Bride By Mistake (26 page)

Bella watched breathlessly.

He seized the woman around the waist and pulled her hard against him. She arched gracefully backward, her head almost touching the ground, her fingers trailing the cobblestones. The guitar moaned and throbbed.

The woman pouted at the man, silently daring him to do more. He bent and brought his lips to her throat, but she wrenched herself out of his grip in a swirl of skirts. But she did not run away, Bella saw. She danced around him, proudly, teasingly, daring him to take her if he could. She was willing to be conquered. But she wouldn’t come easily.

He watched, brooding, following her every movement, his heels drumming in an almost unbearable intensity. How could anyone resist him?

In a sudden movement he seized her again and hurled her to the ground. Bella gasped, but he had the girl safe in his grip. It was a lesson.

The gypsy girl lay sprawled in a pool of light, sultry eyed and proud, but she was his; anyone could see it. Slowly, sensuously, in utter masculine command, he drew her up his body, showing her who was master, promising her ecstasy. She rose as sinuous as a snake, twining around him, possessive, proud. Claimed, but not conquered.

The guitar strummed a long vibrating chord, and it was over. The dancers stood like statues, sweat pouring off them despite the chill of the night. The crowd began to applaud. But it wasn’t over, Bella saw. The two dancers stood motionless, their gazes locked, chests heaving. Then the man threw the woman over his shoulder and they disappeared into the night.

Someone else started singing. Bella barely noticed; she was still entranced by what she had seen. She’d heard about these
gypsy dances, but she’d never seen one, never seen anything like it. She felt hot, breathless, liquid, and hollow inside.

Luke pulled her toward him, turning her toward the exit. “Time for bed.” His voice sounded hoarse. He was breathing hard, as if he’d been dancing, too.

“Wasn’t that magical?” she breathed. A warm, delicious shudder rippled through her. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

For a long moment he didn’t respond. He stared down at her, his gaze locked on hers in an echo of the dancers’ performance. Then with a groan he lowered his mouth to hers.

The kiss was so unexpected Bella had no time to marshal her defenses. It was neither tender nor gentle, but a bold, confident possession. His mouth was hot, demanding, his blood fired by the dance. As was hers. It ravished her senses and sapped her resistance.

His big hands slid over her body, along her spine, molding her to his hard body, creating a heated, hollow ache deep inside her.

Warnings flickered faintly in her mind. Like fireflies before a storm, they faded under the searing onslaught of his mouth. Intoxicating, the sharp, smoky, hot-buttered taste of him, the scrape of his dark-stubbled jaw against her skin. She couldn’t think, only feel, only taste. And give herself wholly to the moment… and the man.

She gripped the lapels of his coat, pulling him closer, lifting herself greedily for better access to his seeking, hungry mouth. She wanted to climb his body like a gypsy girl, to twine around his hard masculine torso, to be wrapped in his powerful arms and borne off into the night…

A scrape of stone in the alley, footsteps, and the acrid smell of tobacco brought Luke to a sudden, shocked awareness of what he was doing. In one swift moment he broke the kiss and thrust Isabella behind him against the wall, placing himself between her and the rest of the world.

What the hell had he been thinking, kissing his wife in public in a strange Spanish town? Oblivious of everything except the sweet taste of her. Never mind that it was dark and
they’d been standing in the shadows. It was criminally negligent. Anything could happen.

Senses on full alert, Luke scanned the surroundings for signs of danger. Behind him Isabella breathed jagged gasps of air.

Two men loitered at the entrance to the courtyard, smoking, speaking in low voices. He watched them, braced for trouble, knife in hand, but they did not move. They continued talking and smoking, then one of them gave a raspy laugh and some of the tension seeped out of him. They had no interest in him and his wife.

He scanned their surroundings again. A rat scuttled along the gutter and disappeared down a drain. Other than that, nothing.

“Let’s go.” Taking Isabella by the arm, he marched her away. Nothing had happened, but the incident had shaken him all the same. Never before had he forgotten himself so completely that he became unaware of his surroundings. And to do so in Spain, source of so many of his nightmares…

“Slow down,” she said, tugging on his arm.

He glanced down at her.

“Your legs are longer than mine.” She was almost running to keep up with him.

He moderated his pace.

“Thank you.”

They wound through narrow, dim streets. Luke scanned the shadows and tried to think of something to say. Conversation was required. He couldn’t think of a thing.

Isabella was silent, too. She was warm on his arm, their hips bumping from time to time as they walked. The taste of her was still in his mouth, like wildfire in his blood. Her response had been so open… The eager seeking, the lithe, slender body molding to his. He’d felt quivers pass through her with every thrust of his tongue.

His body was still afire for her.

They passed some high barred gates and a dog barked. In the light of a lantern hung outside a doorway he caught a
glimpse of her face. She seemed deep in thought, a slight frown puckering her brow.

Having second thoughts?

He quickened his pace. She didn’t object, but her frown deepened. He didn’t care if she was having second thoughts. Her seduction was a foregone conclusion.

“I want a bath,” she said when they reached their lodgings. Her face, framed by the silky dark fur of her hood, was flushed. Her mouth, full, moist, and purely edible, was a darker shade of scarlet than the cloak she wore.

They climbed the stairs to their bedchamber. “You don’t need a bath.” Luke tamped down his impatience. She was putting off the inevitable. It would do her no good. The more she tried to avoid being bedded, the more determined he was to bed her. He had no intention of letting his clumsiness turn her off bed sports.

Besides, she was as aroused as he was by those dancers. He could smell it on her, had tasted it in her kiss. His body thrummed with awareness, expectation.

“I do. I’ve been riding all day. And I’ll be seeing my sister tomorrow.”

“If she’s there.”

“She is. I’m certain of it. And I want to look my best.” She wore that stubborn expression; the one he was fast getting used to.

It occurred to Luke that he could use this bath to his advantage. “Very well, if you must,” he said and rang the bell to order a bath to be sent up. He sprawled on the bed, sipping a brandy while servants brought in a tin bath, towels, and cans of steaming water to their bedchamber. He’d start by offering to scrub her back, and then…

“If you please,” Isabella said when the servants had gone. She stood holding the door half open.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he told her, swirling his brandy around in the glass.

She folded her arms. “I’m not having a bath while you’re here.”

Luke sighed. Convent-bred modesty. It would take time to
rid her of it, he supposed. He drained his glass and glanced at his pocket watch. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes.”

To fill in the time, he strolled back to the marketplace and prowled around it impatiently. Most of the stalls were packed up and gone. All that was left were a few carts and people camped for the night with their animals.

“A gift for your ladylove, my lord?” a cracked old voice came from the shadows.

Luke ignored it. A gift wasn’t what he wanted to give Isabella. Besides, she was his wife, not his ladylove.

“A pretty shawl for a pretty lady,” the old woman continued, shaking out a folded Spanish shawl. It was beautiful: heavy cream silk, deeply fringed and lavishly embroidered with flowers. Bright, but not garish. Isabella would love it.

“How much?”

She named a sum that was double what it was worth. Luke snorted.

“For your bride on her wedding night,” the old crone said, black button eyes gleaming in her walnut wrinkled face. “Her
true
wedding night.” As if, somehow, she knew.

Feeling vaguely superstitious, Luke paid for the shawl without haggling. He returned to his lodgings, climbed the stairs, and opened the door quietly, hoping to find his wife still in the bath. His body thrummed with anticipation.

The room was in semidarkness. His nostrils twitched and he frowned. What was that smell? Sweet, but… He shuddered. Roses, dammit. He could smell roses. He glanced around the room, his hackles rising. But there was nothing, no sign of—

In a dish on the washstand sat a small cake of soap, the soap Isabella had found at the market. He hadn’t thought to check it. He approached it gingerly and sniffed. Rose-scented. Faugh! It was enough to choke a man.

He opened the window and threw the offending soap as far as he could, then washed his hands clean of the stink. He returned to the open window and took several deep breaths of clean air. It was cold, but better fresh air that froze than the warm stink of roses. He left the window open.

He turned to his wife, who’d lain quietly in bed the whole time, not even commenting on him throwing her soap out. His body wasn’t quite as aroused as it had been before the soap incident, but that was all to the good. He planned to take things slowly.

“Isabella?” He leaned over her.

She didn’t move. Feigning sleep, he decided. It would do her no good.

He unknotted his neckcloth and paused to watch her breathing. A deep, even rhythm. Dammit, it was no act. She’d been yawning the last couple of hours.

First she’d refused him, then she’d fallen asleep on him. Luke could hardly believe it. He wasn’t used to female rebuffs; couldn’t ever recall receiving one. And no woman had ever fallen asleep on him, not before he’d made love to her.

He stared down at her peaceful, sleeping face, and a spurt of ironic laughter escaped him. Round one to his wife.

He quietly stripped down to his undershirt and drawers. Her hair was spread out over the pillow. He carefully gathered it up, lifted it out of the way, and placed it so he wouldn’t lie on it and pinch her. He slipped into bed and lay on his side, facing her.

Damp tendrils clustered around her hairline. He leaned forward to touch his mouth to her pale, velvety nape, and his nostrils twitched. Dammit, she smelled of roses. She stirred and muttered something in her sleep.

He turned his back on her and lay on the far edge of the bed, but still the faint scent of roses reached him. He picked up his shirt, draped it over his face, and tried to sleep.

Twelve

L
uke tried to resist, to get away from the vile thing, but he was tied hand and foot, trussed like an animal for slaughter, and all he could do was thrash his head and spit defiance.

Arrgh! The blade bit again, searing hot, icy cold. He clenched his teeth against the scream that threatened to burst from him. The smell of blood mingled with the stench of roses.

Roses, always roses, whenever she was here. La Cuchilla. He’d lost track of how long it had been…

“Don’t struggle, my pretty.” Her voice, so warm and caressing. “Give yourself over to the pain. Find the pleasure in it.” She leaned over him, frowning in concentration. Her breasts in the low-cut gown were inches from his face.

Exquisite agony with each slow, deliberate slice of her blade, the blade for which she was named: La Cuchilla. “It’s art,” she told him. “You should thank me. Your friend was not so lucky.” She smiled as she sliced into his flesh.

“Michael? What—” He bit down. The intense pain took
him to the edge of fainting, but he would not… give in… Not… give… her the satis… faction…

“Stubborn boy, aren’t you, my love?” The husky tones were almost seductive as she carved another slice in his flesh.

“Where’s Michael?” he managed to gasp.

“Dead.”

Dead? He gave her a wild look and she smiled. “Yes, pretty boy, you failed. Your friend is dead. It was all for nothing…” She leaned back and examined his shoulder, then nodded. “I think that will do. This one is good,
n’est-ce pas,
René?”

“
Sí,
Rosa.” A man’s voice.

Rosa. La Cuchilla. Luke tried to fix it in his swirling brain. It might be important. If he survived this.

She took a handful of something. Black… sand? He squinted at it in the dim light. Some new torture?

She saw him looking. “Salt and ashes, dear boy. Nothing but salt and ashes. It is the final touch. I like to leave my favorites with a little gift, a small memento.” She applied a handful of the blackened salt to the open cuts on his chest. “Something to remember me by.”

The salt bit into his lacerated flesh, and Luke’s scream finally escaped…

“L
uke? Luke, wake up! You’re dreaming, Luke.” She held him by the shoulders. The scent of roses filled his nostrils. “Bitch!” He shoved her away as hard as he could and—