by Kresley Cole
"Yes, you have. She could be with child."
"She will no' be with child."
"How can you be sure?"
"Canna have bairn." Normally he would never have revealed this to someone like Llorente, but now it seemed so insignificant.
"I should believe that?"
"Aye, it's true, though I dearly wish it was no'." Odd that men always thought if they got a woman with child then they had to marry her. If Anna could be with child, Court would get to marry her.
Llorente hesitated, then said, "Is that why you wouldn't marry her? Not that I would let you anyway, but that's a plus in my mind."
Anna had said he'd lost his wife and daughter. Must've been childbirth. "No, that's no' the reason. Just leave it alone."
Llorente put his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor. "When we finish this I will have to go to Castile hat in hand and ask them to contract a sympathetic match for her. She will hate me for it, but it must be done."
Court gnashed his teeth at the thought. As if she sensed his anger, Anna turned in sleep. "Courtland?" she whispered. "On és ell?"
"She wants to know where you are."
Did Llorente not think Court could understand? Of course he didn't. Court was an ignorant Scot. "I can speak Catalan," he snapped under his breath. Then, dismissing Llorente, Court raised her hand to his lips to reassure her.
"T'estimo, Courtland," she sighed.
Llorente said in a dumbfounded tone, "Then you know that for some ungodly reason she just told you she loves you."
When he heard Ethan's men arriving near dawn, Court rose from his chair. Of course he hadn't slept—he'd taken every minute he could with her after Llorente hesitantly left them last night.
Court lightly touched her cheek, glad at least that her color was back and her skin was warm.
He wanted to kiss her and tell her how much he didn't want to leave, but if she woke and asked him what was happening, how could he answer?
I broke your brother's face last night; we're going to Andorra to stamp out anyone who would hurt you; and afterward, because I took your innocence, you'll be forced to Castile. We won't see each other again, though I'd intended to marry you.
If the Rechazados didn't kill him…
When he brushed her hair from her face, the bruise at her temple stood out starkly. He flinched and a coldness settled over him…enabling him to walk away. "Is tu mo gràdh thar gach nì," he murmured to her before he clenched his hands and left. I love you above all things.
Downstairs, he found Ethan preparing for war—Court had expected no less—with Hugh directing the packing of supplies. Both left him with nothing to work on.
So to gain strength for what he was about to do—abandon Anna—he stole into the study and retrieved the book. He'd never voluntarily touched it before, and hated the feeling of it now, but he wanted to read it, and curse it to hell where it belonged. He'd just turned to their page when Llorente walked in.
The timing. Court was really beginning to hate him.
"Ethan told me I'd find you here."
"Did he, then?"
"MacCarrick, I've thought about this all night, and I want you to marry Annalía before we go."
This was unexpected, but still…"No."
"For some inexplicable reason, she loves you, and she won't want to go to Castile. As much as it grieves me to even consider you, I must."
"No."
"Do you think this is easy for me? I'm a proud man and I despise you—the very idea of being related to you pains me. Remembering the prestigious suits I smugly turned down only to be asking you now appalls me. But I will swallow my pride to see her happy."
Maybe he didn't hate Llorente. Had to admire the man's doggedness. Broke his nose last night and Llorente was asking him to marry his sister the next morning. For her. Must be difficult as hell.
"She has her own fortune."
Court's jaw clenched, and he gave him the look his comment deserved.
Llorente appeared surprised. "I apologize if I offended, but you are a mercenary."
The man wasn't going to give up until Court hit him again, which he could no longer do. He would give his explanation, and if Llorente scoffed, then he'd have tried.
"See this book? This is why I will no' marry her." He opened it to the last page and stabbed his finger against it.
Llorente advanced to the table, skimmed over the lines, then faced him with an expression of astonishment. "You believe you're cursed?"
Court sank back in his chair. "The things it says have all come to pass."
"Like what?" he asked, his tone almost amused.
"It says that none of us will have children and none of us ever have."
"Your brothers believe this, too?"
"Aye."
"Then it's a bloody good thing you can't have children, because lunacy obviously runs in your family. My God, my Andorran grandmother wasn't this superstitious."
He looked disgusted and Court couldn't blame him. Court had looked the same way until they'd found their father dead.
"And your father? I suppose his thread was cut?"
"Within a day of our reading the lines."
But Llorente was hardly listening to him. "This is why you didn't marry her before we arrived?" He snatched up the book, as if to hurl it. He froze, slowly turning his face to his outstretched hand. He placed the book down as though it were as delicate as eggshell. Then crossed himself. "Return to the page."
When Court leaned forward and did, Llorente read again, his expression growing more furious. "There's blood there."
"A warring clan stole the book hoping to cripple us. There was a battle to get it back."
"You don't know what it says? Have you tried to wash it—?"
"The blood will no' be lifted."
Llorente shook his head. "But what it says could be heartening."
Court let out a breath. "Or it could be worse."
Llorente's eyes narrowed. "Yesterday. Do you think that was…?"
"Do I believe Anna was crawling through an assassin's blood in the gutter last night because of my fate? Maybe, maybe no'. But I will no' risk the scarcest chance." Whenever that image of Anna arose in his mind, he struggled to replace it with an image of the future he would ensure she had. He saw her safe in warm Spain, among her own people, with golden-skinned children playing about her skirts. "She will be free of them and free of me."
Llorente glared at the book, read it again. His face was tight when he turned to him. "Then you must swear it."
Court hesitated, then finally nodded. "Aye, my word. Let me finish my tasks first, and I'll never have to see her again."
Chapter Thirty-four
"These are eggs?" Olivia asked Annalía again as she poked at them on her plate. Eggs shouldn't move as these did. She leaned down to peer at them at eye level. "They don't look like eggs."
Olivia glanced up to see the chit put her hand over her mouth. Her face was turning green again. If Annalía didn't eat something soon and keep it down, Olivia might have to do something drastic.
She could just see herself confessing to Aleix that Annalía grew ill on her watch. For some reason before he'd gone, Aleix had taken Olivia aside—not Ethan, not Erskine, not a stranger from the street—and asked her to take care of Annalía. She'd stared at him for long moments, wondering what he really was asking her, wondering if he was jesting, then realized he actually expected her to protect his sister. "How have you been living off this stuff?" Olivia pushed her breakfast tray away. "I haven't tasted a single spice since we got to Britain."
Annalía sat at the headboard of her bed, still in her dressing gown, knees drawn to her chest. "MacCarrick often sent out for food for me. He always knew what I liked." And there went the bottom lip trembling.
Olivia smiled pleasantly. "After I marry your brother, I will have the kitchen stocked with spices. Expensive ones." She picked up a book from the stack she'd plundered from the library downstairs, licked her thumb, and flipped thr
ough with desultory flicks of her wrist. "And we'll get a Spanish chef who knows how to use them. And who will sing opera."
Annalía's eyes narrowed. "I know what you're doing. Even as my mind refuses to believe it. Every time I want to cry you say something to provoke me."
Yes, Olivia had been doing that among other things. For Aleix, she was keeping his little sister from going mad or getting sick. When Annalía had woken that first morning and run downstairs, searching frantically for MacCarrick and her brother, Olivia had patiently explained that they'd left early, ready to get this fight won.
"Did MacCarrick leave me a message?" Annalía asked.
"He told me to tell you that they would be through in a few weeks. And that Ethan would see us down when it is safe," Olivia had answered, veering from the truth. Llorente had told her that; MacCarrick had given no such assurance or message. When Olivia had asked MacCarrick if there was anything he'd like to relate—and yes, she'd asked—he'd only grated, "Olivia, if you are unkind to her in any way…"
So ever since they'd gone, Olivia had hedged the truth—and met every sign of tears with snide comments and crude observations. Yet she could only stem the tide for so long, and even now Annalía's eyes watered.
Olivia slammed the book flat on the table. "That is one thing I'm not looking forward to—a watering pot for a sister. The embarrassment of it!"
"How would you feel?" Annalía demanded. "The man I love was letting me go, though I thought we would be together. I'd just found out he'd given Aleix to Pascal. I was nearly murdered. Then MacCarrick left me without saying good-bye!"
"One more time—your brother would be dead right now if MacCarrick hadn't put him away, and MacCarrick never lied to you about that. He merely omitted, a tactic I know well and use whenever I feel that I'm getting just shy of hellbound. Say good-bye? He was with you the entire night before he left. I'm sure he said quite a few things"—she raised her eyebrows accusingly at Annalía—"yet it's his fault you weren't awake to hear them?"
"He could have left me a letter."
"Now you're just being silly. He's a mercenary—he's not going to go about penning love letters, and really, what would he write? 'Anna…love you…grrr?'"
Annalía ignored the last. "I just wish I could remember that night! It's all so confusing. And I feel awful—I never feel awful." She clasped her forehead. "How can you stand the bloody worry?"
Olivia slid her nail file across the tabletop to drop it in her palm, then leisurely filed. "Oh, I'm not worried about your brother."
"What?" Annalía swung her head around, her undone hair whipping to the side.
"MacCarrick will look out for him. To please you." Olivia wasn't fearful for Llorente in the least. MacCarrick? She gave him a one in two chance. "I'm confident he'll be safe."
"MacCarrick would do that, wouldn't he?…" She sniffed.
"Annalía, don't you dare—"
"You would cry in my position!"
"No, I emphatically would not. I'd scrounge something to eat in this blasted British house, and I'd take care of myself so that when I saw him again I wouldn't be skin and bones with eyes red from crying. And if I had questions about MacCarrick that couldn't wait, and I was stuck in a house rife with answers, I'd find them."
"What do you mean?"
"The servants. Servants know everything."
"I tried! Courtland often said a Gaelic phrase to me, and it signified something important—I know it—but when I repeated it to Erskine and the cook and the maids and the footmen no one would translate it for me."
Olivia snorted. "I wouldn't have taken 'no' for an answer."
Annalía glared. "Should I have held them down and poured boiling water over them until they talked? Really, I'd like your expert advice."
Olivia rolled her eyes. "Of course not. You would use boiling oil."
In a sighing voice, Annalía asked, "Why are you being so nice to me?"
Take it back, Olivia almost sputtered. "I'm not being nice to you, I'm acting nice to you. Your brother seems to think I can behave appropriately to certain people." She began filing her nails again. Annalía had told her that they'd be more attractive if she didn't file them so sharply, and she'd cast her a long-suffering look. A woman's nails had nothing to do with attraction. "I'm merely testing Llorente's theory."
Annalía pulled her legs in closer and rested her chin on her knees. "You told me how the 'engagement' came about, but you should know that Aleix had vowed never to wed again."
"I did know that." Olivia blew on her nails. "So it's a good thing I came along to force his hand."
Annalía tilted her head at her and scrunched her lips. An open book.
"I can see that you agree."
"If you are what makes Aleix happy, then I will have to tolerate you."
"Oh. Since I was awaiting your approval."
Annalía exhaled a long breath, her gaze settling blankly on the opposite wall. "MacCarrick never told me he loved me."
"What did he say when you told him?"
Annalía bit her lip.
"You never told him?"
"I wanted to. I was going to," she said as she stood to pace. Olivia wondered yet again if the trembling bottom lip or the pacing was worse. "I just wanted the perfect time and…and, very well, I lost my nerve."
"Would you have been able to tell him if you were pregnant? You could be, you know," Olivia said, wondering if Annalía would finally admit to her condition.
Annalía stilled. "That's impossible. We can't have children."
Olivia's lips parted in shock and she dropped her file. Can't have children? Oh, the devil's red boots, this was getting worse and worse. The chit had absolutely no clue she was pregnant. No wonder she didn't understand why she felt so poorly—or why her emotions were roiling.
Olivia had thought she was keeping it a secret, but no, Olivia was going to have to explain, and in terms more delicate than "In another month, I'll be the only one wearing your clothes." She repeatedly knocked her forehead against her hand on the table. Llorente owed her this marriage.
"I suppose it's a good thing," Annalía offered.
Olivia wearily raised her head.
"Since he was just going to let me go."
"You clearly want to be with him"—Olivia leaned forward as if imparting a secret—"so don't let him let you go."
"Don't let him—?" Annalía's brows drew together. "That's what you're doing with Aleix."
Olivia sat back and propped her half-boots on the table. "So far it's working. He has to return to me because I have his sister hostage." She briefly put her fingertips to her lips. "Did I just say that? I mean I'm protecting the baby sister and earning his trust."
After a few moments more of pacing, Annalía admitted, "I must say this is better than crying."
Olivia threw her hands up. "What have I been telling you? And you've got it even easier than I do. Llorente doesn't love me—yet—but MacCarrick loves you."
Annalía frowned, then said with increasing conviction, "He did love me. I might be inexperienced to a ridiculous degree, but I should be able to tell, right? A man couldn't simply pretend that."
He could with ease! But Olivia knew that wasn't the case here. "Right!" she declared with a firm nod. "Now you stew over your plan of attack while I go find some food in this place. If we have to subsist on tea and biscuits, then we'll start hoarding tins up here." At the door she turned back. "And, Annalía, if I come back and see that you've been crying"—Olivia made a clawing gesture with her "unattractive" nails—"I will give you something to cry over."
During Olivia's absence, Annalía had time to bathe, dress, and conclude two things. First of all, there was no way she was giving up MacCarrick without a fight. She quite liked this idea of simply not allowing him to throw away what they had. It gave her a feeling of some control over her life.
Second? Though she still had concerns about Olivia—Annalía couldn't determine if Olivia was intermittently evil or handily the st
rongest woman she'd ever met—Annalía knew she would've gone bloody mad in this tense, foreign household without her future sister-in-law to berate her….
Olivia returned then, breezing in the doorway, her arms full of biscuit tins. Evidently, they were, in fact, hoarding. She stowed her loot inside the wardrobe, then drew out a smaller package from her skirt pocket, tossing it to her. "This came for you."
Annalía caught it. From a jeweler but addressed to Court?
"The guard dogs downstairs opened it, of course. Well, go on. I want to see jewelry."
Annalía pried open the velvet box and found her mother's stone inside, though without its ribbon choker. Instead, he'd had it set on a chain so delicate, so precious, it was like gossamer.
Olivia swiped it from her hand. She didn't cackle and abscond with it as Annalía expected, but whirled Annalía in front of the mirror, to fasten it around her neck. "I remember this stone. I considered owning this stone. The necklace makes it more valuable. Good for you," Olivia said, as if she'd earned it from MacCarrick.
Annalía stared in the mirror. He'd somehow figured out what it meant to her, what its significance was, and he'd turned something hurtful into something beautiful for her. The necklace was so exquisite it was like a caress over her neck and chest. God, she missed him!
Did he send this as a good-bye?
"You know that Gaelic phrase you were telling me about?" Olivia elbowed her from the mirror so she could try on the rings on the dressing table, modeling her wiggling fingers in the mirror. "What would you give me if I told you what it means? Would you give me an antique ring once worn by a queen?"
"Right now, the best I'll offer is that I won't slap you if you tell me."
Olivia raised her eyebrows, obviously impressed with the threat of violence. "Very well, I will tell you." She paused dramatically. "It means, 'You are mine. I bind you to me always.' According to my sources, if MacCarrick told you that, then you're a breath away from being married."
Annalía's eyes widened. "You lie! How do you know that?"
"I asked the Scottish woman downstairs. I wouldn't have asked for you, but I truly did expect you to give me one of—"