by Cara Lyle
A Cerridwen Press Publication
www.cerridwenpress.com
Wild Woman
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Wild Woman Copyright © 2009 Cara Lyle
Edited by Helen Woodall
Cover art by Syneca
Electronic book Publication April 2009
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
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Wild Woman
Cara Lyle
Dedication
To those of us who would like to run away—for a little while.
Chapter One
She was wild…magnificent. And he was itching to catch her.
He had seen her twice before, she and her black Arab charging down a near vertical slope, a heart-stopping suicide run. He’d learned her name. Bridget Loudoun. He knew she was American. That she was nineteen and according to the hotel guest register he had surreptitiously inspected, she was traveling alone.
Better and better, he thought. Although if his friend, Colonel Ricard Pérez, head of the Antequera Guardia Civil ever discovered he had checked the register, he’d never hear the end of it. But he had not been caught. And he did have the prize—Bridget Loudoun’s home phone number, home being Walla Walla, Washington.
His mission since a week ago was to search the hills south of Antequera for a Soviet agent named Kalin. On this third night of the search the moon was full, the air hot and still. The horses reeked and hordes of mosquitoes were on the attack.
His sergeant swatted his face. Once. Then his neck. Twice.
“Caray! These mosquitoes! How much longer?” he asked as he swatted a third time.
Sympathetic to his plight, Spanish Army Captain Manfred Dominic Augustus Marius de Saa, fifteenth Duke of Villalba, checked his watch.
“Ten more minutes,” he promised.
Surely she’d come by then.
At age twenty-five, Captain de Saa had known many women but had found only one who had warmed his heart enough to consider asking for her hand. If he had been an ordinary man, he would have snatched her up. But he was not ordinary. So he hadn’t. She simply had not been the one.
But this woman, this wild woman from Walla Walla…now she turned him on, tickled his senses and lifted his dragon self from a long, long sleep.
He raised his head and shifted in his saddle. Sniffed. Yes, there it was, floating on the air. Not a perfume but an essence he knew as uniquely his wild woman’s. He knew she was close and in that instant, he heard the brrrmp…brrrmp…brrrmp, the sound of hooves pounding hard-packed earth.
Pegasus, his stallion, pawed the ground. His ears quirked, turning to the front, to the side and the back, listening. He stood at attention with muscles so taut that when a sleek black mare burst into the clearing, it took all the captain’s strength to keep his stallion—and him—from joining her in her madness.
“Por Dios!”
The woman was a vision. Slender, agile and very, very nubile, she stood with feet planted on the mare’s haunches, arms out and knees like springs, supple and strong. She and the horse were as one—mane and tail and long black hair fluttering like pennants.
Round and around the clearing the black Arab cantered. The woman hopped, feet lifting off the mare. She hopped again. And again. And again. Horse and woman moving as one.
He knew what came next. A command—a sharp hah—followed by a pair of perfectly executed somersaults. He had seen this twice before but still he held his breath and felt his heart shudder and could not prevent himself from counting the cadence—a one and a two—as he sent a plea to his patron saint, a plea to keep her safe.
At least until he got her in his power.
She repeated the trick. And to a great release of breath—his—she reconnected with the horse and as she had done before, she laughed a high feminine laugh.
Relieved she was done and would be riding home he relaxed and began churning plots—which stuttered to a halt.
He blinked. He leaned forward…looked again—intently—just to make sure that what he thought he was seeing, he was in fact seeing. His wild woman, her arms bare, neckline low and her body tucked into very short, shorts.
Madre…
He could not believe, much less accept it. The rest of Europe may be reeling against the onslaught of sartorial revolution. But not in Spain—not yet in 1968.
“See that your men speak not a word of this,” the captain whispered to his sergeant.
“Speak of what?” the man replied and then returned to ogling the vision in skimpy blouse and very short shorts.
He commanded himself not to notice. To look away. But his body…well, it knew what it wanted. To connect with those long smooth legs, the softly rounded hips, that narrow waist…while his mind tapdanced around the fact that a woman was cavorting in skimpy blouse and very short shorts.
In Franco’s Spain? At night? Alone and unguarded? The horse itself was a prize. As for the woman…
Forget KGB agents lurking in the area. What of village men?
A bon vivant Duke of Villalba might like it very much. But as the serious, responsible Captain de Saa? No, he did not like it at all.
* * * * *
Her routine complete, Bridget rested her horse. She knew she was being watched. For three days she’d felt a prickling at the back of her neck, a sensation she knew well being the only Loudoun sister to four Loudoun brothers.
Resentful their parents had died, she had resented even more her brothers’ watchfulness and had devised strategies. But they rarely worked for long. If it wasn’t a brother hunting her down, sending her back home, it was a farmhand, a foreman, a cowboy, a maintenance mechanic. And that wasn’t counting their hawk-eyed housekeeper, Emily Hatch.
At twelve she had merely rebelled. By sixteen, she had learned to work around them. At eighteen, she had learned to outmaneuver them, a strategy that had finally paid off, because here she was, sitting astride a Spanish-bred Arab and fulfilling her ambition to visit the Alhambra, the Moorish palace in Granada, Spain.
Washington Irving’s Tales of the Alhambra had been a birthday gift. It had started her ten-year-old self weaving fantasies of Moorish caliphs and Christian knights until she was consumed with the desire to travel to the place. So she promised herself that one day she would stand in the very place where Boabdil, the last King of the Moors had stood, weeping for what he had lost.
Her brothers knew of her ambition. She had never made a secret of it. For their part, they had ignored it but never let on how much they disliked her plan. Last year, however, on the occasion of her eighteenth birthday, she discovered the truth when she announced she was going on this tour to Granada. An unbelievably tame bus tour she had chosen out of consideration for them. As they to
ok their places around the dinner table she made her announcement. She waited, excited. And was crushed when all she heard was—
No.
Four very clear, unequivocal, not to be missed—nos—which left her but one choice. To go it alone. In her own way. Without telling them.
Thinking of her deceit saddened her. Then thinking of where she was, so close to her goal, Bridget shivered with excitement.
Her Arab snorted and stomped the earth.
“What is it?” she asked as she reached to pat Queen’s neck. But the action did not quiet her horse. She whinnied and again stomped the ground and shifted nervously. Concerned, Bridget kneed her horse forward as a shadowy hand reached up…grabbed a rein.
Tugged—hard.
“Hey!”
Queen sidled. A second hand grabbed Bridget’s arm and pulled her down until she hung half-on, half-off Queen’s back. Clinging to the reins and her horse’s mane, Bridget struggled to regain her seat and thus could do nothing to prevent an angry Queen backing and then suddenly rearing, an action that tossed her off like toast off a plate, sending her through the air. She landed hard, shoulders, back and hips taking the brunt of the fall.
Then…all was quiet. She lay very still as her entire world hummed, a muzzy cottony-wool hum.
I ought to move, she told herself and moved a foot. Then a leg. Then tried to lever herself up—
“Basta ya!”
Startled, she fell back. “What?”
“Be still!”
“Can’t—”
“You will lie here quietly until the field medic arrives,” the voice commanded. To make sure she obeyed, a hand was on her shoulder, forcing her down.
Her vision clearing, she saw his other hand, a gloved hand, giving signals which set up a commotion of men. She heard them scurrying around. That medic appeared who muttered things to her rescuer. Then just like that, she was bundled up, carried off and stuffed into the back seat of a dusty military vehicle—
“Wait just a doggoned minute,” she protested weakly. But no one heard her as the vehicle rattled up the hill into town. Woozy and confused, she had no choice but to relent until she realized they had rolled right past the street…
“Your driver missed the turn,” she said.
“The turn to where?”
“My hotel.”
“No, he didn’t,” he replied.
She gasped. What nerve…
She would have argued but she was in no condition for that. Her head ached and her body ached which forced her back into the seat. When the car entered the plaza, took a turn around the square and rolled through the open gates of a huge stone mansion, she had to say—something.
“A hospital is not necessary,” she declared in a sudden worry that news of her accident would reach her brothers. She tried raising herself but gasped as pain rocketed down her back.
“May I point out, Miss Loudoun, that you were thrown from a horse? That suggests that you do need medical attention.” She felt his regard, the very pointed kind. “So give it up.”
She did give it up to gape at him. “How do you know my name?”
“Everyone knows it.”
“Not possible.”
“I am not clairvoyant. I speak the truth. Everyone does know your name.”
She was still staring at him. And at last noted his face. Its harshness, the sharp angles, a long narrow nose, the wing-like brows. It was dramatic and brought to mind the expression—sinister. Particularly when a pair of pale eyes held her own, demanding her attention.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked.
He did seem familiar…yet not.
“I remember your voice. Well, I remember the accent. It’s Spanish.”
He smiled and her eyes grew wide and her breathing stopped. He was not a handsome man but he was…interesting.
“Shall I tell the physician to look into this amnesia?”
“Of course not. But about my name…how can everyone know? I was trying not to draw attention to myself.”
His brows shot up.
At last the vehicle drifted to a halt. He swung out of it, turned to scoop her up and carry her away. By then, she wished he had left her on the back seat. Even the slightest movement hurt. From her head to toes her body screamed. He’s right. That fall had been bad.
She shoved aside the pain to focus on his steady stride up a wide set of stairs and down a long corridor. She attempted to look until dizziness forced her eyes closed.
“If this is not a, uh…” Her nose was buried in the shelter of his shirt…and she lost her train of thought.
“This is my mother’s town residence.”
“She won’t be upset that you’ve brought me here?”
“Of course not,” he replied as he laid her down on the bed. He looked her over and then held her eyes. “May I jog your memory? I am Captain de Saa. We have spent two very pleasant evenings together at the café, where you told me all you know on the subject of Washington Irving and Boabdil.”
Oh…I suppose…I would have done that.
But when she saw two of him…two faces with features misaligned…two sets of broad shoulders not quite meeting at his neck and two pairs of pale, pale eyes…she knew she was incapable of intelligent reply.
She smiled and knew she must look like a goof-ball.
He stared at a smile that was gracious yet hesitant. He drank in the gracious part but ignored the doubt in her eyes. In fact, he was thankful she was smiling at all. And then was appalled how it pitched him off-center.
What he really wanted was for her to recall their encounters in the café, though he would not force her to remember. But she would eventually. He would make sure she did, in particular her promises not to leave without telling him.
Hopeful of his chances, he shoved his hands in his pockets to hide his arousal…certainly to keep his hands to himself. And groused that it was just too bad her brother was on the way. No thanks to Ricard Pérez.
When she had appeared in the plaza a week ago, she had caused a near riot. She had been dressed conservatively enough but in such a way that she had managed to stretch the bounds of propriety. A wild woman, indeed.
Eager young men moved in on her while outraged older ones looked ready to spit. In both cases he felt he had to impose himself. Simply to keep the peace. He bought her a coffee and played the charmer presuming of course—because it had always been that way—that she would be overwhelmed by his attentions. Yet one minute into his routine, he learned he’d made a mistake.
She had a passion. And it was not him.
He had asked a simple question and she was off talking a mile a minute, enlightening him of her passion—Granada, in particular, the Alhambra. Which had him pondering how his good deed could so turn wrong.
Yet he sat with her all evening, ordering tapas and sherry followed by a small plate of boquerones. Some Manchego cheese and Amontillado, then mussels and finally a full meal with wine. He could not let her leave. By midnight, he knew he was in trouble. Before he could define his trouble, she thanked him, bade him a good night and left without explaining why. So he followed her to the stables and discovered her other passion. Performing circus tricks on a horse. Bareback and inside his search zone.
Alone and unguarded.
Then his friend, Colonel Ricard Pérez became a problem. Pathologically suspicious, he had her watched, determined to pounce the moment she crossed a line of sartorial impropriety.
“I warn you that if she does not leave Antequera by tomorrow,” Pérez had announced the next morning, “I’ll take her in.”
“On what grounds?”
“You have to ask?” Pérez snorted in disgust. “Look at her!”
“If you chase her out, she’ll only go to the next town.”
“You’re right,” Ricard replied pounding the café table. “I’ll call the American consulate. Let them deal with her.”
Pérez had done exactly that, called the Americans and then informed
him the girl’s brother was on the way.
His entire self rebelled. It was too soon.
A tap at the bedroom door. It was his mother and the family physician. He cast one look at the patient and turned to both of them, indicating that they were to go away.
* * * * *
“Well?” his mother asked her pale eyes cool and expression bland. She was a tall woman, almost as tall as he was.
“I suppose you want to know about her.”
“No. I couldn’t care less,” she replied coolly. “What I want to know are your intentions. You could have taken her back to her hotel—where she belongs.”
He considered her, his chin raised and then shrugged. It was a fair demand. And besides, it was never a good idea to fool her. She knew all his tricks.
“I intend to marry her,” he declared, shocking himself. When had he decided that?
The Marquise de Saâne…a lady of Normandy…a dragon’s mother…sniffed. Unimpressed.
“Does she know this yet?”
“No.”
“And why would you marry a hellion?”
The question caught him unawares. Why did he want to marry her? Why had he not simply swept her off her feet, worshipped her body and taken whatever she offered? A few nights’ fun in return for a parting gift…
“Because she is bold,” he heard himself reply.
His mother focused on him, face long, nose sharp and eyes suspicious—a Norman stare.
“That is your only reason?”
“She’s a good horsewoman. She has good instincts.”
His mother groaned. “Mon fils…” she said and then sighed. “Ricard tells me that she’s here without her family’s permission. This makes her more than bold. She is reckless. Don’t do this to yourself.”
“And you were not at her age?”
“That was entirely different. There was a war going on.” She moved toward him, her steps slow and her heels hard on the marble floor. She touched his shoulder and looked into his eyes, her detachment, her lack of support, pricking at his temper.
