knife from his boot and cut the ropes holding the boat against the Spanish galleon.
Dazed and nauseated with pain, he rowed out of reach of the ship’s guns, watching the fleet veer away from the treachery of the island.
“I’ll find you, Thornton!” echoed across the water, and a bullet whistled past his head.
Once out of range, Spencer tried to staunch the blood flow at his side using his shirt. Then he rowed northwest, to where the chalk cliffs of the island rose out of the sea to guide him through the darkness.
On dark nights, on the low cliffs overlooking the English Channel, Roselyn Grant could almost forget that the English and Spanish fleets were resting at anchor, waiting for dawn to renew their battle. The moonlight tonight wouldn’t allow that, illuminating the masts rocking out on the waves. Occasionally the flash of a lantern winked at her, and she could hear a sailor’s shout, sounding eerily close.
Many of the island’s people had fled to the mainland, leaving the villages half deserted. But she had rebuilt her life here, and she would stay until the Spanish invaded, if necessary.
She had no other place to go.
The wind off the channel was as chilly as the rest of the cool, wet summer had been. Roselyn tugged the kerchief closer about her shoulders and closed her eyes, breathing deeply of the salt air. Her usual nighttime peace eluded her.
When she opened her eyes, she stared in shock at a small boat silhouetted in the moonlight, rocking wildly in the breakers close to the beach. For a moment she thought they were being invaded, but the solitary boat looked empty as it was tossed ashore and overturned.
She told herself to run away, but the impetuous Roselyn of old suddenly appeared, as if the last two years hadn’t happened. She found herself descending the path to the beach, skidding on gravel, grabbing clumps of weeds to steady herself. Her curiosity had awakened from its long dormancy, and could no longer be appeased. After all, it might be a perfectly good boat.
She walked unevenly down the sloping sand, stepping over broken spars and split casks, remnants of the sea battles. She slowed as she reached the boat, which was resting against a boulder, but it was empty. Then she heard a low, ragged moan. Roselyn froze, taking a deep breath before peering cautiously around the far side of the boat.
For a moment she thought her mind was playing tricks on her, that it was only the gulls she’d disturbed. In the roar of the waves she could imagine anything.
But she heard the sound again, and this time a dark shadow moved. It was a man, sprawled facedown across the wet sand, his lower body buffeted by the surf. Roselyn cautiously crept forward as he moaned more softly, as if his strength were ebbing with the tide.
She crouched down beside the man’s body, gathered her courage, and tugged on his shoulder to roll him over. His arms splayed out to his sides; his head lolled. Above a ragged beard, his face looked distorted, misshapen, and she saw the darker shadow of welling blood below his eye.
With a groan, the man shuddered, and Roselyn scrambled away from him.
“Help…me.”
He was an Englishman, not a Spaniard. Relief flooded through her, and she sagged to her knees at his side. “I’ll go for help. I promise I will not be long.”
Before she could stand, he reached a trembling hand toward her. “No! Please…”
He gripped her fingers with a strength that surprised her. His skin was wet and frigidly cold as he seemed to will her with dark eyes to heed him. She felt caught, trapped in his gaze as the moist wind swirled around them.
Roselyn licked the salt from her lips as she released his hand. “I cannot carry you alone, sir, and I think there’s blood soaking your shirt. You might be badly wounded.”
“No…the Spanish…they’ll be coming…” With a groan he rose up on one elbow. “I can…walk.”
She knew she should go for help now, before the man injured himself even further, but he had already dragged himself up into a sitting position. Resting his chin against his chest, he took ragged, deep breaths that convulsed his entire body, as water ran in rivulets from his long dark hair.
“Sir…” Roselyn began doubtfully.
The sailor groaned as he rolled onto his hands and knees. She gave up trying to persuade him to be still and reached down to help him. He clutched at her shoulders and almost knocked them both to their knees in the surf, but somehow she withstood his weight. He smelled of brine and sweat and blood, and as he threw his arm across her shoulder, the cold ocean water seeped into her clothing.
When he reached his full height, she realized that even injured he could be formidable.
Together they took a few staggering steps across the sand. She could tell that something was wrong with his right leg by how little weight he put on it.
Roselyn cursed herself with every exhaled groan he blasted in her ear. He was too big for her—what was she supposed to do with him, take him all the way to the lord-lieutenant?
Though she thought every staggering step would be his last, he never faltered. During the climb up the cliff path, they had to stop several times as the sailor braced himself against the rock wall and gasped for breath.
“Let me go for help,” she pleaded again.
“No.” He could barely whisper, but still he clutched her skirts to keep her with him.
She wondered what kind of man he was, to force himself beyond his strength. She could see only the barest outline of his profile in the dark—a bold nose over an unkempt mustache and beard. He wasn’t even using his right leg anymore, just her body as a crutch.
They reached the meadow above the cliffs, and she thought the sailor would sag to his knees in relief. Instead his entire body trembled as he held on to her, resting.
Roselyn’s own legs were weak, and she felt disoriented. She was helping a strange man through the stark, moonlit field, and she didn’t know what to do next. He hung from her shoulders, head down, his bare feet buried in the high grass.
Though he was a British sailor, she did not dare bring him to her own cottage. She would take him to a shed on her father’s lands, where she could tend to his wounds before going to the lord-lieutenant. Not that the militia in the nearby village of Shanklin would have much time for one stray sailor; they were busy digging trenches and scouring the island for powder and shot in case the Spanish invaded.
They half limped, half staggered through the night. Hours could have passed and Roselyn wouldn’t have known. She would have been grateful to run into one of the patrols, anything to have help with the ever-increasing burden of the sailor. She was exhausted by the time she reached Wakesfield, her father’s estate, where the outbuildings loomed in the distance.
“’Tis…not far,” she gasped.
But speech was beyond the sailor’s capability as he clung to her. She could feel the bones of his hips and ribs against her, as if he hadn’t eaten in a long time. By the saints, what would she do if he died?
When they reached the shed, Roselyn shouldered open the wooden door, and the sweet smell of drying grasses from the mill pond wafted out toward them.
Without a sound, the man dropped onto his knees, then face forward into the pile of grass, almost disappearing into the black shadows of the shed. She could see nothing without a lantern, so she rolled him onto his back and listened to his shallow breathing.
“I shall return in but a moment,” she said slowly, hoping he understood. “I’ll bring bandages and food.”
Roselyn left him and ran across the grounds, past stables and barns, the orchard and the gardens. Her father’s manor was dark and silent, with only the bailiff, Francis Heywood, and his family living there. The moon reflected off the panes of the windows like a single bright eye, following her.
Her parents had no idea that she’d sought refuge here. If they knew, they would banish her. She’d refused to jeopardize Francis’s position by living in the manor, and instead lived in one of the cottages.
A candle glowing in the small glass window of her home welcomed her inside, where the faint smells of supper still hung in the air. She retrieved a bucket of hot water off a hook over the fire, then put linens, salves, blankets, bread, and a horn of drinking water in a sack she hung over her shoulder. Next she searched for some of Philip’s garments buried at the bottom of a chest.
When she returned to the shed, she set about removing the sailor’s sodden clothes. Finding an oilskin pouch strapped to his chest, she set it aside in the grass. As she tugged down his breeches she told herself that he was just another man to heal, but feeling his naked skin beneath her hands made her oddly unsettled. After a quick, wide-eyed stare, she put a towel discreetly across his hips. Then she examined the jagged gash in his side, obviously caused by a knife or sword. He groaned when she touched his right leg, and she felt a swelling at his shin—he must have broken the bone. Though his body was leanly muscled, it was obvious that food had not been in plentiful supply on board ship, for his ribs were too evident.
Roselyn cauterized the bleeding wound in his side, cleaned the rest with wine, and applied salve. Then she bandaged his ribs and made a splint for his leg. The sailor’s trembling eased as she covered him with a blanket.
Before dawn, the man began to toss and groan in a fever-induced delirium. He seemed panicked, desperate, and she wondered what horrible memories plagued him. When he began to mumble, she froze in stunned surprise.
The words were not English, but Spanish.
She had grown up near seaports and knew the language enough to recognize it, but not enough to translate.
With a chill of foreboding, she lifted the lantern and held it above him. His hair was black, un-fashionably long, and she realized now that his skin was not the pale color of an Englishman. By the saints, could he be a Spaniard?
She hung the lantern back on its hook, reminding herself that he had spoken perfect English up to this point.
Yet wouldn’t a Spanish spy know English? Had he arrived to ready the island for invasion?
Roselyn reined in her panicked thoughts. He had been in battle and was barely clinging to life, which was not how a spy would come ashore. He had been fleeing from the Spanish—or so he’d said. And since many Englishmen knew Spanish, she couldn’t label the man an enemy with so little proof.
“What is your name?” she whispered, knowing he couldn’t hear her.
For two days the sailor moved in and out of consciousness, and Roselyn began to regret that she hadn’t brought him to her cottage. She was constantly running for supplies, for broth to dribble between his lips, for soap to clean his body and his matted hair and beard. She deliberately chose his most unconscious moments for such “baths,” then tried to tell herself that her hands weren’t shaking from performing such intimate acts on a strange man.
He occasionally mumbled unintelligible words, though once he asked a lucid question: “Do you live on my land?”
Before she could even think what to reply, he was asleep again.
But always she worried about being discovered by the Heywoods. She could never put them in the way of a possible Spanish plot. Francis had been like a father to her, his children were practically her siblings, and they had been nothing but kind in the year since she’d fled to the Isle of Wight. She couldn’t involve them in this new problem she’d created for herself—not again. She could last until the sailor was well enough to turn over to the militia.
Late in the afternoon, Roselyn returned to the shed with a thin stew for the sailor’s meal. She paused in the doorway, watching his face in a shaft of sunlight. The swelling from his bruises had subsided, and beneath all that long hair and beard, he seemed to be a handsome man. In his sleep, he turned his head, and his hair fell away from his brow.
She frowned, feeling a prickling sensation on the back of her neck. She walked forward as if in a dream and knelt beside the man, setting her tray on the dirt floor.
Roselyn felt a dim sense of panic reach her, grasp her, until she almost couldn’t swallow. With a shaking hand, she pushed the hair off his hot forehead, as a nobleman would wear it.
Beneath the mottled purple and green bruises and the ragged beard was the face of Spencer Thornton—her betrothed.