After a few moments tucked into him like that, she lifted her head, her eyes clear, a question curled within them.
If he were any other man, this would be the moment when he kissed her.
But no matter how grateful he was she was safe, no matter how he trusted her with some of the secrets of his past, no matter how he might smile at her, he must not kiss her.
He could only allow himself one small indulgence.
Lifting a hand to her jaw, he caressed the line of it, the softness of her cheeks. How long had it been since he’d touched a woman like this? Thirteen years now, when he’d been a stupid, lost boy of seventeen. Before he’d gone on the path to repentance.
He’d forgotten how yielding a woman’s skin could be, how her breath could caress as it moved over his hand. Or perhaps he’d never truly experienced anything quite so exquisite as this in his youth.
Because it was exquisite, her fine dark eyes following his, her breath going deeper, slower, with each sweep of his hand. And her hands, still framing his heart as it began to speed at her touch.
Because it was exquisite, he knew he could never go further than this. This here was the boundary of what could be between them, this far and no further. Exquisite things were delicate, easily damaged.
He was very good at damaging things.
Reluctantly he pulled away, even as his heart thudded in protest. He took a deep breath, trying to school himself back to his usual state.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She set a hand to her hair, then to her cheek. “Yes.”
Her steady regard was a hard rap to his aching conscience. His failures today would take some time to put into the notebooks tonight.
“Pack your bags,” he said.
“Pardon?” She hadn’t been expecting that.
“Someone may or may not be trying to kill you.” She flinched, but kept her chin high. “Pack your bags,” he repeated. “It’s not safe for you here, so you’re coming home with me.”
She’d be safest there, under his roof, where he could always watch her. Night and day.
“Right now?” she asked.
“Yes. I’ll send for your mother later, when she returns.”
She gasped. “You don’t think my mother is in danger?”
“I don’t know.” He couldn’t lie and say no, even to spare her pain.
She raised a hand to her mouth, her fingers trembling. “But… but McCade is in jail. Who else would have done it?”
His gut twisted at the thought of who might have sent the gunman. “Perhaps his father,” he admitted. If one of the most powerful men in Los Angeles wanted her dead… “I want you where no one will find you.”
She pondered that for a moment, her eyes wide. She tapped her fingers against her lips, slowly, one, two, three. Four.
“Yes, well, I suppose I should go to your house.” She spoke through her fingers. “So that my cousins are out of danger.”
She let her hand fall, all fierceness gone from her stance. He missed that fierceness with a deep ache.
“You won’t be captive,” he assured her. “And I have a very fine library.”
She would be delighted by that. She might even break into one of her rare smiles.
“You don’t read novels.” A tremor shook the words, even as she pushed for levelness. “How fine could it be?”
“Well, now you can correct my taste in reading.”
His effort was rewarded by the tiniest of smiles from her. “Let me fetch my things, then.”
As she left the room, the full weight of what he’d done crashed upon him.
He was taking her into his house. She would eat with him, would sleep near him, would always be within reach.
He didn’t know if he could stop himself from reaching for her if she were always near.
But he had to keep her safe. Not only as part of his duties, but also for himself. Some part of him, a part he’d thought long dead, would wither if she were not in this world.
Having her under his roof might be the greatest trial of his life.
So this was where the marshal lived.
Isabel took in the stately parlor, which matched the house’s imposing exterior. The furnishings were far from ornate—sparse even—yet of the most luxurious quality. The entire effect was one of calm, clearly intended to produce a contemplative state.
Except for the flowers.
An arrangement sat next to the sofa, and what an arrangement it was: the roses in it practically erupted, reaching higher than her head and spreading wider than both her arms outstretched. It was a wild abandonment, a burst of floral chaos in this Spartan room.
The flowers must have been his mother’s addition.
The marshal paced in front of the fireplace, his feet moving in time with the ticking of the clock on the mantel. He’d been agitated since the shooting, although she wasn’t certain if it was because of the gunfire or because he had embraced her.
Both events had certainly left their impression upon her. The sensation of his hand lingered on her jaw, a heavy tingling that refused to be rubbed away.
When she’d heard the shot, the paralytic fear came hard and fast upon her, until she was only a stuttering heartbeat and ragged breath. But then the marshal’s arms were around her, his heart under her palms—the weight of him over her as he shielded her with himself…
The marshal had been there this time. He’d not failed her.
“Would you like to sit down?” she asked.
He raised his head and lightning sparked from his eyes. He didn’t answer, merely turned and set to pacing again, snagging her heart in the process and pulling it painfully against her ribs.
“The trial begins tomorrow,” he said suddenly. “Until it ends, you will remain in this house”—he pointed to the floor between his feet—“except for when you’re in court. You mustn’t even go to the door.”
“I know.” He needn’t be so stern. She was happy enough to remain in this cage, secure from any more attempts on her life. And as far as cages went, this one was impressively gilded.
She studied the pictures on the walls. A few were photographs of the marshal and his mother, but the largest was a painting of Señora Vasquez as a young lady. Her smile was shy, her eyes downcast, almost as if she were painfully embarrassed to be subjected to the viewer’s gaze.
A girl with eyes like that would never have stood a chance against a violent drunk.
There were no pictures of his father, and the earliest ones of Sebastian were as a young man, already guarded and tense. Whatever had happened to make him as he was must have occurred when he was no more than twenty.
“It’s a good likeness, isn’t it?” he asked. He’d followed her gaze to a photograph of him, looking younger and grimmer.
“It’s a photograph. It’s meant to be a good likeness,” she said. For comparison, she looked him up and down, taking in his suit, his black hair and gray eyes. If it weren’t for the warm tones of his skin, he would be as colorless as that piece of paper on the wall. “But no, it doesn’t truly capture you.”
He tilted his head, as if changing the angle of his gaze might change the contents of the photograph. “I suppose a camera can’t capture a person’s interior.”
She stilled at the second reference he’d made to his interior.
“What should it have shown?” she asked carefully.
He didn’t answer, at least not directly. “There are many men in this world who claim to be models of justice and morality, yet their private actions betray them for what they truly are.”
“You can’t possibly be describing yourself.”
“No, but what of the opposite?” He gestured toward the picture. “A man who struggles with the evil inside himself, and strives for the good. Does the darkness of his interior negate the good he accomplishes in the world?”
Was that how he saw himself? As rotten inside? But why? Did such a view explain his unnatural reserve?
“Aren’t most of us struggling against our own sinful natures?” She’d certainly spent her fair share of time in confession.
He turned to her, holding her gaze for a moment, hands tight against his thighs. “Some of us struggle more than most.”
He looked so isolated, so solitary—her heart strained at the sight.
“I don’t believe you have a sinful nature.” As comfort, it was a poor effort, but she didn’t dare reach out to touch him.
“How can you say that? You saw what I did to McCade when he insulted you.”
Oh, she remembered that shocking burst of violence, all the more surprising given how contained he usually was.
“Why did you do that?” she asked. “He wasn’t resisting.”
He released a harsh breath. “I wasn’t there to stop him when he seized you. Then he insulted you. Threatened you.”
He’d done it for her. “You were protecting me,” she said wonderingly. “Defending me.”
His gaze caught hers as every line of him went tight, his suit straining with it. Something shifted between them, something dark and feral. Anticipation began to drip between them, coating her skin and lungs with every inhale.
“You think I’m protecting you?” he asked harshly.
“You are.” Her voice was as breathless as his was harsh.
He took a heavy step toward her, and her ears thrilled to the solid beat of his heel against the floor. “You thought I was defending you?”
“You were.”
Another step toward her. Another thrill dancing along her nerve ends.
One more step and they would touch.
“You don’t believe I’m evil?” he asked.
She lifted her face to him. “No, I don’t.”
He took that last step, his chest barely touching hers, as faint as the brush of fog against her skin. She saw the scars crossing his face and her belly clenched.
She knew then she would kiss him, because she wanted to comfort him, to remind him that he was not alone, to tell him that he wasn’t evil.
But most of all, because she wanted to, with an urge that pained her with every unsteady heartbeat.
“Do you really believe that?” he asked.
Before she could say yes or no, or even think yes or no, his hand came around the back of her head, anchoring her in place before his lips caught hers.
She was no shrinking virgin—she and Joaquin had ensured that they would be entirely compatible, including in intimate matters.
But this kiss was nothing like any she’d shared with her former fiancé.
From the first, his lips forced hers open, his tongue entering her mouth without hesitation or apology. She held still under the onslaught, shocked temporarily into submission.
The taste of him filled her mouth as his tongue caressed the deepest recesses, a taste surprisingly warm and penetrating for a man so cold and reserved. The scent of his skin was dense, musky, the thin hint of soap clinging to it vainly attempting to mask it.
She let the sensation of his nearness, his need, wash over her for a moment, savoring the heavy drag of his hand at her nape.
Then she acted.
She slid a hand around his neck, trying to tangle her fingers in the hair at his nape, but it was too short to find purchase. She raised her other hand to his shoulder, attempting to clutch at his jacket, but there was nothing on him for her to cling to, nothing to grab at but pure muscle and sinew.
So much muscle and sinew. She greedily ran her hands along his upper arms, his shoulders, his upper back, as he strained to get closer to her.
To invade her.
Her knees went weak at the thought, because she just might let him.
She pulled him as near as her strength allowed, her tongue slipping into his mouth to taste and tangle with his. His hand on her neck tightened, and the kiss became a struggle. Not for dominion of one over the other, but rather against their own physical limits, a climb to transcend the realities of lips and hands and bodies and somehow merge together.
He was the first to break away, those gray eyes alight as they’d never been before. She bit back a groan at the loss of his mouth, wanting more, again, but knowing it wouldn’t happen. He was sure to slam down that reserve of his.
She slid a hand down his chest and felt the hammering of his heart under her palm. She smiled, her lips raw.
He did experience intense emotions. And she could make him do so.
But the power was not all hers. Even now the clasp of her corset was tight against her breasts, her thighs pressed together against the ache between them.
He’d plucked her, and still she hummed.
A look of perfect horror crossed his face, eyes and mouth widening with it. “I never—”
She stopped him right there—she couldn’t bear to hear him apologize. Not for that kiss.
“You said that I was safe from any improprieties,” she teased.
She thought his eyes would gleam at that. Or he might even smile.
But he did something extraordinary.
He laughed.
Unlike his voice, it was neither mellow nor pleasant; it was the word rusty reborn as a laugh. For all that it was as harmonious as metal against metal, she liked it. Wanted to hear it again.
He grew serious after a moment. “I should not have done that. Not to you.”
She stiffened. “Why? Because of the attack? McCade didn’t claim ownership of me or ruin me. My affection is still my own to bestow.”
He smoothed his face back to its usual impassiveness. “No, not because of that. But because I have no affection to bestow.”
Ice crept under her skin. How could he kiss her so passionately and then say something so… cruel?
“You must be exhausted,” he went on. “You should lie down and rest.”
She was being dismissed then.
“Tomorrow will be just as taxing,” he said, “and you’ll need all your strength.”
Tomorrow.
Her heart kicked sickeningly. She wasn’t ready—after today, her nerves were sharp and thin, rending her reserve to ribbons. The courtroom, the lawyers… McCade…
He was correct: she would need strength.
She pulled her own reserve about her, straightening away from him.
“If you could show me to my room?” As haughtily as her namesake, a woman who’d conquered all of Spain.
“I’ll call one of the maids.” He went for the door almost eagerly.
One of the maids. Of course, he would have more than one maid. A house like this would require such a thing. And a housekeeper, too.
And he’d neatly avoided having to escort her to her room.
Her head began to throb again.
Chapter Twelve
Isabel wondered anew at how Señora Vasquez had come by her openhearted, sweet nature. Especially given how uncaring her son was.
Her mother had arrived that afternoon, as close to fretful as Isabel had ever seen. Señora Vasquez had taken pains to set them both at ease and was continuing to do so over dinner.
That shy girl in the painting hadn’t been obliterated by her husband—she’d blossomed instead.
Her son, on the other hand, was clearly ill at ease. He’d actually fidgeted over dinner: shifting in his seat, grabbing his utensils only to set them back, never allowing a single bite to pass his lips, and tapping his fingers impatiently on the table.
His mother watched all this with a slight smile, which she would occasionally send Isabel’s way. As if they were conspirators in something.
Isabel would have returned it out of sheer politeness—not out of any sense of collusion—only she didn’t, because she was as twitchy inside as the marshal was on the outside. His every unnecessary motion, each adjustment he made to the silverware or his cuffs, was like the flick of a whip across her nerve endings.
She’d never realized how calming his demeanor was to her until he’d lost it.
“Will you be escorting the ladies to the
trial tomorrow?” his mother was asking him.
“I won’t be going,” Isabel’s mother said.
The tumble of Señora Moreno’s words snapped Marshal Spencer into alertness.
“No?” He let that sit, let the silence stretch after.
He was playing the marshal again, only with her mother this time.
Isabel’s simmering anxiety threatened to boil over. Would he truly interrogate her mother at the table? Her mother would never confess her identity, no matter what he might do—but Isabel feared what would come next anyway.
Señora Vasquez darted an uncertain gaze from her son to Isabel’s mother and back again. “If Señora Moreno doesn’t wish to go to the courthouse,” she said, “then she can spend the day with me.”
Clearly an attempt to diffuse the situation. Would her son heed her unspoken admonition?
Isabel watched him closely, his eyes narrow, his shoulders tense. His mouth pursed, as though he meant to question her mother further.
But then his gaze slid toward his mother, touched on her for a long moment—and he relaxed once more.
“As you like, Mother,” he said, with no hint of his earlier tautness.
His mother’s smile was too wide, too relieved. As if she’d been more alarmed by the marshal’s sudden tension than she’d let on. “Wonderful,” she announced. “The Señora and I can visit the Jaramillos again—and the citrus exhibition, we must see that. We should show her something of the city while she’s here.”
Isabel wouldn’t see anything of the city. At least nothing outside of the journey between here and the courthouse. What a lowering thought.
Señora Moreno’s aspect of severe diffidence had never slipped, and she continued to wear it as she answered, “As long as we return before Isabel does.”
“But Sebastian will be with her the entire time,” his mother offered.
Her tone was so blandly innocent, it made Isabel’s cheeks prickle with heat. Surely she couldn’t be thinking of matchmaking?
What would it be like to be married to him? She’d be the mistress of this house, with two maids of her own and as many rose bushes as would fit in the yard.
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