Читать книгу Tempted By Innocence - Lyn Randal - Страница 8

Chapter One

Don Alejandro Castillo had wicked eyes. Pirate eyes. They were blue, like the Mediterranean, and intense, like the Spanish sun. They could skewer a soul on the keen edge of a cutlass.

In real life, those eyes always softened when they looked at Celeste Rochester, but in her dreams the night before they had not.

“Don’t fail me, palomita. Find my son,” he’d said, his eyes dark with intensity. “Find Diego and bring him home to me.”

“I will,” she promised, knowing how great was the need. She sincerely meant and sincerely believed every word.

Such was the power of the dream.

It was harder to have such faith in herself now, released from the night’s magic and staring across a smooth expanse of blue sea towards the isle of San Juan Bautista in the Spanish Indies.

This was her destination. Somewhere on that island was the man she sought. Diego Castillo, her betrothed’s identical twin.

A shadow fell across her and she looked up. “Barto,” she breathed, her hand involuntarily moving to her chest in surprise.

Her companion bowed slightly. “I frightened you. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

Celeste smiled at him. He was a bit frightening—or at least he had been when she’d first met him. She supposed his fearsome aspect was the point, however, since this old friend of Alejandro Castillo had been charged with her protection.

Celeste never doubted Barto’s ability, not after having seen him. He was African, a Moor converted to Morisco, a man black of skin and firm of muscle and probably the largest person Celeste had ever seen in her nineteen years. His voice thundered; his arms and thighs fairly strained the seams of his clothing. He handled a variety of weapons with the ease of long practice. Yet, for all his great size, Barto’s face usually held a pleasant, almost amused expression whenever he looked at her.

He turned that expression towards her now as his hands rested lightly on the ship’s wooden rail. “Are you all right, señorita? There is a scowl between your brows that gives me pause. I almost feared to break into your reverie.”

She smiled at his gentle humour. “As if you’d have aught to fear from me, Señor Gigante.”

She nodded towards the isle they could see in the distance. “I confess to feeling anxious. Tomorrow we will go ashore and, God willing, we shall find Diego Castillo. I worry that he won’t be easily convinced of our need. I worry that I won’t be successful.”

Barto turned to face her, taking both her hands into his and raising them, one at a time, to his lips. “Ah, señorita,” he said softly as he lowered them again. “If I were you, I’d be far more worried that I would be.”

Celeste hardly slept that night, so nervous was she over the task she faced the following day. Instead, she slipped quietly on to the deck and listened to the crew from the shadows as they laughed over their games. She would write down snippets of their conversations in the journal she kept for her six-year-old brother, Jacob. She felt guilty about her months away from him, and writing had become her way to share all she’d seen since leaving England for Spain four months before.

She’d already sent him one book filled with the daily stuff of her life. It contained her early days with Alejandro and Anne Castillo, pleasant days for her, as they’d awaited the return of her betrothed from sailing aboard one of the vessels with which his family’s fortune was made.

Now she walked the decks of La Angelina and wrote of far more adventurous things, wanting Jacob to experience with her the taste of lemons and salt seaspray, each glorious sunrise with its chant of morning prayers, and the mournful song of the guitarra beneath a dark sky full of stars.

She didn’t write of her fears when the fresh morning dawned. Instead, Celeste tried to ignore her emotions as they rowed in towards the first Spanish settlement on the isle.

Caparra. Even the settlement’s name sounded exotic, the Rs rolling deliciously against her teeth like waves rolled against its beaches of white sand.

Captain Jones had smiled when she’d said as much. “Nay, señorita,” he’d said with a shake of his head. “You must harbour no romantic illusions about this place, even if the name is a hopeful one, for it means blossoming. This isle is fair, to be sure, but the living conditions are primitive. The settlers are men of adventure, busy mining the wealth of this land. They are second sons, my lady.”

He’d noted Celeste’s puzzled expression. “Second sons. The younger sons of the hidalgo. Unable to inherit the fortunes of their fathers, they strike out to achieve their dreams by whatever means necessary. And some of those means have been brutal. Nay, señorita. This land holds promise, but for now little comfort.”

Celeste had seen that for herself once they entered the settlement. The buildings were wooden, with roofs of thatch, even the miserable building that advertised itself as the inn and tavern, where they now headed to make enquiries.

As they waited outside for the Captain to conduct their business, Celeste looked about with growing discouragement. Everything was dirty and in poor repair. Roads were few and of thick, dark mud, rutted from the hooves of horses and wheels of carts. The sparse shops had the same tired aspect as the rest of the settlement. Celeste could only imagine how poor their selection of merchandise must be.

Only one building was constructed of stone and stood out from the rest. “The home of the Governor,” Barto said, leaning close. “Governor Ponce de León had it built well, for he anticipated problems with Diego Colón, son of the Admiral. They both laid claim to the title of governor.”

“Has there been trouble?” Celeste asked.

“Aye, a bit, though the Crown kept violence from erupting by choosing Ponce de León over Colón. But the ill will lingers between the two men yet, or so I hear.” Barto made a sweeping gesture and faced her with a sardonic grin. “And all for this nondescript mudhole where the mosquitoes will either kill you or make you wish for death.”

Padre Francisco joined in, his lean, ascetic face animated. “Ah, but the mud glitters here, Barto, don’t forget that. The promise of gold has made many an old friend into an enemy.” He shrugged. “Though that promise, too, has proved a disappointment. Little gold has been found, despite the blood spilled for it.”

Celeste nodded, wondering about Diego Castillo and his reasons for coming to this land. It couldn’t have been the desire for gold, not with all his parents’ great wealth. But he’d come. Why?

She had far too many questions about Diego Castillo. It had seemed odd that she’d lived among the Castillo family for months and had never heard of this twin brother until Damian’s abduction. Even then, his parents had seemed strangely reluctant to talk about this mysterious twin.

Ten years. He’d been gone for ten years. What kind of man would not return to his family once in ten long years? She feared the answer to that question.

The Captain soon returned with good news. “The Saviour has seen fit to bless us today, my friends,” he said. “One within knew our man. Diego Castillo lives on an encomienda nearby. You can find your way there before nightfall.” A look of pleasant surprise passed between Barto and Francisco.

Celeste nodded, tension strumming through her gut. He was here. She’d found him. Even before sunset of this very day she might have met Diego Castillo and explained her need. She prayed he’d be willing to help, already half afraid that he would not. And yet she had to convince him. There was so much at stake. She’d try anything, promise anything. Almost anything.

The narrow streets of Caparra were primitive, but Celeste soon realized things could be worse. The rutted courses of mud which passed into the countryside made even the puddled streets of the town seem decent by comparison.

Now the cart had stuck again. This was the third time they’d halted to push the cumbersome vehicle out of sucking mud. Celeste climbed out with a groan of frustration, lifting her skirts nearly to her knees without care for propriety. Padre Francisco took up the reins while Barto eased his way through the muck to put his strong shoulder to the back of the conveyance. “Hettie,” Celeste said, turning to her maid. “While the men push the cart out, I need to relieve myself. There in the forest. Nay, don’t climb down. You’ll soil your skirts. I won’t go far.”

Hettie nodded. “Be careful, love. And hurry. It shouldn’t take long to get the wheels on solid ground again.”

Celeste entered the gloom of the trees with trepidation. This island was so lush that she expected to find herself in a tangle of underbrush. Surprisingly, the trees grew tall and the forest floor was passable. She sought out a sheltered place to answer nature’s call, then looked around at the beauty, so different from the forests of England, even more vastly different from the dry plains that surrounded Seville. Curious, she eased farther into the wood, smiling at the coolness, enjoying the heady fragrance of vividly coloured tropical flowers. She breathed in deeply, comforted by the scent of vegetation, of rich, moist earth and…water?

She moved forward and soon heard the roar. Moments later she stood on an outcropping of rock, looking down at a froth of rapids below. She sighed with disappointment. She’d wanted to cool her skin, wash her face. But the water was too far down and much too rapid.

She held her place for a moment, mesmerized. As she turned away an exquisite blossom nearby caught her eye, vibrant pink with streaks of peachy orange. She thought of Jacob. He loved flowers. He’d often picked bouquets of daffodils for their mother.

Jacob needed beauty. The physicians had said so. He could have it if she pressed this unusual bloom for him. Maybe she could reach it. It grew on a vine only slightly above her head. She swiped at it without success.

She tucked her lower lip between her teeth and tried again. Her fingertips grazed the delicate blossom, but it remained stubbornly out of reach. She jumped, then jumped again, realizing just as she snared her prize that the earth beneath her feet had shifted, carrying her towards the edge of the cliff on a rolling wave of pebbles. The blossom was crushed, then lost in a nightmare of blurred motion. She sought anything to grasp—vines, roots…nothing! There was no solid earth beneath her feet, only the tumbling of slippery rock and the edge, the very thinnest edge, of the cliff overlooking the water.

She fell in slow motion, her arms winding like fragile windmills, her body tipping forward even as her mind screamed. No! Oh, dear God, no!

She saw water beneath her before she plunged into the soundless depths of it. For a moment she hung within it, then rose again into sound and air. Down, up again, constantly shoved between the deep green-blue of the river, the green forest, the blue sky.

The current caught in the heaviness of her skirts. She was hurled forward into white froth, then dragged below into dark silence.

She bobbed up, gasping. Stones slammed against her ankles and her elbows, and scraped roughly against the tender pads of her fingertips. She screamed as she was flung towards a huge boulder. Somehow she managed to avoid it. She was sucked backwards into the eerie silence of water, then just as quickly rushed forward towards turbulence again, helpless to stop herself from hurtling downriver.

I will die and no one will know. Oh, God, don’t let me die.

Then, as if God had truly heard the petition, someone was there, someone of flesh and blood with strong arms. Someone made of warm muscle and sinew. Those arms lifted her, pulling her through the noiseless depths and through the froth, pulling her up into air and light and sound. Masculine arms closed tightly about her.

They reached the bank, dripping. Celeste could only cling to him, burying her face into the throbbing pulse of his neck—shaken, trembling, aware now of a thousand chaotic sensations. The tendrils of her hair clinging to his skin. The prickling of scraped places. The heavy breathing that meant she lived. And the breath of her rescuer, hot and harsh against her neck.

He spoke to her in Spanish, in between gulps of air. “Está bien?” he asked.

She could not answer, not yet.

He shifted her slightly in his arms so he could see her face. “Está bien?” he repeated, the tone more worried, more forceful.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gasping. “I don’t speak much Spanish.”

“Are you all right?” he asked, in her English tongue, the enunciation clear but accented in a heavy, sensual way that made something burn within her. Or maybe it was the voice. So deep. So rich with concern.

“Aye, I’m fine,” she managed to say between gulps of air. She pushed her hair out of her eyes.

Celeste wasn’t sure what she noticed first, whether it was the rigid planes of his jaw or the clear blue-green of his eyes—eyes that could have been made of river and sky and trees. Eyes filled with a kindness that made her ache, that seemed somehow familiar, though she couldn’t recall when she’d ever seen eyes so warm before.

Or perhaps it was his hair, tawny gold and so long it touched his shoulders, or his warm breath against her wet lips. Maybe it was the strength of the arms that cradled her, the thudding of his heart, the firmness of his muscle against her body… She wasn’t sure which impression struck her first and most vividly—or if all of them were there simultaneously…as if, in the aftermath of surviving, she could only sense and feel and exult.

It made no sense, the emotion that flooded her. She wanted to reach up and twine her fingers into his long hair, to pull his lips to hers and taste him, to hear him moan inside her mouth and to feel his lean body press itself against hers. It made no sense, what she felt for this man who seemed familiar but wasn’t. No sense at all, but yet…it was there.

She made no move, said nothing.

She only let herself breathe and feel his breathing, too, until finally the strong rhythm of lifeblood ebbed and she could speak without gulping at air. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t swim well.”

“Certainly not in all these clothes.”

He’d not meant the words to be provocative, but, cradled as she was in his arms, his chest bare and warm against her cheek, she felt such strange stirrings. She couldn’t contain the heat which speared her, beginning a burn in the pit of her stomach and igniting a fire that flamed in her cheeks.

As soon as he’d said the words, lust bolted through Diego. He hadn’t meant to conjure the image of her as a forest nymph, sliding naked against his skin in sensuous water, but that image had somehow been there, full-blown. Dear God, what had he done?

He looked down at her—a girl, he’d thought her at first, for she was quite petite. But, no, she was a woman. An ethereal woodland fairy with rounded curves outlined by wet, clinging garments. A fantasy, with delicate features and long, long tendrils of coppery hair. With eyes large and dark and warm as earth. She was glorious, and he couldn’t halt the desire that savaged him. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t needed it or wanted it, but it had come.

And—God help him—she must soon know of it, for he could not hold her cradled in his arms for ever. When he put her down, her dainty feet to the forest floor, she would see then that he wore nothing. And all his explanations about his interrupted bath, all his apologies that his linen towel waited on the rock behind them…none of that would explain the swollen heat of his loins, the arousal she could not avoid seeing. Lord, have mercy.

The woman looked up at him and their gazes locked.

For the moment, she couldn’t seem to find her voice. She could only lick at lips moist and inviting. She seemed to concentrate on words—such poor, poor substitutes for the nebulous something other they both truly wanted.

Words. Think. Words. He could see her struggle to find them.

Words finally came, forming themselves slowly into coherence. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You saved my life.”

He had as much trouble speaking as she. His eyes traced her features, then fastened upon her lips again. “My pleasure. ’Twould have been tragic to lose you.”

The words were simple, and such as any courteous man would have said. But spoken as they were in that richly accented voice, Celeste felt her heart trip. She didn’t want to leave the comfort of his arms. She wanted to pull him closer, wanted his warmth to enfold her. The thought was so powerful it frightened her.

“Are you not weary of holding me?” she asked. “Perhaps you should put me down now. I’m sure I could stand. The fright has passed, I think.”

A strange expression crossed his face, almost as if he winced. His eyes became the deep, deep blue of stormy seas, filled with something akin to regret. He dutifully eased her to her feet.

It took a moment for all the details to register. Her eyes were reluctant to leave the rugged beauty of his face.

Soon enough the realization came.

He stood before her in naked splendour, his body tall and finely sculpted. His shoulders were broad, his chest firm, his waist and hips trim, his legs straight.

He was beautiful, so beautiful, with the austere and spartan beauty of a man, with angles sleek and chiselled, with every muscle defined. To look at him made her ache at the careless majesty of his form. He watched her eyes, standing motionless beneath the scrutiny. His own dark azure eyes held concern.

Her first impulse was to step forward, to place her palm against his chest, to feel his heart thudding against her fingertips, to touch him. And then, because the impulse was so natural, so strong and so exquisite, she turned and she ran.

“Wait!” she heard him call. “I can explain! Wait!”

She looked back only once; he’d found a towel and was trying to wrap it around himself to follow her. But she knew what her wicked heart had desired of him, and that such a desire could never be. And, because she knew that, she bent and lifted her sodden skirts over one forearm and ran as if her virtue depended upon it.