by Kresley Cole
"Maybe some of the villagers remember when your mother came here, and they told Pascal."
She nodded, lost in thought. Her mother, Elisabet Tristán, had been banished from Castile, Spain, to the mountain cage of Andorra, married sight unseen to Llorente, the wealthiest count there. Elisabet, the daughter of a princess, had been given to the much older man and exiled into a land that might as well have been an island, so isolated was it. Because she'd let passion guide her.
It ultimately destroyed her as well.
"Mademoiselle?"
She glanced up. "Of course, that must be it, the villagers. I'd just believed we'd been so circumspect, remaining here, avoiding that connection." She and Aleix had never drawn attention to themselves and had forgone any of the benefits their positions might afford, partly because they shunned that kind of life. Yet Annalía's isolation wasn't only to avoid notice. Fearing she would be like her mother, Llorente had kept her secluded as much as possible—in fact, only Aleix had persuaded Llorente to send her to school instead of a convent.
"The rumors that Pascal plans to take Spain must be true." Vitale shook his head slowly. "The damned fools have allowed an army to build up right on their border because no one cares about tiny Andorra."
"I thought he wanted to take control over Queen Isabella like the other generals who have, but that's not it. Think about it—if he wants me, then he doesn't want to simply control the queen."
"You think he wants to replace her?"
She nodded. "He probably plans to use me to control Aleix, setting him up as a figurehead of some sort."
Vitale frowned. "But you've told me your house has no claim to that throne."
"Well, no real one. At least not in the last hundred years. But Isabella's hated. Mare de Déu, if she thinks we are exerting…" She put her hand to her neck, for once not to check her choker.
She stood to pace. Ever since she could remember, she'd always paced when upset. Her prickly Andorran nanny had complained of her wearing thin a rug when she was only five. She recalled that a few years after her father had caught her. He'd been so angry, so…disappointed in her. "People pace because they have no control," he'd said, his voice laced with iron. "Will you be one of them? Or will you be a Llorente?"
The memory made her drop down into the chair as though pushed, but without the soothing rhythm—the pacing forth and then the always dependable back—despair set in. Fighting tears, she stared at the paper and the broad, scratching strokes of ink within. She couldn't think of all this now. All she wanted to know was if Aleix was hurt. Was her courageous big brother fearful at all?
"Vitale," she murmured. She was about to cry, and it would pain her for him to see it.
He knew her so well, he didn't ask, just reached forward to squeeze her hand over the desk. "We will talk tomorrow. Ring the bell up here if you need anything."
She waited until she could be sure he wouldn't come back and then when she finally blinked her eyes, two fat tears spilled over, followed by more. After several minutes of struggling, she gave in and put her head in her hands.
"What's in that letter, lass?"
Annalía raised her face, astonished to see her patient up and roaming freely. She frantically dashed at her eyes, mortified that he'd seen her like this. No one saw Annalía Llorente crying. This was far too personal. How had he escaped?
"Tell me what makes you cry so."
He sounded angry that she cried. Not disappointed or disgusted but angry. She frowned. How puzzling. His eyes were focused on the letter as though he would kill it. Focused on the letter…. She caught it on the candle flame and tossed the burning page into the empty fireplace.
He gave her one tight nod at the action as though she'd impressed him. "That's the only thing that could prevent me from reading it."
"Obviously manners and respect for privacy hold no sway over you." She was still drying tears, trying not to shudder with embarrassment. "How did you get out?"
"Picked the lock. Now what did it say?"
"It's none of your business," she said tartly. Her face was finally dry, but now felt tight. "Please leave me alone."
His expression hadn't changed. He had the same expectant look as if he'd just asked the question again and she would answer.
"It doesn't concern you," she felt constrained to say again. And it didn't concern him. Not for certain, at least. But what if the Highlanders were the ones who had defeated her brother's men? What if this one was responsible in some way?
And she'd saved him.
She had to get away. Shooting to her feet, she grabbed her skirt and swished around the desk. When he saw her approaching and didn't step aside, she decided she must forgo manners as well and barrel right past him.
He blocked her exit, putting a stiff arm in front of her.
Fury snapped hot within her. "Stop this, this instant, and let me pass!"
He looked unmoved, his watchful gaze flickering over her face, studying her as if learning her reaction. "What's upset you?"
"Let me go or I will scream."
He bent his arm and leaned into it, looming closer to her. "And who'll come to your rescue? Vitale? I've noticed there are no other men about who are younger than he is."
She'd feared he would come to this conclusion, and he was absolutely right. All of the ranch hands had followed Aleix. And were now captured or dead. Her hand rose to her lips as the thought arose.
Studying, watching her. She cast it down.
"I asked nicely," he grated. "My patience wears thin."
His patience? "As does your welcome!"
"I want you to tell me."
"Why would you even care?" For the life of her, she couldn't imagine.
"Maybe I doona like to see a pretty lady cry."
Utter frustration robbed her energy. "And what would you do about it?" she asked in a deadened voice. "Solve my problems? Slay my dragons?"
His brows drew together as if he'd just realized he shouldn't, in fact, care.
She gave him a disgusted look in return. "What you should be concerned about is leaving my home and removing the threat you pose to everyone here." She feinted left and ducked under his right arm.
As she hastened away, he called, "You're bonny when you're angry, Anna."
At his mocking use of her given name, she stumbled, shocked to the core.
Back in her room, after locking her door, she stood thrumming with indignation. She would have thought that this heinous encounter, coupled with the crushing news, would have made her weep beyond measure.
Strangely, the anger invigorated her. The Highlander might have seen her cry, but she'd never again give him the satisfaction of seeing her weakness—no eyes swollen from tears or face wan from pacing until the moon set.
When she cast him from her home tomorrow like the morning rubbish, she'd look like the princesses her foremothers were.
Chapter Four
Court lay in bed staring at the ceiling, more restless than he could ever remember being. Now that he'd sent word to his crew, he was stuck waiting, a task hard for a patient man and impossible to tolerate for Court. Worse, he waited with an old man he'd like to toss from the window and with a mysterious woman he wanted to tie up so she couldn't flee until he'd actually finished questioning her.
What in the hell had been in that letter and why had she been crying?
Court didn't like mysteries. To him, they had a taunting aspect, as if their mere existence accused him of not working hard enough to solve them.
He was used to doing as he pleased, and right now what would please him would be learning more about the secretive Annalía. She'd most likely be asleep, but her room could tell him much.
Rising from bed, he dressed, then ran his hand under his mattress to grab the ivory knitting needle he'd found in a drawer. His own lock hadn't withstood it, and hers shouldn't prove any different.
He strode down the landing, checking doors until he found one locked. When he stuck the needle poin
t into the keyhole and pressed to the side, the corner of his lips curled at the click. Creaking open the door, he entered the room and approached her bed. The night had just a hint of breeze, with a growing moon shedding light inside.
He found her lying on her front with a thin sheet stretched across her back and her hair spilling across her pillow. Stunning. Thick, glossy curls shone in the moonlight, fascinating him, as did the feeling that arose when he realized, when he knew in his gut, he was the only man to have seen it loose and free. He had the urge to touch it, to smell it, but he forced himself to turn from her and investigate the room.
All of her belongings were stored with an obsessive neatness, and the ornamentations, like everything about her, were incredibly feminine. Lace predominated, but her bookshelf was like a man's: mathematics, botany, astronomy, and studies in four different languages. He spied another text beside her bed, this one on the Greek language.
An ornate display cabinet, polished until it reflected like a mirror, was the center point of the room and housed a porcelain collection arranged on glass shelves. He could see why Annalía might be unconsciously attracted to the pieces. They were bright and striking but fragile, which was exactly how she appeared. They were also unmistakably expensive.
An unfamiliar and wearisome feeling crept over him when he realized her hobby was worth more than he made in a year working tirelessly and risking his life.
His mood improved when he silently opened a drawer—not that he cared overmuch if he woke her, because what could she do?—and discovered a cache of steamy gothic novels in every imaginable language. He grinned. Lady Annalía's dirty little secret.
Beside the books was a thick bundle of letters. He drew it out, then crossed to the moonlit window to scan them. They were all from girls at a place called The Vines, which was apparently a school. The recognizable surnames were like a partial compilation of the world's wealthiest and highest-ranked families. He had to wonder even for Annalía's beauty and wealth, how she'd gotten in. He would return to the letters tomorrow during her ride and read them all by daylight—
She kicked off her sheet in the heat of the room, and his brows rose at what was revealed. Her nightdress was silk—he wouldn't have expected anything less from her—and rode up her creamy thighs, high. The lace edge brushed just below her backside, which was lush and full—that he hadn't expected. He hissed in a breath when she bent one knee and drew it up beside her so that her legs were parted, with only shadow concealing her.
His hands itched to run up the backs of her thighs to palm her curves…until she raised her hips to him with need and spread her knees…He fought to bite back a guttural sound and failed.
Though she didn't wake, she sighed something in Catalan and turned on her back, one slender arm stretching out to the side, her other hand resting on her chest. Perfect, generous breasts strained against the tight bodice, and he groaned, clenching his fists and crushing the letters. She'd hidden more than her hair from the world.
She was exquisite, sensuous, and when he left this place behind he knew he would never forget this image of her. Then from nowhere, a single word whispered in the back of his mind. More.
He froze, every muscle in his body rigid. No.
He'd been attracted to her—mightily so—but before when he'd imagined taking her, he'd envisioned pinning her arms over her head and driving into her hard until she cried out in pleasure and surrendered to him, until he could make her look up at him with something other than disdain.
Yet now he imagined seducing her into letting him lick every inch of her golden skin and the hours he could take tasting her sex. He wanted to seduce her into letting him spend deep within her, knowing he could never get her pregnant.
He roughly ran his hand over the front of his trousers. Apparently he wanted her furiously. But a woman that fine wouldn't desire him, and he would never force a woman.
Court was a bastard in anyone's book. He did things that made other men unable to live with themselves, and he did them without a heartbeat's hesitation. But even he wasn't so far gone that he would remain alone in a house with an exquisite virgin, when right now waking her with his tongue against her sex seemed a brilliant idea.
If he stayed, he would try to bed her at every opportunity even as he knew he shouldn't. He was sick of waiting anyway. The best course would be to leave this place and go find his men.
Though it took will to do so, he turned from her. He was a disciplined man, and damn it, he could do it. He tossed her letters back in her drawer, then kicked it closed, daring her to wake, but she slept on. The entire way out of her room, he opened and clenched the shaking hands that had been so ready to fondle her.
With long strides he made it outside to the stable. The horses recoiled in their stalls as if they sensed the violent turmoil within him.
He didn't want to take her horse, not the one that he'd seen her touch foreheads with while she murmured to it. He couldn't see very well, so he went for a larger horse. After much coaxing, he led out a stallion, vaguely noting it felt superior, and found a saddle for him, using his good hand and the inside of his other arm to carry it. The black dots blurring his vision when he hefted the saddle and tightened it should have warned him that he was pushing too fast, but he continued as though chased.
He glanced back at the house, saw the curtains flickering in and out of her window as though beckoning. Remember how you felt when you saw her crying, he told himself. Gritting his teeth, Court put a boot in the stirrup and stepped up.
The black dots returned and exploded.
Chiron, the ranch's primary stud, was missing. After several hours and to Annalía's horror, they'd found the horse, still saddled, merrily impregnating a mare that had not been in the ranch's schedule.
Now, armed with the knowledge of an attempted horse theft—of a stallion worth his weight in gold—she followed a thick trail of hardened mud directly up to the Highlander's room. Her outrage escalated with each step.
Of course, the door was unlocked. She marched in, fury making a door slamming seem a worthy gesture.
At the sound, he cracked open bloodshot eyes. "What?" he grumbled as he turned on his back.
Mud everywhere. The lace coverlet ruined. "Rolling in the mud, MacCarrick? What a fitting recreation."
He put his good hand behind his head, insolently leaning up on the pillow and peering at her with a too-sly expression, a far too…familiar expression. As if he knew a secret she didn't. Was he staring at her breasts? "You were just going to steal away in the night? And I do mean 'steal,' since we can add horse thievery to your extensive list of shortcomings."
He waved her statement away with his cast, which was also streaked with mud. "I was going to send it back."
"Is that why, of all the horses in the stable, our ranch's stud was found saddled and with a-a…he was saddled and wandering?"
"No, I took him because—" He broke off. "Just forget it."
"I want to know why!" Why that and why he would just leave. Without a word of thanks. And why should that nettle her so much? She wanted him gone.
"And I said"—he leveled a forbidding glare at her—"to forget it."
Obstinate man! "I want you out of my house today."
"And how should I accomplish that, since I could no' sit a horse last night and barely got back inside?"
"I don't care if you have to roll down the mountain. Pascal's men will come for you, and when they do, we will all pay for your selfishness."
"Unlike you people, I canna run up and down sheer mountains all day—like bloody mountain goats—when I am strong. Much less with bashed ribs and a stone of muscle lost."
"If you could make it outside last night, you're well enough to leave a place that holds no welcome for you."
He crossed his arms, his eyes growing darker.
"So, MacCarrick, if you have no other objections—"
"No."
"Good."
"No. I meant no, I'm no' leaving."
Remain calm! Ignore the increasingly familiar urge to close in on his face and screech at him. "You will, because this is my home."
"Who's going to throw me out? The old man? The bairn? No' a single man in sight who can do it."
Mare de Déu, she wished he'd stop saying that. Because he was right. He could stay for as long as he pleased. Wrestling with her temper, she forced herself to say in a soft voice, "I saved your life, and I'm asking you to leave my home. If you are a gentleman that must count for something."
"If I honor your wishes, you'd have saved my life in vain. So it's bloody convenient that I'm no' a gentleman."
Chapter Five
If Pascal's first letter had been the judgment, his second had been the sentence. Annalía stood dazed at the oak desk, the paper in her hand crumpled and damp from her palm.
She'd waited for his instructions, more nervous than she'd ever been. The last four days had been more nerve-wracking even than when a coach-and-six unexpectedly crunched into the white gravel drive of her school. If a carriage came, no one raised an eyebrow. A carriage meant a day trip. But a coach-and-six struck fear into the hearts of the girls, and they would all tear across the schoolroom to look out from the balcony, praying their family's crest wouldn't be emblazoned on the door.
A surprise coach-and-six meant some girl's life was about to drastically change.
As drastically as Annalía's was.
Pascal had called for her. The hours had dragged by as she'd awaited his summons, hours made more miserable by hearing the Highlander restlessly stomping all over her home. He'd been like a loosed bull in the manor, which necessitated her behaving like a frightened hare to avoid him. Their game would end tomorrow. The general expected her to join him then and marry him by the week's end.
She wasn't even near Pascal, and yet already his hand stretched far to control her.
She burned the letter in the study's fireplace then paced until her legs ached and the sun had set, uncaring as to what her father would have thought. Apparently, she couldn't help it. She remembered another time when she'd been home briefly from school and he'd caught her at it. She'd been sixteen. That time his hard, weathered face had looked grave, his eyes full of pain. "Elisabet used to do that."