Page 25 of Almost a Bride
“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, but she rolled to her feet and began to run, leading him away from the manor and toward the beach. 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 come in 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 his puta.”
Suddenly she could breathe again, although his hands still threatened her. He pulled the cap off her head and ripped the pins from her hair. Each scrape across her scalp made her want to scream.
“You’re a pretty little puta. 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 pulled her 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 with his 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 Thornton curse. 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 Thornton was 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 forced herself 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. All he could hear was his own gasping breath, the crackle of logs on the fire—and Roselyn’s sobs.
“Roselyn?” he said softly, close to her ear. “Did he hurt you? Is there another man still out there?”
She shook her head emphatically but didn’t lift her face. Her sobs quieted, yet still her shoulders trembled, and she clutched him even harder.
“I have rope,” she said. “We should tie him up—”
“That won’t be necessary. I felt no heartbeat. He’s dead.”
Spencer was stunned that his first thought had been outrage at the assault on Roselyn. As she shuddered, he was aware of how she felt in his arms, so small and slight, suddenly so vulnerable.
He didn’t understand his own reaction to her.
“Roselyn, tell me what happened. What did he do to you?”
She wiped her tears with her palms, then lifted her face to his. Her stormy eyes were uncertain and fearful.
Just the sight of him seemed to change something inside her—the naked emotion on her face was wiped away as if it had never existed. She pulled back, leaving him to rest a hand against the chimney.
For a moment, he almost resisted letting go of her.
