Roselyn felt Francis’s scrutiny all through supper, and she wondered if he connected the stranger’s warning about spies to Spencer. When she tried to retire early, he followed her to the staircase and drew her to a halt.
“Lady Roselyn, we should talk.”
“Francis, could we do this in the morning?” She managed to sound as tired as she felt, and lifted her gaze to his with a silent plea. She couldn’t explain without perpetuating her lies, and she didn’t have the strength left for it.
Francis searched her face, then finally sighed. “Very well, my lady. After we break our fast, we will talk.”
Roselyn leaned up and kissed his cheek, and suddenly she knew it would be the last for a long time. She ascended the stairs to her room, but she didn’t turn the bed down, didn’t remove her clothing. She only paced, her stomach tight with panic.
She had to find Spencer.
She would have to go out in the world, leave safety behind, take chances again. If he was guilty, she couldn’t let the entire country pay for her foolishness in not turning him in.
And if he was innocent, he deserved to know that a man might be following him, thinking him a traitor. She owed him at least that.
It was time to confront him and learn the truth, though the thought of seeing him again after she’d surrendered her body made her ill.
She could no longer hide on her island and let the rest of the world’s problems pass her by.
Long after midnight, when the house was silent, Roselyn crept down the staircase and left Wakesfield through the kitchen door. At her cottage she gathered supplies and the coins she’d saved, then looked down at the black gown she wore.
Slowly she unlaced it. The gown fell to her feet, and she folded it with infinite care, set it inside a chest, then picked up one of the plain brown garments she’d worn as a married woman.
Her hands suddenly started to shake, and she could barely slide it over her head. She was leaving behind everything she’d built of her new life. She might have nothing to come back to, for the Heywoods might never forgive her for leaving on so dangerous a journey without telling them.
Roselyn left the dark cottage behind, walking quickly, then soon running until she reached the graveyard. She collapsed on her knees before her baby’s grave. She was so frightened—frightened of herself, frightened of taking another risk that might subject her to even more heartache.
With trembling fingers, she touched Mary’s headstone and wondered forlornly if she was already with child. She began to cry with the pain of the life she’d chosen two years ago, the decisions she’d made.
What if she was making another poor choice—if running after Spencer only put her in even more danger? And if he turned on her…
The thought of beginning all over again, starting anew somewhere else alone, made the tears fall even faster down her cheeks.
But she alone had made the decisions that led to this crossroads in her life; she alone could make everything right again. There was no other choice.
She returned to the shed where she’d first hidden him and dug through the drying grass for the pouch. When she finally held it in her hands, she wondered whether it exonerated Spencer or incriminated him. She didn’t know yet what she meant to do with it, but she couldn’t leave it behind.
Soon she was astride Angel on the road to Cowes and the ferry that would take her to Southampton. It was the quickest way Spencer could have gone if he truly meant to travel to London.
And if he never arrived there?
Then she would know the rumors were true, and that he’d betrayed his country.
Spencer cursed his bad luck as he gulped another mouthful of ale. He could not start for London this night.
Yesterday he’d arrived in Cowes too late in the day to make the last ferry, and ended up wasting precious coin at an inn on the island.
Then he’d overslept out of exhaustion—he never would have guessed that putting in long hours on a horse could aggravate his leg so badly—and almost missed the first ferry across the Solents. It was a rough journey, and both he and his horse were wet and bruised by the time they made Southampton. He had no choice but to wait another day to give his horse time to recover. He spent the remainder of the afternoon watching drunk sailors chase less than virtuous women.
At least it kept his mind off Roselyn. Just thinking her name made him shudder with self-loathing. What was she doing now? What did she think of him? She must surely despise him for bedding and leaving her.
In such a morose mood, he had to force himself to stop drinking, lest tomorrow’s trip be delayed while he recovered from a drunken stupor.
The waterfront inn left much to be desired, but the chamber he’d rented for the night seemed decent enough. He was about to head upstairs when the door opened and a small figure entered, well wrapped in a cloak.
It was hardly cool enough for such clothing, and out of boredom, he continued to watch from his bench in the corner. He could tell it was a woman by her walk and fragility, but he ignored the first warnings that rang in his head.
When she dropped her hood to speak with the owner, Spencer swiftly inhaled, then smothered a curse behind his tankard of ale.
Roselyn.
For just a moment a shot of pleasure moved through him, and he remembered her warm and naked in his arms, giggling against his chest like a woman who’d never known sorrow.
He shook his head to clear it. She could be nothing but a distraction to him now. He had tried to keep her safe, and she’d upset everything by following him. Surely she had brought along some of the Heywoods for protection.
But as she continued to talk with the innkeeper, no one else entered, and Spencer’s anger simmered at an agitated pace.
She had followed him—alone? She was about to stay in this disreputable inn—alone? Didn’t she realize what could happen to a woman on the road?
He took another swig of ale and glared at her from beneath lowered brows.
She carried only a small saddlebag with her, held against her side. The cloak dwarfed her, making her seem ridiculously small and fragile. She waited patiently at the bar, ignoring the boisterous men who called to her from various scattered tables in the tavern.
When the innkeeper returned Spencer couldn’t hear what he said, but he saw Roselyn’s shoulders slump momentarily before she straightened in obvious defiance. Perhaps there were no rooms to be had. What would she have done if he’d not been here? Slept out with her horse—or wandered the town alone looking for a place to stay? She deserved to see what a foolish mistake she’d made by following him.
So he remained quiet, keeping to the shadows. The innkeeper pointed to an empty table near the bar, and she primly seated herself, keeping her cloak about her like a shield between her and the men who leaned to get a better view of her.
She was the most obviously proper woman there, and stood out like the noblewoman she was, even in the plainest of garments. Her light brown hair was pulled tight beneath a plain white cap, but a few tendrils had fallen against her neck and one cheek, softening the severity she wore as protection. When the innkeeper wiped beer puddles from her table she gave him a grateful smile, and it was as if the room lit up with a hundred candles.
Spencer winced, because he was not the only one to notice. The remarks began soon enough.
“Come eat wit’ me, miss. I be a lonely man.”
“Surely ye need a chap to join ye.”
“The seats all seem to be taken but at your table, miss.”
Spencer sat up straighter, because the last voice sounded a bit too proper to be a Southampton sailor. The gentleman wore an expensive short cloak, and as he doffed his hat to Roselyn, his teeth gleamed in a knowing smile.
She didn’t reciprocate. “I appreciate your offer, sir, but I prefer to eat alone.”
There were hoots and jeers from the leering sailors, but what made Spencer tense was the fading smile on the gentleman’s cold face.
Spencer slammed his tankard down on his table and got to his feet, with an appropriate sway for balance. “By the saints, woman,” he roared, “ye didn’t have to follow me!”
Roselyn’s wide-eyed gaze fixed on him in shock as the tavern erupted with laughter. The gentleman remained at her side.
Spencer grabbed his cane and walked towards them. “I told ye I’d find a better place to stay than that roomin’ house.”
She inclined her head. “You were taking too long.”
With a shrug, the gentleman turned toward the bar, and Spencer felt a bit of his tension ebb. Though he was pleasantly surprised at how well she’d taken up his story, it was still easy to give her a scowl.
“Well, I already got the room,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“But I just ordered my meal—”
“The innkeeper will send it up.” He took her elbow and practically pulled her out of the chair. He glanced at the innkeeper, who gave him a nod and eyed him with sympathy.
Spencer said nothing as he dragged her up to his garret room on the third floor, with the sloping roof on one side and a tiny fireplace on the other. He slammed the door, then turned Roselyn around and put her back against it.
She stared up at him, her eyes as gray as a cloudy day at sea. He knew he should yell at her, demand to know why she’d risked her life to follow him.
But instead he pressed her against the door and kissed her.