Page 4 of His Betrothed
On dark nights, on the low cliffs overlooking the English Channel, Roselyn Grant could almost forget that the English and Spanish fleets were resting at anchor, waiting for dawn to renew their battle. The moonlight tonight wouldn’t allow that, illuminating the masts rocking out on the waves. Occasionally the flash of a lantern winked at her, and she could hear a sailor’s shout, sounding eerilyclose.
Many of the island’s people had fled to themainland, leaving the villages half deserted. But she had rebuilt her life here, and she would stay until the Spanish invaded, if necessary.
She had no other place to go.
The wind off the channel was as chilly as the rest of the cool, wet summer had been. Roselyn tugged the kerchief closer about her shoulders and closed her eyes, breathingdeeply of the salt air. Her usual nighttime peace eluded her.
When she opened her eyes, she stared in shock at a small boat silhouetted in the moonlight, rocking wildly in the breakers close to the beach. For a moment she thought they were being invaded, but the solitary boat looked empty as it was tossed ashore and overturned.
She told herself to run away, but the impetuous Roselyn of old suddenlyappeared, as if the last two years hadn’t happened. She found herself descending the path to the beach, skidding on gravel, grabbing clumps of weeds to steady herself. Her curiosity had awakened from its long dormancy, and could no longer be appeased. After all, it might be a perfectly good boat.
She walked unevenly down the sloping sand, stepping over broken spars and split casks, remnants ofthe sea battles. She slowed as she reached the boat, which was resting against a boulder, but it was empty. Then she heard alow, ragged moan. Roselyn froze, taking a deep breath before peering cautiously around the far side of the boat.
For a moment she thought her mind was playing tricks on her, that it was only the gulls she’d disturbed. In the roar of the waves she could imagine anything.
But she heard the sound again, and this time a dark shadow moved. It was a man, sprawled facedown across the wet sand, his lower body buffeted by the surf. Roselyn cautiously crept forward as he moaned more softly, as if his strength were ebbing with the tide.
She crouched down beside the man’s body, gathered her courage, and tugged on his shoulder to roll him over. His arms splayed out to hissides; his head lolled. Above a ragged beard, his face looked distorted, misshapen, and she saw the darker shadow of welling blood below his eye.
With a groan, the man shuddered, and Roselyn scrambled away from him.
“Help…me.”
He was an Englishman, not a Spaniard. Relief flooded through her, and she sagged to her knees at his side. “I’ll go for help. I promise I will not be long.”
Before shecould stand, he reached a trembling hand toward her. “No! Please…”
He gripped her fingers with a strength that surprised her. His skin was wet and frigidly cold as he seemed to will her with dark eyes to heed him. She felt caught, trapped in his gaze as the moist wind swirled around them.
Roselyn licked the salt from her lips as she released his hand. “I cannot carry you alone, sir, and I thinkthere’s blood soaking your shirt. You might be badly wounded.”
“No…the Spanish…they’ll be coming…” With a groan he rose up on one elbow. “I can…walk.”
She knew she should go for help now, before the man injured himself even further, but he had already dragged himself up into a sitting position. Resting his chin against his chest, he took ragged, deep breaths that convulsed his entire body, aswater ran in rivulets from his long dark hair.
“Sir…” Roselyn began doubtfully.
The sailor groaned as he rolled onto his hands and knees. She gave up trying to persuade him to be still and reached down to help him. He clutched at her shoulders and almost knocked them both to their knees in the surf, but somehow she withstood his weight. He smelled of brine and sweat and blood, and as he threwhis arm across her shoulder, the cold ocean water seeped into her clothing.
When he reached his full height, she realized that even injured he could be formidable.
Together they took a few staggering steps across the sand. She could tell that something was wrong with his right leg by how little weight he put on it.
Roselyn cursed herself with every exhaled groan he blasted in her ear. He wastoo big for her—what was she supposed to do with him, take him all the way to the lord-lieutenant?
Though she thought every staggering step would be his last, he never faltered. During the climb up the cliff path, they had to stop several times as the sailor braced himself against the rock wall and gasped for breath.
“Let me go for help,” she pleaded again.
“No.” He could barely whisper, butstill he clutched her skirts to keep her with him.
She wondered what kind of man he was, to force himself beyond his strength. She could see only the barest outline of his profile in the dark—a bold nose over an unkempt mustache and beard. He wasn’t even using his right leg anymore, just her body as a crutch.
They reached the meadow above the cliffs, and she thought the sailor would sag to hisknees in relief. Instead his entire body trembled as he held on to her, resting.
Roselyn’s own legs were weak, and she feltdisoriented. She was helping a strange man through the stark, moonlit field, and she didn’t know what to do next. He hung from her shoulders, head down, his bare feet buried in the high grass.
Though he was a British sailor, she did not dare bring him to her own cottage.She would take him to a shed on her father’s lands, where she could tend to his wounds before going to the lord-lieutenant. Not that the militia in the nearby village of Shanklin would have much time for one stray sailor; they were busy digging trenches and scouring the island for powder and shot in case the Spanish invaded.
