“Bonchurch.”
Something wasn’t right, Roselyn argued to herself as Francis ushered the gentleman from the manor. Why send a nobleman after a spy?
Listening to Francis’s footsteps disappear down the hall, she remained still, biting her lip, unsure of what to do.
If Spencer was a spy, he had already left to commit whatever treason he’d planned.
But if he was innocent, he was being followed by an enemy.
~oOo~
Sir Rodney Shaw mounted his horse and glanced once more at Wakesfield Manor, muttering a curse. What should he do now? Whatever trail there’d once been of Thornton was long gone.
At first, he’d thought Thornton might have died after falling overboard, considering his injuries, so he’d ordered Rodriguez to swim to land and make sure he was dead.
Rodriguez was supposed to send word back through fishermen, but there’d been no reply. So when the Spanish fleet was scattered and fleeing up the French coast, Shaw had left the doomed expedition, found passage back across the channel, and come to Wight himself.
The incompetent Spanish would not be invading English soil, and Shaw had to make sure no one knew he’d been negotiating with both sides.
Had Rodriguez died that first night in the ocean? Then why had the body only been so recently found, considering the battle had been well over a fortnight ago? Had Thornton also made it to shore, then killed Rodriguez?
With another curse, Shaw kicked his horse into a gallop. He had to be certain of what had happened to Thornton. He would travel on to Bonchurch and ask his questions there.
Though he would prefer to kill Thornton himself, Shaw could only afford to wait so long. If it came down to a race to London, he wanted to be the first one there, to persuade the queen that Thornton had let his Spanish blood rule him—and that Thornton deserved to die a traitor’s death.
Chapter 22
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 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 only 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, and 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…
