Loving Lies

by Tina Donahue

  Isabella pushed to her feet to flee. The fakir was immediately upon her, his arm around her waist, his other hand clamped over her mouth.

  “Keep still.” His lips were against her ear, his dirty beard trailing down her cheek. “Do you want our enemies to drag you back to their foul city?”

  Then they were outside Granada’s walls, though she had no idea where or why the fakir would speak of his people as their enemies.

  “Do you?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Then keep still. If you flee, I may not be the one who captures you, though you will be captured.” He released her. At the mouth of the tunnel, he kicked away the planks supporting the roof. The tunnel collapsed upon itself, belching dust in a thunderous rumble. The fakir worked feverishly. Soft grunts poured from him as he forced stone after stone against the opening to cut it off completely.

  Isabella hoped she was now safe from the Moors, yet what of the fakir? She kept witnessing his surprising strength. He appeared to have a sword hidden beneath his filthy robe. Now she saw the high boots he wore.

  She backed up, ready to bolt. Before she could, he grabbed her wrist and looked over both shoulders. “Now we must run.”

  She stared. He expected her to stay with him? To go where? To what end? She had no chance to ask and couldn’t match his mad pace. He tugged her roughly to follow. She winced at twigs, small rocks, and other debris digging into her bare feet. At last, she cried, “I cannot keep up.”

  “You must.”

  Despite his words, he slowed somewhat.

  Mulberry trees swirled past. Greens smeared into browns, the sun darting between the heavy foliage. Isabella’s breaths came hard and fast. At last, she was so dizzy the ground gave out beneath her. Before she could fall, the fakir wrapped his arm around her waist, holding her firmly against him as he slowed to a brisk walk, forcing her to do the same.

  She panted. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To safety. Ask no more, lest someone hears you.”

  No one was around. Even the guards had given up their chase. The only sounds were wind rustling foliage, their feet scattering fallen leaves, their breaths rushing out.

  Good sense told her to fight him. She worried her struggle might make matters worse.

  She tried to see the fakir’s face. He held her so tightly she caught only brief glimpses of his beard and cheekbone as he scanned the area. They continued for what seemed an eternity. No village appeared through the countless trees. Did he expect them to walk forever? Fatigued and disheartened, she pleaded. “I must stop.”

  After a short distance, he helped her to a massive mulberry tree gnarled with age. Panting, she slumped against the rough trunk with him in front of her, his body huddled close.

  Too close. His breathing slowed, his shaft stiffened, pressing against her thigh.

  Her heart skipped several beats. She twisted to get away. He tightened his arm, trapping her.

  She pushed against him. He didn’t budge. She frowned. “Release me.”

  He looked at her.

  Her mouth went dry. His face wasn’t lined as it should have been for an ancient man. His eyes were even more striking than she’d realized, lushly lashed, the color of honey, an inner heat burning within them that imprisoned her…until he casually stroked her hip. Blood drained from her face. Her robe had parted, revealing her nudity. She yanked the fabric over herself and tried to pull away. He wouldn’t allow her any freedom.

  She spoke through her teeth. “I demand you release me.”

  His beautiful eyes seemed to smile, while his embrace remained strong with none of this making sense. Although his beard and brows were filthy from the tunnel, they were still white. Yet, he wasn’t bent as he’d been in Granada. He stood at his full height, with it being considerable. Thinking back to their escape, Isabella realized when he’d spoken to her, he’d never sounded frail. His shoulders were broad beneath his robe, the look in his hooded eyes unmistakable. He was aroused.

  She pressed against the trunk. “Who are you?”

  His sensuous lips curled up in an unexpected and decidedly amused smile. “Your future husband.” His voice was rich and deep with a young man’s needs. “The man you will always yield to as a wife should.”

  Before she could comment on such madness or scream, the fakir lowered his mouth to hers. She froze. He brushed his lips over hers, tempting, coaxing, not yet demanding. She whimpered and ordered herself to flee but couldn’t. He remained gentle and relentless as he teased the seam of her lips with his tongue.

  She opened her mouth to protest, which allowed him to slip his tongue inside and kiss her longingly, patiently. Warmth rolled through her. He ran his fingers over her cheek. Her belly fluttered, her legs growing weaker.

  He trailed his fingers down her throat, creating a burst of heat more surprising than the last, then slipped his hand inside her robe and cupped her breast. Her nipple tightened instantly against his calloused palm. His skin was dry and hot, his movements unhurried as he used the soft globe. Was he mad?

  She tore her mouth away and shoved him back with all her strength. It wasn’t a fraction of his, but she’d caught him unaware.

  As he struggled to regain his balance, she hurried around the tree.

  He followed and smiled.

  His playfulness stirred Isabella beyond reason, the same as her memory of her peaked nipple rubbing against his palm. Her breasts ached for more. The breeze responded, hot and caressing, pushing the robe against her. The cloth was a poor substitute for this man who wasn’t deeply lined and was quite strong even though he sported a white beard and brows, making him ancient enough to be her grandfather.

  Not understanding any of this, she rushed around the trunk, retreated several steps and lifted her hand to stop his advance.

  At last, he kept his distance, though unfulfilled need hooded his eyes. “Come now, is your manner befitting a woman who will soon be my wife?”

  Again, he spoke of an absurd union. “Are you mad?”

  He arched one eyebrow. “Mad? No. Dismayed? Certainly.” He inhaled deeply before opening his arms. “Return to me. I have yet to satisfy myself with you, though I shall.” He smiled.

  It was quite beautiful, the same as his eyes. Never had Isabella seen such male beauty especially on one who was supposed to be old. “Satisfy you? Wed you?”

  “You enjoyed our kiss, no?” He grinned. “You did. You cannot deny your response as easily as you pretend to be offended now. I felt your lips part to mine and your tongue caress my own.”

  She frowned. “What manner of holy man are you?”

  He laughed as if she were mad and finally settled on an amused smile. “You must forgive me.”

  “Must I? Then you must wait an eternity for such grace.”

  His smile faded. “I am not a patient man.” He shrugged. “In my haste to taste the sweetness of your lips I forgot my own appearance. For doing so, I request your forgiveness.” He pulled off his turban.

  Dark brown hair, shiny and thick, tumbled in waves over his forehead and around his ears. Before Isabella could recover from such a pleasant surprise, he used the turban to wipe the stain off his face, revealing bronzed, not brown, skin. He peeled away the white eyebrows. His own were the same dark shade as his hair. Next, he removed the white beard and mustache. Dark stubble dusted his firm jaw, cheeks, and upper lip. Beneath his robe, he wore a white linen shirt, dark woolen hose, a leather belt with a sheathed dagger, arming sword, pouch, and the high boots she’d already noticed. His legs were long and muscular, his chest broad, his form virile and youthful, his coloring and features those of a Spaniard, not a Moor.

  She hardly trusted her eyes. Was this more magic as he’d performed in the market? It must be. She advanced until she was able to touch him. With her fingers against his cheek, she ran the pad of her thumb over his upper lip. His flesh was firm and warm, his coming beard bristly, his youth and masculi
nity quite evident.

  Smiling, he turned his face into her hand. Isabella pulled away before he pressed his lips to her palm.

  Despite his frown, his expression was playful. “Again, you deny me?”

  “I shall always deny you.”

  He looked doubtful at her promise.

  Perhaps if she hadn’t sounded so uncertain and was able to understand this. How could he merely pose as a fakir, yet still breathe fire and handle hot coals without singeing his skin? She took his hands and turned them over. No blisters or marks of any kind marred his palms.

  “Who are you?” She released his hands and danced back before he could pull her closer. “What manner of devil are you?”

  “Devil?” He frowned, though it was still on the mischievous side. “I risked my hide to save you and for my efforts you call me a devil? Keep behaving in such a manner, keep denying me, and I may turn into a devil or worse.”

  “Do what you must. I shall always deny you and certainly do not belong to you.”

  “Oh, but you do.”

  He seemed so certain, Isabella could only stare until he advanced. She retreated several steps. “I was prepared to effect my escape when you came upon the scene.”

  “You were about to be sold and I rescued you.”

  “And you believe having done so gives you the right to take me as your bride?”

  “Of course. However, you also belong to me as your papá wisely chose me to be your husband, Señorita Lopéz de Lara.”

  She stared. He knew who she was? How? She wasn’t betrothed. Only her eldest sister Sancha was.

  Isabella went hot then cold.

  Sancha should have been in the slave market today, not her. As sole heir to their late parents’ estate, Sancha was the one keeping their vile uncle Don Rodrigo from the wealth. He’d ordered her abduction to make certain she never wed and produced heirs with her betrothed, who she’d been promised to since childhood, hadn’t seen since, and wanted not at all. She kept threatening to flee if he ever came to claim her.

  This man couldn’t be Sancha’s betrothed. If he were, Isabella would have taken her sister’s place to thwart their uncle’s plans only to face this new trouble.

  The world seemed to spin as the warrior in front of her bowed slightly and offered a dazzling smile. She was quickly lost in it.

  Desire filled his eyes. “I am, you see, your betrothed, Fernando de Zayas.”

  * * * *

  He expected her to be weak with relief and melt into his arms so he could enjoy another kiss. Instead, she looked unpleasantly stunned, leaving Fernando uncertain whether to be alarmed or offended by her response.

  As her surprise dissolved into pensive reflection, and what appeared to be dread, Fernando was offended. From the moment he became a man, women had pursued him. Never had he lacked a female’s comfort. When it came to this woman, his betrothed, he rather expected it. She was the girl his father demanded he wed despite Fernando’s resistance to any union. He knew what marriage did to a man. How it subjected the poor fool to a wife’s endless nagging or tears. It was better to die in battle.

  Or so he’d thought before rescuing her today.

  Despite her current behavior, her courage was refreshing, her beauty undeniable. Her milky skin, blue-green eyes, and those auburn tresses would bewitch any man, even a poor eunuch. Especially enticing was the promise of her ripe breasts hidden beneath the robe she clutched to her throat.

  How demure and disturbing. Fernando recalled her reluctance to expose her flesh to an aged fakir who she’d kissed readily, opening her mouth to his. Now that she knew who he was, her kiss and continued modesty were beginning to worry him. Would wedding her prove to be a trial? Would she secretly crave other men? Would she actually refuse him in his bed? Was such a thing possible? How could it be? A woman refusing her husband would be against the laws of God, nature, and man. She simply needed some wooing. With little effort, he could teach her exactly what pleased him and only him, she could teach him the same about herself, and they would be drunk with happiness.

  Until such time it would help if he could remember her Christian name. He’d heard it during their betrothal ceremony years before. The first and last time she was in his presence or thoughts. During the following years, he’d been busy with his own activities, going from page to squire to the battlefield and knighthood with no thought as to wedding.

  Scouring his memory, he came up with Luscinda. Or was it Benita? Or perhaps Juanita? None of those names seemed to fit. What had those who’d requested today’s rescue called her besides the señorita? Carmen? Maria? Hortensia?

  As Fernando began to consider every name he knew, she edged closer. “Why were you in the marketplace? How did you juggle hot coals in your hands? How did you avoid burning yourself? How did you breathe fire from your mouth? Why were you in the marketplace when I—”

  “You already asked the question.”

  “And you failed to answer.”

  “You never gave me the chance.”

  She lifted her chin. “You were upon the scene at the moment I was to be sold. Why? What was your purpose there?”

  “I was informed of your dilemma and came to rescue you, what else?”

  “Dressed as a fakir? Acting as a fakir?”

  He sobered at her wary tone. “It was the only means I had of rescuing you and spying for Spain without being murdered in the bargain.”

  Her lips parted in apparent dismay.

  Perhaps she did care. “I use my knowledge of the fakir’s magical tricks and my ability to speak Arabic, Turkish, and Latin to learn of the Moors’ military strategies. Others do the same. The merchant whose shop we escaped from is one of our own, as are the men who dug the tunnel we used. In time we shall rid ourselves of Granada’s useless Sultan, the cursed puto you were to be delivered to if not for my daring and successful rescue.”

  “I had planned to escape.”

  He smiled. Until today’s events, Fernando had always considered a woman to be no more than a means of physical release to a man. Whether as a shrewish wife who had to deliver her body and children, or as a willing mistress who would offer the most sensuous of pleasures.

  He now knew better.

  Here was a woman who’d shown remarkable courage in the marketplace, even though she’d been unaware of his plan to rescue her and was about to be sold as an odalisque. What other female was as resolute? To his way of thinking every other Spanish lady would have dissolved into tears and begged for mercy. Not this woman. She’d held her head high while searching for escape. She’d followed his orders with little pause, crawling through the stinking tunnel, running until her legs refused to carry her. As far as he was concerned, she was as fearless as any man. For the first time in his life, he’d met a woman who deserved his full respect. She was quite the prize, and she was his, whatever her Christian name was.

  No matter. He would delicately approach the problem and soon learn how to address her. First, though, he needed to fix their sorry state, refusing to travel through the day’s heat with them covered in grime.

  He lifted his robe and approached. “Come.” He took her hand and led her toward a stream in the distance. “You need a bath to wash the dirt and blood from you.”

  She held back and made a face at the brownish stains on her robe, then touched her cheek where blood had splashed her.

  He nearly smiled at the face she made. “No need for alarm. The blood belonged to a lamb and will wash away easily. Come.”

  Again, she held back. “As I bathe, what will you do?”

  “Assist you, of course.”

  She yanked her hand free.

  Despite her rude move, he refused to be offended. She simply needed more wooing. He easily reclaimed her hand and kissed her fingers. “Come now, señorita. As my betrothed, I fully intend to have you stripped bare at some point, so it may as well be now. And a bath is what you need.”

  “No.”
>
  He paused. “You hardly realize how filthy you are. From the tip of your nose”—he kissed it—“to the soles of your feet.”

  Her lids fluttered. “The same as you.”

  He grinned and straightened. “How true. So you do see the wisdom of bathing together. After I wash you, you can wash me.”

  “No.”

  His smile faded. “Enough of your maidenly modesty. No one else is here. As your future husband I expect you to bathe.”

  Again, she tugged her hand from his. “I will never wed you. The truth is I—” She stopped.

  When she failed to continue, Fernando crossed his arms over his chest and quelled his growing annoyance at how she insulted him. “You will never wed me? The truth of it is you, what? Go on, finish what you intended to say.”

  For once, she appeared at a loss for words. She lowered her gaze and whimpered. Her robe had parted, once more revealing her nudity. Covered again, she turned her back to him.

  Was she going to weep now because he’d seen her flesh, or because he wanted to see even more of it? He held back a sigh and considered his next move. She needed to know all was well, only how to convince her, especially after her cruel words about never wedding him? As though she had a choice in the matter when their fathers had struck the deal long ago, or as if she was unable to endure such a transaction with a Spanish knight after she’d yielded to his kiss while he’d disguised himself as an aged fakir.

  Fernando sensed she enjoyed the man he was. The way she’d stared when he’d taken off his disguise was quite clear. Yet, she refused to remain at his side for a lifetime.

  What had happened in the days after her abduction and before her arrival at the slave market? He knew the Moors had prepared her for sale. Her parted robe had revealed evidence of their work. What else had they done to her?