Loving Lies

by Tina Donahue

“Solely for my pleasure? Are you mad? What do you believe a man and his esposa do when alone?”

  “Converse when the situation requires it.”

  “And how was I to know it did? Each time she came close to the truth, she stopped short of it. And not once did you contradict her.”

  “It was hardly my place.”

  “How right you are. It was mine. Only how could I contradict a lie that, to my mind, hardly existed?”

  “She loves you, Fernando.”

  “She loves her sister.”

  Enrique sighed. “Begin anew with her.”

  Fernando turned away.

  “You no longer love her?”

  He wished he didn’t. Then, he might have some peace.

  “Will you abandon her?”

  “Do not hound me.” He strode away.

  It was time to continue the journey. To save the woman to whom he was truly betrothed.

  * * * *

  As before, Fernando rode ahead of the others, putting distance between him and Isabella.

  The space separating them hardly mattered. He still worried whether she’d eaten enough during their stop and had sufficient rest, if the current pace was too daunting, if she were already with child.

  He recalled how she’d resisted lying with him, yet she accepted his touch. Had her passion been real or another act, another lie? Had she only tolerated him in her quest to save Sancha?

  He thought back to their intimate moments and came to no firm conclusion. Even if her desire had been real, what was its source? Did she want him for the man he was or had she simply been grateful he rescued her? She’d been an untried virgin. A girl who might have desired any man who came to her aid. She might have convinced herself passion and love existed when it did not. Inexperience did that to a person.

  Fernando had been no different with the woman who’d taught him the wonders of carnal pleasure and had made him a man. She was five years older than he, the wife of a minor noble, and hardly demure. She’d calmly and clearly stated her proposition that he wasn’t her first choice for a lover, but he might be equal to the task, then challenged him to prove it in her bed. If he refused, she said she’d find another to lie with, perhaps her first choice.

  Her proposition would have insulted an older and experienced man. Being young, untried, and more than equal to the task, Fernando had accepted.

  His initial efforts were clumsy, yet he was an apt pupil with the endurance of youth and soon had the woman panting in delight. Her response to his lovemaking, more than his own pleasure, convinced him he loved her. He was certain he would die if she left him.

  Her hold on Fernando lasted less than a year. He soon discovered a truth he hadn’t noticed before. So many other women…prettier women, younger women…had their eyes on him. What he’d thought was love was nothing more than the heat of the moment. But then, he’d been young and inexperienced, as Isabella had been when he rescued her.

  To have her deceive him was one thing. To have her desire him out of gratitude, duty to her sister, or because she didn’t know any better was too much for him to bear.

  He spurred his horse as though he could outrun sorrow. He lost track of time until the sun sank behind the trees. Travel would soon be slow, if not impossible, under a waning moon. Even torches would be of scant help.

  Enrique called from behind, “We cannot go further until dawn. We need to make—Isabella? What are you doing?”

  Fernando reined in his gelding, wheeled it around, and rode back to the others. Tomás was holding Isabella’s reins.

  “Release them.” She tried to pry his fingers away. When she couldn’t, she punched his arm. “I must continue and reach Sancha even if you men require sleep.”

  “We require light to see,” Fernando said. “The same as your uncle. He has no choice except to stop. Even if he wanted to continue, his mount would need to feed and rest.”

  Isabella looked at him. Sorrow and guilt filled her eyes then defiance. “I know the man. It matters not to him to ride and whip a horse until it falls dead. He will never stop until he finishes what he began. I must continue. My horse will take me where I need to go.”

  “Your horse could lead you to danger. We have enough on our hands rescuing Sancha. Would you jeopardize her safety by requiring us to also rescue you?”

  “You are not required to do so for me.”

  “My honor demands it, even though you were never mine.”

  She lowered her face. “I have to reach her before my uncle does and keep her safe. I gave her my word.”

  “All of us will make certain you keep it. For now we have no choice. The horses require grain and rest. Tomás, take care of her mare.”

  Fernando called to the others, “We make camp here.”

  * * * *

  Pedro spread the blanket for her, Tomás laid the fire, and Isabella paced.

  Fernando stood to the side. If she attempted to flee, he’d stop her. If need be, he’d tie her to a tree.

  Never had he known a more headstrong woman. Never had he met one as brave. Sancha had better be worth the risk and effort, yet even if she proved twenty times braver than her sister, a hundred times more demure, and a thousand times more beautiful, to Fernando’s way of thinking she would never be Isabella.

  No woman would.

  She paced even faster and wrung her hands endlessly.

  His heart opened to her as it had when she’d finally showed him how the Moors had prepared her for sale. At the time, Fernando wanted to protect her. Even now, he felt the same. It was impossible to stop loving her, though he couldn’t allow his feelings to rule his life because they weren’t enough. Isabella belonged to him, but that hardly satisfied.

  Never again would he lie with her because he didn’t want false passion fueled by duty, fear, inexperience, or gratitude. He would still offer his protection and support, but they’d lead separate lives. He would never forget her. He would never want another as he did Isabella.

  She was in his heart. A part of his blood, skin, mind, and soul, even though she had never been his. It had been a dream. A false qisma. He no longer cared about his own comfort, safety, or physical needs. All that remained was saving Sancha and dealing with the uncle, who would soon know Fernando’s fury for having caused Isabella so much pain.

  The uncle’s fate belonged to him, no one else. With that in mind, he made his plan.

  Chapter 18

  The meal passed with brief converse and no humor.

  Isabella ate a bit of bread and cheese only because Tomás and Pedro kept insisting. During the meal, they remained at her side, expressing concern for her health. Isabella knew better. They wanted to keep her from escape and risking Fernando’s fury. He had enough on his hands to save Sancha, his betrothed. He wasn’t of a mind to have to rescue his wife, too.

  Isabella wouldn’t be wed to him much longer. The priest had said it so well: the Church would easily annul the marriage. She was a fraud. Fernando owed her nothing, not even further rescue from harm, no matter his honor.

  His duty was to Sancha, though Isabella sensed Fernando’s claim on her sister had also changed and in a way she hadn’t considered until now. After he assured Sancha’s safety and that Don Rodrigo faced the authorities, she suspected Fernando would refuse to wed Sancha. No riches were worth the price of a future wife who’d spurned him and a current wife who’d done naught except lie. Fernando was finished with the Lopéz de Lara sisters, and it could lead to only one outcome. He’d return to Granada and would continue to risk his life until he died for Spain.

  Sickened at the thought, she wondered how long he could masquerade as a fakir without the Moors detecting his deceit. If they unmasked him, what would happen? She didn’t want to consider what tortures awaited a spy or how long he would survive, screaming in agony.

  Her lies had saved Sancha from him but would deliver his life to the Moors.

  She rose unsteadily to her feet
.

  Tomás glanced up. “What is it? What do you need?”

  “Privacy.” She ran toward a stand of trees, scarcely making it before she was ill.

  As she wiped off her mouth, she heard Fernando questioning his younger brothers about her.

  “She was ill,” Tomás said. “She asked for privacy.”

  “She means to escape. She wants to save her sister.”

  Isabella’s eyes welled with tears. She wanted his love and safety.

  “Find her,” Fernando said to his brothers.

  She returned to camp before Tomás or Pedro had even pushed to their feet. Seeing her, Fernando turned away. Pedro blocked her from following, making a great show of offering her the jug of water. Tomás took numerous blankets and created a makeshift bed so she could sleep. Enrique looked from her to Fernando. He started toward his younger brother then stopped and returned to his blanket.

  Tomás rested his hand on her forearm. “Come, you must try to sleep.”

  The bed he made for her was near the fire and in the center of the camp, making escape impossible. “Sleep.” He helped her down to the blankets.

  She rolled to her side, her back to him. Tomás finally left. Isabella listened to the men’s quiet converse, the crackling of the fire, the horses’ whinnying. She struggled to hear Fernando’s voice past the pounding of her heart as she fought worry and fatigue.

  * * * *

  Fernando remained in the shadows gazing at her as she stared at the fire. Each time her lids grew heavy and closed, she jerked, trying to remain awake. At length, she rolled to her back, as though the new position might keep her from slumber. It did not. Her breathing grew quiet and steady. Her limbs relaxed as sleep claimed her as it did most of the men.

  Fernando burned her image into his memory, along with her remembered scent, the sound of her laughter, the taste of her mouth.

  “Tanto monta, monta tanto, Isabella como Fernando,” he whispered, before going to his gelding.

  He led it to an area unnoticed by the men who guarded the camp, not wanting them to witness or question his departure. Dawn was still hours away, and the moon offered little illumination. No matter. He was resolved to reach and deal with Don Rodrigo before anyone else. The puto belonged to him, and he’d pay for his crimes against Isabella. It would be Fernando’s final act of love for her.

  * * * *

  She’d felt his gaze.

  It captivated as it had from the start when he’d posed as a fakir, juggling hot coals, his eyes warning her to remain where she was and to await his next command. She’d done as he’d asked and more, following him, lying, falling in love, losing him finally to her deception and to the Moors when he returned to Granada and died.

  Her eyes snapped open, her heart pounding wildly. She pushed to her elbows and glanced around the camp, searching for Fernando so she might stop him from risking his life and leaving her. It was near dawn, the sky a soft blue above the horizon. The fire was dying; only glowing embers remained. She stood, searching for Fernando.

  Tomás reached her. “What are you doing?”

  Pedro and Enrique joined them. The other men stirred. All were here except Fernando. When she tried to pass Enrique, he grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?”

  Isabella pulled away. “To find Fernando.” She ran to the horses.

  Pedro and the others followed.

  She gestured to the animals. “What mount is his?”

  Tomás’s surprised expression told Isabella that Fernando’s gelding was gone.

  When she tried to go to her horse, he blocked her. “Fernando will return shortly. Perhaps he wanted a moment alone.”

  He wanted to be free of her. He was willing to die to achieve it. Isabella’s head swam.

  She leaned against a tree until her dizziness passed. “He goes to Granada.” She looked from one de Zayas brother to the other. “We must stop him.”

  Enrique looked confused. “Why would he return to Granada when your uncle is still pursuing Sancha?”

  Tomás stopped pushing his fingers through his hair. “He goes to the convent to face Don Rodrigo alone.”

  “No!” Her cry rang through camp. “My uncle will use every trick he knows to try and best Fernando.”

  “Your husband is no fool,” Enrique said.

  “I know. But he can still bleed. Don Rodrigo will find a way to harm, perhaps kill him. We must stop Fernando before my uncle does.”

  * * * *

  Dawn tinted the sky a pale gold and rose. A short time later, the sun burned away the rest of the shadows, allowing Fernando to prod his gelding to a gallop. The morning air was cool and fragrant against his face. At any other time, it would have renewed his spirits.

  Not now. This was the last day he would see Isabella.

  Once he’d dealt with Don Rodrigo and Sancha was safe, Fernando would arrange for Isabella to stay at Enrique’s castle unless she preferred her papá’s. No matter her final decision, he would return to Granada. If fate demanded he survive the coming battles, he would. If not, his passing would prove a blessing to her. Released from their marriage, she wouldn’t have to face the humiliation of an annulment. She’d be free to wed the man of her choice, because she was the second daughter, not the first. The inheritance had never rested in her hands.

  Fernando wouldn’t allow himself to consider the type of man Isabella would choose. Jealousy was useless. She had never been his. It was time for him to become accustomed to—

  His gelding’s snort interrupted Fernando’s thoughts. The animal slowed and reared.

  He stared at the scrawny man ahead, who seemed unaware the horse might trample him.

  The startled gelding crabbed to the left, the right. Fernando calmed his mount. The man’s garments were torn and dirtied, though of a fine quality, the kind designed for a manservant. However, what he wore bore no crest as to whom he served. He appeared addled, cupping the side of his balding head as though he’d struck it.

  With his hand on the hilt of his sword, Fernando searched the area for thieves, seeing none or anyone else. If robbers had accosted the man, they were long gone with his horse and articles of clothing that would have revealed who his master was.

  Fernando worried the man might have once worked for Isabella’s papá and had been accompanying Sancha. If thieves had overtaken her retinue and had murdered her, Isabella would never recover from the loss.

  Fernando shouted, “Do you serve Señorita Sancha Lopéz de Lara?”

  The servant advanced a step then stopped, more movement seemingly beyond his endurance. “Did you say Señorita Sancha Lopéz de Lara?”

  He was breathless and sounded feeble.

  Fernando rode closer. “Do you serve her? Answer me.”

  “Sí.” He stared at Fernando’s sheathed sword and stepped back. “I was accompanying her to the convent when we were set upon by her uncle.” The manservant wept. “Don Rodrigo struck me and left me for dead.” He pointed to a stand of trees, his hand trembling. “He took her over there.”

  Fernando turned to the trees, his thoughts on Isabella.

  “I heard her screams. Please, do what you can to save her.”

  There’d be no riding into the stand; the vegetation was too thick. Fernando dismounted. Again, the gelding grew skittish. Turning, Fernando realized he’d been had. The manservant was too close, his dagger lifted. He tried to remount but it was too late. The servant drove his dagger deep within Fernando’s left thigh. He bellowed in pain. The gelding reared, bucked, and threw Fernando to the ground. Before he could recover his breath, the manservant plunged his dagger into Fernando’s forearm and shoulder.

  He gripped the man’s hand before the dagger reached his chest. As the tip of the blade hovered above his heart, Fernando twisted the man’s wrist. His screams rose above the sound of his snapping bones, the dagger falling from his hand. Fernando pushed him aside. Curled in a ball, the servant moaned.

 
Breathing hard, Fernando rolled to the side. Another man rushed out of the stand of trees. He was several years older than the manservant, streaks of silver running through his dark hair. He was well fed and dressed in the clothing of a noble, his sword drawn, its savage blade glistening in the morning light.

  Fernando stared at the weapon, then at the man he suspected was Don Rodrigo. Isabella had warned that her uncle would never stop until he’d finished what he began. He must have spent the night here and sent his manservant to watch the road for those who might help Sancha. If Don Rodrigo had already killed her, he would have been long gone. For the moment, Fernando sensed she was still safe.

  As the servant moaned, Don Rodrigo regarded Fernando, his focus deadly, readied for his kill. “Prepare to die.” He lunged.

  Using all his strength, Fernando rolled away, staggered to his feet, and pulled his sword from its scabbard. Don Rodrigo bellowed an oath. The clanging of steel filled the morning air. Fernando parried the man’s wild thrusts, at last knocking away his sword.

  His weapon clattered against a rock. Don Rodrigo bellowed, “Finish him.”

  The servant was back on his feet, his uninjured hand fisted around his dagger. Fernando twisted away before the man’s weapon made contact. The servant followed, stabbing the air repeatedly until Fernando brought his blade down, severing the man’s arm. The servant looked at his limb in the road. His expression was one of disbelief before he lifted his gaze.

  Fernando ran him through and turned as Don Rodrigo bolted toward his sword.

  Fernando stumbled toward him. Sweat ran into his eyes. His limbs were heavy and weak, blood drenching his left shoulder, arm, and leg.

  Don Rodrigo gained his sword. He held his weapon in front of himself and stepped back.

  Despite Fernando’s injuries and waning strength, his mind was still clear, rage and hate flooding him. “I look forward to killing you for what you did to Isabella.”

  Don Rodrigo stepped back. “Once I best you, I will see to her death and Sancha’s.”

  “Coward.”

  “Fool.” He smiled, though he backed away as he stared at the tip of Fernando’s blade. “You will never best me. You will bleed to death before your sword—”