“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?
Chapter 9
Battered and bruised, Roselyn ached with exhaustion, but she couldn’t rest until the body was removed from her cottage. It would be hours before she could risk going for a horse.
Thornton sat silently across from her, his food long gone. Was he thankful to have escaped death, or had he killed the Spaniard only to protect himself from exposure?
When he’d washed up on the beach, Thornton had been worried that someone would follow him. She had no proof that this assailant was doing anything else, and she would drive herself mad with endless speculation. But would another Spaniard follow when this one didn’t return?
Thornton’s voice startled her. “Now will you tell me what happened?”
She shrugged. “He came upon me in the bake house and wanted to know who you were, said that he’d been watching us. He said you are no Englishman.”
Thornton’s only response to that was a gleam of a smile in the darkness. “I’ve heard that on more than one occasion, although often the word ‘proper’ preceded ‘Englishman.’”
She didn’t smile. “When I wouldn’t bring him to the cottage, he grew angry.” She was glad it was too dark for Thornton to see her protectively cover her bruised chest with her arms. “I escaped and ran from him, trying to lead him away from the estate. He caught me and fell on top of me and—” She broke off, wiping her mouth and shuddering.
Thornton didn’t speak, but his tension was clear.
A sudden memory was sharp in her mind, and she spoke slowly. “When he was…insulting me, he said he’d been long at sea.”
“Which is only natural if he came from the armada,” Thornton said. “I was worried that one of the Spanish ships had seen me survive and sent someone to follow me.”
“But why would they? How could one lone Englishman matter to them?”
He disappointed her by not even hesitating. “Perhaps they thought I carried information to be used against them. Did anything else happen before you arrived at the cottage?”
She shook her head, then propped her chin in her hand.
“You’re certain he mentioned no one else who’d come with him?”
She nodded.
Thornton studied her closely. “You seem exhausted,” he said in a grudging voice. “You’ve done well today. Lay your head down, and I will awaken you when the time is right.”
She didn’t even bother to protest as she put her head in her arms and fell asleep.
~oOo~
