Page 28 of Almost a Bride
When Roselyn was shaken awake by Thornton, she came up with a gasp, having had vivid dreams of the Spaniard’s leering face.
The peculiar stillness of deep night enfolded her, though off to the east she could hear the faintest crash of waves on the shore.
She stared at the pale outline of Thornton and realized she had not asked him the question that most concerned her. “What did he say?”
“The Spaniard?”
“Just before he died, he spoke to you in Spanish. What did he say?”
“Just that he was going to kill me.”
His voice was deliberate and too controlled. She didn’t believe him, and her doubts threatened to overwhelm her.
“I’ll go for the horse,” she said, pushing herself off the bench.
He looked up at her. “Know that I would do this for you if I could. Be careful.”
She stared into his dark, solemn face, wishing she could read his expression as she said softly, “I’ll be back soon.”
Once she had reached the stables, Roselyn selected the gentlest mare she could find. Angel had been hers as a child, and would obey her without shying away.
For just a moment she put her arms around the horse’s neck, letting memories of long ago comfort her. Francis had taught her to ride on Angel. She’d spent hours every day exploring the island on horseback, making endless plans for her life.
She never rode Angel anymore for fear of painful memories, just as she never visited any other room at Wakesfield but the kitchens. She was no longer the favored child, only a tenant.
She saddled Angel and led her away from the stables. When she reached the cottage, Thornton was waiting for her in the doorway, silhouetted by the firelight. The Spaniard lay behind him.
She gazed down at the body for a moment, caught again in the terror of what had happened. Thornton’s voice distracted her.
“Why aren’t you riding the horse?” he asked.
She glanced up to find him watching her speculatively, as if he knew her every thought and was amused.
“Because she’s not mine,” she said firmly. “Let us finish this, please.”
Roselyn steeled herself against the horror of dragging a dead man. While Thornton pulled awkwardly on one arm, she tugged on the other, feeling that at any moment the Spaniard would awaken and grab her.
Standing on one leg, Thornton lifted the body and boosted it behind the saddle, over Angel’s haunches while she braced him for balance. When it was done, he sagged against the horse’s flank, then roused himself enough to tie the body behind the saddle.
“She’s a calm horse,” he said afterward, stroking the animal. “What’s her name?”
“Angel.”
She heard his soft chuckle in the darkness. “This angel will be leading a Spaniard to the gates of hell.”
His penchant for inappropriate humor was infuriating and improper, and she told him so.
“Lady Roselyn, your lack of humor is much of your problem.”
“How would you know, Lord Thornton? You never bothered to find out.”
He was silent, then said coldly, “Let’s go.”
“First you must return to the cottage,” she said, attempting to slide beneath his arm.
He held her away. “I’m going, too.”
“You most certainly are not. That is the last thing I need, to be seen riding so…intimately with a man.”
