His Betrothed Read online

  Gayle Callen

  His Betrothed

  To Elisa Konieczko,

  my high school “editor,”

  my best friend

  Contents

  Prologue

  On the eve of her wedding, at a party to…

  Chapter 1

  In the growing darkness, Spencer Thornton stood by the rail…

  Chapter 2

  Roselyn scrambled away from Thornton, accidentally kicking over the bowl…

  Chapter 3

  Late the next afternoon, Roselyn worked in her bake house…

  Chapter 4

  Spencer told himself he should feel uneasy having Rose bathe…

  Chapter 5

  Spencer watched Rose Grant lose all the color in her…

  Chapter 6

  The uncertainty and anger poured out of Roselyn in bitter…

  Chapter 7

  Roselyn strode to her bake house, carrying her tray of…

  Chapter 8

  Roselyn’s gasp was smothered as she was pulled against a…

  Chapter 9

  Battered and bruised, Roselyn ached with exhaustion, but she couldn’t…

  Chapter 10

  Spencer awoke at dawn, having slept poorly. He couldn’t stop…

  Chapter 11

  Naked? Spencer barely held back a choked laugh, yet he…

  Chapter 12

  Roselyn was torn about her role in this farce—should she…

  Chapter 13

  The impact of Thornton’s body should have crushed Roselyn, but…

  Chapter 14

  He couldn’t have left the island, Roselyn told herself as…

  Chapter 15

  Roselyn stiffened at the sound of Thornton’s voice, yet the…

  Chapter 16

  Spencer didn’t feel a single twinge of guilt for lying—he…

  Chapter 17

  Spencer’s uneasiness increased as he read the inscription on the…

  Chapter 18

  The next morning, Roselyn dressed and left the cottage as…

  Chapter 19

  Later in the afternoon, Roselyn returned to her cottage and…

  Chapter 20

  “Thomas!”

  Chapter 21

  Roselyn wanted to lie still, to enjoy the sensation of…

  Chapter 22

  Roselyn felt Francis’s scrutiny all through supper, and she wondered…

  Chapter 23

  Part of Roselyn melted inside at the delicious passion of…

  Chapter 24

  “Leave?” Roselyn protested. “But it’s late! Surely dawn would be…

  Chapter 25

  Spencer must have sensed something, because he slowly turned and…

  Chapter 26

  Two of the brigands grabbed Spencer, and Roselyn screamed as…

  Chapter 27

  The man who looked like Spencer—but wasn’t—tugged her closer. She…

  Chapter 28

  When Spencer was shown to his quarters in the Beauchamp…

  Chapter 29

  The privy chamber rang with shrill screams as the courtiers…

  Epilogue

  Roselyn stood on the cliffs near Shanklin, looking down on…

  Other Romances

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  London

  October 1586

  On the eve of her wedding, at a party to celebrate the joining of their families, Lady Roselyn Harrington laid eyes on her betrothed for the first time—and felt like tearing the flowers from her hair.

  Oh, Sir Spencer Thornton was handsome enough, with his dark, foreign, brooding looks. His mother was Spanish, but he’d been born and raised an Englishman, and would someday inherit his father’s title of viscount. But courtesy was beyond him.

  He was nothing like Philip Grant, her father’s stable groom, who accompanied her on her wild gallops through the London parks as she tried to outrace her future. Philip was blond and lighthearted, with sea blue eyes she could gladly drown in. He understood and cared for her, and to be alone with him holding hands was as romantic as any poem.

  Thornton had obviously been drinking before he’d arrived at the celebration, because his laughter was too free and too loud. He stood across the room with his friends, looking the very picture of the court dandy, from his silk doublet to his high neck ruff to the pearl earbob dangling from one ear. Yet where his friends wore their beards dyed in outrageous purple or orange, Thornton was clean-shaven.

  He smiled broadly at every lady who passed him, be she maiden or dowager, and his teeth glimmered like moonrise in his dark face.

  But he spared not a glance for his betrothed.

  Smoldering with fury, she watched him and catalogued the sins he’d thus far committed during their short betrothal. He had never come to visit, never brought gifts. While every other young maiden was at least being wooed by her family’s choice in husband, Thornton treated her as but a distasteful business.

  Philip’s gifts might be only a handful of wildflowers and the pleasure of his company, but she felt cherished by his adoration, beloved.

  Thornton, on the other hand, had come early to their betrothal ceremony the previous week, and after signing the contract, had left before she’d even come downstairs. She’d caught only a glimpse of his back as he slammed the front door.

  Roselyn should have expected no better, since her parents had chosen her husband because of his money. When they had taken care of the contract without her, her father had said only, “Don’t worry yourself, dearest.”

  When she’d tried to ask about Thornton and his family, her mother had asked in a frigid voice, “Are you questioning our choice of your husband?”

  Roselyn had been so offended by the whole process that she went along with them, for after all, she didn’t need to read that ornate tiny script when every marriage contract was the same: the groom would be well paid to marry the bride.

  But the groom could have made a small effort to pretend to court her, for the bride’s sake!

  She had heard stories of Thornton’s wild revelry, his attachment to Queen Elizabeth, his Spanish ancestry—which no one ever let her forget. And to think there might soon be a war with Spain, and she would be married to the enemy! She suspected every female friend of laughing behind her back, and every gentleman friend of deserting her.

  Finally, Thornton’s father led him forward for the First Meeting, and her own father, the Earl of Cambridge, gripped her elbow as he escorted her to the center of the hall.

  “Lady Roselyn,” Viscount Thornton said, his brown eyes filled with hope, “this is my son, Sir Spencer Thornton.”

  Spencer Thornton glanced at her with those hooded, dark eyes, and a tremor of something—probably shock—jolted her. Then he looked away and swallowed another mouthful of wine. He was as dark as Satan himself, and she wondered if on the morrow the church would burst into flames rather than admit him.

  “Sir Spencer,” said her father, “allow me to present my daughter, Lady Roselyn.”

  Full of affronted pride, she wasn’t even going to curtsy until her father squeezed her hand in warning. With her chin high, she sank into a deep curtsy. Viscount Thornton gave her a warm smile, while his son stood stone-faced until his father elbowed him. Even then, he only nodded to her.

  Roselyn’s outrage flamed higher, and she felt humiliated, knowing everyone was watching.

  Her betrothed and his friends left the celebration without waiting for the first dance. Alone, Roselyn watched them go from her place near the wall, her arms across her chest. How could she marry such a man? she wondered, glaring at her preening parents as they accepted the congratulations of the nobility. Thornto
n would probably send her off to his family seat in Cumberland, as far from London as one could get without crossing the Pict’s Wall into the wilds of Scotland—just when she was finally of an age to attend the queen’s court.

  As the party guests began to dance, her mind returned to Philip, who just this day had sworn his undying love for her, vowing to help her escape this forced marriage. She’d told him it could never be, but as she stood alone and contemplated a loveless match, she was more unsure than ever of what she should do. He was forbidden to her by class, by betrothal, but it made their time together wildly exciting. Could she have the unthinkable—a man who loved her for herself?

  On his wedding day, Spencer Thornton waited on the stairs of the church, his head pounding, his throat dry, and prayed for the nausea to subside. Sometime before dawn he’d fallen into his bed roaring drunk, but that was still not enough to make him forget the disdain in his betrothed’s eyes.

  He’d handled the entire affair badly.

  But what choice had he? Spencer had done his best to ignore the poor girl his parents had picked for him, hoping that her family would end the courtship. But short of outright disobedience—and he loved his parents too much for that—there was nothing he’d been able to do but drown his rage in his cups.

  But he did regret his treatment of her last night. It wasn’t her fault that his parents had resorted to the blackmail of needing an heir. If only they understood that he would never have the kind of marriage they had.

  Through the crowds gathered to stare, Spencer saw the approach of Roselyn Harrington’s gilt carriage. A tight feeling of despair clutched his chest, but he straightened grimly.

  The bride was helped from the carriage, and her wedding garments glittered under the sun. Again he saw that pale face, remembered the vulnerability of freckles scattered across her nose. He found himself hoping that they wouldn’t hate each other.

  Roselyn took a step toward him and stopped as their gazes clashed.

  Suddenly she turned and ran.

  Spencer stood in stunned silence as he watched her dodge past people on the street, pull off her headdress, and throw it into the mud. Both sets of relatives moved about in pandemonium, shouting, pointing. Someone ran after her, but it wouldn’t matter even if they caught her. The damage was done.

  Spencer stood as if he’d been turned into a statue, unsure what he was feeling. Shouldn’t it be relief, exaltation?

  Everyone turned and looked at him, mouths agape, and a chill shuddered through him. He was used to creating scandal, and enjoyed making sure the nobility knew he was there.

  But not this way. His gaze darted frantically from person to person, and soon they were whispering behind their hands. His own friends started to laugh, and the ensuing uproar reverberated through him.

  He’d forever be a laughingstock, an object of ridicule—and it was all Roselyn Harrington’s fault.

  He looked at his parents, whose disappointment must be even worse than his humiliation.

  “Am I too late?” said a familiar voice. “Just got into town for the wedding of the year.”

  Spencer glanced aside to see his brother Alex, lurching up the church steps with a giggling, dressed-up doxy on his arm.

  “She left,” Spencer said, wondering if his brother would take satisfaction in the rejection. “There will be no wedding.”

  “But I wanted to meet her,” Alex said with an exaggerated sigh. He slung his free arm around his brother. “Come on, Spence, let’s go. There’s this tavern by the river…”

  For the last time, Spencer looked down the street where his bride had disappeared, feeling the bitterness inside him freeze and become brittle. Then he turned and walked away.

  Chapter 1

  July 1588

  In the growing darkness, Spencer Thornton stood by the rail and watched the frantic sailors scrambling up the masts of the Spanish ship, loosening the ropes and sails in a desperate effort to alter their course. The English fleet still sailed behind, sending cannonballs screaming through the sky to topple masts and puncture ships.

  Death had been stalking him for days now. He was so weak from lack of food that his pretense of being a seasick soldier seemed real. He couldn’t allow himself the solace of sleep because one by one, other British spies were being murdered—and he might be next.

  He gripped the rail and stared hard at the Isle of Wight, with its shadowed cliffs and beaches. He had made plans to jump ship there, where he now owned dower property from that ill-fated betrothal.

  At least some good had come from his last London scandal.

  He would have done anything to escape the notoriety of his missing bride, and the British government had presented him with a way to be needed—a way to prove himself loyal. He’d spent over a year pretending to be Spanish, gathering information on the pathetic condition of the Spanish soldiers and sailors. The armada’s food and water were spoiled, and they lacked ample supplies of powder and shot. He was all but certain the Spanish couldn’t invade England. All he needed to do was get his information to the queen—unless the traitor killed him first.

  The ship was in an uproar: soldiers huddled in sobbing groups, while sailors crawled through the rigging. Now might be his best—and only—chance to get the proof of treachery he needed.

  Spencer leaned over the side to check that the boat he’d lowered earlier was still lashed to the hull. Then he headed for the cabin of Rodney Shaw, a highly placed British spy—and the man Spencer believed was betraying his country. As he reached the door, an explosion rocked the ship and the shouting intensified.

  He ducked inside the dark cabin, feeling his heart pounding against his ribs and the sweat rolling off him in the stale air. Footsteps pounded overhead; the ship shuddered with the impact of another cannonball. He frantically ran his hands over the table, through the trunks, beneath the bedclothes. He found only one sealed letter, and by the light of gunfire outside the porthole, he was able to make out the first few sentences. It was written by Shaw’s Spanish superiors—just what Spencer needed.

  After stuffing the letter in an oilskin pouch, he strapped it to his chest beneath his shirt and was soon back in the shadowy corridor. He had taken only one step when he felt the prick of a sword in his back.

  “Señor?” said a voice.

  Spencer held his hands out to his sides to show he was unarmed, then slowly turned around. He looked into the dark, smirking eyes of a Spanish soldier.

  Spencer braced himself against the bulkhead and wiped his shaking hand across his forehead. “Forgive me, sir. I am sick, and I was trying to find my way below deck to rest.”

  The soldier leaned closer, keeping his sword at the ready. “My master is looking for you. And where do I find you? Right outside his door.”

  Unease spread through Spencer’s chest. This man worked for Shaw—but did he know what Spencer had found in the cabin?

  He allowed himself to be prodded on deck, where the growing darkness was lit with gunfire. He could just see the island disappearing off the port side—so much for his plans to jump ship before he was caught.

  The bow was all but deserted except for the shadowy figures of two men. Spencer approached warily and received another sword prick in the back to hurry him up.

  Rodney Shaw—dark-haired and still amazingly well dressed—stepped forward and smiled. “Lord Thornton, how good of you to deliver yourself into our hands,” he said softly in English.

  Spencer answered in Spanish. “You didn’t cover your treachery well, Shaw. Did you not think we would discover your secret?”

  “There is no longer a ‘we,’ Lord Thornton. Every other spy is dead.”

  Spencer kept his rage contained. “I don’t understand why you would do this. Surely you knew that your loyalty would have been well rewarded by the crown.”

  Shaw only shrugged. “Now I can be well rewarded no matter which side wins. And imagine how grateful the queen will be when I hand her the name of the traitor—Spencer Thornton.
I’ll tell her what a shame it was that I had to kill him before he could kill me. And then of course, when the Spanish invade with my help, I shall be a hero to them as well.”

  Spencer’s arms were suddenly gripped from behind. Before he could do more than briefly struggle, he felt a blow to his stomach, then to his face. Pain shot through him, and he tried to pull away. Shaw and another of his henchmen took turns pummeling him, and Spencer knew they intended to beat him to death. He deliberately sagged in their arms, and when one of the henchmen leaned over him, Spencer plucked the man’s sword away and rolled to his feet.

  Shaw’s own sword suddenly glittered in the moonlight, and he laughed. Swaying, Spencer blinked his eyes as his vision blurred, but he fought to hold his hand steady. When their swords arced overhead and rang together, he felt the rippling shock of it clear down to his chest. He desperately fought on, wondering which blow would be his last.

  His breath came in labored gasps, and sweat dripped into his eyes. When he stumbled to one side, he felt Shaw’s sword pierce between his ribs. And even if he managed to defeat Shaw, the Spaniards were just waiting to take Shaw’s place.

  With one last blow, Spencer knocked Shaw a step backward, then grabbed the rail and vaulted overboard. For a moment, the wind whistled past his ears. He landed in a crumpled heap in his boat, feeling a shattering pain in his leg where it slammed into the wooden seat. Somehow he managed to pull the knife from his boot and cut the ropes holding the boat against the Spanish galleon.

  Dazed and nauseated with pain, he rowed out of reach of the ship’s guns, watching the fleet veer away from the treachery of the island.