Page 8 of His Betrothed
For a moment he almost said the name he’d been living under for a year and a half, but remembered in time. “Spencer Thornton.” His real name sounded foreign, forbidden. “I owe you my gratitude for saving my life.”
Rose Grant nodded, then propped his head against a cushion and fed him like a babe. It had been so long since he’d had a hotstew that he actually didn’t mind.
She set the bowl aside too soon, and as he looked at it longingly, he saw her first uneasy smile. It softened her features into a shy prettiness.
“You can have more later,” she murmured. “First let me examine your wounds. You were bleeding again last night after your little adventure.”
“My adventure?”
“You were determined to leave.” She hesitated. “Have youno memory of it?”
“None,” he whispered, his eyes feeling heavy. “What…did I do?”
“Crawled away. I found you near the cliffs.”
“I guess I’m lucky to be alive.” He finally remembered the reason he was trying to escape: his battle with Rodney Shaw, his plunge overboard instead of death at the hands of traitors. And Shaw’s promise to find him. Spencer had to get to London.
But when Rose pulledoff the bandages across his chest, he fought a sudden rushing wave of pain and sank into unconsciousness.
Roselyn sat back and exhaled a trembling breath. He was once again asleep, and she didn’t have to look into those dark, mysterious eyes for another moment. Her hand still rested on his chest, and though she had long since lost her pale London complexion, her skin stood out starkly againstthe olive hue of Thornton’s.
She snatched her hand back, remembering that she had misled him about her name.
She was a coward.
But then she remembered eluding the militia, and the terror of keeping him quiet, while his hot mouth moved intimately against her skin. It had taken bravery of a sort not to turn him over to the patrol and be done with him, especially since he’d tried to choke herto death!
And it had taken all of her endurance to drag and half carry him back to the shed as the gray of dawn rose at the edge of the island like mist from the sea. He had collapsed into a deep sleep, while she had slept only fitfully on her own pallet.
Still tired, she finished changing his bandages, then leaned back against the wall and studied him. They would have been married almost twoyears now, if she hadn’t run away.
Lady Roselyn Thornton would have been an entirely different person from Roselyn Grant.
She remembered her girlhood and cringed at her selfishness, at the impulsiveness that hadmade her throw away her family and her life because she thought she knew best.
Now she lived her days at peace, alone—but Thornton could ruin it all.
Whenever Francis came back fromthe mainland with the latest London scandals, she was always glad she hadn’t married Thornton. His name was often involved—in fact, she had heard a tale recently of how he had escaped a married woman’s husband by climbing over roofs. She frowned as she adjusted her patient’s blanket, feeling again his thin ribs. He did not seem as if he had recently been living the wild, dissipated life in London.
But it was none of her concern. She just hoped he didn’t remember her, since they’d only looked upon each other twice. Then she’d worn her finest, costliest garments woven with jewels, with a farthingale that widened her hips stylishly and a headdress that allowed her long hair to tumble free. And she’d been plumper from the easier life she used to lead.
Thornton could not possibly remember her.She would speak little, make him well, and turn him over to the militia when he was better able to defend himself against their questions. She was not made to seek out the truth about spies, or meddle in politics. She was just a village baker now, and she no longer wanted more.
The next time Spencer awoke, dusk was falling, drifting through the open windows like gray fog—the gray of RoseGrant’s eyes.
Now where had that come from?
He saw her then, sitting beneath the window, watching him. Again she wore a black gown, but this time with a kerchief around her shoulders. Was it even the same day? He expected her to lean over him, to fuss, but she sat still, her arms about her knees, watching him in a way that startled him.
For a moment he had the strangest sensation he’d seenthose piercing eyes before. But she’d been caring for him for who knew how many days, so he must already be familiar with her face.
She fed him fish soup, never once complaining about his slow pace. When he was finished, Rose stood up to light the candle in the lantern. She reached for the tray of food and turned toward the door.
“Don’t go,” he found himself saying gruffly. “I don’t know howI got here—I don’t know where I am.”
Her shoulders seemed tense as she kept her back to him just a moment too long. Then she set the tray on a stool and turned to face him. She did not seem a tall woman; her shoulders were narrow, almost delicate. The lantern caught andglistened in tendrils of her hair where they escaped her cap. Her apron was cinched about her waist, making her appear fragile.How had she gotten him to this shed by herself?
“This is your fifth day on the Isle of Wight,” she said. “I found you on the beach, next to a wrecked boat.”
