by Anne Gracie
“Yes, and I heard you crashing through the underbrush from miles away. So—”
“If I had been a bandit, and your horse had snorted or made a sound? What then, eh?”
“If you’d threatened me, I would have shot you,” she said calmly.
“What?”
“Shot you. With this.” She reached behind her and pulled out a pistol concealed in the waistband of her breeches. He recognized it from eight years before.
“Is it loaded?”
“Of course! What use is an unloaded pistol?”
He glared at her, still seething, trying to ignore the sight of her in those breeches, the way the soft buckskin clung to her shape. “What if I’d been two bandits—or more? Bandits ride in bands, you know.” He’d lost ground and he knew it. One should never argue with a woman. One should simply order. Or demand. He tried to retrieve his authority. “How dare you run off and leave me!”
“I didn’t leave you,” she said indignantly. “I merely parted from you temporarily. I promised faithfully to join you in England as soon as I’d found my sister. Didn’t you get my letter?”
“That’s not the point.”
“No, the point is my sister is in the hands of a vile bully. Would you leave Molly to the mercy of a man like my cousin Ramón?”
He wouldn’t, of course, but he was not going to be distracted. He returned to the issue in question. “You left without my permission.”
“But when I asked, you refused, so what else was I to do?”
“Obey me! As you vowed to.”
“When did I—oh, you mean the marriage vows. I was only a child then—”
“Nevertheless they are legal and binding.”
“You were all ready to break them.”
“I was not.”
“You were going to annul them.”
“As. We. Agreed. At. The. Time.”
She shrugged, clearly unimpressed, and turned away.
Luke clenched his fists, wrestling with a wild impulse to turn her over his knee and spank her backside. Her naked backside. He stepped forward.
“Do you have a knife?” she asked.
Luke blinked. “Knife?”
“A hoof pick, by preference, but failing that, a small knife will do. My horse has a stone in his hoof and I can’t get it out.”
“Your horse?” he said with withering sarcasm.
“Our horse, if you prefer.”
Her matter-of-fact tone infuriated him. She’d shown absolutely no remorse for her actions. He prowled toward her. He’d show her once and for all—
“Don’t forget the knife,” she reminded him and bent to lift the hind hoof of the lame horse. The supple buckskin stretched tight over her bottom like a second skin.
Luke stopped dead. His mouth dried.
There was a reason why women were not supposed to wear breeches, and he was staring straight at it. It wasn’t possible for a man to think of anything else when he was confronted with… with that. It was almost worse than if she were naked.
Almost. He repressed a moan.
Averting his eyes from the delectably infuriating sight, he drew a penknife from his pocket and bent to the task of removing the stone from the horse’s hoof.
He cleaned the hoof and removed the stone, then swapped the two saddles over. It was getting chilly by then, so he pulled his greatcoat out of her bag and tossed it to her with a curt, “Put it on.”
A look crossed her face as if she might argue, but then she capitulated and shrugged herself into it.
It covered her almost to her ankles, and as she buttoned it, he felt a little of his tension ease. He strapped his bag and hers to the lame horse, then remounted the mare.
He held out his hand to Isabella. “Up behind me.”
She gazed up at him, a mutinous expression on her face. “I will not give up the search for my sister. I’ll come with you now because I have no choice, but I tell you to your face, I’ll run away from you again if I have to.”
He gave her a hard look. “You are welcome to try.”
Without a word she took his arm, placed her boot on his stirrup, and swung up behind him. He felt her warmth at his back, then she slid her arms around his waist. He stiffened but didn’t say a word.
He’d bandy words with her no longer. Tonight, when they were in the privacy of the bedchamber, he’d administer her first lesson in being a satisfactory wife.
Actions spoke louder than words.
It was almost dark and the moon was rising, like a pale slice of lemon. They were riding east. Did he realize it? Bella wondered. She’d expected him to turn around and go back the way they’d come.
East was the way to Valle Verde.
She said nothing. If he’d mistaken the direction, she didn’t want to let him know.
They moved at a steady walk, the lame horse slowing them down. She rode with her arms around his waist, her cheek resting against his back. He was warm and strong, and despite his anger with her, she felt very safe.
He’d been furious, but he hadn’t beaten her. She openly disobeyed him, left him, and yet he’d barely touched her, only gripped her shoulders quite hard, glared at her, and then let go.
According to the teachings of the Church, husbands had the right to beat disobedient wives, and when he’d grabbed her like that, she was sure he was going to shake her till her teeth rattled. At the very least. But he hadn’t.
A small bubble of hope blossomed inside her. He hadn’t wanted to be married to her; had tried to annul the marriage. He could have left her to her fate, and yet he’d come all this way after her.
Despite the impression she’d tried to give him, she was under no illusion of the dangers involved in her journey back to Valle Verde. Better he thought her young and naive than that she assessed the risks and found them acceptable.
Travel in Spain was as dangerous now as it had been in the war—maybe more so, because it wasn’t as easy to tell whose side anyone was on. She’d scanned the road ahead, glanced frequently back the way she came, and checked the hills above her. She’d skirted around towns and villages rather than ride through them, and hidden from every traveler before she could be seen, taking constant reassurance from the pistol at her waistband, even as she prayed she wouldn’t have to use it.
A husband who truly wished to be rid of an unwanted wife would have washed his hands of her and let her risk herself.
Luke Ripton had ridden after her, made a long, rough, and difficult journey through unknown territory, sidesaddle, risking ridicule, as well as danger. It might only be a strong dislike of being disobeyed, but still, Bella couldn’t help but see it as a positive sign.
She hugged him tighter, breathing in the smell of him. She remembered it from when she was a young girl, when they’d first met. He’d ridden to her rescue then, and he was still doing it now.
The moon was higher now. Its cold light silvered the rooftops and turret of a building that looked familiar. As they rode closer, she recognized it.
“El Castillo de Rasal!” she exclaimed.
“Eh?”
“That castle—it’s the Castillo de Rasal, the home of the Marqués de Rasal,” she said excitedly. “I did not realize we were so close. The marqués is—was an old friend of my father’s. I’ve known him since I was a little girl. We can stay the night there.” She felt a surge of pleasure at the prospect of seeing someone from her past after so long. The marqués had always been very kind to Bella.
“He might not be ali—home.”
He’d been going to say the marqués might not be alive, she thought. “It doesn’t matter. His servants will remember me and offer us hospitality, I know.” Her stomach rumbled. “He keeps a very fine cook, too—the castillo is renowned for it.”
He didn’t respond.
Bella burbled happily on. “You can’t see them in the dark, but the estate has very fine vineyards—the wines of Castillo de Rasal are drunk all over Spain. I came here several times with my father when I
was young. The castillo is a medieval castle, you understand, very ancient and inconvenient, though parts of it are quite beautiful. You will enjoy seeing it in the daylight.” She rubbed her cheek against his coat. “You know, I thought I would have to sleep tonight on the ground, or under a bridge, and instead we will sleep in a castle.”
She felt him stiffen. “Under a bridge?”
“I had no money for an inn.”
He snorted but said nothing more. They came to a tall stone gateway.
“That’s the driveway,” Bella said. “Turn off here.”
He took no notice. They passed the gateway.
She hit him lightly on the shoulder. “Stop! You missed it! The turnoff is back there.”
“We’re not staying there.”
“But why not? I told you, the marqués is an old family friend. He’d be delighted to see me again, I know it.”
“No.”
Bella could hardly believe her ears. “But why not? It’s a wonderful place to stay.”
No answer.
“The marqués will be very disappointed to have missed me—” she began.
“Did you write to him to expect you?”
“No, but—”
“Then he’ll have no reason for disappointment.”
Really, there was no cause for such churlishness. He should be grateful to be able to visit a marqués and stay in an ancient castillo. “I will be very disappointed,” she told him.
“You’ll survive it. We’ll stay in the inn at Ayerbe. It’s only a couple of miles farther.”
“But why stay in a village inn when we could stay in a castle?”
He ignored her.
There was no point in arguing. The man was as stubborn as a rock. Bella thumped him crossly instead. He made no sign he’d even noticed.
Feeling the thump between his shoulder blades, Luke smiled to himself. She’d learn.
He had no doubt they’d be welcomed with open arms at Castillo de Rasal, and would be wined and dined in a manner fit for a king, but he was damned if he was going to spend his first night alone with his wife in the home of some doting old man who’d dandled her on his knee as a child.
Luke was going to settle once and for all who wore the breeches in this family, and he wanted no witnesses to the encounter.
A soldier chose his own ground for a confrontation.
Nine
“A bedchamber for me and my wife and a private sitting room.”
Bella swallowed. Luke had barely spoken a word to her for the last half hour. He’d given curt orders to the stableboy at the inn concerning the care of the horses, and now he spoke to the landlord, a tall, strapping fellow with a huge mustache.
“No private sitting rooms, señor. You can eat here.” The landlord gestured to the public dining area. “Or my wife can bring you your supper on a tray.” At his words, the curtain covering the doorway behind him twitched and a round-faced woman with brilliant, almost scarlet hair piled high looked out and scowled.
“No, we’ll eat here,” Luke said without even consulting Bella. He leaned forward and murmured something to the landlord, a question she didn’t catch. In the mood he was in, it would do no good to ask, she was sure.
The man gave him a startled look, glanced at Bella curiously, then nodded. “Sí, señor, I shall arrange it.” He sounded bemused. What had Luke asked of him?
“Good. Now, my wife is waiting for her dinner.”
The landlord bowed and snapped his fingers, and minions went scurrying to clear a table for them—the best table near the fire.
Luke seemed to have that effect on people, Bella thought. An unconscious air of command, coupled with his height and good looks.
The contrast between this and their arrival at the inn last night couldn’t be clearer. Then, Luke had shown deference and concern for her after their long trip. Now, apart from the hand that lightly gripped her elbow, he acted as if he were unaware of her presence.
Her own fault, she acknowledged. Angering her husband was one of the risks she’d considered when she chose to defy him. Whatever happened between them this night, she’d face it with dignity. She hoped.
The relief that he hadn’t beaten her in the road was giving way to thoughts that some men brooded on their wrongs and took their time about revenge. The dish best eaten cold…
She wondered again what he’d asked of the landlord.
He led her to the table, seemingly unaware of the sea of faces watching them with open curiosity. She’d removed her hat, and her coronet of plaited hair made it obvious to all that under the greatcoat, she was a woman. Bella felt the hard male glances slide over her, assessing her femininity. She held her head up and pretended not to notice.
Luke pulled out a chair and seated her with her back to the room, then sat opposite. He called for wine and ordered supper. It was warm in the dining room, and Bella began to unbutton the coat.
“Leave it,” Luke told her.
“But—”
“Do you really think this is the place to test your theory that you look like a boy in those breeches?”
She flushed and subsided.
Wine arrived, and Luke poured her a glass. She took it, but before she could drink, he clinked his glass against hers and said, “To our marriage.” His gaze bored into her.
What did that mean? she wondered. To the success of their marriage? Or was it an ironic toast, a sort of “to-the-millstone-around-my-neck”?
His face was as expressive as a stone statue. She didn’t understand him in the least. He looked like a man set to carry out some ruthless course of action, and the leashed tension in his body unnerved her.
Deciding to take his toast at face value, she sipped the wine, then seeing his expression, she drained the glass and said, “I want a separate bedchamber.”
“Bad luck.”
“You promised you’d give me time.”
He poured some more wine into her glass. “You promised to obey, and yet I spent most of today—sidesaddle!—combing the mountains searching for your body.”
She bit her lip. “I’m sorry to have worried you. Nevertheless—”
“We’re married. From now on it’s one bedchamber, one bed.” His tone was implacable.
The first dishes arrived: tender slices of local ham, small spicy sausages still sizzling in their own juice, grilled mushrooms fragrant with thyme and other herbs, gleaming black olives, and fresh, crusty bread.
Hunger, salted by years of convent austerity, swamped her. The food smelled delicious, and she only just remembered to murmur a quick grace before diving in.
“What did you ask the landlord to do?” she said as she served them both some mushrooms.
“Are the sausages to your liking?” he asked. “They’re a little spicy.”
“I love spicy food,” she told him. “In the convent our food was mostly very simple and very bland. The landlord?”
He speared a sausage. “You’ll see.”
He was a stubborn man, but to her surprise, the prospect of sharing his bed wasn’t at all… objectionable. Far from it.
Sometime during that last ride in the moonlight, riding pressed against his broad, strong body, her arms wrapped around his waist, inhaling the scent of him and warmed by his heat and strength, her body had decided: this was her husband.
Their marriage might have been a mistake, but it was a mistake she, at least, could live with. If he didn’t love her, so be it. Mama had made herself miserable pining after Papa, yearning for him to love her, and he never had.
It was a waste, Bella decided; a waste of a life. She wouldn’t make the same mistake.
She watched Luke tear a piece of bread apart with long, elegant fingers, then eat it, his face partly shadowed in the dim light, his eyes dark mysteries, the blade of his cheekbones gilded by lamplight… A strong jaw, dark with rough stubble.
He was one beautiful man. And he was hers.
Or he would be, tonight. Excitement thrummed.
&nb
sp; The rest of the meal arrived: roast lamb with potatoes, chicken stew in a rich sauce of red peppers and tomatoes, and a salad of boiled green beans tossed with a lemony dressing. It was a feast fit for a king. Or a queen.
Bella ate till she was full to bursting, tasting something from each dish, then going back for more. Everything tasted delicious; the lamb was melt-in-your-mouth tender, and the potatoes were baked crispy-skinned and golden. The chicken stew was rich and full of the flavors of her childhood.
They ate without speaking, but it was not an awkward silence; each of them was intent on the meal. From time to time Luke would refill her glass or pass her some bread.
Occasionally, in the passing or pouring, their fingers brushed, and each time, Bella’s pulse leapt.
She wasn’t sure what this night would bring, but she longed to become a wife, instead of a half wife. And to finally know. She was woefully ignorant of the relations between a man and his wife. It was ridiculous.
Luke drank the last of the wine, and she watched his strong, tanned throat move as he swallowed. She knew how horses and dogs and chickens procreated, but as for what she was expected to do on her wedding night…
It was supposed to hurt, but only if you were a virgin, and since she wasn’t…
Since she wasn’t a virgin she hoped she would enjoy it. Some women did, she’d heard the girls whisper. Most didn’t. Only bad girls liked doing it.
Bella thought of all the many times she’d been in trouble. Would she turn out to be a bad girl in this, too? She certainly hoped so.
She mopped up the last of the chicken and pepper sauce with a crust of bread, wiped her mouth, and sat back in her chair with a sigh of satisfaction. “That was heavenly. I don’t think I’ve had such a delicious meal in, oh… I can’t remember.”
“Yes, the food here has always been very good.”
Always? “You’ve been here before?”
“Once or twice,” he said indifferently. “Years ago in the war.”
“Then you knew we were traveling east.”
He gave her a dry look. “The moon made that fairly obvious.”
So he had realized they were traveling toward Valle Verde, not away from it. Did that mean he’d decided to let her go to Valle Verde after all? “So tomorrow, will we—”