But then she remembered eluding the militia, and the terror of keeping him quiet, while his hot mouth moved intimately against her skin. It had taken bravery of a sort not to turn him over to the patrol and be done with him, especially since he’d tried to choke her to death!
And it had taken all of her endurance to drag and half carry him back to the shed as the gray of dawn rose at the edge of the island like mist from the sea. He had collapsed into a deep sleep, while she had slept only fitfully on her own pallet.
Still tired, she finished changing his bandages, then leaned back against the wall and studied him. They would have been married almost two years now, if she hadn’t run away.
Lady Roselyn Thornton would have been an entirely different person from Roselyn Grant.
She remembered her girlhood and cringed at her selfishness, at the impulsiveness that had made her throw away her family and her life because she thought she knew best.
Now she lived her days at peace, alone—but Thornton could ruin it all.
Whenever Francis came back from the mainland with the latest London scandals, she was always glad she hadn’t married Thornton. His name was often involved—in fact, she had heard a tale recently how he had escaped a married woman’s husband by climbing over roofs. She frowned as she adjusted her patient’s blanket, feeling again his thin ribs. He did not seem as if he had recently been living the wild, dissipated life in London.
But it was none of her concern. She just hoped he didn’t remember her, since they’d only looked upon each other twice. Then she’d worn her finest, costliest garments woven with jewels, with a farthingale that widened her hips stylishly and a headdress that allowed her long hair to tumble free. And she’d been plumper from the easier life she used to lead.
Thornton could not possibly remember her. She would speak little, make him well, and turn him over to the militia when he was better able to defend himself against their questions. She was not made to seek out the truth about spies, or meddle in politics. She was just a village baker now, and she no longer wanted more.
~oOo~
The next time Spencer awoke, dusk was falling, drifting through the open windows like gray fog—the gray of Rose Grant’s eyes.
Now where had that come from?
He saw her then, sitting beneath the window, watching him. Again, she wore a black gown, but this time with a kerchief around her shoulders. Was it even the same day? He expected her to lean over him, to fuss, but she sat still, her arms about her knees, watching him in a way that startled him.
For a moment he had the strangest sensation he’d seen those piercing eyes before. But she’d been caring for him for who knew how many days, so he must already be familiar with her face.
She fed him fish soup, never once complaining about his slow pace. When he was finished, Rose stood up to light the candle in the lantern. She reached for the tray of food and turned toward the door.
“Don’t go,” he found himself saying gruffly. “I don’t know how I got here—I don’t know where I am.”
Her shoulders seemed tense as she kept her back to him just a moment too long. Then she set the tray on a stool and turned to face him. She did not seem a tall woman; her shoulders were narrow, almost delicate. The lantern caught and glistened in tendrils of her hair where they escaped her cap. Her apron was cinched about her waist, making her appear fragile. How had she gotten him to this shed by herself?
“This is your fifth day on the Isle of Wight,” she said. “I found you on the beach, next to a wrecked boat.”
Spencer closed his eyes and remembered hard, wet sand beneath his cheek—and a woman rolling him over, her face as pale and lovely as the moon in the night sky.
“Did you see another boat?” He held his breath, knowing the importance of her answer.
“No.”
He dropped his head back onto the cushion feeling a meager amount of relief.
“You said you needed my help,” she added, “that the Spanish might be coming for you.”
He narrowed his eyes, and the rehearsed words suddenly came easily to him. “I was aboard theNewcastle,and she took a lot of shot that last day. I remember her sinking…but that’s all.”
Rose continued to study him, and for a moment having to deceive this woman left a foul taste in his mouth. But he’d been lying for so long that a lie to protect someone seemed like redemption.
“What happened on the channel?” he asked. “Is there still fighting going on?”
“The fleets sailed away the second day you were here,” she said. “They fought, and we heard rumors that the Spanish would invade, but they never did.”
She hesitated, watching him with eyes that almost didn’t blink. “Should I send word to your captain?”
“I am useless to him now. I’ll rejoin when I’m able to serve.”
Did she believe him? The last was the truth, after all. “Rose, I owe you my life. Why did you help me?”
