Wicked Whispers (10 page)

He willed her to look at him.

She’d toiled enough this day, no different from the others these last weeks. He’d provided her one of his largest rooms, as promised, its ceiling high, space airy, affording enough brightness throughout the daylight hours that she never needed to use candles or oil lamps. During the evening, the room blazed with flickering flames while she read ceaselessly or experimented endlessly, pacing at times, often frowning, always pondering.

He craved to have her notice him.

She had during the ride to his estate. With her seated on one side of his carriage, him on the other, they’d had no choice except to gaze at each other or the moon-washed land passing by.

Sancha had chosen to study him.

Given the darkness, he hadn’t been certain if she scrutinized him because she believed he couldn’t see her actions. He’d smiled to see what she’d do.

She offered her own smile in return.

His doubt had vanished, heart soaring. Of course, she hadn’t grinned as broadly as he had, but then Sancha seemed determined to resist their growing closeness.

She’d gently refused most of his invitations to dine together. During the few times she had accepted, she’d glimpsed at him while he greeted each glance with renewed wonder. As though she’d offered to share their future. She’d asked about his day, the same as a wife would, listening carefully, delighting in his success with accounts, servants, cattle, which made him boast even more.

Not once did she call him on his foolish behavior. She cared about his feelings.

He wanted nothing more than to make her happy and see her fulfilled. However, her healing had begun to take precedent over everything else, even their scant time together.

At first, he sensed she’d buried herself in this room or her books to avoid the servants and him. He soon realized she also seemed to be fighting time. There never seemed to be enough, discovery always out of reach as the inquisitors edged closer, prepared to take away her dreams and hope.

He’d fight to the death before allowing such a thing.

She flipped a page, turned to another volume on the long table, and stopped, seeing him at last. Surprise rushed over her lovely features and then her gaze softened.

His legs went watery.

They regarded each other in silence. Words weren’t necessary, the moment growing charged between them.

Sun spilled into the room. Particles of dust danced in the beams that touched her hair and gown. Again, she seemed a vision from on high yet also of this world. A woman with needs as great as his.

His chest tightened with desire, every part of him hungry for her. His sex responded most, the length fully erect, weighty sac tight, the feeling pleasant and torturous.

Color stained Sancha’s cheeks, proving how his presence affected her. She seemed to want to turn away, the same as she had at other times when she’d caught him watching her.

This moment was different.

She ignored her books to take him in, lifting her eyebrows slightly at his clothes. A long linen shirt, leather belt, hose, and shoes, no doublet or robe. She lingered on his thighs and groin before glancing at his chest then to the basket he carried, a cloth draped on top, hiding the contents.

She regarded his casual attire again. “Have you been hunting mice?”

He chuckled. Cages already littered this room, each one holding one or more of the creatures. If he’d brought her any more, she’d spend all her time feeding them.

He lifted the basket. “This holds food. You missed the midday meal and rushed through breakfast.”

“I have much to do.”

“Remember what you told Maria’s mother about eating enough to stay in good health? You should follow your own advice.”

Sancha gave him a sheepish smile, until she regarded her books, notes, and other items taking up every part of her table. “Give me a moment to clear things.”

“No need. We can eat outside. Never has there been a lovelier afternoon. Come.” He held out his hand.

She didn’t run to him as he’d hoped and throw her arms around his shoulders or kiss him wantonly. Regrettably, she didn’t move at all.

“Would you deny me food?” he asked. “Do you want me to starve?”

She smiled. “You require my presence in order to eat?”

“I prefer you at my side as I enjoy every morsel, with you sharing news of your work. Too many days have passed since you told me of your progress.”

Her shoulders slumped. “There is none. The mice are horribly well.”

He tried to make sense of what she’d said but couldn’t. “I thought that was your intent. To heal the creatures, then use what you learned on humans.” An odd notion, to be sure, but one she embraced.

“My intent now is to experiment to make them ill.”

“With poison? Are they beginning to annoy you so much?”

She laughed. “No and no. This has nothing to do with poison. At least not in the way you mean. The mystery involves what causes a certain illness.”

“You must tell me everything whilst we eat.” He wiggled his fingers.

She joined him, slipping her hand inside his.

Her soft touch sent a current of pleasure racing through him. He laced their fingers, taking care not to hold her too tightly or pull her close. His fantasies of her pressed to him, his shaft inside her tight, heated sheath already consumed too much time. Her scent always sent him reeling with images of her velvety flesh, lavish breasts, tightened nipples, the curly thatch between her legs, those delicate hairs surely reddish.

He had to lock his knees to keep steady.

She gave him a questioning look. “Where are you taking me?”

If he could, he would have chosen his chamber and bed for months on end, not allowing her to ever wear clothes again or leave his side except to bathe and eat. Given his vow to woo her with unending patience, he put that dream on hold for the moment. “To the pond. I noticed how much you liked the spot when you first toured the grounds.”

Her face had already lit up. “I do.”

“Then we should check to see if anything about it has changed.”

“It had better not. I need no more disappointments this day.”

She’d have none as long as she was with him. Outside the room, he released her hand long enough to grab the wool blanket he’d left on a side table. With the soft fabric slung over his shoulder, he captured her hand once more and kissed her knuckles, the skin slightly red from her previous injuries. “You healed well.”

“Because of your tender care.”

He liked her words and obvious desire to be with him. She seemed unable to dam up her feelings a moment longer, matching his passion.

On his orders, no servants roamed the areas of the castle they passed. He wanted no one spoiling this day. The grounds were the same. The men who usually worked here toiled on another part of the estate, tending to a project he’d given them earlier. This spot, these moments, belonged to no one save him and Sancha.

Even at this hour, the day was still heated, though not unbearably so, the coming night promising softness and continued warmth.

She lifted her face to the caressing breeze. They walked past colorful flowers perfuming the air and a series of trees until they came to a cleared space. She grinned at the ducks on the pond. A papá, mamá, and their brood, paddling happily, the male bird ever alert to danger. As he should be. His family was his world, his mate making each day worthwhile.

A matter Enrique had never considered for himself until he’d met her.

With the basket on the ground, he spread their blanket over a soft cushion of grass beneath the wide canopy of an olive tree. A surge of wind threatened to blow the blanket away. He secured the corners with rocks. Finished, he offered Sancha his hand.

She accepted his help without hesitation, sank to the blanket, and smoothed her skirt. Once he’d brought the basket over, she threw back the covering and smiled. Cold pork and beef, a
bota
of wine, olives, cheese, freshly baked bread, figs, and oranges awaited them. “You packed a veritable feast.”

His cook had done so. He’d rewarded the woman with a hearty “Well done” and a
real
. Seated next to Sancha, legs crossed, he handed her a napkin. Their fingers touched. She didn’t pull away, and nor did he, the moment wonderfully intimate.

A duck honked.

She flinched. Laughing self-consciously, she tore off a piece of bread and threw it into the pond.

Father, mother, and offspring hurried to the morsel.

“What delightful creatures.” She clapped. “The babies are precious.”

“Good thing.” He eased her face to his and teased the seam of her mouth with a slice of pork.

She parted her lips, accepting what he offered, focused on him to the exclusion of everything. Her delicate nostrils flared slightly.

He understood her struggle to get enough air, dizzy from his lack of breath.

She chewed and swallowed. “Why is it a good thing I find the ducklings precious?” She fed him a slice of beef.

Before she could lower her hand, he captured her wrist and licked her fingers, enjoying her skin’s slight saltiness. “If the ducks resembled mice, you would have them in a cage within seconds, even the smallest ones.”

Blushing, she took an orange and glanced at him. “Do you find me cruel for experimenting on the creatures?”

“When they eat my grain, nibble everything in sight, and are nothing but a nuisance? Hardly.”

“Good. I want to duplicate Holy Fire in them.”

He stopped breaking apart his bread, not having expected her to work on an illness so difficult or obscure, unless she meant something other than what he was thinking. “Are you referring to the burning disease of France and England?”

“Spain too in the tenth century. My books relate instances of horrible sores and limbs growing black. Even when physicians cut off their patients’ arms and legs to save their lives, many still died.”

He parted his lips to the orange slice she fed him, again licking her fingers. “Many would say the illness is God’s punishment for sinners.”

“Do you believe it is?”

Not being a devout man, he’d never given religious subjects much consideration. Uncertain what her feelings were on the matter, he lifted his shoulders.

She finished a fig. “It seems curious to me God’s displeasure would still affect other nations but not Spain. Has everyone here been so good these past centuries to have kept us in His favor?”

Enrique knew of ruthless thieves and murderous nobles who would kill their own mothers to gain even the smallest advantage over everyone else. Sancha’s uncle had murdered her parents to steal her inheritance and would have slaughtered her, Isabella, and the rest of their sisters to get what he’d wanted. “Not at all. Have you any idea what might cause the malady?”

She sighed. “Something each of the countries has in common, otherwise the illness could never thrive in such diverse areas. England and France are far rainier than Spain. What we eat is somewhat similar to their fare in terms of bread, meat, and fruits, though none of it matches their diet exactly. What’s more, the literature notes how patients grew better when they made pilgrimages to holy sites.”

“Are you saying a miracle saved them?”

“No, though the Church believes so. Clearly, none of those in the hierarchy has read my books. After the patients from long ago returned to their homes, they grew ill again in the same manner. Something in their surroundings must have made them sick. Nothing else makes sense. At first, I thought the problem might be their poor nutrition. Throughout history, the illness never affects nobles, only peasants and the poor. Upon further reflection, I wondered if uncleanliness might be the cause.”

Her comment sparked a memory in him. “You washed your hands before tending to Maria. You burned the blade and needle prior to using them.”

She nodded. “The men who wrote the books stressed how a physician should have clean hands and implements. Although I searched the text for some means to fight Holy Fire, there was none. At one point, I did think the answer could be in tainted water.” She made a face. “No matter how I spoiled what the mice drank, they never developed the same symptoms in my volumes. They simply stopped breathing and died.”

Enrique warned himself not to smile or laugh at how casually she discussed these matters. He tried to imagine Luscinda talking about blackened limbs, how she dirtied water, and watched vermin die to discover the cause. “Weariness could be keeping you from an answer. You work too hard.”

“I have no choice. What if the illness returns to Spain?”

“I will do everything in my power to protect you, our families, and those in the villages to spare you from having to tend the lot of us. I know you would try.”

She laughed softly. “I can barely recall a time when I thought of naught but rest.”

“Take this moment to do so.”

He offered her the bota. After she took a long drink of wine, he fed her olives, a generous portion of cheese and bread, then more meat, running his finger over her bottom lip, brushing away crumbs.

At last, she caught his wrist and licked his forefinger.

Her damp heat registered in his belly, groin, and shaft, his sex painful with impossible need.

He eased his free hand into her silken hair and lowered her to the blanket, wanting to take her in every way, fill her with his child. Which would bind her to him forever, forcing her into a marriage she would find confining, killing the joy he’d seen in her today. Her willingness to share her thoughts, dreams, and concerns.

He wanted Sancha more than life itself, though not in such a way.

Although he reined in his feelings, he couldn’t stop all his desire. “Allow me to pleasure you without compromising your virginity. No one is near, nor will they be.”

Alarm didn’t cross her features. She drank him in as he did with her. “What of you?” She touched his cheek, running her fingers to his jawline.

Stunning warmth and need coursed through him at her gentle touch. A wanton one would surely undo him. “Pleasing you is all I want.”

“You deserve more. Allow me to pleasure you in the same manner.”