“Well, you did give him our best horse. Only you would consider refusing a royal command. You don’t get to decline.” He withdrew.
I wondered if it was heresy to tear it up.
* * * *
My mind raced to unravel the chaos.
Although my memory had fractured, I recalled being at the senator’s residence. Those injuries had seemed so real. I’d lost a week and hated the feeling.
Annabelle appeared at the doorway, a vision of loveliness. Light from the corridor illuminated her.
“Daumia, how are you?” She came closer, reached for my hand, and kissed it. “Thank you for letting me stay here.” She picked up the cup from the bedside table and gave it to me.
“How long have you been a dancer?” I tried to work out her age.
She lifted the net out of her way and sat beside me. “My father sold me to the Romany. I’ve danced for them ever since.”
I was about to ask her to dance for me again, but couldn’t now, not after hearing that.
She gazed about, as if taking in the room.
“It wasn’t always this way for me.” I caught myself staring at her.
“This wasn’t your family’s home?”
“No.”
“Then how did you end up as master?”
I raised myself up onto my elbows. “A mixture of luck and,” I scratched my head, “hard work.”
“Miguel told me it’s because you work alongside the ranch hands that the staff admire you.”
I drank the rest of the water.
“How long can I stay here?” she asked.
She bestowed the very image of innocence. Having stolen her away, I was no different than her father who’d betrayed her trust, or the men he’d sold her to. No different than Felipe who’d laid a claim to her.
I reached for her but quickly withdrew my hand.
I’d closed my heart before. This time would be no exception. I had to let Annabelle go.
Chapter 14
THE LAST TIME I’D seen Salvador, it had been sans clothes.
I now sat next to him at the Moran’s dinner table, both of us acting as though nothing had passed between us.
The other guests, three in number, were all nobility. I perused them one by one and gauged their characters from the little they revealed of themselves.
General Hernandez, the stocky gentleman who sat beside me, was Salvador’s commanding officer. Hernandez’s rugged features indicated a man who’d seen many a battle and wasn’t shy of getting down and dirty with the troops, thus earning their respect. Yet Hernandez’s unsteady eye indicated his need for approval. Perhaps such insecurity had been a catalyst for his desire for promotion into the highest ranks.
Countess Miranda Ebro, with her painted face and tight bodice, her attractiveness enhanced by her confidence, was a lady in her thirties. A widow no doubt, revealed by the sadness in her eyes and the way she sighed deep in thought throughout the evening.
Lady Rosalie Ambrith, with her hooked nose and small mouth, had a fixed expression of disapproval. A lady eager to offer criticism, her way of making the world a better place, ensured her strict, moral legacy continued unabated. Even I couldn’t win her over.
All the guests warranted a good stare.
And Salvador, with his dashing good looks and captivating smile, his bravery warranted the title I held—a fine officer who showed a deep respect for his men, and a willingness to hear both sides of a story before sharing his opinion. When he focused on me, arousal soon followed.
Señor Moran proposed a toast to Spain’s new knight of the realm. I accepted the honor, hoping to convince them I’d earned it. As the alcohol flowed, so did the camaraderie.
Salvador enthralled me. I found it difficult to define the cause of the numerous fissions, the fine wine or Salvador’s firm hand brushing my thigh.
He leaned in close and whispered, “Rumor has it that the flamenco dancer is a guest at your estate.”
“And what else do the rumors say?” I asked.
“That you’ve found favor with the king with your Andalusians.”
“His highness has acquired several of our horses.”
“Pleased to hear it.”
“I’ve selected yours from my finest stock.”
Salvador beamed.
I sipped my wine, forcing my confidence. “Tell me what you know of Senator Grenaldi.”
“He’s ambitious.” Salvador’s gaze held mine as if to exaggerate his point. “A man not to be crossed.”
“In what way?”
“He uses questionable tactics.”
“He likes to win?”
Salvador raised his eyebrows. “He does.”
“And you want to work for him?”
“He gets things done.”
“What about his wife?” I looked away briefly.
“The king’s cousin. That’s a marriage of alliances.”
“To further his political career?”
“Felipe blatantly keeps a lover.”
I nodded casually. “Doesn’t his wife complain to the king?”
Salvador topped up my glass, shooing away a waiter. “The king has more mistresses than you can count.”
“So Felipe’s wife is powerless?”
“But she knows that affair won’t last.” Salvador shrugged. “Felipe believed his wife to be barren, so he took a mistress and fathered a bastard.”
“A son?”
Salvador nodded. “Felipe’s wife is pregnant.”
Alicia and her child’s days under Felipe’s roof were numbered. Though not knowing why I fretted, Salvador offered a reassuring smile. I followed his gaze.
“The countess is very wealthy,” he whispered. “She’s declined many an offer of marriage.”
“The widow?”
“Yes. Have you met her?”
“No, never.”
“Well, you’re spot on. She’s good friends with the senator. Insatiable appetite.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Not me, her.” He burst into laughter.
My thoughts wandered to Annabelle, her sweetness, her innocence, how long she might stay.
The countess blinked her long lashes at me.
I reeled with dread as I considered Salvador’s words, and found no amusement in the countess’ subtle flirting.
* * * *
Salvador and I found the opportunity to withdraw from the other visitors. We sauntered outside into the cool evening air. The stuffy dinner party wasn’t my scene, and by the way Salvador loosened his necktie, it wasn’t his, either. The garden possessed a lush assortment of greenery and the well-tended flowers sprung up around us. I avoided treading on them as we crossed the stony pathway and leaned against an ivy covered wall.
“You seem pensive.” Salvador gave me a quizzical look. “I think you know me well enough to trust my discretion.”
I turned to face him. “Perception is reality.”
“For some, yes.”
“The Pope has received a royal warrant to purify the kingdom of Spain.”
He nodded. “The Church has sanctioned an inquisition.”
“What are your thoughts?”
“The king’s word is final.”
“I’m happy to hear that. I knew you were a royalist.”
Salvador gestured for us to continue walking. “Your knighthood, it has something to do with this?”
I followed him further into the garden. “We have reason to believe that we have a heretic amongst us.” I gazed off at the dramatic landscaping.
“You found evidence of his dissent?”
“But we need more.”
“Which I’m qualified for.”
“We plan to infiltrate his estate.”
“Send in a spy.” He gestured he wanted in.
I liked Salvador, but I loved my sister and with every passing day the threat that loomed over her worsened. And there was now the matter of her son.
“Come for dinner tomorrow night.” I leaned agains
t the wall. “And bring the countess.”
Chapter 15
ON MY ARRIVAL HOME, a dispatch awaited me.
A lump caught in my throat and I hesitated to open the envelope.
Ferring had insisted on using a rich plaster design to line the ceiling. The focal point was an overly ornate fireplace, the hearth still burning. All this sumptuousness was too flamboyant for my taste. I rarely visited what had been intended as a living room, easily more drawn to the modest, quiet corners, where I could sit and think clearly, undistracted by garish décor. No one would disturb me in here.
I read the document.
If signed, it would transfer half of my estate to Felipe. The fist of fate punched me hard and I threw the letter into the flames, watching it flare, then disintegrate.
As I ascended the stairway to my room, I knew I had no choice but to go through with encouraging Salvador to take up residence at Felipe’s manor. I’d never convince Alicia to leave Felipe, and he wasn’t just interested in investing in the business I’d built from the ground up. His demeanor had implied a more sinister scheme, that of full ownership.
I’d grown fond of Salvador, and my plan involved risking his safety. More thought needed to go into my scheme.
My mind teetered on the very edge of reason. My strategy thrust Salvador right into the center of Felipe’s world, and I hated myself for throwing him into the lion’s den. Even though Salvador had expressed his ambition to work for the senator, I was drowning in guilt.
I hesitated at my bedroom door. Through the netting, I could see that someone had crawled into my bed, the rumpled covers pulled up and over them. I grabbed the bed linen and pulled it off, and caught my breath.
Annabelle, wearing only a chemise, shyly reached for the sheet and pulled it back over her. “This house is so big.” She yawned. “I can’t sleep.”
“You get used to it.” I averted my gaze.
“Please stay.”
The corner chair was an uncomfortable option. Annabelle patted the bed with insistence. Fully clothed, and too tired to argue, I slid in next to her. I reached for the cup of water on the bedside table and took a sip. Picking up the nearby book, I opened it and peered down at the last page I’d read. Even her perfume imbued the exotic.
I pretended to read.
Annabelle prized the book from my hands and pushed it off the side of the bed and her laughter rippled. She leaned in, planting kiss upon kiss upon my cheek.
You have the dancer in your bed, came the restless voice of my conscience that I tried to ignore.
Returning her kiss, tasting her sweetness, her soft lips pressing against mine. With my hands on either side of her face I held her there, firmly captured, an explosion of passion. Instinctively, I slipped my hand beneath her chemise and then quickly pulled away, trying to think of something else, somewhere else. I leaned over and reached for my book. Impossible to stay here with her, fearful that I’d take advantage, I found myself in the position of no going back.
I’d lost my page.
She grabbed the book from me again and threw her head back with laughter. As though controlled by a force outside my will, my hand was drawn by some mystical charm.
She arched her back and sighed.
Within me was the desire to protect her, even from myself. At the same time, I couldn’t deny her.
I pulled her chemise up and off her.
I gazed at her beauty, beholden by her perfect olive skin, endowing a flawless complexion, ringlets cascading over slender shoulders.
On and on pleasuring her, I responded to her gasps that begged me to continue, both of us ascending closer to euphoria.
Her affection for me gave me the confidence to find mine, look inside that once scary place and touch the serene. Feeling the purest devotion, I cherished her.
She was lost, gone from me, possessed, shaking her head, whipping dark locks from side to side.
Annabelle’s expressions reflected her vulnerability twinned with joy. Her long lashes fluttered. Her rosebud lips pouted.
To think I’d left her to find her own way from the Moran’s to my house and risked her getting lost, even worse, the thought of Felipe finding her and stealing her away.
We tumbled over and over until we slid off the end of the bed, laughing all the way. In Annabelle’s arms I felt safe and knew that she did in mine. A foreign emotion seized me completely and I knew it could only be love.
* * * *
Trying to wipe off my ridiculous grin, I set about checking that evening’s arrangements. The table had been set with luxurious settings, our finest plates. The chef prepared lamb, accompanied by flavored vegetables, tasty pastries, and a wine selection from our best vintages. I instructed the waiters that Salvador’s glass must remain topped up.
Pacing, I replayed my plan.
Within hours, the countess’ imaginary outline had been realized. She sat next to me, on my right. Salvador, who sat to my left, held his hand over the rim of his glass, gesturing to the waiter he’d had enough. I reached over and filled his glass myself.
The evening flowed as did the Bordeaux. Countess Miranda charmed us with tales of her late husband’s business endeavors. The count had been a successful merchant, traveling to London on several occasions. She’d accompanied him on many of his trips abroad. Salvador and I were intrigued when Miranda recounted reports on life in merry old England. We roared with laughter when told how little the English bathed.
We were enthralled with her morbid tales. Apparently, London’s undertakers frequently dug up caskets for lack of room, and often found markings on the inside of the coffin lids. The undead had tried to scratch their way out. Some of those who’d been laid to rest had not actually been dead, not at their burial anyway.
Salvador howled at my expression. Apparently, my mouth had been gaping.
“Remind me never to step foot on that godforsaken island.” I laughed.
“Oh, but they also have the most wonderful artists.” Miranda turned to face me. “Many of Europe’s greatest works find their way to the capital.”
“Still not convinced.” I cringed at the thought of falling down drunk and finding myself buried alive.
A discreet waiter served us dessert.
I knew how to play Miranda. She’d be used to men fawning over her. This woman had everything—money, power, and beauty. The alcohol loosened her nerve and she let down her guard. Her husband had died at forty, falling ill after a trip to France. He’d left her childless. Now one of Spain’s wealthiest widows, with nothing but time for pleasure, she failed to conceal her desire for excitement, from me anyway.
I ignored her and concentrated on Salvador. When Miranda fidgeted, I fed her sugared almonds, wooing her all over again, pushing and pulling her into a state.
“There’s nothing more interesting than a woman who’s well traveled.” I sighed, my thoughts drifting to Annabelle.
Miranda gave a crooked smile. “Or a man with a mysterious past.”
“Daumia is certainly indefinable.” Salvador downed his wine.
I raised my glass in a toast. “To defining the indefinable.”
They laughed.
“We want to know more about you,” Miranda said boldly.
Salvador leaned forward and broke the silence. “Well, I know one thing, he’s certainly honorable.”
I took a sip. Such regard for myself slipped away. A war between Felipe and I raged just beneath the service. No room for procrastination and no time for cold feet.
“But he’s so coy about revealing anything.” Miranda ran her fingertip around the rim of her glass.
I topped up her wine. “What do you want to know?”
“How you came to live in such a great home?” she asked.
I held her gaze. “Fate dealt me a kind hand.”
“This was once the Bastillion estate?” She patted her lips with her serviette.
My back stiffened. “Right up until the house burnt to the ground.”
&nbs
p; “And Roelle Bastillion?” Miranda gave a long stare.
I placed my fork on my plate, my appetite now dulled.
“Such a terrible way to die,” she continued. “No kind hand for Roelle.”
I hated where this was going. “You have French heritage?”
Miranda appeared surprised. “Most people don’t notice, Daumia. And what’s your heritage?”
“Italian father, mother, Spanish.”
“You were born in Santiago de Compostela?”
“Yes. Near the Romanesque Cathedral.”
The butler entered. Never had I been so happy to see the man who’d unwittingly enabled me to change the subject.
“Tell me more about England.” I gestured to the waiters to leave.
“They’re very progressive,” Miranda replied. “Take their architecture for example . . .”
Her words faded as thoughts of Harold Ferring came to mind. After he’d left, I’d come to realize his talent. He’d designed the house so that when the sun rose, it flooded the servants’ quarters and breakfast room. At sunset, the light lingered in my office, the library, and the bedrooms. Masterful, the genius was captured in the details.
With dinner over, Miranda excused herself, withdrawing to powder her nose.
“She’s quite taken with you,” Salvador slurred, and gave a grin that quickly faded.
“Come and sit with me.” I gestured to the couch.
Once seated, his fingers traced the braid on his uniform’s jacket pocket. Don’t go through with it.
“The man who needs watching is Felipe.” I glanced away.
Salvador’s arm stretched out along the back of the sofa. “I can’t believe it.”
“And you were already planning on taking up residence at the senator’s?”
“He’d not suspect anything.”
I was conflicted, but Alicia’s life hung in the balance.
There had to be another way.
“Daumia?” Salvador shifted closer.
Desire surged through me and dragged me with it, possessing me with the thrill of his lips almost touching mine.
The door handle turned.
Miranda entered, barely missing our brush with lust, and Salvador slumped back.
“This . . . conversation will continue,” I said at last.
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