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 there. 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 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, unfashionably long, and she realized now that his skin was not the pale color of an Englishman. By the saints, could he be a Spaniard?
