by Jennie Lucas
CHAPTER NINE
THE NEXT FEW weeks fled by in a blur. We spent our days doing the work of the estate, talking to tenants and managing the house. I started painting in the garden in the morning, and played with our baby on the floor of Alejandro’s home office as he worked on the computer and spoke on the phone to employees around the world.
“I begrudge them every hour,” he told me, stroking my cheek. “I would rather spend it with you.”
My heart sang as the birds did, flying free through the lush green trees, across the wide blue Spanish sky. But eventually, Alejandro had to go on a business trip. “Madrid?” I pouted.
He laughed. “Granada.”
“Isn’t that where the Alhambra is?” I said eagerly, picturing the famous Moorish castle. “I’ll come with you!”
He shook his head. “It will be a one-day trip, there and back. Very boring. Stay here with Miguel. Paint. Enjoy your day.” He kissed my temple and said huskily, “I’ll be back before bedtime.”
Then he kissed me adios until my toes curled.
But after he’d gone, all the fears and shadows came back crashing around me, without Alejandro’s warmth and strength to hide behind.
Was he really going to do business in Granada, as he’d said? Or was he there for some other reason?
Was this his lie?
Don’t think about it, I ordered my trembling heart, but it was impossible, now that I loved him.
I feared knowing the truth.
I feared never knowing it.
“Dear?” I heard Maurine’s tremulous voice. “I wonder if I could ask you a favor?”
“Of course,” I said, desperate for distraction.
She smiled at me. “You are such a talented artist. I love the paintings you’ve done of my roses. You are the only one who’s ever done them justice.” As I blushed, she continued, “Alejandro’s birthday is next month. Would you do a portrait of me and Miguel, in the rose garden...?”
“I’d love to!” I exclaimed, my mind immediately filled with painting materials, size and composition. I went into Seville for supplies, and by late afternoon, after Miguel’s nap, the three of us were outside. I propped up an easel in front of where they sat on a bench, surrounded by greenery and red, yellow and pink roses.
The warm Spanish sun filtered golden light over the garden as I painted the portrait of the dowager Duchess of Alzacar and her great-grandbaby, the future duke.
Maurine’s lovely white hair was like a soft cloud around her twinkling eyes and smiling face. I drew her outline in loose strokes. That was easy, compared with the challenge of the wiggling, giggling baby in her lap. But I’d painted and drawn my son so many times over the past six months, I knew his chubby face by heart. I could have done it blindfolded.
I smiled to myself, picturing how happy Alejandro would be at the gift, reaching up to adjust the floppy pink hat I was wearing to keep the sunlight out of my eyes. Maurine chattered nonstop, while entertaining the baby in her lap. She told me how she’d first fallen in love with her husband, who’d had a title, “though it seemed useless enough, with no hope of returning to Spain, with the political situation,” and absolutely no money or marketable skills. “It’s so much easier to know how to work when you’ve been raised to it. My husband had spent his adult life sleeping in the spare rooms of rich friends from his Eton days.”
“Sounds like my father. He wanted to work, but didn’t know how.”
“It’s the upbringing, I think. Even when we finally returned to Spain, with the Navaro fortune lost, Rodrigo had no idea how to pay for the upkeep of this castle. It’s not like the old days, when a duke could simply demand peasants give him tribute.” She gave a soft laugh. “He was desperate to keep the title and the land, for the sake of his family’s history. I loved him, so I did my best to help.” She looked away, blinking fast. “I sold oranges from the orchard and gave castle tours. Sadly, our son was no better with money—the earning of it, I mean, not the spending of it. By the time Alejandro became duke, the roof of the castle was caving in, we were mortgaged to the hilt, and I was beginning to think I’d spend my elderly years begging on the streets, or selling oranges at street corners.”
I laughed. “As if Alejandro would ever allow that.” I smiled, remembering his bossy ways when he’d informed me that taking financial care of us was his job. “He, at least, had no trouble figuring out how to make money.”
“No.” She smiled, playing patty-cake with the baby. “But of course, his background is so different. He didn’t have an overbearing father constantly telling him how an aristocrat was supposed to behave. The small silver lining of having no father at all, I suppose....”
“No father?” Frowning, I lifted the brush off the canvas. I looked around the easel. “But Alejandro’s father was the duke. Your son.”
Maurine looked up at me sharply, her face oddly pale. “Oh, yes. Of course.”
I gave a laugh. “Is the sun getting to you, Maurine?”
“I’m an old woman. I get confused.” Her blue eyes suddenly wouldn’t meet mine. “But you’re right. I think I’ve been in the sun too long.”
She rose to her feet, still holding Miguel, who looked happy to be moving at last after so long sitting still. “I’m a little tired. I’ll have the staff bring you some lemonade. And maybe look for Alejandro’s hairbrush. Yes, his hairbrush...”
She left the rose garden without waiting for a reply. I stared after her, frowning. What did lemonade have to do with Alejandro’s hairbrush?
“I thought she would never leave.”
With a gasp, I whirled around. The paintbrush fell from my limp hand, landing with a soft thud into the grass.
Edward St. Cyr stood in the rose garden, near the thick hedge on the edge of the forest. Brambles had ripped the sleeves of his dark tailored jacket.
“Edward,” I breathed. “What are you doing here?”
He stopped five feet in front of me, looking down at me. His eyes were stark against his tanned face as he gazed at me hungrily. “You have no idea how I’ve wanted to see your face.”
He reached out a hand, but I stumbled backward, my long skirt dragging against the grass. Holding my floppy pink hat against my head, I glanced uneasily to the left and right.
Having him here, in Maurine’s rose garden—in Alejandro’s castle—felt all kinds of wrong. Like finding a deadly snake amid the lush flowers. “How did you get in here?”
His lips twisted. “It wasn’t easy.”
“I told you I never wanted to see you again!” I narrowed my eyes. “You must get out of here! Alejandro will kill you if he finds you here!”
“Ah, but he’s gone, isn’t he?”
I sucked in my breath.
“And as for your precious duke...” A low, guttural curse came from Edward’s lips. “I know you don’t want him.” He looked contemptuously around the lush, sunlit garden, to the stone walls of the castle just beyond the perfectly trimmed green hedges. “I’ve come to save you from this...prison.”
“It’s not a prison,” I retorted. “It’s my home! And Alejandro is no jailer. I...” I licked my lips, then whispered aloud, “I love him.”
Edward’s eyes narrowed, and his lips twisted downward, giving him an expression that was hard, even cruel.
“He seduced you, didn’t he?” He took another step toward me, and I again backed away, knocking over the easel behind me. I gulped as Edward slowly looked me over, from my hat to my long cotton skirt covered with an artist’s long smock. “He’s got to you.” He straightened, and this time his contemptuous glance was just for me, all for me. “You fell for his lines again.”
I took a deep breath.
“I love him,” I said quietly. “In a way I never loved you—and I never will.”
His hands tightened a
t his sides.
“The charming Duque de Alzacar. Beloved by all.” His lip curled. “Of course you’re faithful to him. But is he faithful to you?”
I drew myself up coldly. “Of course.”
“Are you sure?” He lifted a dark eyebrow. “You know, you must know, about the woman he visits in Granada?”
My lips parted. “Woman?”
“Ah,” Edward said, smiling. “You didn’t know. They have dinner together. Often. He bought her a tavern in the Albaicín district. Sometimes he even plays his guitar there. Singing old Spanish love songs. In front of everyone.”
My mouth went dry.
Alejandro hadn’t played his guitar for me. Not once.
Licking my lips, I croaked, “There are all kinds of reasons for...”
Edward moved in for the kill. “Sometimes he stays the night in the residence above her tavern. But sometimes,” he said softly, “he just goes for a quick visit. For the day.” His lips curled. “A bit of love in the afternoon.”
The chill turned to ice. I desperately tried to think of a reasonable explanation for why Alejandro hadn’t wanted me to come with him today.
I’ll come with you!
It will be a one-day trip, there and back. Very boring. Stay here with Miguel.
It was the nightmare I’d imagined when I’d refused to marry Alejandro. Except this was a million times worse.
Because I’d let myself love him.
“Lying to your face.” Edward came closer. “He has no shame. He thinks, in his arrogance, that he can have you, as well. He’s out enjoying himself—keeping you prisoner....”
“I’m not a prisoner,” I choked out.
He lifted a condescending eyebrow. “No?” He slowly looked around the rose garden. “I could make him pay,” he whispered. “I could make him regret.”
I gasped—not in fear, but in fury. “If you dare hurt him, I’ll...”
“Hurt him?” His blue eyes suddenly blazed. “He is the one you are worried about? Where was his concern for you when he left your heart in ashes?” He took another step toward me, his expression changing as he reached toward me almost wistfully. “Where is your love for me, for saving you...?”
I turned away, stepping back out of his reach. My voice was very cold. “I appreciated your friendship—until the moment I realized you had no time for my baby.”
“Lena, you can’t...”
“If you touch me, I’ll scream. And Alejandro will come running....”
Edward moved closer.
“He’s not here, though, is he?”
This time, the expression in his face scared me. For a moment, I stared at him, heart pounding. But as I opened my mouth to scream, like a miracle, I heard Alejandro’s voice from the other side of the garden.
“Lena? Are you out here?”
I nearly wept with relief.
“I’m here!” I shouted. “I’m here, Alejandro! In the rose garden!”
Shaking, I turned back to face Edward, but he was already gone, melted back into the forest.
“And don’t ever come back,” I whispered aloud. I prayed I’d never see him again. But I still heard his ugly words.
You know, you must know, about the woman he visits in Granada?
He was lying, I told myself. Alejandro told me he’d be loyal, that he’d been faithful for the past year, wanting only me....
But then, I remembered, he’d also told me he was a liar.
When I saw my husband’s strong, powerful body push through the trees to me, I nearly wept.
“Querida,” Alejandro murmured, kissing my forehead as he pulled me into his arms. “I came back early. I couldn’t bear to be away for...but what’s this?” He drew back, his handsome face the picture of concern. “You’re shaking.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. My teeth chattered. “M-my easel fell.”
“Ah.” He smiled at me, his dark eyes warm. “Let me take care of that.”
“Don’t look at the painting!” I cried. “It’s supposed to be a surprise. For your birthday.”
Good-naturedly covering his eyes, he handed me the canvas. “I didn’t see a thing.”
I took the painting, slightly smeared from the fall and half-finished, with Maurine and Miguel looking like ghosts. And I wished I’d covered my ears and not heard a thing when Edward had told me about the woman in Granada.
* * *
“It has occurred to me,” Alejandro murmured a week later, leaning over the sofa where I sat feeding Miguel, “that we never had a honeymoon.”
“Honeymoon?” I said, twisting my head to look back at him. I shook my head. “You mean, without Miguel?”
“Don’t worry.” He brushed the back of my neck with his fingertips, making me shiver. “I’m not thinking Tahiti. That will have to wait. But a single night, just a two-hour drive away, surely you could manage that?”
I hesitated. “I don’t know...”
“I promise you’ll enjoy it.” He stroked my hair, then gently kissed the crook of my neck, the edge between my shoulder and my neck. My shiver turned harder. “We will get a nice hotel. Go out for dinner. I’m thinking Granada....”
“Granada?” I stared at him, and the color must have drained from my cheeks, because he frowned.
“I thought you wanted to see the Alhambra.”
I’d dreamed of seeing the famous Moorish castle since I was a child. But I’d spent the past week guarding my heart. Trying to stay distant and cold. Trying not to think about what I didn’t want to know. Granada was the last place on earth I wanted to go.
Or was it?
“Maybe,” I said.
He smiled, really smiled, for the first time in a week. Since I’d started keeping my distance, even when we were as close as a man and woman could be. “Is that a yes?” He tilted his head, looking over me slowly with a sensual, heavy-lidded gaze. “I’d be happy to spend time persuading you....”
My body immediately clamored for him to persuade me, hot and sweet and long. But sex wasn’t our problem. We made love every night. Physically, we were closer than ever.
Emotionally, the weight of secrets had caused an ocean between us.
You know, you must know, about the woman he visits in Granada?
My smile faded. Like my courage. I shook my head. “On second thought...forget it.”
“Why?” His eyes narrowed, and he moved around the sofa with lightning speed. He cupped my face, looking down at me fiercely. “I am trying to make it up to you!”
“What?” I breathed, searching his gaze. “What are you trying to make up for, Alejandro?”
“Whatever has made you so angry at me.” His fingertips tightened infinitesimally. “I want you to look at me like you used to.”
“And I want to trust you,” I choked out, “like I used to.”
He stared at me. He’d never heard that tone from me before. “When I was in Granada...”
I held my breath.
He continued, “You were alone with my grandmother. Did she...” He hesitated. “Did she say something?”
“Did she tell me your secret, you mean?” I said bitterly. “No. She is loyal to you.”
He abruptly released me and rose from the sofa, his face hard. “Enough. We are taking a one-night honeymoon. You will come with me. You will have a good time.”
I lifted my chin defiantly. “Is that a command, Your Excellency?”
“Take it as you wish.” He glared back at me, his eyes cold. “I will tell the staff to pack your things immediately.”
The drive to Granada was short, especially after Alejandro stepped on the gas of his yellow Lamborghini. But with just the two of us trapped in the small space, it still took far too long. The tension between us was boiling, abo
ut to explode.
I forced myself to look at the guidebook he’d bought me about Granada. I tried to distract myself with its history. To choke back my frustration, my hurt, my rage. Because if I let out my feelings, I feared our marriage would end, and so would any chance at happiness. Forever.
I desperately wanted to ask him about the woman.
I desperately was afraid of the answer.
Alejandro did not speak to me. He drove us to a small hotel, a parador amidst the gardens of the Alhambra itself, in a building that was once a fifteenth-century convent, and a royal chapel to the kings of Spain, and before that, a palace and mosque of the Moorish emirs. Once there, he seemed angry at everyone. He glowered at the hotel staff. The moment we were alone in the simple, starkly furnished bedroom, he turned on me, and pressed me to the large four-poster bed in a ruthless, unyielding embrace.
All the women’s magazines tell you to do one thing. To have self-esteem. To turn away from any man you cannot completely trust. Especially one who has broken your heart before. They say the past predicts the future.
I knew all this, but when I felt his hand stroke my cheek, the sweet satin stroke of his touch sent liquid fire through my veins. I saw the dark gleam of his eyes as he slowly lowered his head to mine, and I could not resist.
He kissed me, and I felt my heart explode in my chest. Felt my taped-together soul shatter again into a million pieces, even tinier than before, in infinite chiming shards that I would never be able to put together again.
I had to ask him. I had to be brave enough to ask, and be brave enough to listen to his answer—whether he answered with words, or with silence.
I suddenly realized this might be the very last time we’d ever make love....
“Maravillosa,” Alejandro whispered against my skin. As he pulled off my clothes, as I pulled off his, as I kissed him, tasting the salt of his skin, I knew that even amid the pleasure, I was tasting the salt of my own tears.
I loved him.
So much.
And I knew—I’d always known, really—how this would someday end.
Through my tears, I kissed him back desperately, letting him pull me into the whirlwind of mingled anguish and pleasure.
