Page 27 of His Betrothed
Chapter 8
Roselyn’s gasp was smothered as she was pulled against a short, wiry body. She struggled, trying to elbow her assailant, but the man cruelly pinched her breast and she froze.
She was alone in the coming night, and Thornton would not be able to help her against whatever this man intended to do. She blinked back hot tears and tried to think how to escape, but her terrified thoughtswere spinning out of control. For days she’d foolishly ignored her suspicions about being watched. Never had Wakesfield been unsafe—until the war, until the battle had been within sight, until Thornton had washed up on the beach.
As if echoing her thoughts, the man spoke against her ear in heavily accented English. “I have been watching you,señorita. I saw the wounded man you keep hidden. Whois he? Where did he come from?”
She made a muffled sound against his hand,and almost retched at the bitter taste of his skin.
“I will let you speak, but if you call out, it will not go well for you.”
His hand moved away from her face and settled threateningly on her breast, which still hurt. Roselyn took a deep lungful of air and tried to still her trembling. For one wild, cowardly momentshe wanted to tell the Spaniard to take Thornton away, to end her troubles for good.
“Please,” she said, surprising herself with how calm her voice sounded, “I don’t know what you mean. He is my husband, William. He was injured during the harvest.”
The Spaniard pinched her other breast so hard that she cried out. From behind her, he reached to slap her face.
“Señorita, do not think me a fool.That man is no Englishman.”
“Please, just go! I will tell no one that you were here.”
But her desperation was only answered with his laugh. “Then let us talk to him together.”
The Spaniard dragged her outside and through the courtyard. She suddenly kicked backward between the Spaniard’s feet, then flung herself sideways as he tripped and fell. With a low growl he reached for her skirt, butshe rolled to her feet and began to run, leading him away from the manor and toward thebeach. She had no idea what to do, where to go, but she had to protect the Heywoods.
With the moon only a sliver in the sky, she had an advantage. She dodged through the orchard, raced between the barns, but always she could hear him panting behind her. Wild panic filled her throat, making her breath comein wheezing gasps. She’d made a horrible mistake—she couldn’t outrun him, and he might kill her out of anger now.
Just as the ground sloped down toward the low cliffs above the ocean, the Spaniard grabbed her from behind. Roselyn fell, slamming her head against a rock, and her world tilted as they rolled in a wild heap. When they came to a stop he was straddling her, his hands at her throat.She struggled for air as spots of light danced before her eyes. His face was frightening in the dark—black hair, black ragged beard, wild eyes.
“I could kill you now,señorita,” he said, gasping. “But I think not. He wouldn’t like that, eh? Every man needs hisputa.”
Suddenly she could breathe again, although his hands still threatened her. He pulled the cap off her head and ripped the pinsfrom her hair. Each scrape across her scalp made her want to scream.
“You’re a pretty littleputa. Perhaps he will share you, since I have been long at sea.”
He put his mouth on hers and held her down until Roselyn was reduced to whimpering and gagging at the foul taste and smell of him. His beard rubbed raw patches against her cheek and chin.
With a dramatic sigh, he climbed off her and pulledher up to her feet. “Our pleasure must wait,señorita—but not for long.”
Taking her by the arm, he began to drag her back through the dark, deserted estate. Her head ached, and she veered between wishing someone would rescue her and praying no one else would get hurt.
Just before they reached the cottage, the Spaniard caught her hair in his fist and yanked her head back, covering her mouth withhis hand.
“Say nothing or you die!” he hissed into her face.
He slammed open the cottage door and dragged Roselyn inside. She heard a low grunt behind her, and suddenly she was yanked sideways toward the pallet. She whirled around and saw Thornton behind the Spaniard, his arm around the man’s neck. Thornton’s face was hard and cold and frightening.
Then she saw the knife in the Spaniard’s hand.
Before she could even cry a warning, she was flung across the room, and heard Thorntoncurse. He fell back against the wall, blood streaming from his arm. The Spaniard crouched, waving his knife before Thornton, laughing as he glanced back at Roselyn, then shouting something in Spanish.
Her mind raced with useless ideas; there was little she could do against an armed man. And the way Thorntonwas bleeding, his strength wouldn’t last much longer.
Just as the Spaniard started to speak, Thornton launched himself forward, catching the man’s arm to hold the knife wide. They toppled over, and the Spaniard gave a hoarse cry as his head struck the hearth. Though the Spaniard went limp, Thornton quickly pinned his arms wide, and Roselyn scrambled for the knife.
She shook horribly but forcedherself to remain near, waiting to hand the knife to Thornton. He pressed his hand to the man’s chest for a moment. Then, using the chimney, he pulled himself to his feet.
Trembling from exertion and fear, Spencer stumbled back in pain and bumped into Roselyn. Without thinking, he caught her hard against him in a tight embrace. Her arms clasped his waist; her face pressed against his chest. Allhe could hear was his own gasping breath, the crackle of logs on the fire—and Roselyn’s sobs.
