A Royal Secret

CHAPTER TWO

HER STRENGTH WAS RETURNING—Spencer noted with great relief as he watched the stranger sleep comfortably on the small bed. Still, it did not ease his fears, for he knew her injuries were severe and she would need more than a few days to recover fully.

Yet Spencer could not afford a few days. He knew if he wasted any more time, his master would send a search party to find them. The thought sent an icy shiver down his spine, for they couldn't be found; not now, not when he was still in the planning stages of a deception that would eventually see his head on the chopping block.

His gaze flew to the sleeping slave. She was dressed in a gray piece of rag with holes littering every inch of the garment. The thin rope around her waist acted as some sort of belt to keep the dress fitted to her body, but her thin frame forced the dress to hang loosely on her. Thick, brown lashes concealed big brown eyes that looked out of place on her bony face, highlighted by high cheekbones. Her short brown hair—which appeared to be a few months old—fell to her nape. Her tan skin was littered with freckles and her thin, ashen lips stood parted slightly in order to let out her soft snores.

Ugly.

The word rang in his ears; the woman before him, every inch an embodiment of the word. She was offensively ugly—unworthy of a second glance. Yet, his life depended on her.

Releasing a shaky breath, he turned from the sleeping slave and began pacing the length of the room. The deception would cost his life, but what choice did he have? Fate played a cruel game on him, leaving him with the impossible task of cleaning up its mess.

A soft sound caught his attention, causing him to turn back to her. She sat staring at him from across the room.

Stiffening, Spencer stood still, mentally praying she would fall back asleep because he dreaded the questions she would ask—who was he? Why was he here? Where was she?—and he wasn't certain he was willing to answer them just yet.

His prayers went unanswered when confusion cleared from her eyes and she sat up straighter, wincing as a thin frown claimed her face.

"Do not exert yourself," he warned, regaining her attention.

"I mustn't remain confined to this... bed," she said, hesitating a little as she beheld him in question. "How long have I been here, Mr. Spencer?"

Her tremendous memory of his introduction slightly surprised him that morning. "Two days. And please, call me Spencer. "

"If we must be so informal, then you must forgive my forwardness, but I cannot refrain from asking where I am and why you have brought me here. You certainly are not a master, for you bear the mark..."

"... of a slave." He nodded, suddenly becoming aware of the spot on the back of his head where the mark of his slavery was seared into his skin. "I am Spencer, servant of Mr. Jeffery Hendrix."

She sat silently before him, her eyes urging him to divulge more information.

Sighing softly, he glanced down at the wooden floor. "My lord entrusted a singular mission to me, and I failed. I—I... I let harm come to his betrothed, Miss Cartridge, when our coach collided with another carriage."

Her soft gasp told him she understood full well what he was saying. There had been an accident, and all the parties involved were dead, including her master. The accident had led to irreparable damage, leaving only two survivals in its trail; Spencer, and the wide-eyed servant girl. He had survived because he had jumped off of the coach seconds to the collision.

Spencer was lucky to find her—at least he believed himself lucky, because the very sight of her led to the birth of the cruel plan he was hoping would save both their lives.

Raising his gaze slowly, he considered her. Perhaps only eighteen, she was a slave in every way; flesh eaten away by hunger, eyes haunted by the horrors of servitude, and skin clinging to bones. And even as he opened his mouth to speak, he saw the futility of his plan.

"You must come with me to London and take your position beside my master as his wife."

Her eyelids widened, and he watched the color drain completely from her face. "What?" It was a ghost of a whisper.

"We are without a choice." He knew not to expect immediate compliance, but he hoped to convince her to come along with him with little persuasion. "A certain number of bodies lay in the accident scene. They are uunidentifiable, for they were burned to ashes. You are presumed dead, and Miss Cartridge, alive. You must come with—"

"Madness!" she gasped, a frown claiming her face. "You propose madness!"

"I propose a solution," he growled, frustrated. "I saved your life, now you must save mine. I mustn't return without a wife for Mr. Hendrix or I shall stand in line for the gallows by tomorrow morning."

"You would present a slave to your master?!"

"He wouldn't know the difference because he hasn't made Miss Cartridge's acquaintance."

Her lips fell open, her eyelids widening further until he feared her eyeballs would fall out of her head.

Silence fell between them, building a wall that threatened to stand in his path. For a second, he imagined she'd speak, either in concession or disagreement, but as the seconds ticked by, the silence thickened until he feared she had passed out with her eyes wide open.

He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, nervous and desperate. Making his way to her, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "You—"

"It is madness!" Shrugging him off, she turned to him with her face pale and her eyes beholding him as if he had lost his senses. "You seek to deceive a nobleman, the cost of which shall be both our lives once we are caught," she reasoned, but Spencer unfortunately failed to see a choice handed to either of them other than the one he sought to offer.

"We shall die nonetheless, today or tomorrow," he half yelled, and she shrunk back, visibly frightened. His heart pounded in his chest, desperation rendering him weak for several seconds. Releasing a soft sigh, he continued, "But if I am given a choice, I shall choose tomorrow to die. Today, you must take off the rags of a slave and be adorned with the garments of a noblewoman, for soon, we must journey," bowing slightly, Spencer paid no attention to the stricken look on her face, "Miss Cartridge."