Page 29 of His Betrothed
“I don’t think we could drag him far. I’d rather save my strength to get him on the horse.Let’s go out to the courtyard instead. I’m starving.”
It was the wrong thing to say—her wide eyes fastened on his face in shock.
He sighed. “After you’ve been in a few battles, Roselyn, you start to realize what’s important. This man is dead. He tried to hurt you, but he didn’t succeed. There is no point in worrying about what can’t be changed.”
She gave a slight nod. “I’ll gather bandagesfor your arm.”
He glanced down at the wound he’d forgotten, then back up to Roselyn, who watched him with a wariness she didn’t bother to hide. He noticed a rash of red marks across her chin and cheeks. He knew it was caused by a man’s stubble—he’d done such a thing himself, many a time. But he’d been carried away by passion, not brutality.
Spencer rubbed his thumb across the raw skin on herchin, and she stared at him almost wildly.
“Did he kiss you?” he demanded. “What else did he do?”
“It’s not a kiss when a man forces his mouth on mine,” she said softly.
“He did nothing else?”
Lowering her eyes, she shook her head. She crossed her arms almost protectively across her chest, and he thought perhaps more than her lips had been touched.
“He…he called me your ‘puta.’ What doesthat 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 struckhim, just by the comparison. “Iamsorry.”
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?
