by Anne Gracie
But it was.
The blade sliced into his flesh in a cold, burning arc, slow and painstaking in its precision.
He stiffened, biting down hard on the inside of his mouth to stop himself from screaming. He’d rather die than scream.
Screaming was the point of the exercise.
Screaming and information.
“I do like to mix business with pleasure,” La Cuchilla had murmured in his ear. And made another slice in Luke’s flesh.
His body shook with the effort not to scream. He bit down on his tongue, and his mouth filled with blood.
“Beautiful.” La Cuchilla took a handful of blackened salt and slowly, thoroughly massaged it into the cut, packing it under each leaf of flesh. Forming the petals.
Luke arched and shuddered against the sting of the salt.
“Ahh, you fight it, but you will love the effect, truly.” La Cuchilla sat back and waited until the pain dulled to an almost bearable level, then smiled into his eyes and sliced again…
Luke screamed.
Panting, sweating, and rigid with fear, he surfaced from the darkness, his shoulder on fire, his arms and legs flailing, shamed, dirty, and desperate to escape.
“Luke, Luke, it’s all right,” a soft voice called in his ear. “It’s just a dream. You’re safe.”
He thrashed around, fighting nameless things, his body afire. He turned and there, lit by a glow of candlelight, he saw her, pale and lovely, her eyes clear and golden, shining with honesty and love like a beacon in the night.
He grabbed at her mindlessly, using her to haul himself from the morass of dark horror. He seized her roughly, pushed her legs apart, and plunged himself into her soft receptive body.
She slid her fingers into his hair and closed her eyes, but he shook her hard, shouting, “No, look at me! Look at me, damn you!”
And she opened her eyes wide, shining clear and gold, and clung to him as he rode the storm, thrusting deeply into her, burying himself in her, cleansing himself in her heat and softness, driving out the demons that plagued him.
Until he shattered and was safe.
He lay there, panting, on her breast, and at last her eyes fluttered closed.
Slowly, Luke came back to himself. Through the shutters on the window he could see slits of cold, predawn light.
He was still inside his wife, still crushing her into the hard, lumpy mattress. Oh God, what had he done, using her so roughly? Grabbing her like an animal, pounding into her. Shouting at her.
Shame coiled in his belly.
He gently disengaged and moved off her.
“Isabella,” he began.
She stirred sleepily against him. “Well, if that’s what a nightmare does to you, remind yourself to have them more often.” She stretched and twined herself around him. “Do we have time for a nap before dawn?”
“You didn’t mind?”
She half opened her eyes and looked at him, a catlike smile of satisfaction curling her lips. “You want me to purr?”
It surprised a laugh out of him, and suddenly he found himself laughing and laughing. Horrified, he realized he was on the verge of tears. Laughter turned to choked sounds, and she wrapped her arms around him and held him tight as he fought the laughter-sobs that wracked him.
“Hush, my love,” she murmured. “It’s all right. Let it go, let it go.” She drew him down to her breast, stroking his damp hair back from his forehead, and murmured soothing things until the bout of emotion had passed and he lay calm.
And was safe.
“La Cuchilla?”
He nodded.
“What sort of a person would do that to another person?” She could not believe a woman could do such an evil thing.
He didn’t answer. She stroked his hair. “How did it happen?”
He shook his head. “It was just… something stupid. We were young and stupid.”
“We?”
“Michael and I.”
She waited. And he knew he would have to explain, some of it, at least. All these years he’d kept it locked up inside him, and now…
But if he was going to keep waking her up with the damned dreams…
Trust, she’d said. It didn’t come easy.
“Michael was one of us, Wellington’s Angels, or his Devil Riders, depending on who you talk to. Five of us from school, Gabe, Harry, Rafe, Michael, and me.”
He could hear her soft breathing and the shifting of coals in the dying fire.
“Michael was the only one of us who didn’t make it home.”
She tucked the bedclothes more warmly around them both and waited.
“It was in 1812. Not long after our victory at Salamanca. I’d just turned twenty-one; Michael was twenty-two. The war was going well, we were young and full of the confidence of youth…” He sighed. “Such extraordinary confidence. We’d been at war for years, and despite horrendous casualties all around us, none of us—our friends, the five of us who’d been at school and joined the army together—had even been seriously wounded.”
He lay quietly, recalling that time. Seven years ago, yet it felt in some ways like a hundred years. And in others, like yesterday. “We half believed ourselves invincible. Life was painted in bold bright colors, no shades of gray for us. It was all a big adventure; we lived for danger.” He shook his head. “Such fools young men can be.”
“Tell me what happened,” she said softly.
“We were riders—glorified messengers, really—taking messages from headquarters, liaising between different sections of the army, delivering information, money, orders—whatever was required.
“This day we’d come—Michael and I—from an important briefing, and we’d been ordered to take messages to—” He broke off. Even after all this time, the habit of secrecy was strong. “Suffice it to say Michael was riding to meet a general and I was taking the same information to our Spanish allies in the hills.”
“The guerrilleros.”
“Yes. But just out of camp we were… waylaid. A stupid thing; we should have known better. A… a woman in distress.”
“It was a trap?”
He nodded. “Next thing, Michael and I were in the cellar of a house being… questioned.”
“Tortured,” she whispered.
“He was in the next room. I could hear him… hear what they were doing to him. And he could hear what they were doing to me.” His breathing grew harsher with the memory. “It was… bad.” He’d thought he would die of the pain. “I wanted to die.”
She held him tightly, her lips against his temple.
“But you didn’t give in,” she whispered, “didn’t give up the information.”
Luke closed his eyes. So tempting to let it pass, to let her think he was the hero she wanted him to be.
Trust, she’d said.
So he told her. “I don’t know. I think I did. I don’t remember.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
He made a helpless movement. “We were found, Michael and I, in the cellar of that cottage a week later. Michael had been dead a week by then. I was out of my head with fever. Michael’s body and mine bore identical marks of torture, but he’d had his throat cut and I—I had been left with a blanket, water, and this.” He gestured to the hideous rose.
“We learned soon afterward that the French had the information.” Bitter shame washed through him as he forced himself to admit, “It seems pretty obvious who talked.” He waited for her response. Isabella was a Spanish patriot, the daughter of a leader of the guerrilleros.
She made no comment, no exclamation of horror or disgust, and gave no false comfort or meaningless sympathy. She just held him tight for a long time, then kissed him.
The breath he didn’t know he’d been holding escaped in a long sigh.
“I’ve never told anyone that. Not my friends, not my family.” He felt lighter already. “My superiors knew we’d been tortured, of course, and that the French had the information, but there was no
way of telling who’d given it—Michael and I weren’t the only ones with the same information—so no action was taken.” No court-martial, he meant.
“Of course no action was taken,” she said. “They saw you were a hero.”
He turned his head and stared at her. Had she not understood what he’d just told her?
She made an impatient gesture. “It was Michael who talked, of course.”
“You don’t know that,” he croaked.
She shrugged. “I never knew Michael, of course, but I do know you.” She smoothed cool fingers across his furrowed brow and said softly, “Luke, even in your dreams you fight this La Cuchilla. You did not give in, my love, I know it, and if you were not so hard on yourself, you would know it, too. Now come to bed. It’s almost dawn, but I think we both need a little more sleep before we ride on, don’t you?” And she snuggled down in the bed, pulling him with her.
Luke lay in her arms, feeling empty, drained, and wakeful. So simple. Such an easy absolution. He wanted desperately to accept it, to embrace the notion that it hadn’t been all his fault.
Except he hadn’t told her the whole story. Not quite. Not his deepest shame.
They made a late start in the morning and reached Ayerbe as the sun was sinking low. Luke paused on the outskirts of the village. “How tired are you?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I know we’ll be made very comfortable at the Inn With No Fleas, but if you aren’t too tired, we could travel on another hour and call in at the Castillo de Rasal.”
Bella had been looking forward to a hot meal and a bed, but at the prospect of seeing the Marqués de Rasal again, she felt her energy renewed. “Oh yes, do let us go on. I’d love to see the marqués again. He was my father’s dearest friend, and like an uncle to me when I was a child.”
Satisfied, he gave a brisk nod, and they continued on their way.
He’d hardly said a word all day. Bella had been observing him quietly. Physically there was a new ease between them, but whether that came from Luke or herself was another question.
In the darkest hour of his torment he’d turned to her instinctively, seeking her body, her comfort, to help drive out his demons… The dark, desperate violence of his need for her had pierced her heart. And her body still thrilled with it.
And that dreadful tale… He’d never told it to another soul, not even his oldest friends.
He might not love her, but instinctively, he’d trusted her.
Even his offering to stay at a place he did not know, with people he did not know, was a small sign of trust. It was an indirect apology for his refusal to let her visit there last time. The knowledge filled her with quiet warmth.
She glanced across at him, riding toward the deepening lilac sky, his face grave and drawn, like that of a man contemplating his doom. It wasn’t the air of a man who’d bared his soul. Instead of exhibiting the lightness and relief she’d always felt from sharing a terrible secret, it was almost as if his shame had increased.
Still, probing now would only make him clam up further.
Bed was the place to talk. After he’d taken her, in that period when it seemed two people could get no closer, when the barriers between them were soft and transparent and the world had shrunk to just one bed, a place of sated bodies, quiet murmurs, and slow, soft touches.
She had not known that place existed.
She understood now why married women talked about when they were girls, even after a month of two of marriage. It had always seemed to her to be an affectation, a way of lording it over their unmarried friends. Now, only a handful of days into her marriage, her real marriage, she knew it was not.
She was not the girl she’d been a few weeks ago. It was not simply being part of someone else—that wasn’t quite right; she was herself and he was a separate being, very separate at times. But she was a different person now, with insights into her own nature—and his—that she’d never dreamed of.
The feeling, when he took her body, of being subject to the deepest animal instincts, of letting go all that was civilized, all that was schooled… The power of his body as he thrust into her again and again, the strength of her as she took him in, the racking build of pleasure, the deep, sweaty joy in the act.
And the freedom of being able to let go, to scream, to bite and scratch and let out the wildness she’d tried to hide all her life, and he liked it. More than liked it. Gloried in it.
Being married was like coming out of a cocoon, splitting the old carapace, and finding the world was full of rainbow colors. And that you could fly.
She glanced across at her grim-faced husband.
Or not.
Seventeen
The Castillo de Rasal was an imposing stone building rising high above the surrounding landscape, a fortress that made no bones about domination. Even as darkness fell, its silhouette towered darkly above them, blotting out the night sky and the stars.
Luke handed his card to the servant who answered the door. Isabella had written something on the back. Normally he preferred to travel as Señor and Señora Ripton—it was wiser not to let people know you were rich—but in this case, he brought out his title. The servant took the card, asked them to wait, then glided away.
This was not like Isabella’s former home; Castillo de Rasal was ancient, but far from shabby. Everything that could be polished gleamed, the entrance was lit by flaming torches, the light catching on rich tapestries and precious metals and flickering over gilded frames surrounding glowing works of art. Generations of wealth were represented here.
They did not have to wait long. The marqués himself came to greet them, saying, “Isabella, my dear, dear child, what a delightful surprise. We thought you were forever lost to us. And now, look at you, all grown up and the image of your dear mother.”
He was more than sixty, a tall, spare, handsome man with silvering dark hair, a scimitar of a nose, and a small goatee. He embraced Isabella, kissing her on both cheeks and giving her a warm hug, before turning to greet Luke.
“Isabella’s husband? How very pleased I am to meet you, dear sir.” He gave Luke a searching look. “You have a treasure here, Ripton, I hope you know.”
“I know it, sir.” Luke glanced at Isabella, who was looking flushed, glowing, and, to Luke’s eyes, utterly beautiful.
The marqués caught the exchange and smiled. He clapped Luke on the back. “Excellent, excellent, I’m glad to hear it. Come in, come in, dinner will be put back half an hour—no, no, you are not holding us up. My wife has been out all day and has only just returned.”
“Your wife, Tío Raul?” Isabella exclaimed.
He smiled. “Yes, my dear, I remarried several years ago. An old fool, you might say, but wait till you meet her. She has just gone up to change and is never speedy in these matters, so there is plenty of time for you two to wash and prepare yourself. And no need to dress for dinner. We shall be quite informal here tonight, en famille.” Quite disregarding the fact he was in formal satin knee breeches, silk stockings, and a beautifully cut coat. “Now, run along with Pedro here. He will show you to your rooms and see to your every need.” He beamed. “Little Isabella, all married and grown up. Such a pleasure, my dear.”
Alone in the sumptuous bedchamber allotted them, they changed out of their riding clothes. Looking far too delicious in her chemise, corset, and stockings, but entirely unaware of her effect on him, Isabella brushed out her hair, while Luke shaved in his underwear. They’d handed her red dress and silk shawl and Luke’s coat and shirt to Pedro for ironing.
Luke wished they’d had an hour before dinner. What was it about that corset?
“I wonder who Tío Raul married? He’s been a widower as long as I can remember.”
Luke wiped the last of the lather off his chin and dried his face. He had little interest in the new marquésa.
Isabella started to rebraid her hair in her customary coronet. It framed her face perfectly. “He fought Napoleon, you know. When Papa died, the
marqués took command of Papa’s guerrillero force.”
Luke was surprised. “Those guerrilleros led a hard life. It couldn’t have been easy for an—”
“Don’t dare say an old man.” She laughed. “He’d never forgive you. Particularly with a new wife, who from the sounds of things might be quite a bit younger.”
Their clothes came back pressed and immaculate, and they quickly dressed and went downstairs.
“Come in, come in,” the marqués greeted them. “My wife sent a message that she will be a little delayed and that we must start without her.” He turned up his hands in a helpless male expression. “Women, never on time. Let us go in.”
He ushered them into a large dining room where the walls were encrusted with gloomy painted ancestors. The first course was brought in, a dozen different dishes, all looking and smelling delicious. “Eat, eat,” he urged. “You will be hungry after your long journey.” They needed no further encouragement.
“I understand you are traveling on horseback. You were an intrepid horsewoman as a little girl, but now…” He paused delicately. Wondering if Isabella’s husband was a careless brute or simply strapped for cash, Luke decided.
“We’re in a hurry,” Isabella told him. “My husband has an important engagement in England, and it is quicker to travel on horseback than in a carriage. Besides,” she flashed the marqués a quick grin, “I enjoy it. For too many years I was shut up in a convent, and the one time my husband made me travel in a carriage I was so bored. I cannot tell you what a joy it is to gallop over the hills in the fresh air.”
And the cold and the wind and the rain, thought Luke. Without complaint.
The old gentleman laughed. “You haven’t changed, dear child. Now, tell me, how did you two meet? I can’t say I approve, an Englishman taking my little Isabella out of Spain.”
Isabella stilled, her face suddenly pale. Did she really imagine Luke would tell her beloved marqués the dreadful circumstances that had brought them together?