Loving Lies

by Tina Donahue

  Before he allowed himself to consider the matter further and added to her distress or his, he uncrossed his arms but kept his distance to put her at ease. “When did you last eat?”

  She hesitated before facing him and looked even warier. “When I ate is of no consequence.”

  “Your growling belly says otherwise.” He pulled an orange from one of the hidden pockets in his robe. “Here.” He tossed the fruit.

  She caught the orange easily, looked at it rather longingly, yet extended her hand. Wanting him to take it back?

  He regarded her. “The orange is ripe, no?”

  “I suppose.” She still offered the fruit.

  He didn’t take it. “I expected my betrothed to be a lady, though not too pampered to peel an orange. You need me or a servant to do the work for you? Ah, señorita. You must learn the task quickly. After we wed I want you to peel all my oranges for me and feed them to—”

  “I can never feed you as I can never—” She threw the orange.

  It bounced off the trunk of a mulberry tree and rolled across the ground.

  Again, he considered her abduction, what might have happened to make her behave this way. Although it wasn’t likely anyone had taken her virginity, since no slaver would attempt such a thing with valuable merchandise, men found other ways to enjoy a woman’s flesh. Ways in which her virginity remained intact while causing her to feel unworthy of the man who had a claim on her.

  If such a thing had occurred, he’d hunt down the men who had dared defile her and bring them great pain before taking their filthy lives. For now though, she was safely back in Spain and on her way to being his bride no matter what she claimed. It was all he allowed himself to consider.

  He turned to her. “Food is not to be wasted.” With his hand clamped around her wrist, he brought her to where the orange had fallen, retrieved the fruit, and slapped it in her palm.

  “Eat. Then we bathe. Afterward, we journey to your papá’s castle for our nuptials. Say no more on the matter.”

  He gripped her wrist and led her toward the stream.

  Chapter 2

  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 b
e 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.