Page 89 of His Betrothed
“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 mentionedher 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.
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 payingfor 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, shegladly 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 husbandand 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 thewindow, 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 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 noticewhat 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.
