Page 77 of Almost a Bride
The thought of beginning all over again, starting anew somewhere else alone, made the tears fall even faster down her cheeks.
But she alone had made the decisions that led to this crossroads in her life; she alone could make everything right again. There was no other choice.
She returned to the shed where she’d first hidden him and dug through the drying grass for the pouch. When she finally held it in her hands, she wondered whether it exonerated Spencer or incriminated him. She didn’t know yet what she meant to do with it, but she couldn’t leave it behind.
Soon she was astride Angel on the road to Cowes, and the ferry that would take her to Southampton. It was the quickest way Spencer could have gone if he truly meant to travel to London.
And if he never arrived there?
Then she would know the rumors were true, and that he’d betrayed his country.
~oOo~
Spencer cursed his bad luck as he gulped another mouthful of ale. He could not start for London this night.
Yesterday, he’d arrived in Cowes too late in the day to make the last ferry, and ended up wasting precious coin at an inn on the island. Then he’d overslept out of exhaustion—he never would have guessed that putting in long hours on a horse could aggravate his leg so badly, and almost missed the first ferry across the Solents. It was a rough journey, and both he and his horse were wet and bruised by the time they made Southampton. He had no choice but to wait another day to give his horse time to recover. He spent the remainder of the afternoon watching drunk sailors chase less than virtuous women.
At least it kept his mind off Roselyn. Just thinking her name made him shudder with self-loathing. What was she doing now? What did she think of him? She must surely despise him for bedding and leaving her.
In such a morose mood, he had to force himself to stop drinking, lest tomorrow’s trip be delayed while he recovered from a drunken stupor.
The waterfront inn left much to be desired, but the chamber he’d rented for the night seemed decent enough. He was about to head upstairs, when the door opened and a small figure entered, well wrapped in a cloak.
It was hardly cool enough for such clothing, and out of boredom, he continued to watch from his bench in the corner. He could tell it was a woman by her walk and fragility, but he ignored the first warnings that rang in his head.
When she dropped her hood to speak with the owner, Spencer swiftly inhaled, then smothered a curse behind his tankard of ale.
Roselyn.
For just a moment a shot of pleasure moved through him, and he remembered her warm and naked in his arms, giggling against his chest like a woman who’d never known sorrow.
He shook his head to clear it. She could be nothing but a distraction to him now. He had tried to keep her safe, and she’d upset everything by following him. Surely she had brought along some of the Heywoods for protection.
But as she continued to talk with the innkeeper, no one else entered, and Spencer’s anger simmered at an agitated pace.
She had followed him—alone? She was about to stay in this disreputable inn—alone? Didn’t she realize what could happen to a woman on the road?
He took another swig of ale and glared at her from beneath lowered brows.
She carried only a small saddlebag with her, held against her side. The cloak dwarfed her, making her seem ridiculously small and fragile. She waited patiently at the bar, ignoring the boisterous men who called to her from various scattered tables in the tavern.
When the innkeeper returned, Spencer couldn’t hear what he said, but he saw Roselyn’s shoulders slump momentarily before she straightened in obvious defiance. Perhaps there were no rooms to be had. What would she have done if he’d not been here? Slept out with her horse—or wandered the town alone looking for a place to stay? She deserved to see what a foolish mistake she’d made by following him.
So he remained quiet, keeping to the shadows. The innkeeper pointed to an empty table near the bar and she primly seated herself, keeping her cloak about her like a shield between her and the men who leaned to get a better view of her.
She was the most obviously proper woman there, and stood out like the noblewoman she was, even in the plainest of garments. Her light brown hair was pulled tight beneath a plain white cap, but a few tendrils had fallen against her neck and one cheek, softening the severity she wore as protection. When the innkeeper wiped beer puddles from her table she gave him a grateful smile, and it was as if the room lit up with a hundred candles.
Spencer winced, because he was not the only one to notice. The remarks began soon enough.
“Come eat wit’ me, miss. I be a lonely man.”
“Surely ye need a chap to join ye.”
“The seats all seem to be taken but at your table, miss.”
Spencer sat up straighter, because the last voice sounded a bit too proper to be a Southampton sailor. The gentleman wore an expensive short cloak, and as he doffed his hat to Roselyn, his teeth gleamed in a knowing smile.
She didn’t reciprocate. “I appreciate your offer, sir, but I prefer to eat alone.”
