Читать книгу Loving Lies - Tina Donahue - Страница 9

This was madness.

The fakir was actually a virile Spanish knight who could juggle hot coals without burning his flesh, breathe fire without blistering his lips, and whose presence Isabella enjoyed, wanting still more, despite him being Sancha’s betrothed.

Could this be any worse?

It could. Twice Isabella had tried to tell him who she was and failed because she simply couldn’t betray Sancha. Her gentle sister longed to live out her days at the convent, to be free of marriage so she could indulge her curiosity about potions and poultices as the nuns did. Sancha was a healer, a dangerous undertaking for an unmarried woman who might face the Inquisition unless she used her skills within a religious order. Sancha wanted only to help others rather than being used to birth heirs. Fernando de Zayas, on the other hand, was fully prepared to wed and bed Isabella because he mistakenly believed she was Sancha. And why not?

Many years had passed since he and Sancha had been in each other’s company. During their one encounter, Sancha had said she’d fought tears while he never once looked at her.

As far as Fernando was concerned, Sancha was merely the eldest of the Lopéz de Lara siblings, all females, each with varying shades of reddish hair. Past those considerations and until this day, Isabella sensed he hardly cared about particulars, which would have caused him to ask, “Is my Sancha still demure?” She was. “Is my Sancha even more beautiful now?” Of course. “Is my Sancha the only woman in the world for me?”

Hardly.

Once Fernando wedded and bedded Sancha to produce an heir he’d flee to other women as husbands always did, whether they were Spaniards or Moors. Scant difference to Isabella’s way of thinking. In Granada, men had multiple wives and the Sultan had his harem. In Spain, men had their mistresses. Males ruled each kingdom, so Fernando was no different from the rest unless he wasn’t Fernando.

Her heart caught. She’d never laid eyes on Sancha’s betrothed and didn’t know if this man’s claim of being Fernando was true or if her uncle Don Rodrigo had sent him here. What if Don Rodrigo had learned she’d taken Sancha’s place? If he’d ordered her rescue in order to torture her into revealing Sancha’s whereabouts, she’d die before revealing anything.

The man who called himself Fernando stopped and looked over.

She weakened at his potent masculinity before her unease returned. Even if his manner was noble, was he also honorable? His eyes caressed and aroused, but did they belong to a man who was truly kind? Did his sensuous lips ever offer the truth? She was afraid to linger and find out. She twisted her arm, trying to free her wrist.

He tightened his grip and glanced at the orange. “I told you to eat.”

“Why? Is the fruit drugged?”

He blinked, obviously surprised, unless he was acting with the same skill he’d used when posing as a fakir.

“You taste it first.” She shoved the fruit at him. “Better yet, eat it all. I want none.”

“Who would if it was drugged? Tell me, why would I drug your food?”

To render her helpless. During her abduction, Isabella’s captors had forced her to drink a foul-tasting liquid to put her to sleep. By the time she awoke, she was in Granada, stripped, women preparing her for sale. Perhaps this man meant to violate her before bringing her back to Don Rodrigo. “You tell me.”

“How could I drug an orange you have yet to peel?”

“Perhaps you put the potion on the peel.”

“Are you always this disagreeable?”

“Don Fernando would know.”

He stared and shook his head. “Very well, you are disagreeable and probably always have been. Eat the orange on your own, unless you want me to feed it to you.”

“If you force me to eat it, your plan must be to drug me, as I want none of what you offer.”

His gaze dropped to her traitorous belly as it growled for any food, even his. “What a liar you are.” He took the fruit. “If I release you, will you promise not to flee?”

“Will you promise not to pursue me if I do?”

His smile was slow and filled with raw male lust. “I would run you down to the earth in a moment and take my pleasure with you.”

She went dizzy at the images his words created, ones she’d overheard married women discussing. His powerful body pressed against hers. His long fingers stroking her bared flesh. His stiffened shaft plundering and arousing. She flushed with excitement and fear, while prudence warned her to respond with casual indifference. “I give you my oath not to flee.”

He tapped his foot and, at last, released her wrist. Once he’d peeled the orange and separated the slices, he ate the first piece, no doubt to prove he hadn’t drugged the fruit, then slipped the next between her lips.

“Eat.” He drew his forefinger over her bottom lip where juice had spilled.

Her mouth tingled beneath his skilled move. She stopped chewing as he brought his finger to his lips and licked the tip slowly. Quite seductively.

“You must eat.” He ran his other forefinger beneath her chin.

Her throat quivered, his touch sending waves of delight clear to her scalp. She forgot to chew, swallowed fast, and inhaled deeply as he slipped the next slice between her lips. After she’d finished the piece, he licked the corners of her mouth, catching stray juice. Her lids slid down. His tongue was wonderfully hot, his breath so sweet she had to bite back a moan. She parted her lips inviting him to slip the next slice inside her mouth. Once she’d eaten it, he offered the next slice, and the next, pausing only to stroke her cheek and throat.

His exquisite touch and playful attitude made her want far more. How she hoped he wasn’t her uncle’s agent. How she wished he wasn’t Sancha’s betrothed. As one or the other was the only possibility, the moment the last piece was in her mouth and he recaptured her wrist, she refused to move forward.

“What now?” he asked.

After finishing her bite, she ran the back of her hand over her lips.

He grinned. “Such a lady.”

Isabella pulled her wrist away and retreated several steps.

“Ah, so now you intend to flee.” He planted his hands on his lean hips. “Excellent. After I capture you and pull you beneath—”

“How can I believe you?”

“—me—what?” He shook his head. “Believe me concerning what? Capturing you? Pulling you beneath me? Enjoying you? Having you enjoy me?”

Her head swam with wicked images of their legs entwined, naked bodies nestled together, their lewd cries. She nearly moaned. “Your claim to be Don Fernando. How can I possibly believe you?”

He frowned. “Have you forgotten the day of our betrothal?”

Her cheeks warmed. “You expect me to recall someone from so many years in the past?”

“Someone?” He huffed. “You find me forgettable?”

She regarded his rich mouth and glorious eyes. She recalled his rumbling voice. Only death would make her forget him or this day. “And what of me? Am I memorable?”

He glanced past her and made a great show of looking around, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The weapon would protect him from intruders but not the truth. He had forgotten what little he knew of Sancha, unless he had never met her. “You claim to be Don Fernando. Prove it.”

He squared his shoulders. “What other man would be mad enough to risk his life to save a young woman as headstrong, obstinate, and disobedient as you?”

Isabella curled her upper lip. “Your insults and flawed logic hardly sway me. I followed each of your orders in the marketplace and led you through the tunnel to safety.”

“Led me? Could I have trusted you to follow?”

“Can I trust you to tell the truth? If you are who you claim to be, I demand you prove it.”

“Oh, you do.” He advanced a step and smiled. “It seems the señorita wants another kiss to prove my claim on her.”

Isabella wanted another kiss for no other reason than the joy the last had given her. Of course, a man could kiss a woman, swear his undying love, then turn around and betray her without as much as a second thought or a first regret. “Tell me what you know of my family. How many sisters do I have?”

He leaned away. “There are more who are cut from the same cloth as you?”

“How many, señor?”

“Allow me to consider the matter.” His expression grew thoughtful. He curled one finger after the other into his palm with each digit supposedly representing a sister.

The moment he ran out of fingers and glanced at his booted feet, presumably to count his toes, Isabella laughed. “There are surely not so many.”

“Are you quite certain?” He frowned. “It was my belief you had at least twenty of—”

“No more than three.”

Despite the greatly reduced number, he still seemed wary. “Three you say. Do they resemble you?”

“Not in the least. My sisters are exquisite. All have flawless complexions more radiant than the finest pearl. Each has auburn hair threaded with gold. Two have warm brown eyes, the youngest the purest green. Their natures are sweet, their—stay where you are.”

He kept coming, forcing Isabella to scoot back until a mulberry tree stopped her. With her palms pressed against the trunk, she looked at him.

He offered a roguish smile as he eased close. “Exquisite, you say?” He rested his hand against the trunk near her head. “Skin to rival the finest pearl?” He leaned into her. “Hair the color of an Andalucían sunset, yet also threaded with gold?” His voice had grown even huskier. “And demure in the bargain?”

His breath whispered against her. It was a moment before she recalled his questions and was able to answer. “Sí.”

His attention dipped to her lips before returning to her eyes. “They lack your inner fire and headstrong manner?”

The world dipped and swayed. She found it difficult to breathe. “Sí.”

“Then it would seem I simply have to tame you.”

She stared. “No.”

“Be still.” He angled his mouth over hers and plunged his tongue inside.

Isabella mewled. It was the only sound his ruthless kiss allowed. His tongue demanded she suckle it as he pressed close. Her knees buckled, forcing her to dig her fingers into his shirt for support. The day grew even warmer despite the constant breeze. When he cupped the back of her head, imprisoning her, a wanton moan caught in her throat. Her lips parted even more, inviting him inside. He deepened the kiss, and she yielded, suckling his tongue greedily. Wanting more, she pushed his tongue aside to thrust hers into his mouth. He growled in delight.

How she enjoyed kissing him, despite how wrong and mad her actions were. What if he wasn’t Fernando? What if he was? What did his true identity matter? He wasn’t her betrothed. This had to stop. She pulled in her tongue. His quickly filled her mouth. A helpless whimper poured from her. This was too much and truly had to stop.

With all the strength she could summon, Isabella tried to wiggle away. The moment Fernando lowered his hand from her head she tore her mouth free.

He breathed hard. “Why do you resist me?”

“Why do you assault me?”

“Assault you?” He lowered his mouth to her ear.

She trembled at his sweet breath and imposing size. He pressed closer. “How can you say such a thing and deny what’s rightfully mine? I am Fernando de Zayas. You want proof? I can offer you this. My father is a grandee and count. His cousin, Manuel, married your papá’s sister. I have one sister, Catarina, and five brothers. Enrique, Pedro, Alfonso, Gabriello, and Tomás. Pedro and Alfonso are twins. Our betrothal happened despite our fathers’ rivalry, or perhaps because of it. They both claimed to be the better chess player. My father won the match and delighted in besting your papá at every turn, until your father proved far abler in riding Arabians. Although our fathers were never friends, they respect each other and proved it by arranging our union.”

Her shoulders slumped. The tale was true. She’d heard her papá complain about this man’s father many times, proving Fernando did belong to Sancha.

Because he was blissfully unaware of the situation, he trailed kisses from Isabella’s ear to her cheek. She lost all coherent thought and sagged against him. His muscles bunched, arousing her even more.

“Now that you have your proof, you know what must be done.” He pressed his lips to her neck.

Her pulse pounded. “What must be done?”

His breath skipped over her flesh. “You need to be fully satisfied, as do I.” He kissed the base of her throat.

A yearning sound flowed from her.

He sighed. “Given our betrothal, there is no reason to wait for pleasure.”

Her heart jumped. “There is every reason.”

He eased the robe off her shoulder and left a path of kisses across her naked skin, finally covering her breast with his hand.

She locked her knees to remain standing. “Stop that at once.”

He kissed, aroused, tempted.

She moaned, the sound more delighted than frightened. “You must stop, I beg of you.”

At last, he eased back until he could see her face. “Why must I?”

She shook her head, unwilling to reveal anything of Sancha.

The corners of his mouth turned down. “You still fear me. Why? When you faced being sold in the market you showed great courage, and yet with me you tremble.” He rested his fingers against her cheek. “Have I been such a brute? Do you believe I would take you with such force to cause you harm? Know this: in all the years we share, I will never hurt you. I give you my word.”

His manner was sober, his gaze so unwavering it proved the veracity of his promise. She sensed he was a man who could love deeply and with more fidelity than most. How fortunate Sancha was to be his betrothed and foolish for not wanting him. Isabella wished she was Sancha and this day had never come. As terrifying as the slave market had been, she’d had the slimmest expectation of escape. Now, she had no hope. He didn’t belong to her. He would never belong to her. She tried to pull away.

Fernando refused to allow her any distance from him. “Do you doubt my promise?”

“No.”

“And yet you continue to resist?”

“I have no choice.”

“Why?”

She turned away before he seduced her into betraying Sancha. Each night she’d heard her sister beg God to keep Fernando at war so he’d never return. Sancha didn’t want him dead necessarily…she wanted him to continue his battle against the Moors until he forgot about her.

“Did your captors harm you?” he asked.

Surprised, she looked at him. “How can you question me on such a thing?”

“As your betrothed I need to know.” He stroked her jaw. “Come now, you must tell me.”

She shook her head.

Fernando sighed. “To seek justice I have to know what occurred.”

“Upon hearing it would you grant me solitude?”

“No. Never.” He pulled her back within his embrace and held her with great care. “You belong to me. No matter what transpired, you will always belong to me.”

Tears stung her eyes. Never had she been as torn. Even if she couldn’t reveal anything, she should at least move away.

Fernando pressed his lips to her cheek.

His tenderness defeated her. She wreathed her arms over his shoulders, resting her face against his neck.

“Were you harmed?” he asked.

She held him more tightly, wanting to forget what had happened. As her silence grew, he stroked her back. His strength and heat comforted her as nothing else ever had. She adored the feel of his hard chest and careful caress. She hated the reality of their situation but couldn’t change it or what he and every man most needed to know about a woman, especially a betrothed. Surely, the reason for what he’d asked.

“My virginity is not in question or at stake,” she said at last, telling the truth and another lie. Sancha’s purity mattered, not hers.

“Harm comes from many directions and in many ways.”

How true. A man could rape a woman without compromising her virginity. For him to consider her a victim of such horrors while still honoring and wanting her convinced Isabella of his integrity and made her even more ashamed of the lies she’d yet to tell. After taking a ragged breath, she shook her head. “I cannot speak of this further.”

“Why?”

“There’s naught I could say to make you understand.”

“Understand what?”

“You know nothing about me,” she cried. “You have no idea who I am.”

“Who you are?” Again, he eased back to see her face. “Besides my betrothed? The woman I swore to protect with my life?”

He’d done so already. He could have died in the market. Although that danger had passed, he had another to face. If he discovered where Sancha was hiding and made his rightful claim on her, Don Rodrigo wouldn’t allow him to live long enough to produce an heir. In the absence of any sons, Spain’s law of primogeniture had given her father’s entire estate to first-born Sancha. Once she birthed a son, the estate would belong to the child, with each new son next in line for the claim. Don Rodrigo would hardly risk a scenario where he had to keep slaying those who kept him from the wealth. He would kill Fernando first, as surely as he’d murdered her parents, with Fernando’s death being his easiest solution.

This had gone too far. At the very least, she had to warn him of the peril he faced. “I must tell you something.”

He nodded. “Go on.”

She wanted to but suddenly couldn’t, having no idea how to explain Don Rodrigo’s crimes, from her abduction to her parents’ deaths, so he could take over the estate. She had no solid proof of any of her suspicions. Her uncle was far too cunning to have left a trace of what he’d done. Besides, Fernando was a warrior. No threat would cow him. Why hadn’t she considered his courage before she’d spoken? He’d probably race to the castle to oust Don Rodrigo, and once there he’d learn she wasn’t his betrothed. Surely, he’d conclude if she lied on matters of their relationship to each other, she must have also lied about her uncle’s murderous deeds. Don Rodrigo would have his chance to charm Fernando, as he had so many others, and finish him off.

As she troubled over the awful scenario, Fernando hugged her gently. “Go on.”

She sighed. “I cannot.”

“You must.”

She shook her head. The only way to protect him from Don Rodrigo was to keep him from going to her papá’s castle. It would also stop his claim on Sancha. Although Isabella had no idea how she could bring about such an outcome, she had to try.

She withdrew her arms and sidled away until she was past the tree. He followed. She frowned. “Why must we go to my papá’s castle? How could you even want to wed me?”

“You belong to me. Your ordeal will never change it.”

“Why would you want to wed someone with my temperament? You said I was disagreeable.”

“You are.” He edged closer. “So am I at times, though at the moment I would far prefer to be in your arms giving and receiving pleasure.”

She wanted the same but took another step back. Again, he followed. She sighed. “You said you were informed of my dilemma and came to rescue me. Who told you I was abducted and would be sold?”

“What does it matter?”

She needed to be certain Don Rodrigo hadn’t requested her rescue because he’d learned his agents had abducted her, not Sancha. The last she’d seen of her sister was when Sancha headed for the protection of a neighboring estate. “I want to reward the person upon my return. You would do the same, no?”

Fernando studied her. “I would. How honorable of you to think of others rather than yourself.”

Her face warmed at a compliment she hardly deserved.

He smiled. “My eldest brother, Enrique, learned of the matter through his servants, who were informed of it by your father’s servants.” Fernando rubbed the pad of his thumb over his jaw. “It would seem the servants know far more than Spain’s most accomplished spies.” He dropped his hand. “In any event, you need not concern yourself with the matter. You have my protection. All is well.”

He slid his hand beneath her robe and cupped her breast.

Isabella’s head lolled on her shoulders at his bold caress, his thumb flicking over her tightened nipple, a surge of pleasure whisking through her. She bit back a pleasured moan and forced herself to pull away.

He sighed noisily.

Ignoring his obvious frustration, she considered what he’d said. If her papá’s servants told his brother’s servants of the abduction, yet made no mention of her uncle, it would seem Don Rodrigo had fallen for her ruse and his part in the crime was unknown. It would also appear that in her and Sancha’s absence he’d take full advantage of their papá’s estate, though his pleasure would be brief. Isabella was determined to bring him down. She merely needed the means.

“How you frown,” Fernando said. “Are your thoughts so troubling or do you find me troubling?”

She’d been looking past him. Now she met him eye for eye. “How were you able to breathe fire?” Perhaps she might do the same to terrorize Don Rodrigo into confessing. “How could you juggle hot coals without burning your hands?”

“You do find me troubling.”

“What? Wait.” He’d again cupped her breast. She stepped away.

He followed.

“Fernando, how were you able to breathe fire?”

“The fire is a trick, nothing more, and hardly worth discussing.”

“How do you manage such a trick?”

“Enough. You ask too many questions.”

“None have been fully answered.”

“Once we bathe, I might consider doing so.” He cuffed her wrist.

Isabella yanked her arm away. “I refuse to bathe with you, Señor Don Fernando.”

He tilted his face to the sky and inhaled deeply. Composed, he eyed her. “You address me as if we were strangers and refuse to bathe with me despite our betrothal.”

Isabella’s cheeks burned. She nodded.

He advanced until she had to retreat or have him run over her. “I expect you to obey me and to address me as Fernando, understand?” Not waiting for her answer, he grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the stream.

Her stomach churned. She had no idea how she could defy him when he ordered her to disrobe or stop him if he decided to take her. She stole a glance at him. He was already looking at her.

Her pulse jumped. She turned away.

Fernando muttered something beneath his breath, fell silent for several moments then hummed a tune.

She weakened at his deep, melodious voice, the sounds stirring her as much as his strength and passion. Her attraction to him would surely be her downfall, unless she forced herself to resist.

Determined to ignore him, she failed miserably, the seductive melody sweeping over her with as much power as his warm hands, the gentle brush of his fingers, his impassioned kiss. She sighed. “Must you hum?”

She needed a moment away from his voice and touch to collect her thoughts, harden her resolve.

His grip remained firm. He finished the tune and began another, the rich sounds more delightful than earlier as he scanned the surroundings, always the warrior, ever alert for danger. Except for the noise he made.

“Shouldn’t you be quiet?”

He stopped and turned to her. “Were you addressing me?”

“Who else?”

“How would I know? Did you use my name?” He lifted his chin and looked down his nose at her. “I think not.”

She conceded. “Have it your way. You should be quiet as a mouse, Fernando. We are attempting to escape, Fernando. Do you want to be caught, Fernando?”

“By the Moors or by you?”

His sensuous smile blurred her thoughts. She turned away and studied the trees in the distance, sweat breaking out on the back of her neck. “The Moors.”

“We left them behind. Although there are always perils here and wherever one goes, we face none at the moment.”

How he lied. Isabella knew the peril of his fingers gently caressing hers. When she chanced a glance at him, her heart knew the peril of having his gaze still on her. “Should you be watching me instead of our surroundings, Fernando?”

His eyes glittered with arousal. “I like how my name sounds on your lips.”

She regarded his sculpted mouth, as perfect as the rest of him.

He resumed walking. “What would you have me call you?”

Her step faltered. Fernando’s did not. He pulled her along as though nothing were amiss, even though it was.

Not once had he used Sancha’s name, and now he wanted to know what he should call her. Because he had no idea what his betrothed’s Christian name should be? What else? Although disturbing on its face, Isabella sensed his failure to recall Sancha’s name might play to her advantage.

“You refuse to answer me?” he asked.

She feigned confusion. “What was the question?”

He narrowed his eyes. “What would you have me call you?”

“My name is Isabella, as you already know, and I insist you address me as such.”

“As if you were the Queen.” He grinned. “I shall call you my queen. A fitting title for one who owns such delicious arrogance. Do you like it?”

“I do. And you will be—”

“Your King. Lord. Husband.” He released her hand upon reaching the stream. Branches canopied the gently gurgling water. A balmy breeze whispered past, bringing the rich scents of vegetation and earth. The day was quiet, the location secluded, his expression aroused. “Come now, my queen, your lord demands you remove your robe and scrub away the grime so he might see what lies beneath.”

Isabella tightened her fingers on the garment.

* * * *

Fernando suppressed a sigh at her maddening modesty but grew even more determined to change it.

As the second son of a count, he’d never had anything come easily to him. Whereas his eldest brother Enrique could court the maiden of his choice, Fernando had to rescue his betrothed to discover he genuinely desired her. With Enrique inheriting all of their father’s wealth, Fernando and his younger brothers had to prosper on their own by becoming soldiers, risking their lives in battles for the Crown and by wedding women they didn’t know or want. After such a harsh past, coaxing Isabella to his side was one struggle he would certainly enjoy and have no chance of losing. All he had to do was use his ample charm, beginning now.

He captured her free hand and caressed her fingers.

She flinched at his gentle touch and lifted her face to watch a plump cloud drift across the sun. As shade swept over the stream, Fernando drew lazy circles on her palm. Her breathing picked up, but rather than look at him, she followed the flight of two birds.

He suspected she wanted to be as free as those creatures were and was beginning to feel as captive with him as she had with the slaver.

He wasn’t going to explain how fortunate she was to have him at her side or what would have happened if he’d failed to rescue her. First, her captors would have secured a metal bracelet around her ankle to tell the world she was now the Sultan’s property. Once in the harem, she would have received an Arabic name and been forced to renounce her religion and culture. Her beauty would have made her suitable for the Sultan’s carnal use and damned her to the life of an odalisque, a concubine, forced to deliver her flesh and bear his sons. For the rest of her days the harem walls would have imprisoned Isabella. Their scent would have always been a part of her, invading her hair, coating her skin, killing her hope.

No, he wouldn’t relay any of those horrors. He was a warrior, not a brute, and was determined to conquer this maiden’s heart. He kissed her fingers and released her hand. Having already checked the surroundings to ensure their safety, he dropped his robe to the side then removed his sword, dagger, pouch, and belt. Next, he sank to the ground, tugged off his boots and looked up.

Isabella stared at his legs and groin. She pressed the soiled robe closer to her throat.

He rested his elbows on his knees. “Remove your garment. You surely cannot bathe in it.”

Her hold on the cloth remained. She looked about.

“There is naught to fear.” He removed his hose, linen braies, and shirt. “This area is rarely traveled. Others remain on the road past the trees to your left. Before the juncture and after a field of untended wheat, we have supplies for our use. We also have a mule, as an Arabian might tempt too many who have thievery on their minds.” He pushed to his feet. “Come, we have no time to waste.”

He padded to her.

* * * *

Isabella stared. He was nude and quite unashamed of his state, even though his shaft had stiffened and his lightly furred sac tightened with arousal.

Heat stung her throat and cheeks. Her caution warred with desire and curiosity, with the latter winning out. She drank him in, unable to look away.

Prominent veins snaked the length of his member rooted in a nest of dark curls. His legs were long, muscular, and dusted with hair the same as his broad chest. He had the form of an athlete, his belly flat, hips narrow…and the marks of a warrior with scars on his torso and legs. Some were quite old, the skin puckered and white. Others were new, the flesh so red it seemed raw. Poor man. Brave warrior. The filthy Moors had injured him repeatedly in battle, yet he had survived.

He had thrived.

She studied his hard shaft. The silky crown was reddish with need, turgid with lust. Her cleft grew damp, her thoughts feverish.

He stood before her. “Come now. Remove your robe.”

He meant to have her. If not now, after their bath. An increasingly exciting prospect rather than frightening. She found herself desiring their passion as much as he did, yet what of their intimacies? If they didn’t create a child the first time, they would in their subsequent couplings. What then? Their child wouldn’t secure her father’s estate for Fernando. It would obligate him to her, a fraud.

She couldn’t bring herself to do such a thing. With no sound argument to sway him or lies to deter his passion, she withdrew a step and simply shook her head.

He smiled gently. “You must disrobe. Once you do, I can wash the grime from you, and you can wash—”

“I think not.”

“—grime from me.” He sighed. “Isabella, you have no need to fear what will surely happen between us.”

Her skin grew cold with worry he couldn’t imagine. Again, she shook her head and withdrew another step.

“Come now. Remove your robe.”

“I cannot.” Her mind raced for a reason he might accept and found one. “I refuse to allow you to see what the Moors did to me.”

His expression remained neutral as he closed the distance between them and gently cupped her face. “I will avenge what those savages did. What happened will never change what transpires between us.”

She lowered her gaze at his kind words and loving touch, his thumb stroking her cheek. “You say as much now.”

“And for all time. We must bathe and resume our journey. Stop fighting me. You will never win.”

She fought tears. When he brought back his hands, she bowed her head.

He eased the robe from her carefully and tossed it aside.

The heated breeze caressed her nipples that tightened in response. As Fernando stepped back to regard her, her cheeks flushed in shame yet she made her voice proud. “Your gaze lingers. I forbid it.”

He regarded her before studying her mound, the flesh as smooth as a child’s. The Moorish culture considered it sinful for a woman to have body hair. Her captors had removed hers in preparation for the sale.

Fernando dropped to one knee and pressed his lips to her naked flesh. “This changes nothing.”

Tears blurred her vision. His tender kiss, him kneeling to her changed everything. No man, not even her papá, had shown Isabella such honor. In the world she lived in, females were less than males. Fernando seemed to consider her his equal, worthy of his respect. If she hadn’t already cherished him for rescuing her, she would have adored him for this moment. She rested her fingertips on his cheek. His skin was bristly and hot.

He lifted his face and smiled.

Tears welled in her eyes.

His smile faded. “What is it? Tell me.”

“I should have stopped my captors.” She had to clear her throat to continue. “After they killed my servants and were upon me, I might have offered my jewels in ransom, but the notion never crossed my mind. One brute forced me to drink a foul-tasting liquid. I believed his intent was to finish me off so I emptied the cup preferring poison to rape or having my throat slit. Instead, he drugged me. I recall little of what happened afterward. Voices drifted in and out. I have no idea whether they were male, female, or both. Women took off my garments. Then hands were upon…”

She closed her eyes unable to continue.

Fernando was already on his feet, pulling her close. “It matters not. It changes nothing.”

“How can you say such a thing about a coward who failed to resist?”

“How could you have resisted so many men?”

“I should have died trying. I was prepared to die at the slave market.”

“And I spared you such a horrible fate.”

“I was still marked.”

He stroked her back. “In time your body will return to its natural state. From this moment forward you have me to see to your safety.”

She held him more tightly, gratitude and tenderness overwhelming her. “How can you possibly want me?”

“Only a fool would not, despite how filthy you are.”

Isabella laughed, surprised she could.

Fernando lowered his arm to her waist. “Come, a bath will improve your spirits.”

It would prepare her for their coupling and would compound the lie. She agonized over what to do and suddenly had an answer. “From this moment forward, I shall obey you in every way if you grant me one request first.”

He studied the area, “Your request must be great to secure so much obedience. Before I agree to such a thing, tell me what it is.”

“You wait to have me until after we wed.”

He looked at her. “Wait?”

It was the only solution. “Please.”

“Why? Do you doubt you and I will wed?”

“I doubt my ability to be the woman you deserve.” Nothing she’d said had ever been truer. “Only if our union is sanctioned will I feel free to lie with you.”

“And quell the rumors of others?”

Her cheeks burned. She turned away.

Fernando asked no more. Isabella sensed what he was thinking. She wanted him to wait so no one could say the child wasn’t his…that another man had sired the infant during her abduction or after she arrived in Granada. How she hated duping him, yet she had no other choice.

“If you want this,” he said, “I grant your request, though only as far as our coupling. All else is mine, starting now.” He led her into the gently flowing stream. “After I wash and pleasure you, I demand you do the same for me.”