Her Dearest Sin

by Gayle Wilson

  Sebastian wondered if she gave him pleasure, and again the unpleasantness of the thought disturbed even the fear and the fury at his helplessness.

  The girl said nothing in response, but her chin lifted. An unspoken challenge? Or simply an expression of pride?

  “I hold you to your word, Julián. You are bound by the oath you gave me, no matter the circumstances.”

  The Spaniard’s smile was as soulless as his eyes. Almost before it formed, the sword moved—one flick of his wrist and then another. With the point, he had drawn an X on Sebastian’s chest, directly over his heart.

  Before the Englishman could think of trying to respond, the point of the blade was pressed against the very center of that mark. All the horseman needed to do was lean forward, putting a downward pressure on the hilt…

  “I hope you are telling me the truth, my dear. I do so hate liars and cheats.”

  “I never saw him before today,” she affirmed.

  “And you care nothing for him.”

  “Only as I care for any fellow creature. I do not wish to see him hurt for some groundless suspicion that he has given me aid. Or for your jealousy.”

  The point of the sword lifted again, settling this time very near the place where it had been resting when Sebastian had regained consciousness. The horseman’s eyes fell to his face. Lips pursed, he seemed to study Sebastian’s features as if he were memorizing them.

  “Very well,” the Spaniard said finally. “Since I gave you my word…”

  Again his lips tilted upward and, with another flick of his wrist, so did the sword. It slashed across Sebastian Sinclair’s face, a much deeper cut than the one it had drawn along his chest.

  The blade had sliced diagonally, moving across the flesh of his chin and missing the corner of his mouth by a hair’s breadth. Then it had continued on that same path, straight as a die, laying open his cheek. The point lifted only when it reached the hairline at his temple.

  The horseman’s eyes had followed the lightning-quick movement of the sword. When it reached its apex, his strong swordsman’s wrist straightened, snapping the tip of the blade upward, straight at the girl’s face. A droplet of blood was flung from the flexing steel onto her cheek.

  “Unharmed. As promised,” the horseman said, smiling. And then, as he turned to mount one of the other horses, which was being held for him by its rider, he threw a brusque order over his shoulder. “Bring her.”

  Two of the men stepped forward and took the girl by the elbows. She offered no resistance, but before she moved, she looked down into Sebastian’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Then, with one quick, decisive movement she freed her arms. As if she were a queen approaching her courtier, she walked across the rocks to the man who had slashed open Sebastian’s face. When she reached the horseman, who had already vaulted into the saddle, he lowered his hand, holding it out to her.

  She put her fingers in his and her foot on the toe of the boot he offered. With a movement as smooth as that with which he had mounted, she was pulled up onto the horse and settled behind the Spaniard.

  Without looking at Sebastian again, the horseman put his booted foot back into the stirrup and used his heels to urge the gelding up the slope that led to the English-held side of the river. The other riders streamed behind them, heading back toward the ford they had crossed before.

  Stunned by what had just occurred, Sinclair lifted his bound hands, trembling fingers touching the cut that marred his face. His eyes filled with tears, not of pain or anguish, but of sheer, unadulterated rage as he listened to the sound of their horses’ hooves fade away on the rocks.

  He lay where they had left him. And looking up blindly into the heat of the summer sky, he swore that he would find and kill the Spanish bastard who had ruined his face if it were the last thing he ever did in this life.

  Chapter One

  Madrid, 1814

  “And finally, I would remind you that we are here as representatives of the Prince Regent,” the Duke of Wellington concluded, his piercing eyes examining each of his officers in turn. “I need not tell you what an honor—and a responsibility—that is.”

  He inclined his head, almost a bow, before he turned. As if on parade, his staff followed him through the massive doors and down the steps of the residence that had graciously been made available to the former commander of the British forces in Iberia, now special envoy to the Spanish court. Waiting below were the carriages that would take Wellington and his party to the reception at the royal palace.

  Some of the men who accompanied the duke tonight had been with him the last time he had entered Madrid—under far different circumstances than these. There was very little he could tell them about duty or responsibility they didn’t already know. And he, more than anyone, understood that.

  “He’d rather be hanged, I venture,” Viscount Wetherly confided sotto voce to Sebastian as they followed their commander.

  “He’d rather be charging an enemy,” Sinclair responded more accurately.

  “He’ll find enough of those tonight. Not the sort one can take satisfaction in charging, of course. A gaggle of Spanish nobles determined to turn the clock back on the past five years. Can’t be done, if you ask me.”

  “No one will,” Sebastian assured his friend with a grin. “Politics isn’t your forte, Harry. Leave the maneuvering to the Beau. At least he knows what message it is we’re supposed to convey to Ferdinand and his advisors.”

  “That they shouldn’t let the Inquisition start burning people at the stake again, I should think,” Harry said. “Seems reasonable to me.”

  And not so far from the truth of the matter, Sebastian acknowledged ruefully, despite his comment about the viscount’s lack of political understanding.

  Wellington had been sent by the English government to advise the Spanish court that it would be the height of folly to attempt to undo the reforms instituted in the country while its rightful king had been in exile. No one, least of all His Majesty’s envoy, expected that mission to be a success.

  “But will it seem reasonable to them?” Sebastian asked. “That’s the question. Not that Wellington gives a damn. He’ll deliver the prime minister’s warning because that’s what he’s been asked to do. What they do in response will be up to them.”

  They were aware from bitter experience that Arthur Wellesley, now Duke of Wellington, had never suffered fools gladly. Riding a crest of unbelievable popularity due to his role in the defeat of Napoleon, he would have little reason to change that habitual attitude now.

  “Have to confess,” Harry went on as they settled into the last of the line of carriages, “I’m not nostalgic about being back in Madrid. Can’t compare to the glories of Paris in the spring.”

  “To the glories of the dancers at the Opera, you mean.”

  “You’re simply jealous, my dear. I can’t be blamed that the loveliest preferred me,” Harry chided.

  It was the kind of repartee they had engaged in a thousand times through the long years of their friendship—bragging about their exploits with the fairer sex or their ability to drink or to fight, each claiming superiority. This time, however, there was a small silence after the viscount’s unfortunate choice of words. And then the situation became even more awkward when Wetherly attempted to apologize for them.

  “You know that ain’t the truth, Sin,” Harry said, his voice subdued. “No woman has ever preferred me to you. Not even after…”

  The hesitation provided an opportunity for Sinclair to break into that nearly stuttering explanation, one which he gratefully took. “Not even after they’ve gotten a good look at my face?” he asked with a laugh, putting a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “I didn’t mean that,” Harry said stiffly.

  “Just because the lot of you pretend this doesn’t exist,” Sinclair said, touching the still-reddened scar that traversed his cheek, “doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Plain as the nose on Wellingto
n’s face,” he said.

  Sinclair never referred to the scar except mockingly, as he had done tonight and, then only in response to another’s comment about it. Most people assumed it to be the result of an injury received in battle. The few friends who knew the truth of the incident said nothing to disabuse others of that notion.

  “You’re still the most dashing officer on the staff,” Harry avowed gallantly.

  “And you, sir, are its greatest liar. I wonder Wellington puts up with you.”

  “Keeps me around for my entertainment value.”

  “And me for the unquestioned beauty of my countenance,” Sebastian said, grinning at him again.

  “He’d be lost without us,” the viscount declared, sounding relieved that his faux pas had been so gracefully handled. “Should never have won the war if we hadn’t been here.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Sebastian said, leaning back in the comfortable leather seat and closing his eyes. “Wake me when we arrive at the palace. It will be the one with all the torches.”

  “Arrogant English bastard,” Julián Delgado said as he watched his king greet the special emissary from the Court of St. James’s, “flaunting his victories and his drummed-up titles.”

  “Jealous, Julián?” Pilar asked.

  “Of Wellesley? Hardly. I simply hate to see him lauded like some conquering hero.”

  “He shall make his government’s request and be gone within the week. Why let his presence upset you? After all, everyone knows where the real power in Spain resides.”

  He turned to look at her then, perhaps in an attempt to judge if the last had been mockery. It had been, of course, but she had become extremely skilled during the past year in hiding her true feelings from her guardian. She smiled at him before she turned back to watch the English duke present the members of his small party to the king.

  “I’m not sure Fernando is as convinced of that as you,” Julián said, his gaze returning to the dais as well.

  “I’m sure you’ll take the necessary steps to see to it that he soon will be.”

  “As soon as possible,” he agreed, not bothering to deny what she had just suggested. “The quicker he recognizes his proper place in the scheme of things, the better it will be for all of us.”

  “There are those who might think that smacks of treason. I should be careful where I voice that intent, if I were you.”

  She didn’t look at him this time, knowing she was treading on very dangerous ground. Her guardian had no patience with any dissension with his opinions. Certainly not from her.

  “And are you one of those, my dear?”

  “On the contrary,” she said. “As always, I am your most ardent admirer.”

  There was a prolonged silence after her lie. Through it Pilar’s eyes remained focused on the ceremony taking place, as if she were unaware of the perilous undercurrents of their conversation.

  “Your tongue will get you into trouble if you don’t learn to control it,” Julián warned, his tone softer than that in which they had been conversing. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe His Majesty requires my attendance.”

  He bowed to her formally before he turned, strolling to the front of the room. Her gibe had struck home, and Pilar’s lips curved into a slight smile of satisfaction as she watched him walk away.

  The rather grandiose style of his evening attire was in marked contrast to the almost severe tailoring favored by the English party. Surrounded by the sea of blazing colors that represented the court dress of the Spanish nobility, the knot of black jackets, no longer clustered around the king, again drew her eye.

  The somber hue of their clothing was not the only discernible difference in the appearance of Wellington and his officers. The fine cloth of their coats stretched across shoulders broadened by years of campaigning. Knee breeches and silk stockings revealed the long, muscled thighs and shapely calves of men who had spent countless hours in the saddle.

  Pilar pulled her gaze away, unwillingly reminded of another English soldier. And of the price he had paid for her foolish attempt to escape her fate. A bitter lesson, especially for someone as headstrong as she had always been.

  It was one she had not forgotten, however. Nor would she, she had vowed. Never again would she embroil someone else in her troubles. It was too costly.

  Grateful that Julián had been called away, providing her a few moments of freedom from the facade she maintained in his company, she began to thread her way through the close-packed throng. The doors that led to the nearby palace gardens had been left enticingly open in a fruitless attempt to permit the cooler outside air to circulate through the crowded ballroom. Her progress toward them was interrupted a few times to return greetings from those who had known her father or who were friends of her guardian.

  It had been a very long time since she had been required to attend such a gathering. She knew that Julián would never have brought her tonight if he had not believed her absence might cause comment.

  When she eventually reached the balcony, she was surprised to find it deserted, perhaps because the official presentations had ended such a brief time before and the dancing was to begin shortly. Julián seldom danced, so it would be some time before he would look for her.

  The king’s gardens lay enticingly below, free of crowds and clamor. If only she dared…

  She glanced back at the ballroom, her eyes easily locating Julián’s dark head. He was engaged in conversation with several others of the king’s advisors. Such discussions normally occupied several hours. Surely this one would last long enough for her to escape for a few minutes that unaccustomed tumult.

  Unable to resist the temptation, she hurried down the steps that led to the grounds below. It was not until she had entered the sheltering darkness under the ornamental trees, beyond the reach of the flambeaux that lined the palace walls, that she slowed, lifting her face to the breeze.

  The scent of almond blossoms was heavy on the night air. If she closed her eyes she could pretend she was back on her father’s estate, far from the sights and sounds and smells of the city.

  Drifting out from the ballroom came the strains of the seguidilla. She smiled unconsciously, remembering the first time her dancing master had led her though its intricate patterns. Lifting the hem of her gown with her left hand, she began to parody the steps as they would be performed inside.

  As she danced, she circled in and out between the slender trunks along the avenue of trees. Her outstretched fingers trailed over their bark as she moved from one to another, keeping time to the melody that floated out into the garden.

  So far from the lights of the palace, she had no fear she would be seen, and only an occasional welling of anxiety that she might be missed. Surely Julián would be more concerned tonight with keeping the king in line than he would be in keeping her in line. After all—

  Her fingers brushed across an unexpected texture, one that was definitely not wood or bark. Despite the brevity of the contact, she knew at once that what she had touched was flesh and bone. A living, breathing body—here, where none should be.

  Her involuntary gasp broke the stillness. She stumbled backward, putting a protective distance between herself and whoever was leaning against the tree.

  “I do beg your pardon,” a deep voice said in English.

  Her eyes found the small, glowing tip of the cigar he held. She wondered that she hadn’t been aware of its pungent smell. Of course, the heady fragrance of the flowering trees and her own childish masquerade had been convenient distractions.

  “Who are you?” Pilar asked, taking another step back.

  Had the man not addressed her in English, she might have been more frightened, convinced she had encountered some trespasser on the palace grounds. Given her previous interest in the Duke of Wellington’s party, however, she found herself more intrigued than apprehensive.

  “Merely the victim of an unfortunate vice,” he said, his voice tinged with amused self-deprecation.

 
; Her eyes followed the unhurried rise of the end of the cigarillo as he brought it to his lips. The tip flared briefly in the darkness as he inhaled, and then it was lowered again. This time the smoke wafted toward her, its scent as faint as the music.

  Her father had smoked these same small, tightly rolled cigars, and their fragrance had lingered in his clothing. When she was a little girl, and her papa had been away too long, she would sneak into his chamber and open the door of the enormous wardrobe to breathe in the wonderful variety of smells she would always associate with him. These cigars. The oiled leather of his boots. Sandalwood and cedar. Horses. The aromas of home.

  “Shall I put it out?” the Englishman asked.

  She swallowed against the force of those crowding memories and shook her head before she realized he would no more be able to see that gesture than she could see him. All she could discern was his shape, black against the lesser darkness of the night, his chest centered by the pale gleam of his cravat. And, of course, the small glowing tip of the cigarillo.

  “No,” she said, the word little more than a whisper.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  Hearing the unfamiliar—and unmistakable—concern in his voice, her eyes stung with tears. She blinked, denying them.

  “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here,” she confessed.

  “Escaping?”

  The word reverberated in her consciousness. Another memory.

  “For the moment,” she said.

  “Then we can be conspirators together.”

  There was a heartbeat of silence.

  “You’re with the English envoy.”

  “The Duke of Wellington. Have you met him?”

  “Not yet. He seems…” She hesitated, searching for a word that would not give offense.

  “Ordinary,” the deep voice supplied, touched again with amusement.

  Which made it even more attractive, Pilar decided. Confronted with his ease of manner, she was beginning to relax. Despite the fact that she shouldn’t be here, despite the fact that he was a stranger in a dark garden, she felt no sense of foreboding in staying to talk to him.