Dolores tried to sound quite innocent. "I was only looking for a place to water my horse."
"We can't be seen from camp here."
"Oh, can't we?" she answered, with an air of surprise.
Amusement gleamed in his eyes. "Where did you learn to ride so well? I mean, at least you didn't fall off."
She threw back her head to laugh, and she saw his eyes follow the smooth, lovely arch of her bare throat where it emerged from the brown wool cloak. "Well, it certainly wasn't in Ciudad Real, my friend. Remember—remember how Pepi wanted so much to ride a horse? It was his greatest dream, to steal a white one."
"And Carlos's answer, that the Hermandad would soon collar a beggar like him on horseback?" Francho chuckled along with her.
"In fact, I learned to ride on an old nag at Torrejoncillo. The old man Miguel was a good teacher, and there was a lady's saddle in the stable. He said I took to it very well because I wasn't afraid."
He didn't answer. He was studying her face again, but this time with a sort of wonder in his eyes. She knew the ride had brought the bloom back into her cheeks and given her gray eyes brilliance.
"I do feel better," she offered, to break the momentary silence, conscious now that her hair was disheveled and streaming down her back most informally.
"You do look better. In fact—" The words seemed to tumble out of his mouth before he could arrest them. "You are unbelievably beautiful."
It delighted her that he thought so, but she wasn't going to let it show. "Unbelievably? Was I so ugly then in Ciudad Real?"
"No. Of course not. Only young."
"Young? Now I am so old, then?" she teased.
"Certainly not. I just meant you're more—more—well, ripened...." he stammered. "By the boots of the Devil, Dolores, you know what I mean." He finally hauled up, exasperated. "I could shake you."
Then, sensing dangerous ground, he quickly veered the subject. "But what in the name of San Antonio were you doing in the hospital? And by yourself. What possible business could you have had there?"
"'Fredo is there. You remember him."
"What? Of course."
"He is blind and badly injured," she reported sadly. "He is close to death. The chirurgeon tells me 'Fredo was on outpost duty—only just the day before the Court's arrival— and he was felled by an arquebus which exploded in his face when he tried to use it, although he was only a regular foot soldier. I brought him medicine and clean bandages and gave an old hag some money to try to ease his dying. I think... I think he realized who I was when I told him. Or perhaps he didn't. In a day or two it won't matter."
"I would like to see him too."
"No. Don't go, you could spoil my excuse. In order to attend him I told the Queen he was of the Baron's household. So what reason would you have to be seen at his bedside?"
Francho nodded slowly. Then he looked off into the distance with memories in his eyes.
To distract him and because she did feel grimy, she said, "My hands are not clean. Could you get me some leaves?"
"Of course, doña." Coming back to the present he swung one long leg over and dismounted. He found a broken branch with dead leaves still clinging to it, swished it in the stream, and then offered it to her, careful not to wet her clothes with the drops. She scrubbed at her hands with the wet leaves until they felt clean, and even rubbed a softer, still partially green leaf lightly over her face.
"You can imagine why I so needed to take the smell of death from my nostrils. I was very lucky it was you on inspection duty, Don Francisco."
The strong planes of his face softened with his white smile. "Luck was only part of it, my lady. I saw you come from the hospital, and even from a distance you seemed to reel in your saddle. You turned in a direction away from your quarters, and I was puzzled as to where you were going. And so we followed you, my men and I."
Dolores stared at him for a second. "You followed after me? But why?" It suddenly came back to her that he had never really apologized to her properly, and she raised her chin haughtily. "Why in the world would you care what was happening to me, Don Francisco? If I remember correctly, you were more anxious last winter to consign my soul to the Devil."
Riveting her with his intense blue gaze and half-frown he started to answer and then stopped. Instead he grabbed her horse's halter and led both mounts back from the stream to a hammock where the sand was hard and dry and the wind whispered through the dry reeds. He dropped the reins and came to face her, arms raised commandingly.
"Get down."
"No. I don't want to," she demurred, unwilling to be ordered about, unsure if his gruff tone was serious or not.
"I said get down. Now. Or I'll pull you down," he growled, and when she saw his eyes glisten with the charming thought of manhandling her, she decided to do what he wanted. Francho had two personalities. When he laughed and swaggered he was appealing. When anger darkened his face he could be almost frightening. Not that she was frightened of him, she told herself. She just wanted no arguments. She leaned into his arms and he lifted her off the horse, but set her down with a rough jounce. Indignant with such cavalier treatment she bristled.
"Señor!"
"I have never met anyone so stubborn," he railed at her, hands on his hip bones. "Do you never forgive? Well, here we are face to face, as you wished, and here is the opportune time we sought. So now, lady, I humbly ask your acceptance of my apologies for boorish and untoward behavior to you last winter, and I wish to sincerely withdraw all that I said which was mean, cruel, or insulting, along with my assurances as a knight and a gentleman that no such calumny will ever be repeated." He jumped in surprise. "Ay, caramba!"
She had stamped hard on his boot. "And you expect me to accept apologies that you are shouting at me, bribón!" she cried, as he jerked his foot back.
He blinked. "Was I shouting?"
"Indeed you were. Like a louse-eaten Catalan faggot peddler! Scoundrel!" They glared at each other.
Dolores saw Francho's mouth twitch. She pressed her lips together on her own twitch. Then that familiar light came into his eyes, the warm, amused gleam that had always enchanted her, and she could no longer hold in her sense of the ridiculous. Her laughter just burst from her. His shoulders shook too. Laughing they fell into each other's arms, carried away with levity that came from understanding how ludicrously the two best pupils of Papa el Mono's school of cutpurses were acting toward each other.
"Oh dear, oh Francho, how stupid we are being," she gasped, her voice muffled against his broad chest and fine wool cloak. "Yes, I forgive you. We should have no reason to be wroth with each other."
"True," he agreed in a baritone croak, and fumbled in his sleeve behind her back for a kerchief to offer her. He released her then. "Dolores, ah—you are incredible. No one can make me laugh the way you do," he marveled, tucking away the kerchief after she had dabbed at her eyes. "It feels good. But Holy Mother protect us, we have been acting like children on a teeteringboard."
"I know." She giggled. "Either we are miserably fierce with each other or we turn helpless with mirth." She threw out her hands in a mock gesture of defeat with the situation, but in her mind she was thinking how handsome he was. The strong, masculine planes of his face showed an excited flush under skin beginning to go rough with a hint of dark stubble. Black lashes framed eyes astonishingly and brilliantly blue. His expression was both relieved and open.
She had turned so that the wind was behind her. In an unthinking gesture he reached out with gentle fingers and brushed away the streaming, silky locks of auburn hair from where they blew against her nose and mouth.
His touch made her tremble. She couldn't help it. She cursed herself silently, hoping he would be the gentleman and turn away from her now, for he was in love with someone else and did not feel the earth shake as she did. She saw him stop as he realized what he was doing, and as he saw her reaction. If she dropped her eyes demurely now he would step back and, their fences mended, they would return to the cam
p, relieved to no longer be enemies, parting in friendship to follow their separate destinies.
If she dropped her eyes now, as would a dignified and true lady, they would have no further problem with each other. But she had a problem already. She could not drop her eyes from his, those amused, stern, bold, angry, tender, and compelling eyes that haunted her dreams; she could not drop hers any further than the hard, expressive mouth with its full, square underlip, which had once moved on hers so tenderly. Transfixed and betrayed by her own helpless desire she stared back at him, hearing the soughing of the wind through the bare trees above the barrier of brush that hid them, the snorting of the two horses as they ambled together down the small strand, the soft flap of his cloak as the wind rippled it back and ruffled his hair over his forehead.
Terrified she stood before him, aware that she was exposing herself to cruel hurt, aware that her boldness was open enticement to him, helpless to keep her lips from parting in a half-sigh.
With a groan he pulled her into his arms and held her close to him. "What do you do to me? Why can't I leave you alone?" he moaned into her hair.
Somewhere inside her a muted horn of triumph blew. Reckless now, she pulled her head back. "Just kiss me. Just kiss me, for that's all there is. That is all there will ever be; our lives are parted from each other. But if you will kiss me some of the longing will go."
"I don't think so, beautiful temptress, I don't think so," he answered, pained disquiet in his eyes. But before she could wonder how she had found the daring to ask what she did, he had dipped his head and taken her mouth. And she gave it, melting into his embrace, breathing in his breath with its strange, compelling, musky excitement, molding against his tall body and muscled thighs, her hair whipping about them both.
His warm hand tenderly caressed her face. He could not get enough of her mouth, tilting his own in this direction and that to claim her lips every delicious way he could, and she went with him, anything, anything he wanted—
His lips left hers and she felt their warmth, burning now, on her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her chin, and, as he brushed away her hair, pressed against her slim, smooth throat. She thrilled to his kisses, her eyes closed, her head thrown back, her heart beginning to pound. The sure, male strength of the arms encircling her, claiming her, poured joy into her veins. She tightened her grip about his neck and their lips met again and clung, hers parting helplessly under the onslaught of his fierce, unspoken passion, allowing his tongue to taste her own and to plunder her mouth, searching, searching, and the only answer she could give him was to willingly succumb.
Her whirling mind knew she should wrench herself away, resist, refuse, but her muscles would not comply. Her body thrummed and suddenly, shockingly, she was wild to tear away both her clothes and his so they could come even closer together, skin upon skin; she yearned to be locked into his naked embrace along the length of his body, so close and with nothing between them so that they would blend into one and he would finally understand that they were one.
The same desire must have taken him, for one arm slid inside her cloak and his warm hand moved imperatively up and down her velvet-clad back as if he would peel the fabric away, descending lower to rest on the curve of her rounded buttocks and pulling her tight against the demanding hardness in his groin. Shivers of fire raced through her.
He finally released her bruised mouth and buried his face in her hair, rocking her back and forth as a muffled cry escaped him, "Ay, querida, querida..."
Her hands unwound themselves from about his neck and plunged under his cloak to hug him about more tightly, her tingling fingers exploring along the length of his back, and feeling the dense, taut muscles move in pleasure at her touch.
He pulled her partly away from him, and now she could look up to see his handsome face open to her, darkened with desire, nostrils flared, breath coming hard. Without warning the heat of his hand slid up from her waist and cupped about her velvet-covered breast, one finger unerringly and defiantly caressing in just the right place, right against her nipple, which strained to rise against the fabric and meet him. Great delicious tendrils of shock ran through all her nerves. Keeping his hand on her breast and squeezing gently and rhythmically he raised her desire higher and higher into quivering wantonness. He reclaimed her lips as if they were his due, Dolores noted dimly, as if he were perfectly aware that God had molded their mouths to fit perfectly and hungrily upon each other. His lips moved on hers as if he were saying something, her knees trembled, and she felt a wetness glide down her stockinged leg. A little scurrying part of her brain questioned, "But where, how, here on the cold ground...?" For she could not deny the moist surge of her passion, her terrible need for this one man. She wanted him to take her—
The sudden, startling brilliance of the sun flooding full upon them through a break in the clouds acted like the harsh stab of a great light invading the privacy of a curtained bed. Or perhaps it was like an explosive premonition of disaster. He ceased kissing her. She felt him abruptly freeze. A shudder ran down his frame. He straightened up and shoved her brusquely away from him, ignoring her pained gasp.
"Dolores, I..." His face was rigid with self-anger. "I beg you..." he strangled, shame clouding his eyes and robbing him of speech. "I am beyond words... I..."
With an effort born of grimmest pride and because she had been, in her deepest heart, wary of him, Dolores was able to force herself to a quick recovery, clamping shut, it seemed to her, the very blood that ran in her veins. She stopped his stammering by putting a quick hand over his mouth. Self-contempt was rising in her too. "No, do not blame yourself, Francho. It was my fault. One does not create a lady by adding a title," she declared bitterly. "I asked you to kiss me. You only did what I asked."
"Just as I would do if you happened to ask me to throw you over a cliff?" he answered angrily. "No, the fault is mine only, for I cannot seem to control my—my lusting for you. Like a barbarian." He ran a nervous hand through his hair and for a moment turned his gaze away, looking at the ground in embarrassment. "But I give you my vow, here and now, that you will not suffer my unjust advances again. I appeal to you to accept my word on it." Pointedly, he added, "My lady." And looked fully at her.
Dolores appreciated his effort to erase her harsh judgment of her own actions, and she knew his scowl was not for her. But embarrassment and bleakness at his words flooded her anyway. Was that all he suffered, then? Just ordinary masculine lust? Would the other gentlemen who stared so longingly at her have folded her so possessively into their arms, would their fingers have held her face so lovingly? She ached to believe there was more in Francho's heart. Yet her mind jeered at such moony-eyed stupidity, at her need to see love where there was none. She regarded him, standing there like a huge, stricken boy, and wanted to hit him for his insensitivity. And for the throbbing ache of her body, which she hid behind a dredged-up dignity.
Her tone was brittle as she asked him, "And how will you proceed to protect me from your impulsiveness, señor?"
The line of his mouth hardened. "We will see to it, Dolores, by not being alone with each other again. It seems I cannot answer for my actions with you. But I can prevent the vile advantage I take of your trust by keeping distance and people between us."
"Is your character so weak, then, that you cannot simply exercise self-control whether we find ourselves alone or not?" Her lip curled.
Her attempt to sting did not touch him. "Yes, my character is that weak," he answered, his voice flat. A coldness came into his eyes. "Especially I would not wish to hurt you—to compromise your—your arrangements."
She felt very unhappy. She tried to keep her voice from quavering. "Francho. Please. Let me tell you about the Duke of Medina-Sidonia. He is—"
Now he in turn stopped her mouth, roughly. "No. I do not wish to hear about him."
"But, if we are friends..."
"And so we are, and I pledge you, lady, the strength of my sword should you need it. But of him I do not care to kn
ow; do me that kindness, doña." He turned partially away from her, arms akimbo, his stare brooding on the horizon. "Dolores, I wish you well. And I beg you to forgive my unchivalrous, brutish actions. I don't know what more to say."
Neither did she. She wasn't even angry. Just empty. Sadly she understood that it had not even entered his mind that her eager, willing response to him was not just unmaidenly lust in her turn, but love. Because he was not interested.
"We should go back," she said stiffly and turned away, drawing her cloak close about her for the day suddenly seemed to have gotten colder in spite of the fitful sun. But when she looked around at him he was squinting into the distance, across the opposite bank, where a clearing gave an unobstructed view of the plain and the mountains to the north.
"What is it?" she asked, sighting in the same direction.
Absorbed, he answered without turning. "One of our caravans, can you see? Descending from the pass, men and mules. Strange. The caravans have been suspended, so I thought. Our storage towers are filled to bursting...."
Dolores observed tiny flashes in the distance, which she translated as sun glinting off the steel plate armor of a forward guard she could barely make out. "Perhaps there was just this one more remaining?"
He continued to stare, his half-frown deepening as he shaded his eyes, straining to make out the details of the column as it advanced. "We surely would have been notified," he muttered. "There seems to be too many more mounted men than pack mules. And the mules are not very heavily laden; the pace is too fast. Strange. I wish I could make out the leader's insignia."
"We should go. They will pass close to here and it would be more discreet for us not to be observed by the riders." All she had to fall back upon was primness.
"Yes, of course," he agreed absently, still absorbed. "How can they— Caspita!" She saw him start and stare harder. The column had arrived at a distant bend in the gently rolling road so his view of them was not quite head on. "That's not one of our caravans; those are Moors. Marauders!"
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