Читать книгу Tempted By Innocence - Lyn Randal - Страница 9

Chapter Three

Celeste dressed for dinner early and, having time to spare, decided to explore the lush gardens of the courtyard and beyond. They were lovely past anything she’d seen before, even though the sisters in the convent where she’d studied had kept beautifully tended gardens of herbs, with captivating masses of English roses thrown in for sheer beauty. Sister Maria Theresa had smiled once when Celeste expressed delight over a particular bloom. “The Lord gives us all things to enjoy,” the nun had said. “He means that we find communion with him through the wonders of his creation.”

Now Celeste pondered that. She could see how the beauties of blossoms and butterflies and birds, of mountains and rivers and trees, could lead her heart towards a sweet communion with the Almighty.

But the most magnificent beauty she’d seen of late had been the etched muscle of a man, a man with long hair of tawny-gold and eyes of turquoise-blue. And that beauty, she had little doubt, would only lead her further from God’s virtuous path.

She thought again of the priest’s words. She must put the man from her mind. To think on him would lead to folly.

Yet she didn’t want to put thoughts of him aside. She’d never known desire, not until today. Oh, she’d let a suitor or two kiss her lips, and then had wondered what was so wonderful about it that lovers would brave discovery, the displeasure of their families, and even death itself, to experience the wonders of love. Kissing had been distasteful, to say the least.

After trying it, she’d had little interest in more intimate matters. Such things had seemed vulgar and common. So she’d come to the age of nineteen with her virtue intact and little knowledge or concern for what occurred between a man and a woman in their coupling.

Even when she thought of being married, she never considered the actual act of consummation. Marriage meant running a husband’s home, directing his servants towards profitable enterprises and seeing that his children were well trained. That was the role of a woman. Celeste hadn’t imagined actually lying with Damian Castillo.

She fingered the bright fuchsia blossom of a vine which covered the wall, and then sank miserably down onto the bench beside it.

She tried to remember Damian’s face from the one time she’d met him, just prior to their betrothal ceremony. She wanted to think him handsome, but the leer in his eyes and the sneer of arrogance that turned his lips had made him less than attractive. She couldn’t imagine he’d be tender or gentle with her inexperience.

And yet the priest had told her she’d feel desire for him, that she must concentrate on him until that desire came.

The only thing she could imagine coming was a deepening disgust.

Now Celeste admitted her truest feelings. She was not uninterested in love or carnal matters, nor had she ever been. She knew—had somehow always known—that there would some day come one whose touch would stir her passion.

That man had come along this very morn, a man with eyes so warm she’d wanted to fall into their depths, with a form so tall and lean she’d wanted to memorize every hard angle of it. She envisaged herself kissing him and quivered with the imagined taste of him on her tongue.

When she thought of that man, she knew she couldn’t do what the priest asked. The priest was wrong. She wanted to know that man, not forget him.

She arose, a new plan forming. She would ask in the village for a tall, golden-haired Spaniard with eyes sometimes blue and sometimes green, a Spaniard with a knowledge of English and a voice rich and deep. She’d find him.

A soft clearing of a throat behind her made her shift around on the bench. “Barto,” she breathed. “It’s you.”

He moved forward until he looked down upon her, his expression soft.

She extended a hand. “Sit down here with me. I wish to talk with you.”

Celeste paused, thinking back over their voyage. At first she’d been wary of the big man, of his size, of his fierce demeanour. But he’d shown her his true self when she’d become seasick, along with Hettie and Padre Francisco and nearly half the crew. Barto had shown incredible gentleness with her then, holding her as tenderly as a child while he forced ale down, one swallow at a time.

When she’d recovered, he’d sensed her boredom and brought out books. Her eyes must have widened with anticipation, for he’d laughed. “Not all of these are in English, señorita. There are some in Spanish, too, so you might learn the tongue of your betrothed’s homeland.” Barto had seemed to enjoy her squeal and excited hug.

A few days later, when the books in English had all been read and the struggle to learn Spanish had begun to weary her, he’d brought out another gift, a simple tunic top and a pair of zaragüelles, the wide trousers worn by the sailors, sewn small enough to fit Celeste’s petite frame.

Celeste remembered Barto’s grin when she’d emerged from her quarters a short while later dressed like a seaman, her hair in a single braid down her back. “No mariner ever looked as good in those breeches as you do now, m’lady. The boatswain will have a hard time keeping the men’s minds on their duties today.”

But he’d introduced her to José Lorca just the same, and the boatswain had soon begun letting her perform duties with the rest of the men, although she’d suspected they saved only the easier tasks for her. She had grown proficient at knowing the workings of the ship, the names of its complicated machinery, and the tasks of the sailors. While Hettie had complained that no proper lady should become as golden brown as Celeste was becoming, Celeste had enjoyed the sun and the salt and the smell of the sea.

Barto seemed to know her heart, her very heart, and she gravitated towards his company. Barto was patient, and let her tag along behind him. He taught her how to knot ropes. He taught her how to play poque. He taught her sea ditties, even though a few were so ribald that she couldn’t sing them for laughing. Padre Francisco had censured him for that, but Barto had merely grinned at Celeste. She’d smiled back. A friendship had been made.

So now, as Barto took his place beside Celeste on the bench, she knew she could ask him the questions that burned in her heart. “I want to talk, Barto,” she said. “There are things I need to know, and I trust you to tell me.”

Barto raised an eyebrow. “What things?”

“I want to know more about the Castillo family. I sense…I don’t know. Something amiss, perhaps.”

Barto didn’t reply.

“I grow uneasy, although I can’t say why. On the surface, naught seems out of place. And yet…”

“Don Alejandro was right in what he said about you, that you possess a keen intelligence to go with a lovely face and exquisite form. He cares for you. You remind him of his own dear Englishwoman, his beloved Anne. Like her, you are warm, emotional, the kind of woman he’s always wanted for his son.”

“He said that?”

“Sí, señorita, he did. And, coming from Alejandro, that’s a compliment indeed. In all the years I’ve known him, he’s never been one to carelessly give affection. Anne won his love and she’s worthy of it. But you…you’ve won his heart in a different way altogether.”

Celeste smiled. “I like Don Alejandro. When I came to Spain I was anxious about what I would find, whether I’d be welcomed by the Castillo family, and whether I’d find my future husband an old man, plagued by gouty legs and a pox-kissed face. But Don Alejandro and Doña Anne were kind, and Damian…well, he’s not old and not gouty, and if his face has been kissed, then ’twas not the pox which did it.”

Barto laughed. “You’re pleased to marry him, then?”

“I suppose.” Celeste shrugged a delicate shoulder. “Our two kings favour the match.”

“Aye, but you still have the final decision. No man, not even a king, can force a maiden to wed. With your wealth, you could remain unmarried if you so chose.”

Celeste toyed with a blossom. “I need this marriage, Barto.”

Barto met her gaze. “The Castillo family needs you, too. Alejandro and Anne long for a grandchild. An heir.”

Celeste sighed. “So this marriage will be done and the alliance made, if we’re successful in this venture.”

Barto frowned. “I don’t think we will be. I doubt Diego will be aboard our vessel when we return.”

Celeste’s breath caught. “Is he such a churl, then?”

“Nay, no churl. Not he. He’s the most upright of the Castillo family. I doubt he’ll be party to the deception, whatever the cause of it, whatever the worth of it.”

“Upright? More upright than even Don Alejandro?”

Barto laughed, the sound booming across the courtyard and down the covered porticos. “Especially Don Alejandro! You don’t yet know Alejandro Castillo well enough.”

“No?”

Barto grinned, crossing his massive arms in front of his chest. “Let me clarify. Alejandro’s a good man. He always has been. But he’s also been…unorthodox at times.”

“He doesn’t seem so to me. Quite the opposite.”

“He’s changed. Most men do over the years. Today he’s upright in his dealings, gives faithfully his alms to the poor and his tithes to the church, serves God and country with zeal, turns away from sin. Such was not always the case.”

“That’s often the way of a man in his youth. My own father was a rake until he met my mother.”

Barto smiled. “Ah, but there are rogues, and then there are rogues. And Alejandro was definitely one of the latter. Aye, and worse than a rogue.”

He faced her squarely, one eyebrow lifted as if he challenged her. “He was a pirate. A corsair of the Barbary coast, preying on foreign vessels and making his wealth from the misfortunes of his victims.”

Celeste’s eyes met Barto’s and saw the truth in them. He studied her carefully, waiting for indignation or outrage. She gave him neither.

She knew. Somehow she’d always known. There was something about Don Alejandro that spoke of fierceness, of boldness, of a wildness never tamed.

She looked away, plucking at the petals of the bloom in her hand. “A pirate. Did he kill people?”

“Only such as needed killing.”

Celeste frowned, trying to resolve her conflicting images of Don Alejandro. “Then the accident which left him crippled… It was not an accident, was it?”

“Nay, señorita. He was injured in a fight for an Italian nao loaded with rich cargo. We won the vessel, but our good captain lost his legs, injured by the blade of a scimitar against his spine.”

“We, Barto? You were there?”

Barto bowed slightly. “Aye, Pirate Barto at your service, m’lady. I was steward aboard Alejandro’s vessel, chosen as much for my size and the fierce aspect of my countenance as for my ability to read and cipher. Who among Alejandro’s seamen would question the quality of the rations if I’d purchased them? What man dared question his share of the captured loot if I meted it out?”

Barto thumped his chest. “I was—and am—loyal to Alejandro. He lives today because I fought my way to his side before a hideous, pockmarked Italian could finish the job of killing him. Yet I do try to be an honest man, señorita, and will not portray your future father-in-law as anything but what he is, a sinner struck down as a man in his prime, humbled by fate or Allah or God, or perhaps by whatever wickedness led him to such a vocation in the first place.”

Celeste pondered that. “Doña Anne told me not to feel sorry for him.”

“I agree. Alejandro was humbled, but he wasn’t debased, for he’s a man of intelligence and energetic will. He’s not one to bemoan his tragedy. Indeed, I doubt he gives much thought to it today.”

Celeste studied the huge Negro’s face. “You admire him, don’t you?”

“I do. There’s much about him which is admirable. Even as a pirate he was never without honour.”

There was companionable silence for long moments, each staring at the soothing fall of water in the fountain, or the riot of blooms or the shifting patterns of shade beneath the trees.

Celeste finally broke into the quiet. “Tell me about the sons. Give me the truth, plainly spoken. I’m convinced there’s much I’ve not been told.”

“What were you told?”

“That they were twins of like appearance.”

“They are similar in looks. Or at least, they were. What Diego’s appearance is today, I cannot know.”

“Are they similar in their personalities as well? Damian seems…” She struggled to express her fleeting impression. “He seems well-mannered.”

That much she could say in truth. He had been outwardly courteous, attending flawlessly to minding her chair, even though she suspected he’d used it as an opportunity to view her bosom from above.

Barto laughed, but the short sound was almost bitter. “Wellmannered,” he said dryly. “Aye, he’s well-mannered. Anne would have seen to that.”

“You don’t like him very much, do you?”

“I despise him. And now that I’m fond of you, I would that you weren’t pledged to him.” Barto quirked an eyebrow. “That’s the truth, plainly spoken.”

“Why do you dislike him?”

“Dislike? I didn’t say dislike, señorita. I said I despise him. I’d almost say I hate him, and not merely for what he did to Diego—”

Celeste held up a hand. “Hold there. What did he do?”

“It’s past, and not my story to share. For now, I’ll say merely that your novio, señorita, is a self-centred fool who’s cared for naught but wealth from his youth. The injustice is that he was firstborn and thus the heir, for he’ll never become half the man that Diego was without even trying.”

Celeste looked down. The jewels of her betrothal ring glittered in the filtered sunlight, mocking her. Tears sprang to her eyes. All her reasons for marriage suddenly seemed weak and illogical. “This man is to be my husband?”

Barto frowned. He took her hand into his larger one. “Don’t despair. He’ll not do you harm. There are those of us who love you. We’ll insist he treat you kindly, even if he’ll never love anyone but his own miserable self.”

“I don’t wish to marry such a man. Help me, Barto. Help me know what to do. I’ve learned to trust you in spite of what Padre Francisco tells me of your heathenish ways.” Her mouth quirked up. “Or perhaps because of them.”

Barto smiled and rubbed her knuckle with his thumb. “I’m honoured to have earned your trust. And now trust me in this. Alejandro and Anne already love you. They’re growing older and deserve an heir to carry on the Castillo lineage. Theirs is a very noble, very honourable name, and your children will do well to receive it. For their sakes, and for the peaceful union of our two countries, you will marry Don Damian and you will get an heir by him. But once that is done you can forget the bastard even exists.”

“Is he so awful, then?”

Barto looked away. He didn’t answer for such a long time that Celeste wondered if he’d heard the question.

He turned finally, with an expression both tender and sad. “A heathen I may be, my lady, but even heathens know when the time comes to pray. And I will pray for you that God might intervene and grant you happiness. If anyone deserves it, you do.” He dropped a kiss upon her forehead and left her alone to ponder in silence, staring past the gentle fall of water into the shadows beneath the trees.

Don Ricardo Alvarez was a generous host. Celeste could hardly believe the great quantity of food and drink he’d placed before them. She smiled at the thought that even Barto’s great hulk must claim satisfaction after such a meal, and Padre Francisco would probably need to ask forgiveness for succumbing to gluttony.

Not only was the fare ample and delicious, but Don Ricardo was an excellent host. He had appeared early to escort Celeste to the table, his doublet and hose of silver contrasting nicely with his tanned skin, blue eyes and black hair. He spoke to her in English, though very poorly, and, since Celeste had learned but a little Spanish, they managed to converse in awful broken phrases heavily punctuated with much laughter.

They strolled through the garden on the way to the large, well-furnished dining hall, and Celeste told him with mispronounced adjectives how lovely the flowers were. Don Ricardo obliged her by picking some of the more exotic blooms and giving her the bouquet, even taking one and tucking it behind her ear. Celeste might have thought the attention flirtatious, except that with Don Ricardo it didn’t seem so. Instead, he seemed friendly and kind.

The others had not yet arrived, so he took her into the kitchen and introduced her to Maria and Pablo, a Taino Indian couple in their mid-thirties. He explained in slow, careful English that Maria was his hostess and Pablo his overseer.

“Their names—no Maria, no Pablo—no true. I call this, for names true are words of Indians, words hard, hard to say,” he explained.

Maria smiled shyly and pointed to the blossom in Celeste’s hair with a chuckle. Ricardo then spoke in Spanish. He’d learned that Celeste understood it much better than she spoke it, and he was obviously tiring of his losing struggle with English.

“Maria smiles because I’ve placed a blossom in your hair,” he said. “I hope I did it right.”

“Did it right?”

“Aye. There’s a very old custom of flower courtship here on this island. If the flower is placed on the right, it means one thing. On the left, it means another thing. In the centre, something else entirely.”

Celeste reached up to feel the bloom. “It’s on the right. What does that mean?”

“Ah, now, there’s the problem. Being a man, and not the romantic sort, I can never remember the details. It either means you’re available to become someone’s lover or it means you’ve found a lover and look no further. I hope I put it on the correct side.”

Celeste laughed. She couldn’t resist the mischief in his expression. “Which do you think would be the correct side, Don Ricardo? Do I need a lover? Or have I already found one?”

He studied her with amusement. “You’re far too attractive not to be pursued by lovers already, doncella. However, if you should some day find yourself without someone to call your own, then I stand ready to take up the task.”

“Don Ricardo,” Celeste said with a smile, admitting that, as he was probably only around thirty years of age and handsome, he had undoubtedly practised his courteous phrases on many a willing maiden. “I see you’re a rascal, and a flirtatious one at that.”

He laughed and raised one eyebrow. “Rascal? The word hardly does justice to my misdeeds, señorita, but I’ll let it pass since you don’t yet know me well enough to have learned of them. But come, our other guests are arriving. Shall I escort you to the table?”

Now, as they attended the meal, Celeste listened to the lively banter around the table, most in Spanish too quickly spoken for her to follow. Occasionally, however, Don Ricardo sensed her boredom and, like a worthy host, slowed his speech or changed to her tongue to include her in some particularly comical story.

Celeste noted, however, that beneath his polished mien and jovial manner he seemed uneasy. He kept glancing towards the door as if expecting someone. Indeed, another plate had been placed on the table but had so far remained unused.

They were nearing the end of the roast suckling pig with its glazed fruits when Don Ricardo stood suddenly, looking past the open door into the corridor. “It’s about time you got here,” he said, not pretending to hide his displeasure.

A shadowy figure moved closer to the entrance. “I’m sorry, Ricardo, but the Indian couple who live down near the river bridge lost their baby this afternoon—an early birth, the child too small to live. I went to comfort them and to offer prayer and last rites. I was necessarily delayed.”

Don Ricardo’s displeasure softened. “Well, come in and eat,” he said, gesturing, and the priest entered the room.

Celeste had been looking down at the food on her plate, but when the man entered she raised her eyes to greet him. Her heart stopped beating. It couldn’t be. Not him.

Ricardo looked around and raised his hand towards his guests. “Nay, don’t get up. I can make the proper introductions without hindering our meal. Permit me to introduce the priest who serves my encomienda. He’s also my good friend. For you, though, he’s the end of your quest—the gentleman you seek, Padre Diego Castillo.”

Celeste could not breathe. She looked around at the others, only to find soft amusement on Barto’s face and a startled, almost pained expression on that of Padre Francisco.

Her eyes travelled over him quickly. No wonder he’d seemed somehow familiar. He was her betrothed’s twin. They had the same height, the same hair colour, the same blue eyes. But there the resemblance ended. Her betrothed had short hair and a full beard. Diego’s hair was long and streaked by sun, his tanned face cleanshaven. He lacked the arrogant stance and ostentatious clothing of his brother, and his eyes were far kinder. And, of course, when she’d first seen Diego he’d been thoroughly wet and completely nude, and her mind had been in such disarray that she hadn’t been able to put the facts together.

Even now she could barely register them all—that the priest before her was Diego Castillo, the other son of Don Alejandro and Doña Anne. And that he was also the naked stranger who’d rescued her from the river, the man whose warm eyes and warm skin had awakened her to passion. The one whose voice had made her insides quiver with sensual feeling. The one she’d heard in the confessional chamber.

And the one who’d also heard her. All about her.

She sat very still, letting the facts settle. He remained in place across the table from her, watching her with that same concerned expression he’d had earlier.

“Sit down, Diego,” Don Ricardo said in a firm voice.

Diego did not sit. He stared at her, willing her to look up at him. Celeste felt his eyes, felt their odd intensity.

She did look up, but only to focus her attention on Ricardo. “I wonder if I might be excused,” she said. “I suddenly feel unwell and need a little air.” Then, without hearing a reply or waiting for one, Celeste escaped the room.

Diego caught her just outside the doorway, capturing her slender wrist with a firm male hand. “Don’t run away from me,” he said.

Celeste, startled, looked up into his face. It was determined and firmly set, his blue gaze intently fastened upon her face. Her throat went instantly dry.

“We must talk,” he said quietly. “Come with me. The chapel is nearby and will give us the privacy we need.”

Celeste looked back towards the open door of the dining room and saw that every pair of eyes in the room had fastened with interest on them. Don Ricardo’s face held slight humour. Barto and Padre Francisco’s a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “I would be unchaperoned,” she stammered. “That would not be proper.”

Some of the intensity fled Diego’s face, replaced by a hint of amusement. “Perhaps not proper if I were a handsome gallant bent on your seduction. But I think a maiden might visit a priest at any time without fear of ravishment.” The corner of his lips gave in to the temptation to smile. “Wouldn’t you agree, my lady?”

It was difficult to answer him coherently. Her mind had snagged on the word ravishment. That word, mixed with his nearness and the intense blue of his eyes, had set her nerves to quivering. There was too much between them, even here, with every gaze turned in their direction. Too much heat. Too much fascination. Too much desire.

There was desire. Oh, yes. Celeste knew she wasn’t supposed to feel it, or even be comfortable with it, but at this moment she didn’t care. She’d always been far too headstrong and impulsive, had always had to labour to contain her natural urge towards spontaneity.

But now, standing in the corridor with Diego’s warm fingers capturing her wrist, the wildness in her soul reasserted itself, and she plunged headlong into feeling.

“Come with me,” he repeated. “Tell me why you’ve come from Spain to seek me out.”

Celeste nodded absently, trying to remember again exactly why it was she had come. She’d practised a speech to deliver to him, one that enumerated all the reasons he should return with her. She’d known it by heart only an hour ago, but now could not remember one single word.

She vaguely heard Diego make their excuses, and just as vaguely heard Ricardo’s reply, before Diego led her away through the heavy carved doors and into the courtyard.

Her senses were suddenly alive. The short trip across the paved courtyard became a dream of sensation. The night air was cool and a bit damp, heavily scented with the fragrance of flowers…and man. Diego’s warm, soapy essence was new to her, and more pleasant than she’d anticipated. His hand left her wrist and moved to the small of her back as he guided her towards their destination. He touched her lightly, courteously, but her entire body vibrated to the warmth of those elegant fingertips. She’d never been so aware of anything as at this moment, with primitive energy humming through her.

And he was a priest. She reined in her madness and focused on that, on the coarseness of his dark robe, on the glinting of his silver crucifix in the moonlight. Diego Castillo was a priest.

But, goodness, he was an attractive priest. The maleness of him called out to her, made her flush with desire, made her wish… No, she would not consider any such thing. She was already bound by oath to another, and this…this was utter madness. Her mind coiled around her fascination and captured it. She was here for one purpose and one purpose only: to convince her betrothed’s twin to return to Spain. Only then could she procure the marriage she needed. She needed this marriage.

That thought sobered her. By the time they entered the heavy doors to the chapel her limbs had ceased their trembling. Her mind had calmed. Maybe now she could concentrate on the business at hand.

The chapel was lit by one single candle near the altar which threw golden glints of light up towards the wall where a silver Jesus hung on his silver cross. The edges of the room were cloaked in comforting shadows. Celeste glanced up at the ceiling’s thick hewn beams, and breathed in the familiar smell of wax and incense.

Their footsteps seemed too loud in the quiet, as if she and Diego somehow intruded upon the serene and sacred.

Diego seemed not to notice. Instead, he led her down the aisle to a carved pew bathed in the golden circle of light.

Good, this is good, Celeste thought, glancing around. Surely being in a holy place would help contain the giddiness of her emotions. Surely the nearby death throes of the Saviour and the close presence of the Virgin Mother would remind her of all she’d ever been taught of honour and purity.

But she swallowed hard when Diego swung with lithe grace into the pew beside her and seated himself so near that their thighs almost touched.

She knew the most intense urge to cross herself.

Mercy. God, have mercy.

Odd how she’d never thought of blue eyes as being warm before. But now she felt bathed in concern, baptized in compassion, heated from the inside out by this man’s green-blue gaze.

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “I should have made myself known to you in the confessional this afternoon. I’m sorry I did not.”

Heat flooded her face. Her gaze fled from his direct appraisal.

He took her hand in a gentle gesture of reassurance. The contact burned her skin, so that she almost gasped at the touch. “I considered it, you know, not wanting to hear your secrets, but…well…” Celeste felt rather than heard his sigh. “You had seen me as few others have.”

At the hint of amusement she thought she heard, her eyes darted back to his face. The corners of his lips twitched, and she knew he laughed inwardly at himself.

She suddenly wanted to taste those lips, those handsome lips. He would taste so good. Almost she could taste him now. His manly fragrance was all around her. She inhaled it with every breath. He would taste like that smell, that warm and erotic smell, like soap and sandalwood and male, clean and elusive.

Celeste breathed in deeply and forced her gaze away from that slight smile. The lace on her sleeve became suddenly fascinating. It was quite intricately wrought, with such painstaking handiwork…

Diego waited for her to speak. She sensed his rapt attention on her face, felt his amusement slowly change to concern. His thumb began to stroke her knuckle, an unconscious act of comfort on his part, but to Celeste an eroticism almost unbearably intimate. She pulled her hand away from beneath his, and felt his frown deepen into a scowl.

“You are angry with me?” he asked.

She shook her head, not quite trusting her voice.

“You feel betrayed, then?”

She drew in a deep breath, regretting it immediately when his gaze fell to her breasts as if she bade him there. He caught himself and looked away quickly, but not before she’d seen the blue gaze deepen to the darker azure of desire.

“Nay, not betrayed by you,” she said. “You did only that which was required to preserve your dignity and my own. If I have been betrayed, then it was by my own wicked thoughts. I did not know you were sworn to God. I would never have… I would not… Oh, sweet merciful Jesus! To know I felt such things…and for a priest!”

She buried her face in her hands.

There was silence. It stretched between them, long and rife with tension.

She lowered her hands, but could not meet Diego’s gaze.

“I have sinned against God and against you. Please forgive me, Padre.”

He did not answer immediately, but startled her by rising from the pew abruptly. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be back. Wait.”

He was gone only a short while. When he returned, Celeste saw that he was no longer in his robe, but dressed as any ordinary man in the simple fustian tunic of a common labourer, the garment loosely belted over hose and boots of soft leather.

The clothing was coarse, but clean. Simple, but attractive on him. It made his shoulders appear broad, his hips narrow, his legs long and powerful. His hair was casually rumpled, palest gold where the tropical sun had kissed it, more honeyed where it lay against his collar. His skin was dark, his teeth startlingly white against the bronzed glow of his face. He was cleanshaven and his chin had a cleft.

He was so handsome it hurt.

She almost wished he’d put the robe back on, so she could think of him as a priest and not be so aware of him as a man.

He took his place once again in the pew and smiled at her. “There now. Let’s forget for the moment that I’m a priest. Could you and I not talk more freely if I were merely Diego Castillo?”

She nodded.

He turned so that his body faced hers. “Then, as Diego Castillo, I must be completely honest with you. What happened between us at the river…that was an uncommon thing for me. Not your rescue, my lady. I don’t mean that. I speak of the emotion which passed between us, and of the carnal feeling that accompanied it.”

Celeste’s face grew warm, not from the embarrassment which should have met his words, but from the provocative memory of his beautiful body.

Diego saw her face redden and immediately halted. “I’m sorry. I am too bold.” He drew in a ragged breath and raked lean fingers through his hair. “Yet I know of no other way to make this right. Will you give me leave to speak forthrightly? My in tentions in doing so are honourable.”

“I doubt them not.”

Diego’s gaze found hers, intense and beautiful. “You freely confessed your sins. As Padre Diego, I was denied the opportunity to do the same. But please understand this, Lady Celeste. If you sinned in that moment on the riverbank, you were not alone in it. I reacted purely as a man. My thoughts towards you were wicked and impure. I wanted—”

He broke off and looked away, the muscle in his jaw tightening. “You wished to lie with me as I would have lain with you?”

Diego closed his eyes. “Yes. Forgive me. I repent such thoughts.” He opened his eyes and met her gaze. “I do repent them.”

Celeste nodded.

In truth, she repented nothing. Not one moment could she regret; it had been a wondrous thing. But she understood Diego’s need to do so.

She also saw that they must put that moment of pure lust behind them if she were to accomplish her other aims. Should Diego think for one minute that passion could flare between them again, he would never board a ship bound for Spain and spend weeks of sailing time in her near presence.

She smiled, meeting his anxious expression with gentleness. “I cannot claim to be a scholar of the Holy Word as you are,” she said softly, “yet I know that carnal temptation is not sin until consummated. We were created man and woman, Don Diego, and our bodies whispered this obvious truth to us in a moment of weakness. But naught came of it, so let us not consider it again.”

Diego studied her for a moment, his intelligent gaze taking on a new admiration.

He lifted her hand to his lips. Celeste tried not to shiver visibly beneath the onslaught of fresh desire. “You are as wise as you are beautiful, señorita, and I am in deep gratitude of your kindness towards this humble priest.” He lowered her hand, though Celeste continued to feel the warm brush of his lips across her skin.

There was a brief silence. Celeste studied the ornate carvings behind the altar, acutely aware of Diego’s large body beside her, and of his thoughtful expression.

She was startled by low laughter.

“Forgive me,” Diego said with an amused lifting of one eyebrow. “But it occurs to me that perhaps I am taking myself far too seriously. I don’t believe you came to this isle for the express purpose of falling into a river so that I might rescue you.”

She smiled. “No. I did not plan that.”

He stroked his chin and feigned a serious look. “No? A pity. Such a startling introduction, and, alas, none can take credit for it!”

At her answering laughter, Diego abandoned his sombre expression and grinned. “You did, however, come to this island in search of Diego Castillo. Tell me why.”

Celeste’s stomach did an urgent roll. She’d come to the moment of decision. Success or failure would be met in a matter of moments.

“I came to ask you to return to Seville with me.”

Diego’s face registered momentary surprise, quickly contained and changed to a certain wariness that she sensed rather than saw. “Return to Seville? Why?”

She’d prepared for this. She’d practised a speech. But where was it now?

“Because I need you.”

It was a pitiful argument, and she should have expected a snort of disdain or disbelief. Instead, his expression softened the slightest bit. “You need me, señorita? Ah, and I am such a heartless beast if I can refuse your winsome face. Please explain.”

“Your brother and I were to make a marriage of alliance, arranged on behalf of the Kings of Spain and England by Cardinal Cisneros himself.”

“And have you met my brother?”

“Yes, but only briefly, just before our betrothal ceremony. He was at sea during most of the three months I lived with his parents—your parents—prior to that time. I cannot claim to be well acquainted with him. He was taken before we had further opportunity to learn of one another.”

“Taken by whom?”

“No one knows for certain. There are several factions in Spain who resist the efforts of your king to establish friendly relations with England. They are growing stronger, gaining strength all the time. The fear is that their constant agitation will ultimately lead to war.”

Diego frowned. “The situation is a grave one, then.”

“It is, indeed. Your father is anxious that these criminals should not appear victorious. They would gain further support from the people. For now, his gold has bought secrecy. Few are aware that Damian has been taken and the proposed alliance delayed, but the secret cannot be held indefinitely.”

Celeste met Diego’s gaze. “We need you. If you return to Spain and play your brother’s part, the intent of Damian’s abductors will be foiled. It’s even possible the charade may secure Damian’s release. If the marriage is accomplished, with you standing proxy, they will no longer have reason to hold him.”

“This is why my father sent you?” Diego’s scowl did not bode well. Celeste wanted to plead with him, already hurting over the rejection she anticipated.

“Yes,” she said. “He feared the dangers, but I begged him to let me come. My desire to wed is great. I trusted the outcome to no other.”

Diego’s gaze sharpened. “What does this marriage mean to you?”

She drew in her breath. She hadn’t expected this question.

Everything. This marriage meant everything.

But how could she explain? The story had begun so long ago, and had grown so convoluted. Even she didn’t understand all the intricacies and intrigues of it.

Her father had been a kinsman of King Henry. In younger days the two men had shared deep affection and similar notions of what was best for the country, but gradually their ideas had diverged, until finally they had been in sharp disagreement.

Those who were kind and thoughtful of Celeste and her younger brother, Jacob, called the carriage accident that had taken their parents’ lives a tragic misfortune. Those less respectful bandied about the words murder and traitor—though in her heart, Celeste would always believe her father had acted on his highest principles, heedless of possible consequences.

That belief had enabled her to endure the subtle ostracism of society. Believing that had led her to stand over the newly turned earth of her parents’ graves and vow that she would somehow restore the honour of her family, for Jacob’s sake. For Jacob, and for his earldom, and for the name Rochester, which he would always carry, she hadn’t protested when King Henry had made Thomas Rochester’s orphaned children his own wards. Later, when an alliance had been proposed, she’d sensed how dear it was to King Henry’s heart, and for Jacob’s sake she had agreed.

Certainly she didn’t want marriage for herself. Her father had left her half of his great wealth, so she would ordinarily have been in a position to choose for herself the ultimate course of her life. She could have remained unmarried, and probably would have done so. But there was Jacob, and the doctors said…

The doctors. So many doctors. And all in general agreement as to the cause and cure of Jacob’s malady.

Her brother had not spoken one word since his parents had died.

Time had passed, the grief had dissipated, but his tongue had not been loosened. Jacob, with his sweet angelic face and golden halo of tousled curls, still remained locked in his own world, unable to find his way out.

The doctors were convinced he needed the kind of life he’d known before the accident. He needed beauty, and peace, and the love of a family to free him of his fear and insecurity.

Celeste had hoped marriage to Damian Castillo might be the means to provide those things.

But now Damian was gone and she needed Diego. Without his help there would be no marriage and no family and no secure, happy life for Jacob.

Diego watched her face, awaiting her response.

“This marriage means everything to me,” she said simply.

His eyes narrowed. “Is it money?” he asked. “Do you lack wealth and seek marriage for that reason? Because if it is—”

She cut him off with a low growl. “No. That is not my reason.” She drew in a deep breath. “Will you help me?”

Everything in Diego recoiled at the simple question. Everything about this felt wrong to him. But Celeste’s eyes were so anguished, so dark with secrets she would not share with him. He couldn’t explain why, but he was reluctant to hurt her with blunt refusal.

He gently turned aside her question with one of his own. “What is my brother’s appearance now?”

Celeste’s face grew hopeful, and he could have cursed at himself for his carelessness.

“His hair is short, not long as yours is. Where you’re clean-shaven, he wears a full beard and moustache. His clothing is ostentatious, costly and elaborately embroidered, and he favours the codpiece, after the English fashion.”

“He would.”

Diego was silent for a while, his mind churning and yet feeling strangely numb. “My father knows I hate deception.”

His hands clenched and he made a harsh sound. “But he also knows I owe a debt. Dear Lord God, he knew I’d have to do this.”

Celeste looked relieved. “You’ll return with me?”

Diego turned, studying her face. Did she not understand? Did she not care? What he was being asked to do went against all he knew, all he felt. And he felt too much in this moment, too much pain, too much guilt, too much desire.

Celeste did not meet his gaze; he wondered what was in her thoughts. What did she want? What did she feel?

As if to connect to the mystery that lay behind her veiled eyes, Diego took her hand. The contact was so potent it burned him, a sweet living hell, her fingertips trembling against his.

“I know not what is best,” he whispered. “I don’t want Damian to have you. Not you.”

Their eyes met. Diego couldn’t look away. Her lips were close. He could almost taste her breath. He watched in helpless fascination as her lips parted. Her tongue flicked out to moisten them.

“You don’t?”

“Nay,” he said softly. “I don’t.”

She waited for more, but he could say no more. How could he tell her what he knew—that it would be a savagery to put an innocent like her into the lair of the wolf? Damian would take her without mercy, use her up, bend her to his will by deceit or by force, whichever served best. He would show no concern for her.

Even without words, Celeste must have discerned his thoughts. Her eyes filled with tears.

Diego was surprised by the feeling that came over him then, a fierce protectiveness, something primitive and feral.

Her eyes—so warm, dark as night, dark as the secrets of a man’s soul. He stared down into them, feeling a decade of anger rip him apart like a wolf’s claws.

He gave in to his darkness, drew her into the pain. He pulled her across the pew and into his arms. He kissed her.

Her mouth was as sweet as he had known it would be, as tender and hungry and eager. As innocent as Eden and as wicked as sin, all at the same time, and worth every moment of the guilt he knew he’d feel.

He tasted her long and deep before he finally pulled away, his body throbbing with what he’d done.

He stared at her, consumed by darkness and guilt, willing his breath to come again, and wishing he wore his robe still, so he could hide the effect of his desire.

He ran his fingers through his hair and looked away, towards the silver crucifix which adorned the wall above the altar. “I’m sorry,” he said, without looking at her. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Then he stood and walked out.