by Anne Gracie
“Señorita?” A touch on her shoulder.
Bella looked up. A rather dashing-looking gentleman of about thirty stood by her chair. “Sí?”
He bowed. “You are the daughter of the Conde de Castillejo, are you not?”
“I am,” Bella breathed. Without thinking, she held out her hand.
“Don Francisco Espinoza de Cadaval at your service. I had the honor of fighting under your father’s command. I was there when he died. It is a great pleasure to meet you, señorita.” He raised her hand and kissed it so ardently, she could feel the tickle of his thin, elegant mustache.
Chair legs scraped abruptly on the floor as Luke stood. “You’re mistaken,” Luke said in a harsh voice. Bella and Don Francisco looked at him in surprise.
“She’s not señorita anything. She’s my wife, Lady Ripton, and we are about to retire for the night. Come, my dear.” He held out an imperious hand to Isabella.
“Oh, but I would like to—”
“Now, Isabella.” His dark gaze bored into her, and she reflected that she’d probably defied him enough for one day already. And that a public dining room was not the place for a dispute with her husband.
Don Francisco took one glance at Luke’s face, took a step backward, and bowed gracefully to them both. “Good evening, then, Lady Ripton. Perhaps in the morning…”
Bella gave him a warm smile to make up for her husband’s rudeness. “Yes, that would be—”
“I doubt we’ll have the time. We’ll be departing very early.” Luke took Bella’s hand, pushed past Don Francisco, and led her from the room.
“Really, there’s no need to be so boorish.”
“There’s every need. You have no idea who that man is.”
“I do, too. He was one of my father’s men.”
“I heard who he said he was. He could say anything and you’d believe him.”
“He was with Papa when he died,” she said. “I would have liked to talk to him, to hear more—”
He stopped abruptly and swung her to face him. “The two men who attacked you when you were a child were your father’s men and had been with him when he died, too, and look how well that turned out.”
She bit her lip and looked away.
His voice softened. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to remind you of it, but… you’re too trusting for your own good. Terrible things happened in this country while you were in the convent.”
“Before then, too,” she said in a low voice, thinking of Mama.
“I know.” His hand closed over hers, warm and comforting. “But although Napoleon is defeated and there is a Spanish king on the throne again, things are still unsettled, and that’s what you don’t understand. Spain has broken into a thousand factions, and without reliable knowledge, you cannot know who that fellow is and what he might want from you.”
There was some sense in what he said, but Bella didn’t like the idea of treating everyone as an enemy until proven otherwise. “How do you know what Spain is like now? You’ve been in England for years.”
“Trust me, I know. It was my job to know,” he told her. “And when situations change, so do men’s alliances. Even if that fellow was your father’s right-hand man, that’s no guarantee of where his loyalties lie now. Men do what they can to survive.”
“So do women,” she reminded him.
There was a short pause, then he said, “I don’t propose to discuss it any further. I know a great deal more than you do about the situation in this country, and the dangers of trusting people you don’t know, so while we are here, you’ll do as I tell you.”
“I’m not a child.”
There was a sudden silence. His gaze intensified. Bella glanced away, feeling suddenly too warm. The clatter of pots and pans came from the kitchen, the clink of glasses and the sound of a woman reprimanding someone. From the public area the deep murmur of masculine voices drifted. Luke’s gaze slipped over her, and for a moment she fancied she could hear her own heart beating.
“No, you’re not,” her husband said, his voice deep and low. “And it’s time we both acknowledged that. Now, it’s late. Time we went to bed.”
Time we went to bed. The phrase wiped every other thought from her head.
They slowly mounted the stairs. Her hand was cold; his was warm. The wine hadn’t relaxed her at all. In fact, she was tenser than ever.
The bedchamber was small and contained only one large bed, a chair, a large looking glass on a swivel stand, and a tiled wash table bearing a large, brightly painted jug of water and a mismatched bowl. There was no wardrobe, only a row of hooks to hang clothing on. The only other item in the room was a small enamel stove. Apart from a coiled and plaited rag rug in front of the fire, the floor was bare, though clean and well waxed.
Bella glanced around, wondering what arrangements the landlord had made at Luke’s behest. Lit the fire? Warm water in the jug, perhaps? Nothing as sinister as she’d first imagined.
Foolish what your imagination will produce when you’re tired and hungry and cross.
Luke opened the stove and fed the fire with chopped logs from the box beside it. He lit half a dozen candles and the shadows receded.
A knock on the door sounded, and the landlord entered with a bottle and a couple of glasses on a tray. “My wife thought the lady might enjoy these,” he said, indicating a dish of caramelized almonds, and though Bella was already full from dinner, she could not resist sneaking one before the man had even put the tray down.
So it was only brandy Luke had ordered when they arrived. She might have known.
“Please thank your wife,” she told the man. “I’m very fond of candied almonds.” She took another.
Luke slipped the man a coin and followed him to the door, locking it after him. He turned, and the look in his eyes sent a shiver straight to the pit of Bella’s stomach. “Come here.”
She swallowed the last of the nuts, tasting nothing, and approached him.
“Are you warm?”
She nodded, suddenly breathless. Tonight she would go from being a bride to a wife…
He began to unbutton the greatcoat she still wore. One button… two… three… His eyes burned into her. He slipped the coat off her shoulders and tossed it over the chair.
He put his hands on her shoulders, and she swayed forward, thinking he was going to kiss her, but instead he turned her around. She found herself facing the long looking glass.
“What—?”
“I had the glass brought in especially for this. Look.”
Puzzled, she looked. All she could see was her own reflection and Luke’s standing behind her. He stared into the looking glass over her shoulder. What was she supposed to notice?
It was eight years since she’d seen herself in a big glass like this, and she’d changed somewhat. Her skin had improved, and her hair was darker and quite glossy in the candlelight, but she’d still never be a beauty. Or even pretty. She looked quite a lot like Mama, actually. Oh well. Nothing new there.
She glanced at his reflection, all stark angles and shadows in the candlelight. He wasn’t looking at her face or his, but staring into the looking glass with an odd, brooding expression. Like a starving man gazing through a rich man’s window. A feast he could not have.
Miles away, she thought. Another time, another place. Another woman.
His gaze clashed with hers in the looking glass and she felt suddenly scorched.
“Well?” he demanded curtly.
“Well, what?” She tried to turn, but his hands forced her to remain facing the looking glass.
“Is that what you think looks like a boy?”
“Oh.” In the looking glass her cheeks pinkened in the candlelight. She gave her reflection a critical look. She had grown in the past few years, she had to admit. The fit of the clothes was not as loose as it used to be, but compared with her friends at the convent, she was still quite skinny and flat-chested. She didn’t look exactly like a boy, but neither did she look very w
omanly. “Most people don’t examine you up close like this,” she began.
He made a small exasperated sound.
“And when my hat covers my hair—”
He gave her a little shake. “You would still look nothing like a boy!” He dropped his hands to her waist. “Do boys have waists like this?”
She swallowed and gazed into the looking glass at the big hands encircling her waist.
“And what about here?” His hands dropped to the slight curve of her hips. “Have you ever seen a boy with hips like these?”
Bella couldn’t reply. She could only stare, mesmerized at the hands moving slowly in the candlelight, feeling the heat of his palms as they slid over her hips, the heat of his body at her back.
His hands caressed her lightly from the swell of her hips to her waist and back. “Boys have no waist, no hips; they’re all straight up and down, not… curved,” he murmured. “Boys are skin and bones, not… flesh.”
Her breath caught in her throat as his hands traveled slowly up her body, softly shaping the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, and higher. His touch was featherlight, and she was fully dressed in layers of clothing, yet she was achingly aware of every infinitesimal movement.
He smoothed his palms over the leather jerkin she wore. “Boys’ chests are flat… hard… bony.” His breath was warm on her ear. “Even in this ugly leather jerkin, you don’t look the least bit flat or bony.” His hands brushed lightly over the garment, barely touching her, but the tips of her breasts tingled as if she were naked.
She moistened her lips. “But the girls in the convent—”
“Were ignorant young ninnies. And they weren’t looking at you with the eyes of a man. A man is attuned to the shape of a woman, even when it’s subtle and hidden beneath layers. A man would take one look at you and know that under this…” He swiftly undid the bone buttons down the front of the jerkin. “He would find this.”
He drew the two halves of the jerkin front apart to reveal the white shirt she wore beneath. Her breath came in jagged gasps. She wore a chemise under the shirt, but even so, you could see the hard points of her nipples and the faint shadow of aureole around them.
He cupped her breasts in both hands, and she gasped as he passed his thumbs lightly over her aching nipples, just once, but it was as if he’d touched a heated knife to her. She bucked under the impact and lurched back against his body.
He dropped his hands to steady her. She tried to turn in his arms, to kiss him, to do… she wasn’t sure what.
“I’m not finished yet.” He was breathing hard, but his jaw was set. “I want to make sure you understand fully.” He turned her sideways and ran one hand over her bottom. “See this? There isn’t a male alive with such a lush, feminine backside.” He cupped one of her buttocks, and Bella’s knees almost buckled. “Mouthwatering,” he muttered, as if to himself.
He turned her again to face the looking glass. His hands gripped her hips; his fingers pointed toward her center. She was resistless as a doll, her mind and body trembling from the effect of his words, his touch.
She felt smoking hot, ready to burst into flame like paper held too close to the fire, not touching, but heated beyond bearing.
“As for here…” He placed his palm on her stomach and slid it slowly down. “Here you are wholly and entirely female.” His big, warm palm covered her crotch and cupped her firmly.
Bella arched involuntarily, leaning back against him. Her legs trembled, almost too weak to stand, but he didn’t let go of her and didn’t move.
One powerful arm was wrapped around her, holding her upright in front of the looking glass. The other clasped her firmly and brazenly between her legs.
“Breeches do not a boy make.” His mouth was so close to her ear she could feel every breath. His voice was deep and shivered through her to her very bones. “In fact, these breeches outline your femininity with loving faithfulness.” He released her crotch, and she felt suddenly cold, but then one long, masculine finger moved, tracing a slow vee shape at the apex of her thighs, down one side, up the other. And then slowly along the line that bisected it.
She trembled helplessly in its wake.
He stood almost side by side with her now, his left arm supporting her, as he slowly stroked his finger back and forth between legs that would barely support her. He was hardly touching her, but it was as though his fingers left trails of fire.
Her gaze drifted away from the sight of his hands and his fingers slowly working… magic… stealing all her control… teasing her apart at the seams.
She could see the difference so clearly now: the vee shape in her breeches, the hard bulge of his. She stared at that bulge, trying to make out the exact shape beneath the cloth.
With an effort she dragged her gaze away and looked at him, wanting to beg for something… anything… she didn’t know what.
And was riveted by the expression in his eyes.
She wasn’t the only one mesmerized… burning.
He was wholly unaware of her regard; his attention was entirely on her body. His eyes devoured her even as his hands roamed over her, unraveling her…
Unraveling him…
And then his hands stilled, and his gaze snapped up, meeting hers. There was a brief, frozen pause, then a shutter of smoked glass crashed down behind his eyes and he was suddenly hard and distant and… cool.
He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a little push away. “And that—” His voice grated harshly, and he stepped back and cleared his throat. “Let that be a lesson. Breeches or not, you look nothing like a boy.”
She blinked at his sudden coldness. Her eyes dropped to his breeches, to the hard, masculine bulge.
He saw her looking. He clenched his jaw and turned sharply away from her. “Get changed for bed,” he said as he headed for the door. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.” After he’d left she heard the key turn in the lock.
No escape possible.
She gave a halfhearted, shaky laugh. Escape was the last thing on her mind.
Bella wasn’t sure how long had passed when she suddenly realized she was still standing in front of the mirror, gazing into it with her arms wrapped around herself and a foolish smile on her face.
He’d said he’d be back in ten minutes.
She flew into action, ripping off her boots, stockings, and breeches. She opened her bag and pulled out her nightdress. The polished wooden floor was freezing and chilled her bare toes, so she undressed standing on the small rug in front of the stove. In seconds she’d stripped off the rest of her clothes and pulled the nightdress over her head.
For the first time in her life, she wished she’d been good at embroidery. All the other girls had made beautifully embroidered nightclothes. Hers was plain cotton.
Still, if he’d desired her in breeches and a leather jerkin, he might not care about a plain cotton nightdress. She felt suddenly cold and wanted to dive into the bed, but she couldn’t resist a quick glance in the looking glass.
Her hair! Swiftly she pulled out the pins that held her braids in place, and unraveled the plaits and finger-combed her hair. She should brush it, but she was sure ten minutes had elapsed, and she didn’t want to be caught unready for him.
Another glance in the looking glass and she wished she hadn’t looked. Before, he’d shown her someone who was mysteriously attractive. Now there was plain old Bella Ripton again, in a white cotton nightie that made her look sallow and swamped any feminine curves she might have had. And her hair was a Medusa of dark snakes instead of a woman’s glory.
“Oh, Mama,” she sighed. “Why couldn’t we have been born pretty?”
Her feet were freezing, so she risked another moment or two on the rug next to the fire. She stood toasting herself, pulling the nightdress up to warm her bare bottom. When she heard footsteps in the corridor outside, she hit the bed in a flying leap.
She dived under the covers and waited.
The footsteps faded away. It wasn
’t Luke. But he wouldn’t be long.
Bella lay between the cold sheets, shivering a little and hugging herself to get warm, though the cold was only external. Inside she was still hot and excited and… melty.
For so long, everyone—even her husband—had treated her as a child. Finally she was about to become a woman.
Who knew he could make her feel like that, just by talking… and touching… and looking?
She waited. Her insides were a mass of warm butterflies.
Luke had let himself out of the back door of the inn and gone for a quiet walk to cool down. So much for his intended lesson.
How had it spun so quickly out of control?
When he’d asked the landlord to provide a large mirror, Luke had planned to give his wife a short, brusque lesson; whatever she looked like in the past in those breeches, she did not look like a boy in them any longer. He’d envisaged it taking a moment or two. He would point out the obvious, and she would understand.
But she’d been inclined to argue the point, and Luke felt compelled to show her how false her assumption was.
And then…
He shook his head. How could he have let things spiral away from him like that?
Lord knew—well, it didn’t require omnipotence—any idiot would know where it would have ended up had Luke not happened to glance at her face and caught the gleam of triumph, of female power, in her eye as she saw how in thrall to her he was. His body was.
Luke would be in thrall to no woman, not even his wife.
The village street petered out into a simple dirt track leading up into the wilderness. He stopped, gazing up at the looming dark of the hills, at the star-sprinkled velvet of the night, and breathed sharp, cold air deep into his lungs.
A guitar played somewhere close by. The scent of peppers and roasting meat floated on the breeze.
It was this place, this blasted country; that was all. Things he’d kept locked away, under control, were being stirred up. Disturbing his equilibrium—yes, that was it.
The last few days, memories and sensations had risen up to assault him at every turn. Isabella herself had unwittingly started the process. The circumstances of their meeting, his weakness for a woman in distress, his damned compulsion to play the hero.