He could not quite believe his ears. A lady who didn't love chocolate? "What do you favor?"
"A sip of black tea. Or nothing at all. I'm not very hungry in the morning."
"Madonna," Rafael let out a low whistle. "No wonder you are thin as a wraith. My grandmother often spoke of how cacao is considered a medicine by many physicians who use it to nourish the ill and the infirm—"
She gasped and spun around.
"Wait! I did not mean to imply—"
Too late. Like a flicker of quicksilver she had already melted into the sun-dappled foliage.
"Damn." Pursuit was pointless. He would only end up hopelessly lost in the wooded moors.
He kicked at a pebble and watched it skitter across the terrace and fall into the water. In both Spanish and English, his linguistic skills seemed to be sunk beneath reproach. He had not only appeared a stuttering idiot, but a clumsy oaf to boot. After all, he had just put his foot in his mouth.
Dona Maria's notes on chocolate suddenly took on a bittersweet taste. Deciding he had done enough work for the day, Rafael fell to stuffing the papers into his satchel. After a last look at the forest, he slung it over his shoulder and set off on the long walk home.
* * *
Kyra hurried along the leafy path, but her thoughts lingered on the mysterious stranger.
A corsair. He reminded her of an engraving she had seen in a book on the Barbary pirates. Dangerous.
A shiver ran down her spine. Unlike the polished perfection of Lord Matherton, the stranger's features were rugged, scuffed by sun and wind. His olive skin added to his raffish look. As did his black hair, which fell in devil-may-care curls that grazed his shoulders. Chas affected a tumble of curls, too. But somehow the effect appeared artfully arranged, as if he had spent hours in front of the mirror.
And then there were the stranger's eyes—a deep ocean blue, their depths dark as midnight sin.
Sin. Kyra bit her lip. All men could go to the devil. She had learned her lesson about Spanish coin. Flatteries which lost their luster. Promises whose glitter proved false once they had bought what they wanted.
No, she would not be seduced into thinking the Spanish stranger was nice, simply because he had a sweet smile and self-deprecating sense of humor.
Nor would she think of chocolate, though the engravings she had seen of the cacao tree made it appear an appealing subject to paint. The fruit looked to have a variety of sizes and textures, with colors that ranged from ripe orange to lush purple. There was something exotic about it. Enticing.
Shaking off the wicked, wanton tingle in her fingertips, Kyra paused by a thicket of gorse and carefully clipped a sprig of the prickly blooms. She would stick to less fanciful flora. Sweet dreams, like dark-haired strangers, could only lead a young lady into trouble.
* * *
"Your wood sprite was most likely the Duke of Pierpont's daughter. A sad story, by all accounts." Hendrie shook his head. "Rumor has it Lady Kyra is no better than she should be."
Rafael could not quite puzzle out his uncle's meaning. "Sir?"
"A wayward lass."
"Wayward?" he repeated. "But she seemed quite sure of where she was headed."
A ghost of a smile fluttered on Hendrie's lips. "Forgive me, Rafael. Your English is so good, I sometimes forget you may not know the nuances of the language. In plain speaking, what I meant is that the young lady is said to have surrendered her virtue. 'Ruined' is yet another way of putting it. But however it is said, the meaning is the same—she is now an outcast from Society, a shame to her family." The earl sighed as he swirled his brandy. "Pierpont must be devastated, with this tragedy following so closely on the heels of the other."
"What other tragedy, Uncle Aubrey?"
"The duke's younger daughter was killed in a riding accident. A midnight race over dangerous ground, instigated by her sister over some trifling wager. Lady Kyra has always been known for her wildness."
Rafael saw the earl's expression shade with sorrow. "And yet, you speak as if you are fond of the young lady."
"I am." Hendrie stared rather wistfully into the fire. "Jack thought her a great gun. Said she had more spirit and courage than most lads. If I recall, there were several times when she outrode him in some rush to adventure. And outfoxed him as well, leaving him to take the blame for their mischief."
"She must be a clever lass to have bested Jack at his own game." Rafael, too, watched the flames lick up around the logs, feeling an odd sort of sadness for the young lady. A female who showed a spark of fire ended up getting burned, while a man was cast in a much different light.
"It seems unfair," he said slowly. "Jack enjoyed the favors of many a señorita in Spain, and was only thought the better for it by his peers. Yet a young lady gives way to a moment of passion and she is ruined forever."
The earl looked shocked at such sentiment, then thoughtful. "It has always been thus."
"That does not make it right." Rafael frowned. No wonder she had shied away from his smiles. "After all, for the young lady to have erred, she must have had a partner. What is said of him in English Society?"
"Oh, he is definitely considered a cad," assured Hendrie. "But from what I hear, Lady Kyra refuses to name the fellow."
Steadfast loyalty, however undeserved, took courage, especially in the face of overwhelming odds. Rafael found himself liking her even more.
His uncle looked slightly abashed at being privy to gossip. "It is not that I seek out such scandalous talk. But my housekeeper's sister serves in the same position at Pierpont Manor, and Mrs. Ganton does like to chat during our morning meetings." He sipped at his brandy. "In truth, I pay little attention to the details of Lady Kyra's disgrace, but I am pleased to hear that she is recovering from her own injuries."
"She was hurt in the accident?"
"A broken leg, which is nearly healed. But as for her spirits, it seems she is a mere shadow of her former self. She barely eats or speaks, and spends most of her hours alone in her workroom, painting botanical watercolors. When she does venture outside her own quarters it is only to gather specimens for her paintings."
A sketch of an idea took form in Rafael's head. "Does Mrs. Ganton say what sort of subjects the lady favors?"
"Why, er, I believe she has mentioned wildflowers, though I wouldn't know a larkspur from a holly bush." Hendrie turned slightly, the light from the hearth accentuating the hollows under his cheekbones and the deep cut lines that gave his eyes a downcast look, even when he essayed a smile. "Forgive the melancholy musings of an old man. At my age, it is so very sad to hear of the bloom fading from one so young, and so full of promise. But let us turn to a more encouraging subject."
He rose and gathered up several books from the reading stand. "I have found some very interesting volumes on the New World that may prove useful in your research."
* * *
A dashing soldier, decorated for bravery. Kyra thought about what her maid had told her that morning about the Earl of Hendrie's visitor. So, the handsome Spaniard was an even more romantic figure than a corsair. Still, she could not help thinking of him as a pirate, a dark and dangerous specter come to plunder her peace of mind.
"The Devil take it!" Kyra steadied her wayward shears in time to keep from ruining the twist of honeysuckle. It did not matter in what shape or form her imagination saw him. He might as well be the Man in the Moon, for all the distance she meant to keep between them. She had already flown far too close to the sun. She would not risk being burned again.
A snap of twigs, sharp as the crackle of coals. Steps cut through the tall grass and a shadow fell across her blade. The steel turned cold to the touch.
Kyra turned.
Limned in the afternoon light, the Spaniard looked like... Lucifer ablaze. Why, oh why did her body betray her resolve? She must be truly wicked at heart to feel a devilish tingling from head to toe.
"Ah, señorita, I hoped I might run into you again." He inclined a bow. "I owe you an apology—more th
an one in fact. To begin with, I neglected to properly introduce myself. I am Rafael de Villafranca Greeley."
Rafael. What a sinuous sound. It wrapped around the tongue like silky smooth toffee.
"No doubt you thought me a errant gypsy, on the prowl for something to steal," he continued. "But in truth I am quite harmless. I am visiting my uncle, the Earl of Hendrie."
"Yes, my maid made mention that His Lordship had a relative staying for a time."
"I think, perhaps, there is a connection between our two families. Are you perchance Lady Kyra Pinnell?"
She nodded, searching his face for some sign of a smirk. What gossip had he heard?
His smile, however, seemed as sweet as the day before. "Please allow me to offer a formal acknowledgment of the acquaintance. I have heard that my cousin Jack considered you a good friend." His breath was whisper soft against her knuckles as he bent low over her hand. "And a formal apology for my awkward language. My English leaves much to be desired."
"On the contrary, sir. You speak very... handsomely." Dear God, would he think she was encouraging a flirtation? She turned abruptly. "My condolences about Jack. He was indeed a dear friend, and I—I shall miss him. But unfortunately I cannot tarry for a talk. These flowers will wilt without water." Grabbing up her basket of cuttings, she added a curt dismissal over her shoulder. "I am sure you will make great strides while you are here."
"As to that, señorita..." He fell in step beside her. "Might I ask you to read one other passage? It will only take a few moments, and the folly is close by."
Folly indeed. Kyra had every intention of saying no, but the word stuck in her throat.
"Gracias." He had already tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. "And today I come ready to repay your kindness in helping me with my English."
"You do not owe me anything, sir. Indeed, it is hardly worth mentioning a few trifling words."
"It is naught but a tiny token of thanks." He reached in his pocket and withdrew a small round object wrapped in a twist of marbled paper. The swirls of burnt amber and buttery yellow rolled to the center of his tanned palm.
Rafael de Villafranca Greeley looked to have a strong hand, thought Kyra. A capable hand, the hardened calluses complementing its long-fingered grace.
She tightened her grip on her basket of cuttings. "Still, I do not feel right in accepting it."
"Then we shall share it."
Even with its wrappings, the object looked no bigger than walnut. Curiosity got the better of her. "Pray, what is it?"
Rafael crossed to the far end of the folly before answering. "Open it and see." Before she could demur, he took her basket and set it down next to the portfolios on the stone slab.
The paper fell away to reveal a ball of rich brown paste flecked with bits of scarlet. Its soft sheen had the patina of oiled mahogany. Still mystified, she looked up.
"It is a special blend of cacao, made according to my grandmother's recipe," he explained. "Will join me in a taste? It takes only a few minutes to prepare and it will fortify our stamina for an attack on English grammar."
Surely he did not mean now. "But you have no kitchen, no cook."
"I have all the utensils I need right here." He produced a tin pot from his satchel, along with a small knife and two mugs. "As for a cook..." Wielding a wooden whisk, Rafael cut a rakish flourish though the air. "I have honed my skills under the tutelage of a culinary master."
"You!" Kyra could not contain her surprise. "Men don't cook."
"Au contraire." His fingers moved with a fluid grace, assembling a pyramid of twigs and leaves in the crude stone hearth. "Only think of the best French chefs—are they not all male?"
A spark from flint striking steel lit the smile in his eyes. A leaf curled in the first flare of flame.
Kyra suddenly felt warm all over. "Yes, but... but English gentlemen—"
"Ah, but I am no English gentleman. I am afraid I share some of the same hot-blooded temperament as our Gallic enemy. Mayhap is it the Mediterranean sun that gives rise to a fervor for artistic expression." The whisk came to life between his palms, whipping the boiling water, shaved cacao and cane sugar to a creamy froth. "Like painting or music, cooking requires a passion for creativity."
Rafael pour out a measure of the brew and passed her a steaming mug. Their hands touched, and she was far more aware of the heat of his fingertips.
Was he flirting with her? If he knew the truth, he would have little taste for her company.
She colored and drew back, angry with the handsome Spaniard for stirring a longing that ought to have died. Angry with herself for feeling fire where there ought to be ice.
Having made up her mind to dislike the beverage, Kyra puckered her lips as she raised the mug, determined to abstain from more than a tiny swallow. But then she experienced the oddest sensation. The aroma of tropical fruit and roasted spice tickled her nose, the swirling sweetness filled her lungs and caressed her cheeks.
Dizzy, she smiled in spite of her resolve. A splash fell on her tongue, hot and heady. She drew in a mouthful and downed it in a quick gulp.
He looked at her from over the rim of his own mug. "It is good, isn't it?"
"Delicious," she murmured. "I shouldn't..."
"Why not? Chocolate is one of life's little pleasures."
Kyra froze. His smile was a reminder that life held little pleasure. Only pain and remorse.
He caught her wrist as she tried to flee. "Please, señorita. Has my faulty English once again led me to make some gaffe?"
"No, you said nothing wrong, sir." Guilt choked her words to a mere whisper. "It's just that I must go."
"First finish your chocolate. My grandmother believed it was bad luck to leave a drop in the cup."
"What would you know of bad luck?" Kyra fought back tears. "Gentlemen never have a difficulty in drinking their fill of sweet pleasures."
"Oh, I assure you that I, too, have experienced moments when life seems too bitter to swallow. When your heart is so empty that you feel not even an ocean of chocolate would fill the void. And yet, you must try, drop by drop. Otherwise you will drown in despair."
Shame flooded her face. In her own self-absorbed struggle, she had momentarily forgotten about his cousin's recent death. "How selfish of me to imply no one else suffers from vagaries of Fortune. As I said, I am so very sorry about Jack. We shared a number of childhood adventures, and though we had seen little of each other over the past few years, I remember him as always having a smile on his face."
"Always." Rafael looked away to the lake. Through the fringe of dark lashes, his expression was unfathomable. "Even as he fell after taking the saber slash aimed at my head." He raised his mug.
A salute? She watched as sunlight danced around its rim.
It seemed unfair to let him drink alone. "To Jack."
The clink of cups broke his silence. "Yes, to Jack." He blinked. "Who was not afraid to look the devil in the eye and laugh."
The steam of the chocolate must have misted his gaze. How else to explain the beads of moisture beneath his eyes.
"I hear his laugh often, you know."
Kyra nodded. "Like an echo of... loss."
"For our loved ones as well as our innocence." He lifted the chocolate to his lips. "My grandmother was very fond of a toast she learned from her Jewish friends. Laichayam. It means 'To life.' She heartily approved of the fact that food and drink are an integral part of such sentiment."
"She sounds like a remarkable lady." Kyra joined him in savoring the last piquant taste of the contessa's special blend.
"She was." Rafael smiled, but his voice betrayed a pinch of sadness. Kyra sensed that the loss was more than a distant memory from the past. He sat on the edge of the bench, his hands smoothing at the dog-eared notebooks spread across the stone. "I miss her. But in leaving the legacy of her notes and recipes, I shall always have a small part of Dona Maria with me."
Though his words stirred a great many questions, Kyra was too
shy to ask him for any details. Neither of them spoke for some time, but strangely enough, it was a companionable silence, soothing as the gentle lapping of the lake and last little swirl of chocolate at the bottom of her mug.
She made sure that not a drop was left before she set it aside. "Thank you for sharing your chocolate, sir. It was... "
"Unusual? Unexpected? Unique?"
"It seems you have no need for help with English vocabulary."
"But like the ingredients for cacao balls of the Paria peninsula, if they are not combined corrected, the results will be disastrous." He made a wry face. "However, I shall just have to improvise as I go along."
"If you still wish for me to read your chapter, I suppose I could spare a little time tomorrow." As Kyra stole a look at the piles of paper, she could not help but add, "Cacao balls of the Paria peninsula? Surely that is a recipe of your own whimsy. I mean, chocolate is chocolate—how many different way may a beverage be served?"
"I think you may be surprised by just how many forms the magic of Theobroma cacao can take."
Surely he was just exaggerating, she thought as she rose and took up her basket. But just one was more than enough. Surprisingly, she did feel better, though it was hard to describe how.
If was as if the gaping hole in her heart had shrunk just a tiny bit.
Drawing in a breath, she shook off the thought. That would surely be magic. And magic happened only in fairie tales, not in real life.
Chapter 4
Rafael swirled his glass and watch the flicker of the candle flames set off sparks of amber-gold in the tawny port. The exact same shade of Lady Kyra's hair when it shimmered in the sunlight, he mused, though as far as he could see, the young lady lingered far too much in the shadows.
"You seem pensive." His uncle looked up from the book he was reading. "I hope you are not growing too bored here in the country."
"Not at all," he replied. "Your hospitality—"
"I would like to think we can progress beyond polite platitudes, Rafael." Hendrie fixed him with a fond smile. "We are family—and more than that, you are now my heir. I hope we can develop a degree of friendship and honesty between each other."
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