Roselyn’s gasp was smothered as she was pulled against a short, wiry body. She struggled, trying to elbow her assailant, but the man cruelly pinched her breast and she froze.
She was alone in the coming night, and Thornton would not be able to help her against whatever this man intended to do. She blinked back hot tears and tried to think how to escape, but her terrified thoughts were spinning out of control. For days she’d foolishly ignored her suspicions about being watched. Never had Wakesfield been unsafe—until the war, until the battle had been within sight, until Thornton had washed up on the beach.
As if echoing her thoughts, the man spoke against her ear in heavily accented English. “I have been watching you, señorita. I saw the wounded man you keep hidden. Who is he? Where did he come from?”
She made a muffled sound against his hand, and almost retched at the bitter taste of his skin.
“I will let you speak, but if you call out, it will not go well for you.”
His hand moved away from her face and settled threateningly on her breast, which still hurt. Roselyn took a deep lungful of air and tried to still her trembling. For one wild, cowardly moment she wanted to tell the Spaniard to take Thornton away, to end her troubles for good.
“Please,” she said, surprising herself with how calm her voice sounded, “I don’t know what you mean. He is my husband, William. He was injured during the harvest.”
The Spaniard pinched her other breast so hard that she cried out. From behind her, he reached to slap her face.
“Señorita, do not think me a fool. That man is no Englishman.”
“Please, just go! I will tell no one that you were here.”
But her desperation was only answered with his laugh. “Then let us talk to him together.”
The Spaniard dragged her outside and through the courtyard. She suddenly kicked backward between the Spaniard’s feet, then flung herself sideways as he tripped and fell. With a low growl he reached for her skirt, but she rolled to her feet and began to run, leading him away from the manor and toward the beach. She had no idea what to do, where to go, but she had to protect the Heywoods.
With the moon only a sliver in the sky, she had an advantage. She dodged through the orchard, raced between the barns, but always she could hear him panting behind her. Wild panic filled her throat, making her breath come in wheezing gasps. She’d made a horrible mistake—she couldn’t outrun him, and he might kill her out of anger now.
Just as the ground sloped down toward the low cliffs above the ocean, the Spaniard grabbed her from behind. Roselyn fell, slamming her head against a rock, and her world tilted as they rolled in a wild heap. When they came to a stop he was straddling her, his hands at her throat. She struggled for air as spots of light danced before her eyes. His face was frightening in the dark—black hair, black ragged beard, wild eyes.
“I could kill you now, señorita,” he said, gasping. “But I think not. He wouldn’t like that, eh? Every man needs his puta.”
Suddenly she could breathe again, although his hands still threatened her. He pulled the cap off her head and ripped the pins from her hair. Each scrape across her scalp made her want to scream.
“You’re a pretty little puta. Perhaps he will share you, since I have been long at sea.”
He put his mouth on hers and held her down until Roselyn was reduced to whimpering and gagging at the foul taste and smell of him. His beard rubbed raw patches against her cheek and chin.
With a dramatic sigh, he climbed off her and pulled her up to her feet. “Our pleasure must wait, señorita—but not for long.”
Taking her by the arm, he began to drag her back through the dark, deserted estate. Her head ached, and she veered between wishing someone would rescue her and praying no one else would get hurt.
Just before they reached the cottage, the Spaniard caught her hair in his fist and yanked her head back, covering her mouth with his hand.
“Say nothing or you die!” he hissed into her face.
He slammed open the cottage door and dragged Roselyn inside. She heard a low grunt behind her, and suddenly she was yanked sideways toward the pallet. She whirled around and saw Thornton behind the Spaniard, his arm around the man’s neck. Thornton’s face was hard and cold and frightening.
Then she saw the knife in the Spaniard’s hand.
Before she could even cry a warning, she was flung across the room, and heard Thornton curse. He fell back against the wall, blood streaming from his arm. The Spaniard crouched, waving his knife before Thornton, laughing as he glanced back at Roselyn, then shouting something in Spanish.
Her mind raced with useless ideas; there was little she could do against an armed man. And the way Thornton was bleeding, his strength wouldn’t last much longer.
Just as the Spaniard started to speak, Thornton launched himself forward, catching the man’s arm to hold the knife wide. They toppled over, and the Spaniard gave a hoarse cry as his head struck the hearth. Though the Spaniard went limp, Thornton quickly pinned his arms wide, and Roselyn scrambled for the knife.
She shook horribly but forced herself to remain near, waiting to hand the knife to Thornton. He pressed his hand to the man’s chest for a moment. Then, using the chimney, he pulled himself to his feet.
Trembling from exertion and fear, Spencer stumbled back in pain and bumped into Roselyn. Without thinking, he caught her hard against him in a tight embrace. Her arms clasped his waist; her face pressed against his chest. All he could hear was his own gasping breath, the crackle of logs on the fire—and Roselyn’s sobs.
“Roselyn?” he said softly, close to her ear. Did he hurt you? Is there another man still out there?”
She shook her head emphatically but didn’t lift her face. Her sobs quieted, yet still her shoulders trembled, and she clutched him even harder.
“I have rope,” she said. “We should tie him up—”
“That won’t be necessary. I felt no heartbeat. He’s dead.”
Spencer was stunned that his first thought had been outrage at the assault on Roselyn. As she shuddered, he was aware of how she felt in his arms, so small and slight, suddenly so vulnerable.
He didn’t understand his own reaction to her.
“Roselyn, tell me what happened. What did he do to you?”
She wiped her tears with her palms, then lifted her face to his. Her stormy eyes were uncertain and fearful.
Just the sight of him seemed to change something inside her—the naked emotion on her face was wiped away as if it had never existed. She pulled back, leaving him to rest a hand against the chimney.
For a moment, he almost resisted letting go of her.
“He slapped me, but I’ll be fine,” she said, with only a little hitch in her voice as she looked down at the Spaniard’s body. “And he was alone. But what will we do with—with—”
“First calm yourself and tell me what happened.”
“No, no, not with…him here.”
Spencer looked down at the Spaniard, one of Rodney Shaw’s henchman. Could Shaw have discovered he had taken the pouch?
But it was at the bottom of the channel, where it could not exonerate him.
“Do you know him?” Roselyn asked in a soft voice.
He lifted his head to find her watching him, and he realized she was suspicious. What had the Spaniard said to her?
“I’ve never seen him before,” he said, the lie coming easily.
She nodded and caught her lip between her teeth as she looked down at the dead man. “What shall we do with him?”
“If I had two good legs, I’d heave him into the ocean where he came from.”
“But you don’t. I can’t…can’t…” She started shivering and her face looked bleak.
Again, Spencer felt a strong need to hold her. Why the hell would he want to protect her, after all she’d done?
But she’d been threatened and injured because of him. He couldn’t tell her the truth, and now he couldn’t do much about the dead man in her home.
Roselyn clasped her hands together and stared at the body with a helplessness that made Spencer uneasy.
“We cannot bury him,” he said. “I’d be useless with a shovel, and you can’t do it alone.”
“I’m strong,” she insisted.
He almost smiled at her stubbornness. “It would take all night, and someone would be bound to notice a fresh grave. No, I think the ocean would be best. Do you have a horse?”
She shook her head but looked at him with the first spark of hope in her eyes. “Wakesfield does. The stables are behind the manor. In the middle of the night I could bring a horse here.”
“Excellent idea. We can last until then.” And now he knew there were horses nearby to use when he escaped.
Her faltering gaze dropped to the body. “Can we take him…outside?”
“I don’t think we could drag him far. I’d rather save my strength to get him on the horse. Let’s go out to the courtyard instead. I’m starving.”
It was the wrong thing to say—her wide eyes fastened on his face in shock.
He sighed. “After you’ve been in a few battles, Roselyn, you start to realize what’s important. This man is dead. He tried to hurt you, but he didn’t succeed. There is no point in worrying about what can’t be changed.”
She gave a slight nod. “I’ll gather bandages for your arm.”
He glanced down at the wound he’d forgotten, then back up to Roselyn, who watched him with a wariness she didn’t bother to hide. He noticed a rash of red marks across her chin and cheeks. He knew it was caused by a man’s stubble—he’d done such a thing himself, many a time. But he’d been carried away by passion, not brutality.
Spencer rubbed his thumb across the raw skin on her chin, and she stared at him almost wildly.
“Did he kiss you?” he demanded. “What else did he do?”
“It’s not a kiss when a man forces his mouth on mine,” she said softly.
“He did nothing else?”
Lowering her eyes, she shook her head. She crossed her arms almost protectively across her chest, and he thought perhaps more than her lips had been touched.
“He…he called me your ‘puta.’ What does that mean?”
He opened his mouth, but no words emerged.
“’Tis the same as whore, isn’t it?”
“Roselyn—”
“You called me that, too.” Her voice held no emotion, but her face was as white as bleached bones scattered on the beach. “He said the two of you would—share me.”
Nausea twisted his gut. “I shouldn’t have called you that. I was angry.”
“He was angry, too.”
He flinched as if she’d struck him, just by the comparison. “I am sorry.”
She pulled away. “But that doesn’t make it right, does it?”
Spencer refused to apologize for anything else, if that’s what she wanted. After fetching the bandages and helping him put on one of Grant’s wooden-soled boots, Roselyn guided him outside. In the dark courtyard she cleaned and bandaged his forearm, and then they ate a silent meal of cold chicken.
Alone with his thoughts, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated. Though the pouch was gone, Shaw didn’t know that. One of his men was now dead. Would he send another man looking for the Spaniard and him?