Page 69 of Almost a Bride
He had meant no insult, but John took it as such, and drew himself up with anger. “Are you implying that I did not do my part against the Spanish?”
“No,” Spencer said calmly, but clearly the young man felt some degree of guilt.
“I trained with the soldiers at the garrison, and I was ready to join them should we be invaded.”
“Good of you.”
John took a step forward. “Are you mocking me, my lord?”
Spencer rubbed his hand across his face—this wasn’t going at all as he wanted. “I mean nothing of the kind. I’m glad you were here to protect Wakesfield—and Roselyn.”
John eyed him warily. “I don’t understand.”
“She obviously needs protection. She can do wild, foolhardy things without thinking.”
“Roselyn?” John said in bewilderment.
Spencer realized that John didn’t really know her at all, because she had so thoroughly succeeded in changing herself into this perfect, proper widow.
“You don’t think that running from our wedding was a bit impulsive?” Spencer asked dryly.
“I think it was intelligent.”
Spencer gave him a grudging smile, wondering what Roselyn was thinking about all this. He knew she was still there.
“Perhaps. But it caused her much grief, as well. I would hate for her to put herself through something like that again.”
“I won’t allow that to happen,” John said. “Unless you plan to interfere, my lord.”
Spencer wanted to be sarcastic, but the words wouldn’t come. He felt suddenly old and tired, and knew time was running out for him. “No, I won’t interfere. She deserves to be happy.”
Buthadn’the been interfering these past weeks? His plan to arouse and then reject her seemed childish, the scheme of a man who thought only of himself. Now when he looked at Roselyn, he wanted comfort, solace, but he had no way to ask—and no right to.
When John bid him good-night and left the barn, Spencer barely heard him. He suddenly felt alone, dreading returning to London in three days. For a moment he thought of abandoning his plans, of escaping into the wilds of the Scottish highlands where no one would ever find him.
He heard a soft sob, and as he turned Roselyn darted past him, wiping tears from her face.
“Rose?” he called, his voice soft and urgent, but she ran out into the darkening night. He followed her as fast as he could, stumbling over rocks and into holes he could no longer see. He knew where she was going, the only place she had to call hers—the place he’d threatened to take from her, like a selfish monster.
Roselyn didn’t know why she couldn’t stop crying. As the heavy skies finally opened and rain came pouring down, it mingled with her tears. Still she ran, knowing that Spencer was leaving, that he wouldn’t stand in the way of her marriage to John.
Wasn’t that what she wanted? So why did her chest feel as if it were torn in two and she couldn’t breathe?
She heard Spencer behind her, the rain muffling his voice. She reached the cottage and fumbled frantically with the latch, but before she could get the door open, he was near, calling her in a voice so tender it made her weep all over again.
She gave up trying to open the door and ran to the back of the cottage. Her solace, her courtyard garden, was sodden, still steaming from the day’s heat, the graying dusk making everything look as bleak as her soul felt.
“Rose.”
She whirled about, stumbling back against the stone wall, staring at Spencer. His hair was plastered to his head and brushed his shoulders in dripping strands. His wet shirt clung to him.
But it was his dark eyes that held her trapped. She couldn’t—wouldn’t run. There was a plaintive appeal in those eyes that she’d never seen before. It cut her deep to see him vulnerable, to see him needing—what?
“Go away!” she whispered raggedly.
“Why did you run?” He stepped toward her, his hand reaching for her.
“I don’t know!” Her voice broke and she whirled away, covering her face with her hands.
