Page 92 of His Betrothed
But he was still a weak, selfish man, and he woke her as he wanted to wake her, caressing her body to welcominglife, then forgetting his sorrows briefly in the shelter between her thighs.
Afterward, Spencer washed quickly in the cold basin. It was difficult to keep his mind on the day when Roselyn lay warm and dreamy on the pillow they’d shared.
She laughed softly. “Your body tells me you’re not ready to leave my bed.”
“This freezing water will soon change that.” He limped to his saddlebag and changedinto fresh garments. “I’ll bring you food, my lady. Be up and about when I return.”
“Stop calling me that,” she murmured.
He could see the blush that flowed from her face down her neck. “How far does this lovely rose color go?” he asked, peeking beneath the blankets, then planting a kiss between her breasts as she laughed. “Right to there, I’ll wager. Any lower?”
“Spencer!”
“Ah, I guess thisis not the time for exploring. And youarea lady,” he added soberly. He wanted to say “my lady,” but knew it might hurt her in the end.
After they’d broken their fast, he handed her a dagger and scissors he’d borrowed from Francis.
“What are these for?” Roselyn asked warily.
“I need you to cut my hair and beard.”
“But why?”
Her frightened eyes made him ache to reassure her, and he smiledto hide the knot of grief gripping his chest. “I need to enter London as myself, to prove that I have nothing to hide.”
She trimmed his hair and beard, and he took a sharp knife to the whiskers left on his face. He’d been wearing that beard for well over a year. As he looked into the cloudy hand mirror, he could see that his skin was paler where the beard had been.
He suddenly felt more likehimself, more confident that he could convince the queen and her government that he had only done their bidding.
He definitely enjoyed Roselyn’s startled look as she studied his face, and the blush that she tried to hide.
As the sun set and the sky reddened across long fingers of clouds, Roselyn rode beside Spencer into the narrow streets of Southwark on the southern bank of the Thames, whereshe and Philip had lived. Returning reminded her how much she hated London, from the traitors’ heads mounted in warning on London Bridge, to the rats and refuse overflowing the trenches in the center of every street.
In London itself she had always ridden by carriage, but as a resident of Southwark she had walked everywhere. Now, mounted on a horse, she felt the overhanging floors of the housespressing in on her. She’d forgotten the smells of a crowded town, forgotten the constant noise of vendors calling, “Hot apples,” or “Fresh herrings,” and the never-ending sound of hammer on metal.
Everywhere people pressed in on her, startling Angel. Roselyn wanted to crawl into Spencer’s lap and let him hold her, but that would be cowardly. So instead she concentrated on him, on the stunningface revealed under his beard. His handsomeness awed her.
He ducked beneath a tavern sign, then rode down a narrow alley. She tapped Angel’s flanks to catch up with him. A courtyard and garden opened up behind the tavern, with a crowded stable for guests’ horses.
“This is it,” Spencer said, dismounting, then limping over to help her to the ground. “I know the owner well. We’ll leave the horseshere and continue across the Thames by wherry.”
“Why by boat?”
He put his arms around her and nuzzled her ear. “Because my home is best approached that way.”
“Of course,” she breathed, suddenly excitedand nervous to see his home. Surely if he were guilty, he would have fled London, not shown his clean-shaven face and taken her proudly to his family.
She knew then that she trusted him, thathe was telling her the truth. Wouldn’t a man being chased by his enemy run the other way, instead of facing his accuser? She would give Spencer the pouch, in hopes that it would help him make everything right, and then they would have plenty of time to discuss their life together.
After he had made arrangements to temporarily stable their horses, they moved off through Southwark, picking theirway through the garbage on the streets.
“Where are we going?” Roselyn asked as she clutched his hand and balanced her saddlebag with the other.
“To the river. I think the best place to hire a wherry is down this street.”
“No, this way,” she said, veering opposite the way he meant to go. “I lived near here.”
She saw his face pale, then he put his arm around her and gave her a fierce hug.
