Читать книгу Wicked Whispers - Tina Donahue - Страница 10

Sancha tried to concentrate solely on Maria, as she should, but kept failing to do so. With the child quiet for the moment, Enrique’s presence was too potent for her to deny. Each time she glanced over, he regarded her, his gaze thoughtful rather than possessive or filled with disdain.

She bathed Maria’s face to keep her cool. He drew near, watching the child, then her. The moment Sancha sank to her knees and gathered the soiled napkins, Enrique joined her, seeing to the task.

Turned to Maria’s mother, he lifted his hands filled with filthy linen most nobles would have been loath to touch. “Where should I put these?”

The woman was far too concerned about her daughter to answer him. Maria’s uncles sat on the floor, backs against the walls. Their heads repeatedly fell forward. They flinched each time and tried to stay awake.

Seeing no receptacle for rubbish, Sancha held out the sack she’d brought. “Use this.”

After dropping the napkins inside and washing his hands in the pot, he pulled a chair over and gestured to Maria’s mother. “You should rest.”

She regarded him gratefully, tears in her eyes.

Enrique placed his hand on the woman’s arm, guiding her to sit. “Maria will be fine.”

He brought the other chairs over and offered Sancha one. “You should also relax while you can. Maria may need you later.”

Sancha didn’t argue. Her shoulders and legs ached with tension even as weariness washed over her. After tending the ill, she always experienced crushing fatigue driven by her intense concentration over their maladies, coupled with worry that she wouldn’t succeed in keeping her charges alive and whole.

The moment she sank to the chair, Enrique grabbed two clean napkins and dampened one with vinegar.

She couldn’t imagine what he was doing and hoped he wasn’t planning to treat Maria.

He dropped to one knee in front of Sancha. “Give me your hand. Either one, as I intend to see to both.”

She buried her fingers in her homespun shirt. “My hands are fine.”

“You hurt them. How?”

She wasn’t about to say until he glanced at the table, its rough wood possibly the source of her injury. “Whilst I was at the castle collecting the items I needed for Maria, I moved too quickly and tripped. Not wanting to drop anything, I scraped my hands on the kitchen wall.”

He accepted her lie without challenge, taking great care in cleansing her fingers with the vinegar. At the first sting, she winced. He blew on the hurt, easing her pain.

Moved by his tender care, she curled her fingers around his.

After giving her a fast smile, he used his dagger to cut the other napkin into strips and wrapped the linen around the scrapes to protect them from further damage.

“You should take more care with yourself.” He knotted the last strip. “You know what an injury can do.”

Her hands weren’t her biggest concern. Her future was at stake, and yet she wanted him more with each passing minute. Already she’d allowed Enrique far too many liberties with their relationship. As she would a husband who had the right to follow her, remain here, and see to her physical comfort.

How pleasant she found his touch. He was a good man. Certainly chivalrous. But he wasn’t her destiny. People like Maria and others in this village were. They needed her more than he ever would. There were countless women who’d want him, giving him heirs.

Too few saw to the needs of the ill and poor.

“Gracias.” She eased her hands from him and gestured to his chair. “You should rest.”

With a sigh, he sat. “This evening has been long.”

She smiled. Given his stricken expression earlier, she was surprised he hadn’t swooned as the child had. Although the scene had disturbed him, he’d kept his peace, affording Sancha the same right to do what she wanted as he would a man.

Because no vows bound her to him. He had no right to demand anything. Yet he had helped. Wanting to reward him for his kindness, she left her chair.

He stood. “Where are you going?”

She pointed at the table.

He sank back to his chair, let out what sounded like a relieved sigh, but remained alert.

Perhaps she was too hard on him. She leaned down to Maria’s mother and kept as quiet as possible. “May I take a piece of your bread?”

“Of course. Let me get it for you.”

“Stay with your daughter.” She patted the woman’s thin shoulder and made certain to take a modest piece of the loaf.

Once seated, she offered the bread to Enrique. “Given how little you ate at the gathering, you might get hungry.”

His face lit up with such delight, she might as well have offered her heart rather than such meager sustenance. A thread of disquiet along with too much desire filled her. She warned herself not to let him believe he’d have what wasn’t possible.

He broke the bread in two, giving her the largest portion. “You barely ate either.”

His size, heat, and scent hadn’t allowed her an appetite, the same as now. She warned herself to refuse his offer.

His warm smile defeated her. In taking the bread, their fingers brushed. She came alive instantly, in a way she hadn’t before, her skin exquisitely sensitive to even the lightest touch, making her want more of whatever he could give. “Gracias.”

He didn’t seem to notice how her voice trembled. He ate his bread eagerly, like a man starved or one who’d never tasted anything better, marking this as one of the happiest moments of his life.

She’d never enjoyed an evening more.

They were losing control and Sancha wasn’t certain how to remedy the matter. She couldn’t ask him to leave when he’d been so kind and giving. Daunted, she nibbled her bread, unable to swallow a large bite.

“Would you like water?” He glanced around. “I can fetch some fresh.”

“You have no idea where the well is.”

“I can ask.”

“Or I could gather my own. Some for you too.”

“And leave your patient to do so?”

What was the matter with her, forgetting the child again? Maria still rested, eyes closed, breathing steady as her mamá stroked her hair. “I need nothing to drink.”

“As you wish. If I may say so, I believe you will make a magnificent mother.”

She grew hot, cold, then hot again. “What?”

Unfazed at how she’d blurted her question, he leaned close. “You knew what to say to Maria in order to calm her as much as circumstances allowed. You were kind yet strong, doing what you must. She trusted you.”

“She wanted her mamá.”

“Only because she had yet to spend enough time with you.”

Sancha might have laughed at his outrageous praise but couldn’t. Like most men, he had no idea how children felt or thought, forgetting the time he’d been small and helpless. “I could spend an eternity with the child and she would still prefer her mother, as I would mine. I miss her greatly and will never forgive myself for not being able to save her.”

He glanced away for a moment then faced her again. “Fernando told me what your uncle had done to your parents. He never mentioned you ministering to your mamá.”

She’d done everything possible to save her and had failed, the poison her uncle used unknown to her. There hadn’t been enough time to prepare and experiment with her own remedies. “Mamá succumbed so quickly, I barely had the chance to do anything.”

“How awful for you and your sisters.” He touched her fingers. “I am so sorry.”

Her throat tightened. She turned her hand to cup his, then stopped, worried he might misread her intentions. “No one was sorrier than I that my few skills were no match for Mamá’s illness. I may not be a man with all the knowledge the world offers, but I will do what I can and more. Never again will I lose a person I love.”

He stroked her thumb, then rested his hand on his thigh. “Where have you learned these things? Surely, someone other than those in the order taught you. The nuns I know have never been as skilled.”

She lowered her face. If his words had come from another man, they would have sounded like an accusation of witchcraft. How she wished to live in a different world where women’s lives weren’t made unnecessarily difficult. Forcing them to hide their feelings, tell lies when truth would have served better, and to always wear fear as men did their sense of privilege.

Weary of having to pretend to be someone she wasn’t, and to prove to Enrique why he shouldn’t woo her, she faced him. “As the nuns know little and physicians would have been suspicious of any questions I might have had, I learned most of what I know from books.”

“Books taught you this? Whose?”

“Mine.” There were also the experiments she’d mentioned earlier.

He glanced quickly at the adults, then leaned closer to her. “Will you show your books to me? I can come to your castle whenever you find a visit convenient.”

“The books are elsewhere.”

“Oh. Do you bring them with you when you travel?”

She laughed softly. “Even the strongest man would have difficulty carrying dozens of volumes. A woman would have no chance.”

“Where do you keep such a collection?”

She was afraid to say.

He sighed. “Do you trust me so little?”

She already believed in him too much, captivated by his integrity, the way he listened to her, and his presence. If there were such a thing as sorcery, he’d been working his spell on her from the moment they’d met.

She kept yearning to be closer to him, feel his heat, and enjoy the taste of his lips again. A stray crumb on the corner of his mouth fascinated her, urging her to lick the morsel away, feel his beginning stubble against her tongue, cheeks, and fingers.

She had to stop thinking such things. “Isabella’s.”

“Isabella’s what?”

“She has my books at the castle.”

“Fernando’s? Why?”

She regarded the wrappings on her hands rather than him. “Should anyone question my actions and send the authorities for me, a search of my castle will yield them nothing, especially my books. Whatever happens—”

“Nothing will. Not to you.”

She slumped. “The books will still be safe and available to another woman.”

“Why are you always worried about everyone else rather than yourself?” He leaned toward her, gripping the seat of his chair. “Why do you insist on putting yourself in such danger?”

She gestured to Maria.

He fell silent. She did too, her fatigue too great to resist. Closing her eyes, she kept alert to any sounds Maria would make.

The girl was blessedly silent, allowing Sancha to recall the celebration, the thrill and worry of having Enrique next to her. Their moments on the balcony. His concern and kindness here, followed by his quick anger when he believed she was careless with her safety.

She had no choice. Death wouldn’t wait for the world to grow fair for everyone. She had to do what she could while there was time. Endless people needed saving, their health and lives restored. She pictured her patients recovering only to grow ill once more. Inquisitors nearby, watching, waiting, ready to pounce.

A hand rested on her arm. She flinched and struggled to open her eyes, her lids gritty with sleep.

The child’s uncles lay sprawled on the floor, one snoring loudly. Maria’s mother still watched over her daughter, the child’s face slack with slumber, no pain etching her features.

Sancha stifled a yawn.

“We should go.” Enrique squeezed her arm gently. “You need real rest in a bed. Twice, I had to keep you from falling off your chair.”

He had? “I feel fine now.”

“Will the child heal faster if you force yourself to stay awake so you can watch her sleep?”

She refused to smile at his teasing. “You know she would not, though a vigil is comforting.” She straightened and tried to shake off her fatigue. “Maria’s uncles are clearly too tired to see me back to the castle. They need their rest. I have no intention of disturbing them.”

“I agree. You and I can ride together on my horse.”

“No.” To have him pressed to her was more than she could allow.

“I see. Have you suddenly lost your desire to defy convention or was I correct that you trust me so little?”

She didn’t trust herself. She’d proven how weak her flesh was when they’d been on the balcony. To have the excuse of riding behind him would prove too tempting, her hands roaming his chest, firm belly, thighs, the area between his legs.

She shook her head. “We both risk injury if you fall off your horse because you need sleep.”

“I have never been more alert and will protect you.”

He would undo her resolve as surely as the sun rose each morning.

Before Sancha could counter him, he left his chair and approached Maria’s mother. “Will you be able to care for your child when she awakes?”

“Nothing will stop me.” She turned to Sancha. “I remember everything you said I should do. If Maria needs you again, I promise to send word.”

“Never speak of what happened here to anyone,” Enrique said. “Do you understand?”

She drew back at his suddenly harsh tone. “I know what trouble gossip can bring, and so do the others in the village. They too may need help someday.” She glanced at Sancha. “You saved my daughter’s life. I owe you my own. No one will ever make me betray you.”

After embracing the woman, Sancha checked the linen covering Maria’s wound. Everything was as it should be. With naught to delay her, she followed Enrique outside, her heart pounding. The coming dawn tinted the horizon orange, pink, and pale blue, colors that seemed more vivid this morning than they had on any other day. A soft breeze shooed away the acrid smoke, replacing the stench with the scent of vegetation and Enrique’s delightful fragrance.

Giddy with anxiety and excitement, she locked her knees to keep from swaying. He offered his hand.

She didn’t slip her own inside. “If you mount first, you can easily help me up so I can ride behind you.”

“And have you tumble off my steed if you fall asleep? What kind of a protector would I be to allow such a thing?” He dragged his hair off his forehead where the wind had blown it. “I can see to your safety far better if you ride in front of me. No arguments, as I gave you none during your time with Maria.”

No wonder he’d been so agreeable, figuring he might use his actions to sway her at some future point. “Any protests you might have made would have angered the child’s uncles and her mother.”

“I fear no one’s fury except yours. Especially if we reach the castle in full light with the guests seeing how we ride.” He pointed at her shirt. “And how you dress.”

Darkness was definitely her friend.

She allowed him to help her mount. He settled behind her, his muscular thighs pressed close, stiffened shaft nestled against her buttocks. She gripped the saddle horn to steady herself. Her pulse throbbed even harder.

With too much ease, he held her to him and left the village.

The men guarding the community lifted their pitchforks in farewell. Enrique bowed his head in acknowledgment, his heated breath skipping across her cheek.

She turned into him without thinking, reckless need racing through her until she curbed her feelings. Sitting straighter, with her back barely touching his chest, she searched for something to discuss. She sensed her experiments would hold his full interest and would open a flood of questions she wouldn’t want to answer. Speaking about Maria seemed safe, until she considered him asking how many other times she’d stolen into a village to treat a peasant.

Better never to address the subject.

He settled his mouth on her ear, his lips heated and soft. “Are you comfortable?”

She was about to lose control. Her heart walloped, and perspiration ran down her spine. She dug her nails into the horn and willed herself not to ease closer to him, her desire and self-control battling with longing determined to win. She made a noise that sounded wanton to her.

He leaned over, his face close. “What did you say?”

“Why did you warn Maria’s mother?”

“What? Warn her? When?”

His admonition to the woman had surprised Sancha and gave her something to speak of other than his thumb stroking the area directly beneath her breast. Her belly fluttered. “You told her never to mention my visit. Why would she? I helped her daughter.”

“You exposed yourself to gossip.”

She waved her hand. “A woman invites scandal if she breathes too deeply.”

“Make light of this if you will, but did you ever consider how miraculous your healing appears to others?”

She twisted to look at him. Even in the wan light, his forelock stood out within his dark locks. His handsome features and hooded eyes seemed slightly dangerous, completely male. “My intent has never been to amaze anyone but to offer what relief I can.”

“Your intent hardly matters. There are many who would insist your healing powers are so great you gained them from something other than the books you read. Namely, Satan. They would also suggest if you have the means to heal, you can also use your talent, power, or whatever you want to call it, to destroy.”

Although she was well aware of how foolish and cruel people could be, having him state the matter made her belly cramp. “Do you think so of me?”

“You know I never will.”

“Nor do the peasants.”

“Until you fail them, which you will at some point, as you are hardly God. When one of them dies in your care, the others may begin to talk, accuse, and want revenge. Have you ever considered such an outcome?”

She’d been so intent on helping others, she hadn’t considered the aftermath of failure. “If your intent is to dissuade me from healing—”

“I want you to understand the possible consequences of your actions. As a wealthy woman, you have much to lose to the inquisitors. All they need is a reason to confiscate what you own in the name of saving a sinner. Rumor says many innocents face accusation so the inquisitors can enrich themselves. Powerful men have gotten rid of their wives by claiming those women were witches. Nobles can easily dispose of rivals with false allegations. If the tribunal succeeded in accusing you, men would search every part of your body for witch marks and perhaps rape you in the process. Even if you lived through such horrors, death by strangulation or burning alive at the stake would be next. For what? To practice your healing?”

“To save others. Am I to live my life in fear or do what I must? If an enemy were to come to Spain and threaten her, what would you do? Flee to save your life or fight to spare others?”

He sighed. “The situations are hardly the same.”

“They are precisely the same and you know it.”

He lifted his face to the sky. The ridge in his throat bobbed with his hard swallow. “You and Isabella…”

“Me and Isabella what?”

He looked at her. “Never have I met women like you.”

She inclined her head slightly to concede his point. “Now you understand why I said you must find another more in accord with your needs.”

“I want no one but you.”

“Enrique.”

He’d cupped her face, his thumb skimming her bottom lip. Her mouth tingled. Her breath spilled out on a wanting sigh at the tenderness and desire in his expression.

He reined in his gelding and lowered his mouth to hers.

She couldn’t fight him. Didn’t want to. The night was perfect for love, their attraction too intense, his kiss soft and searching at first then filled with raw male need, his tongue slipping into her mouth.

Sancha sagged against him, suckling his tongue as though she’d been born for the task, loving his clean flavor, his strong caress.

With the reins in one hand, he eased his other beneath her shirt, fingertips grazing her skin, hand cupping her naked breast.

She should have pulled away, told him to stop. Trembling with unbearable need, she opened her mouth even more to his tongue, inviting him to invade her deeply, intoxicated by his scent and strength.

Emboldened by her willing surrender, he dragged his thumb over her nipple, making the tip even harder. She ached for him in a way she couldn’t deny. All her life others had told her how sinful lust was. For her to avoid it at all cost. A woman’s purity was worth more than love. Passion could fade in a moment. Chastity alone proved a female’s honor the same as valor did with a man.

She’d never doubted those truths, having rarely thought of them until now.

Within Enrique’s embrace, she was complete for the first time, even though they had no future. Somehow, this moment and a few others seemed enough. On some level, she knew her sentiments were wrong. A better woman would fight for what was right, denying herself and him.

She gripped Enrique’s thigh, not wanting him to stop. Her touch seemed to excite him even more. He tore his mouth free and lifted her shirt, exposing her breasts to the ebbing moon and night air. The cool breeze skipped lightly against her feverish skin. His mouth was hot and damp on her throat. After he’d kissed her thoroughly there, he leaned over, straining to latch onto her nipple. Sancha faced him as much as she could, unable to deny what they both craved.

He claimed her breast, running his tongue over her areola and tip, suckling each.

The folds between her legs grew damp with obsessive need. All she could think about was lying with him, his chest nestled against her breasts, shaft buried deep within her belly, skin touching, breaths mingling.

She cupped the back of his head, her fingers buried in his thick, silky hair to keep him close.

He laved her nipple, drawing a sound from her that she didn’t recognize. The noise sounded too base, raw with desire. She curled her toes and pushed into him, trying to get closer. He seized the opportunity to squeeze her other breast, using her thoroughly.

She allowed the pleasure, lost in his embrace, the lusty promise of his strength and heat. Forever wouldn’t be enough to sate her passion. Another moment was out of the question. The horse shifted its weight again, impatient to move on.

Straightened, Enrique gulped air like a man saved from drowning. Sancha was so lightheaded she gripped his arm for support. Still panting, he kissed her cheek, ear, hair, shoulder.

“You should always wear a man’s shirt.” He stroked the fabric.

She laughed, surprising herself. “What if others see me do so?” She gestured to the horizon, sun spilling its first rays across the fields, groves, and forest.

He swore. “We should have left the hut earlier.”

They shouldn’t have stopped to enjoy each other. Rather than point out the obvious, she pulled the shirt over her breasts and settled properly on the saddle, surprised she hadn’t fallen off during their passion.

She was doomed whenever they were close. He’d spoken of her having magical powers granted by the Devil. What of his? A woman had no hope of keeping her wits when faced with his seductive touch.

With the horse at a gentle speed, he slipped his hand beneath her shirt once more, enjoying her breasts as though they were his to do with as he pleased.

She had to stop this.

He rolled her nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

She released her weight into him. He eased the shirt from her neck and kissed her there, rewarding her carnal surrender.

She trembled with delight and more than a bit of worry. “People can see.”

“What people? No one else is on the road.”

“Ahead, at the castle.” She lifted her hand to show him what she meant. He was so busy nuzzling her neck, he couldn’t have noticed. Again, she drove her fingers through his hair, anchoring him to her.

Several moments passed before he lifted his face from her neck and rested his chin on her shoulder instead.

She smiled at the weight of his head, liking it.

“Who would be up at dawn when they drank and feasted throughout the night?” Before she could answer, he ran his tongue over her lobe, tickling her.

She giggled. “Stop it.”

“Why?”

This was so wrong. She twisted around to tell him. Something moved in the corner of her eye. Facing the castle, she squinted, trying to see the balconies more clearly from this distance. They appeared empty now but she could have sworn someone had been on the one to the left, watching her and Enrique before moving away.

He tightened his arm around her waist. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Should I stop kissing you?”

The fact they weren’t betrothed or wed and would never be came to mind, though Sancha wasn’t about to get into such a discussion now. “I saw someone.”

Enrique pulled his hand from beneath her shirt. “Who?”

“Isabella?”

He leaned over her shoulder to see her face. “You seem uncertain.”

“She moved before I could see her clearly. Who else would be up worrying about our return?”

“From what I can see, your sister’s only worry is our never being together.”

She chose to ignore his comment. “We need to get inside before full light.”

On a loud sigh, he prodded his horse to a faster pace.

The stable boy and house servants pretended not to notice her odd attire. They bowed graciously, kept their tongues, and continued with their duties.

Knowing the castle design, she avoided any possible crowds by darting toward a back stairway that led to her bedchamber. Halfway down the hall, Enrique grabbed her hand.

She looked over. “What?”

“Show me your books.”

“Now?”

“I want to see them.”

Male and female voices drifted from another hall. Not wanting to find out if they belonged to servants or guests, she hurried down the corridor, gesturing for Enrique to follow.

She stopped at a hidden door. Colorful mosaics matched the rest of the wall, concealing this entrance, the same as the one she’d fled through last night. Before she pressed the seam to open the door, she removed two candles from their holders, lit the wicks, and handed the spare to Enrique.

The scant light turned the darkness a dismal brown as they descended a stairway cut into the earth. Here, packed dirt pressed close, smelling dank, cooling the air.

At the bottom of the steps, she pointed. “This way.”

He grabbed her hand, mindful of the linen strips he’d wrapped around her fingers. “Take care not to hurt yourself again.”

His concern was so genuine and unnecessary, she wanted to throw her arms around him, giving her all.

She nodded instead, leading him through a narrow passageway, the oppressive quiet broken by skittering sounds. Mice she had yet to catch. The creatures had served her well in the past, even though Isabella found any vermin appalling.

She’d argued against Sancha using this space for her books, thinking it too grim. Nonsense. The area was perfect, hidden from prying eyes. Even if something happened to her, the volumes would always be safe.

She stopped in a surprisingly large room, guessing the Moor who’d owned this castle had kept prisoners here. Rusted chairs rested on the floor. Bolts studded the walls at intervals sufficiently high to hold a man’s arms above his head, low enough to shackle his feet.

Enrique bypassed those items, stopping at the lone chair and long table, her volumes stacked on top. She had so many the wood was no longer visible beneath her books.

He put his candle in a holder, picked up the first volume, and turned page after page, his handsome features slackening with shock. “This is in Arabic.”

“Some are in Latin. I can read both languages.”

“This volume is on Islamic medicine.”

She put her candle into a holder. “All of them are.”

He stared as if seeing her for the first time with the image not pleasing him. “This is heresy.”

Her spirits fell. Although she hadn’t expected him to understand fully or to grin in delight, she didn’t want him to be so intolerant.

She joined him and stroked her books as she would a beloved child. “This is knowledge.”

He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Sancha, listen to me. What you have here are from Spain’s enemies.”

“No.” She pushed his hands off her. “Physicians penned these books centuries before our birth. How can they threaten you, me, or anyone else in this country?”

“I concede those men pose no menace now. However, their ancestors did and the generations that follow still do.”

“Then hate them, not those who wrote the books. What they discovered is beyond compare and saved Fernando’s life, arm, and leg. When his wounds infected, I learned how to treat them as I had Maria’s in order to save both of them. Not because of Spain’s physicians, the Church, religion, or custom. Because of Zakariya Razi. Rhazes to those who honor him.”

She gestured to the great man’s book. “Reading his work opened my eyes to so many possibilities. Men need not go lame, blind, or die needlessly if someone knows how to treat them. Rhazes’s people established medicine far surpassing what we know. A famous tale relates how he determined where to build a hospital for the community. He had meat hung in various locations around Baghdad. The spot where the carcasses rotted the least was the one he chose, because he knew what caused illness.”

She circled the table and lifted a cage with mice inside. Three fat ones eyed her, noses twitching. “I experiment on these creatures wherever I am, testing what my books claim. Thus far, all holds true. The potions and treatments these men discovered centuries ago help us now. How can that be wrong? Would you have preferred I let Fernando die?”

“Of course not.” He threw up his hands. “But this…”

“This is the future. Spain may keep its people from knowing anything so miraculous but the rest of the world will never stand still. They will move forward as we mire ourselves in unending battles and for what? A piece of land? A castle? What about people? Do they have no value except for your family?”

He frowned. “You matter.”

“Then try to understand why I do what I must. How important this is to me.”

“I can see that. You rage like a madwoman.”

“Perhaps I am.” She turned away. “You should leave.”

“Without you? Never.”

She crossed to the other side of the room before he could reach her. “You have no claim on me.”

“Not yet.”

Frowning, she looked over.

“Study what you want.” He made a sweeping gesture to take in all her books. “Experiment on whatever creature appeals to you. Heal when you will.”

Surprised at his comment, she softened her stance. “Truly? You believe in what I do?”

“You give me no choice, and I give you none. From this moment forward whenever and wherever you heal, I intend to accompany you as your protector.”