The bride was helped from the carriage, and her wedding garments glittered under the sun. Again, he saw that pale face, remembered the vulnerability of freckles scattered across her nose. He found himself hoping that they wouldn’t hate each other.
Roselyn took a step toward him and stopped as their gazes clashed.
Suddenly she turned and ran.
Spencer stood in stunned silence as he watched her dodge past people on the street, pull off her headdress and throw it into the mud. Both sets of relatives moved about in pandemonium, shouting, pointing. Someone ran after her, but it wouldn’t matter even if they caught her. The damage was done.
Spencer stood as if he’d been turned into a statue, unsure what he was feeling. Shouldn’t it be relief, exaltation?
Everyone turned and looked at him, mouths agape, and a chill shuddered through him. He was used to creating scandal, and enjoyed making sure the nobility knew he was there.
But not this way. His gaze darted from person to person, and soon they were whispering behind their hands. His own friends started to laugh, and the ensuing uproar reverberated through him.
He’d forever be a laughingstock, an object of ridicule—and it was all Roselyn Harrington’s fault.
He looked at his parents, whose disappointment must be even worse than his humiliation.
“Am I too late?” said a familiar voice. “Just got into town for the wedding of the year.”
Spencer glanced aside to see his brother Alex, lurching up the church steps with a giggling, dressed-up doxy on his arm.
“She left,” Spencer said, wondering if his brother would take satisfaction in the rejection. “There will be no wedding.”
“But I wanted to meet her,” Alex said with an exaggerated sigh. He slung his free arm around his brother. “Come on, Spence, let’s go. There’s this tavern by the river…”
For the last time, Spencer looked down the street where his bride had disappeared, feeling the bitterness inside him freeze and become brittle. Then he turned and walked away.
Chapter 1
July 1588, two years later
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 a Spanish citizen, 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: Spanish 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?
