“Tell me about her,” he whispered.
She glanced at him. “I don’t understand.”
“I know she was young, but I would like to hear about Mary.”
She stirred in the saddle, feeling confused, sad—but grateful. The Heywoods never mentioned her name, as a way to protect Roselyn, of course. Yet she had felt as if she was supposed to pretend Mary had never been born.
“She was a good baby,” she began, and before she knew it, she was telling Spencer Thornton about Mary’s smile.
~oOo~
By the time the sun dawned, Roselyn’s backside ached with every movement of the horse. It had been two years since she’d regularly ridden, and she was paying for it now.
Yet she said nothing to Spencer, who with each mile grew more and more somber. He often looked over his shoulder and would give her a bracing smile when she caught him at it. He pushed their pace as hard as he dared, resting only when he felt the horses needed to.
She knew that it was worry for her rather than himself that drove him. It warmed her, yet made her feel terribly confused. He never complained that she was slowing him down, or that he was sorry she’d followed him. Although he was the one using a cane, he helped her from Angel’s back whenever they rested, made sure she was comfortable before seeing to himself.
No one except for the Heywoods had ever treated her with such consideration, and it made her feel adrift in feelings she was afraid to explore.
By nightfall, even those thoughts were driven aside by bone-deep weariness. She would do anything to get off Angel, and when Spencer called a halt at a small inn in Guildford, she gladly tumbled into his arms and let him steady her.
With wobbly legs, she followed him to the stables, but he insisted on seeing to the horses himself while she watched. Again, he implied to the innkeeper that they were husband and wife, and she accepted it without even a twinge of guilt, her hand resting in his bent elbow as if it belonged there.
They would be in London on the morrow, and she could tell by Spencer’s shadowed eyes that he dreaded it as much as he welcomed it.
They ate dinner quietly in their room, which had a tiny table before the hearth. But he ate little, and soon began to pace from the door to the window, as if he expected an attack at any moment.
There were enemies behind Spencer, and enemies before him, and Roselyn knew he would find no peace this night, or probably rest either.
She suddenly knew what she would do, without even a conscious decision.
She set the wooden tray of supper dishes outside their door and locked it. Then she slowly began to unbutton her bodice. He did not notice what she was doing, and she felt nervous about his reaction as she shrugged the gown off her shoulders and let it fall, revealing the linen smock that hung to her knees.
Yet she also felt heady with the knowledge of what she meant to do, the chances she was ready to take. By following Spencer, she’d once again become wild Roselyn, and she couldn’t—wouldn’t—stop now.
Chapter 25
Spencer must have sensed something, because he slowly turned and looked at her, his gaze heating as it moved down her body. Neither of them breathed.
With trembling fingers Roselyn loosened the laces of her smock, then let it slide down to the floor. He inhaled a breath that widened and lifted his chest, and the sweet softening of his gaze made her feel all strange and wobbly inside.
“Rose,” he breathed, lifting a hand toward her.
She walked forward and placed her hand in his. They stood still, just a single candle flickering at the bedside table, their hands joined the way she so desperately wanted their bodies joined.
Spencer pulled her against him, and she gasped at the rough feel of his garments against her bare flesh. He caught her face between his hands and leaned down to kiss her, so softly, so gently, that she sighed her pleasure.
“Rose, are you sure?” he whispered against her lips.
In answer she spread the laces of his shirt and pressed her mouth against his chest. With a groan, he held her tight to him, and shuddered in her arms as she licked his nipples. How she savored the knowledge that she could affect him, how much pleasure she took in touching him.
Roselyn removed his garments one by one, then stepped again into his embrace, moaning at the heat of his skin down the length of her body. She looped her arms around his neck and stretched on tiptoes to kiss him. As his tongue joined hers, she felt a growing ache inside herself, a restlessness for more. She wanted to be one with his body, to feel a part of him.
Spencer gently pushed her backward onto the bed, holding her so she didn’t fall. She held out her arms to him, but instead of lowering his weight onto her, he stretched out at her side.
She gave a little moan of disappointment and turned toward him, but he pressed her back onto the bed.
“We’re here for the night,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss between her breasts. “I promise not to rush this time.”
