Читать книгу Tempted By Innocence - Lyn Randal - Страница 7

Seville, Spain

May 17, 1517

Alejandro Castillo knew this thing he did was shameful, that it was a travesty and an outrage. Worse, he realized the others knew it, too, from the looks cast towards him as he sat in his special box in the Castillo family chapel.

Some of those looks were pitying glances, forgiving him even as they whispered his guilt. But others were hot with censure, and he deserved it. He was Judas Iscariot, leading an innocent to the slaughter.

He didn’t look anywhere but forward, not even when his wife squeezed his hand. If he looked around, Anne’s green eyes would be his undoing.

She, of all the others, knew the struggle he’d endured, how hard he’d tried to quiet the voices of his royal ancestors. She understood that he wanted to do the right thing for his sweet palomita, too—for Celeste, the little English dove who’d be betrothed to his son Damian this day—and how he despaired that he couldn’t avoid sacrificing her.

He stared straight ahead. The lawyers droned on, clarifying the points of the betrothal, detailing the financial aspects of Celeste’s dowry and the gifts of both the English and Spanish kings. Occasionally they asked him questions. Alejandro answered in a voice so flat he was amazed it was his own.

It was almost unmanly, the way he felt. He wished he were able to stride to the front and rip the gaudy clothes from his son’s back, snatch that horrible ring from the girl’s hand, proclaim everything a mistake.

But his kinsman the Spanish King, and Celeste’s kinsman the English King, had decided upon alliance. And kings made no mistakes.

Alejandro thought of past sins and the judgement of God. Maybe his withered legs and acts of penance had not been enough. Maybe he must now suffer this guilt to expiate the blood that stained his soul.

Alejandro stared straight ahead and tried to find comfort in the familiar smell of ancient stone and burning wax. He would make it up to her. He damn well would do that. Celeste would bear his family’s noble name.

Small comfort, that, but maybe soon there’d be a child with her dark eyes and copper curls, with her fiery spirit and affectionate heart. And he, Alejandro Castillo, would make sure that whatever his son Damian might do, the young wife and child would never need a single thing.

Only when he thought of that could he endure the scene before him—the rigidity of Celeste’s delicate shoulders, the shaking of her fingertips when she reached for the quill, the way her eyes looked—too wide, too dark, too solemn.

Padre Francisco had scarcely pronounced the official words of betrothal when the chapel doors were flung open with a loud crack, startling Alejandro from his uneasy thoughts.

Midday sun flooded the dim sanctuary, harsh and hurtful. Men rushed in—large men, burly men, a cadre of men whose faces were partially covered and who brandished weapons towards the startled people sitting motionless in carved pews.

“Don’t move, any of you!” shouted one who strode to the front. “We’re here to prevent this damnable alliance with that filth-ridden vermin who calls himself King of England! There are still men in Spain—men, I tell you—who’d rather slit their own throats than ally with ill-begotten English refuse!”

Alejandro heard Anne’s gasp, and knew her eyes flashed fire to hear her English countrymen so defamed. He looked around and gave her a warning frown, knowing it would help but little.

He wheeled his chair forward, ignoring the swords which immediately swung in his direction. “What is your purpose here?” he demanded.

The leader laughed, a grating and unpleasant sound, and moved towards Damian. Another minute and the tip of the brigand’s sword pressed into the richly brocaded vest his son wore. Damian winced at the pain, his eyes narrowing.

Alejandro knew fear then.

“What would you do?” he asked again.

The man gestured. Damian was surrounded by men with weapons. Their leader lowered his sword. His lips twisted; one brow lifted above eyes that mocked. “I’m doing what I must.”

He turned to Celeste and bowed. “I almost regret, little English señorita, that I deprive you of both your lover and your wedding.”

As if in a dream, Alejandro saw the sword being raised behind his son’s back.

He pushed his chair forward before he thought, his hands jerking at the wheels, his callused palms hissing against smooth wood. Men rushed towards him like a wave, their features a blurred turning of hard lines and bared teeth, their words lost in the explosion and flash of pain behind his eyes, and he was falling, tumbling into darkness…