Page 3 of His Betrothed
Chapter 1
July 1588
In the growing darkness, Spencer Thornton stood by the rail and watched the frantic sailors scrambling up the masts of the Spanish ship, loosening the ropes and sails in a desperate effort to alter their course. The English fleet still sailed behind, sending cannonballs screaming through the sky to topple masts and puncture ships.
Death had been stalking him for daysnow. He was so weak from lack of food that his pretense of being a seasick soldier seemed real. He couldn’t allow himself the solace of sleep because one by one, other British spies were being murdered—and he might be next.
He gripped the rail and stared hard at the Isle of Wight, with its shadowed cliffs and beaches. He had made plans to jump ship there, wherehe now owned dower property fromthat ill-fated betrothal.
At least some good had come from his last London scandal.
He would have done anything to escape the notoriety of his missing bride, and the British government had presented him with a way to be needed—a way to prove himself loyal. He’d spent over a year pretending to be Spanish, gathering information on the pathetic condition of the Spanish soldiers and sailors. Thearmada’s food and water were spoiled, and they lacked ample supplies of powder and shot. He was all but certain the Spanish couldn’t invade England. All he needed to do was get his information to the queen—unless the traitor killed him first.
The ship was in an uproar: soldiers huddled in sobbing groups, while sailors crawled through the rigging. Now might be his best—and only—chance to get theproof of treachery he needed.
Spencer leaned over the side to check that the boat he’d lowered earlier was still lashed to the hull. Then he headed for the cabin of Rodney Shaw, a highly placed British spy—and the man Spencer believed was betraying his country. As he reached the door, an explosion rocked the ship and the shouting intensified.
He ducked inside the dark cabin, feeling his heartpounding against his ribs and the sweat rolling off him in the stale air. Footsteps pounded overhead; the ship shuddered with the impact of another cannonball. He frantically ran his hands over the table, through the trunks, beneath the bedclothes. He found only one sealed letter, and by the light of gunfire outside the porthole, he was able to make out the first few sentences. It was written byShaw’s Spanish superiors—just what Spencer needed.
After stuffing the letter in an oilskin pouch, he strapped it to his chest beneath his shirt and was soon back in the shadowy corridor. He had taken only one step when he felt the prick of a sword in his back.
“Señor?” said a voice.
Spencer held his hands out to his sides to show he was unarmed, then slowly turned around. He looked into thedark, smirking eyes of a Spanish soldier.
Spencer braced himself against the bulkhead and wiped his shaking hand across his forehead. “Forgive me, sir. I am sick, and I was trying to find my way below deck to rest.”
The soldier leaned closer, keeping his sword at the ready. “My master is looking for you. And where do I find you? Right outside his door.”
Unease spread through Spencer’s chest.This man worked for Shaw—but did he know what Spencer had found in the cabin?
He allowed himself to be prodded on deck, where the growing darkness was lit with gunfire. He could just see the island disappearing off the port side—so much for his plans to jump ship before he was caught.
The bow was all but deserted except for the shadowy figures of two men. Spencer approached warily and receivedanother sword prick in the back to hurry him up.
Rodney Shaw—dark-haired and still amazingly well dressed—stepped forward and smiled. “Lord Thornton, how good of you to deliver yourself into our hands,” he said softly in English.
Spencer answered in Spanish. “You didn’t cover your treachery well, Shaw. Did you not think we would discover your secret?”
“There is no longer a ‘we,’ Lord Thornton.Every other spy is dead.”
Spencer kept his rage contained. “I don’t understand why you would do this. Surely you knew that your loyalty would have been well rewarded by the crown.”
Shaw only shrugged. “Now I can be well rewarded no matter which side wins. And imagine how grateful the queen will be when I handher the name of the traitor—Spencer Thornton. I’ll tell her what a shame it was thatI had to kill him before he could kill me. And then of course, when the Spanish invade with my help, I shall be a hero to them as well.”
Spencer’s arms were suddenly gripped from behind. Before he could do more than briefly struggle, he felt a blow to his stomach, then to his face. Pain shot through him, and he tried to pull away. Shaw and another of his henchmen took turns pummeling him, andSpencer knew they intended to beat him to death. He deliberately sagged in their arms, and when one of the henchmen leaned over him, Spencer plucked the man’s sword away and rolled to his feet.
Shaw’s own sword suddenly glittered in the moonlight, and he laughed. Swaying, Spencer blinked his eyes as his vision blurred, but he fought to hold his hand steady. When their swords arced overhead andrang together, he felt the rippling shock of it clear down to his chest. He desperately fought on, wondering which blow would be his last.
His breath came in labored gasps, and sweat dripped into his eyes. When he stumbled to one side, he felt Shaw’s sword pierce between his ribs. And even if he managed to defeat Shaw, the Spaniards were just waiting to take Shaw’s place.
With one last blow,Spencer knocked Shaw astep backward, then grabbed the rail and vaulted overboard. For a moment, the wind whistled past his ears. He landed in a crumpled heap in his boat, feeling a shattering pain in his leg where it slammed into the wooden seat. Somehow he managed to pull the knife from his boot and cut the ropes holding the boat against the Spanish galleon.
Dazed and nauseated with pain, herowed out of reach of the ship’s guns, watching the fleet veer away from the treachery of the island.
“I’ll find you, Thornton!” echoed across the water, and a bullet whistled past his head.
Once out of range, Spencer tried to staunch the blood flow at his side using his shirt. Then he rowed northwest, to where the chalk cliffs of the island rose out of the sea to guide him through the darkness.
