Her Dearest Sin

by Gayle Wilson

  Even if someone came looking for her, it would be easy enough to fade into the shadows. No one would ever know she had been here. With the constraints under which she was now forced to live her life, this small, harmless adventure had suddenly become unbelievably precious.

  Of course, whatever interpretation she chose to put on this clandestine encounter, she had no doubt what Julián’s reaction to it would be. Then she reminded herself again, almost fiercely, that he need never know. What were a few moments in a garden compared to a lifetime—

  “It’s all right,” the Englishman went on. “Most people think him to be far less…extraordinary, somehow, than they had expected.”

  Wellington, she realized. He had asked her what she thought of the duke.

  “I don’t believe I have yet had time to form an impression,” she said.

  “I see,” he said, the amusement in his voice still evident. “I should imagine that a lady like you has heard little about his military exploits.”

  “Only that they were successful,” she lied.

  And was rewarded by his laughter. Like his voice, it was rich and pleasing, clearly masculine, and yet, unlike her guardian’s, free of mockery.

  “Somewhat,” he agreed after a moment.

  “Did you fight under his command?”

  “I was a member of his staff.”

  “Then I am sure you must have the greatest admiration for him.”

  “Of course,” he agreed readily, that tantalizing hint of amusement lurking.

  “And as a member of his staff, what were your duties?”

  “Primarily to dance attendance.”

  “On the duke?”

  “On whomever or whatever needed attending to. The role of staff is to make things run as smoothly as possible. The variety of tasks we undertake to accomplish that would probably amaze you.”

  “I think I should like to be amazed,” she said promptly, realizing how much she was enjoying this.

  There was no need to guard her tongue or to watch her back. She was simply a woman engaging in light flirtation with a gentleman who seemed skilled in the art.

  “Carrying dispatches on the battlefield. Scouting. Procuring provisions when need be. Dancing.”

  “Dancing?” she repeated, allowing her own amusement at what seemed to be a ridiculous non sequitur.

  “Oh, quite the most important requirement in a staff officer, I assure you.”

  Like his laugh, like the heady sense of freedom the darkness provided, his teasing was exciting.

  “The ability to dance?” she mocked.

  “And to be enormously charming while doing so.”

  “I’m sure you excel at all of them,” she said.

  “Would you care to put that to the test?”

  “Here?”

  “Or inside, if you prefer.”

  “Not inside,” she said, the laughter wiped from her voice.

  “Then…”

  With the word, he threw the cigarillo away. Her eyes followed the glowing arc of its short flight, and when they came back, he was holding out his hand. It was close enough that she could see it, despite the darkness that obscured his face. Hesitating only long enough to draw a fortifying breath, she placed her fingers over his.

  Even through the supple kid gloves she wore, she could feel its strength. A horseman’s hand, she thought, remembering the muscled contours of the Englishmen’s bodies, their strength more revealed than concealed by the superb cut of their clothing.

  His fingers were perfectly steady, although she was aware that hers betrayed a small vibration. Anxiety or excitement? she wondered.

  Then, as he moved, drawing her with him into the center of the arbor walkway, she decided it made no difference. One dance in the concealing darkness. And she was determined to make the most of it.

  He turned to face her, bowing from the waist. She dropped a deep curtsy in return, and then, once more, they faced one another.

  Here, away from the shadow of the trees, she could almost see his face. And her heart began to beat too quickly.

  In perfect time to the measures drifting out from the ballroom, he began to lead her through the seguidilla. And she found that what he had told her was nothing but the truth. Despite the fact that the dance had never, so far as she was aware, traveled beyond her native country, his performance of the steps she had learned in childhood was faultless.

  Under the spell of their perfection and the music, she began to relax again, perhaps even relishing the sense of danger in what they were doing. From that exhilaration or from the exertion of the dance, the blood in her veins began to flow more quickly, making her feel more alive than she had felt in months.

  They moved together in exquisite union. His ability to anticipate the familiar rhythms of the ancient dance seemed no less than hers. She, who had been bred to feel them.

  And then, as she made a turn, her eyes inadvertently found the lights of the palace. Someone was standing on the balcony, looking out into the garden. Without being able to discern anything beyond the shape and size of the figure, she knew in an instant who was there.

  Like some faceless nemesis, her guardian was peering out into the shrouded darkness beneath the trees. And he was looking for her. Her fingers fell away from those of her partner, as her feet came to an abrupt stop, disrupting the pattern of the dance.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  The tone was probably no different than that of a normal conversation. To her, the question, and especially its masculine intonation, seemed magnified in the nighttime stillness. Loud enough for Julián to hear?

  “I have to go,” she said.

  She began to turn, and his fingers closed around her wrist. Her attempt to flee was effectively halted, not only by his hold, but by her shock that he would dare detain her.

  She twisted her arm, trying to wrench it free. Instead, his fingers tightened over the bone of her wrist, gripping hard enough to be painful.

  “You’re hurting me,” she said, twisting her arm again. “Please let me go.”

  His hold was implacable, his determination seemingly unmoved by her plea. Heart hammering, she wondered what she could say that would make him release her before Julián found them.

  As she tried to decide, her eyes again sought the figure of her guardian. He had left his position beside the balustrade and had started down the steps that led into the garden.

  She wondered briefly, ridiculously, if the Englishman might be armed. But of course, no one would dare bring a weapon into the royal palace, certainly not a representative of a foreign government.

  He was therefore defenseless. And Julián…

  “You don’t understand,” she said, panic coloring her voice. “He’s coming.”

  “Who’s coming?” he asked. His tone betrayed nothing except a calm curiosity.

  “My guardian. Please. He can’t find me here with you.”

  “Of course,” he said agreeably.

  Rather than releasing her, he used the hand he had wrapped around her wrist to draw her into the shadows. Back under the obscuring canopy of trees they had forsaken to indulge in that dangerously exposed dance.

  What had she been thinking to allow this? And the answer, when she was forced to acknowledge it, did not begin to excuse what she had done. If anything …

  “You don’t understand,” she said again, still struggling to free her wrist.

  “You don’t want your guardian to find you in a dark garden with a man. Believe me, even we English can understand that concern.”

  “Then let me go,” she demanded, her fear producing a rush of anger.

  She raised her free hand, trying to pry apart his restraining fingers. It was no use. His hold, tight enough that the fingers of the hand it controlled were beginning to grow numb, didn’t loosen.

  “If he finds me here with you, he’ll kill you,” she warned. She could hear the sound of her own breathing, ragged in the darkness.

  “He may cert
ainly try,” he agreed, his voice too soft.

  His other hand fastened around the one she had been using to pry at his fingers. As it did, he shoved her back against the trunk of one of the trees that lined the walkway. Positioning her arms at her sides and still gripping her wrists, he held her there.

  Before she could protest, his body was pressed tightly against hers, the wall of his chest painfully flattening her breasts. She had time to turn her face, so that her check lay against his shoulder rather than be crushed under it.

  His heart was under her ear. Despite his calm refusal to heed her warnings, it was beating as rapidly as hers.

  “Shh,” he said.

  In unthinking response to that command, she listened, straining to hear above the pulse of his blood.

  “Pilar?”

  Julián’s voice. But of course, she had known it was he since she had seen that figure on the balcony.

  “Shh,” the Englishman warned again, the sibilance no louder than the sound of his heartbeat.

  Because she had no choice, she obeyed, holding her breath so that nothing would betray their presence to the man who was hunting her. She could hear his footsteps now. Too near and far too dangerous.

  Their bodies hidden from the walkway by the trunk of the tree, the Englishman released her hands. Terrified to breathe with Julián so close, much less to move, she closed her eyes, her lips trembling in a silent prayer.

  The Englishman leaned back slightly, far enough that her sense of being held captive eased. She drew a careful breath, wishing she could warn him to stillness, but Julián was too close to risk even a whisper.

  Then, unexpectedly, the Englishman’s palms encircled her face. He tilted it upward with pressure from his thumbs, which were beneath her chin. Startled, her eyes opened in time to watch his mouth descend toward hers.

  She was too shocked to close her lips, so that his tongue had invaded before she realized his intent. His breath mingled with hers, the smoky warmth of the cigarillo pleasant.

  She didn’t dare protest. Not with those footsteps coming closer and closer to where their bodies, entwined like lovers, were sheltered by the tree.

  That was a lesson she had learned too well. Julián did not listen to explanations. He wouldn’t now. He would kill the man whose mouth was fastened over hers, his lips ravishing them expertly.

  All she could hope was that the darkness would not betray them. And that what had happened before…

  His mouth lifted, allowing her to draw another breath. During the past few seconds, she had forgotten how necessary that was to life. She had forgotten everything but her fear and the feel of this man’s lips moving over hers.

  Warm and firm and knowing. So knowing.

  Belatedly she realized the footsteps that had terrorized her were fading. Julián was returning to the lights and the crowded ballroom, while they…

  Their breathing—his as ragged as hers—was still mingled. Just as his body was still intimately pressed against hers.

  As the danger that Julián would discover them lessened, she gradually became conscious of other things. Sensations she had not been aware of before. The muscles of the Englishman’s chest moving against the tightening nipples of her breasts as he breathed. The strength of his erection, obvious through the silk of his knee breeches, which offered no more barrier between their bodies than the thin silk of her gown. And of long callused fingers that trembled as they touched her face.

  “Why?” she whispered, finally daring that one word. “Why would you take this risk?”

  “All life is risk,” he said. “Nothing makes it sweeter.”

  “You risked death for a kiss?” she accused, her anger with his recklessness building again, now that the immediate danger had passed.

  She raised her hands and forced his wrists apart, freeing her face. She put her palms against his chest, trying to push him away, but he refused to move.

  With each passing second she had become more aware of the intimacy of their position. And for the first time, her fear of his intent was almost as great as her concern for his safety.

  “Aren’t your kisses worth dying for, señorita?” he mocked.

  “You’re a fool,” she said, pushing more strongly against his chest.

  Suddenly his hands closed over her wrists once more, and he pulled her roughly away from the tree. Then, maintaining his hold with only his right hand, he began to drag her along behind him. Again she twisted and turned her captured arm, finally using her free hand to strike at his shoulder. He ignored the repeated blows.

  “If I had a weapon, I swear I would kill you,” she said.

  “Steal one,” he suggested. “You seem to be very good at that.”

  At that same moment she realized he had been dragging her toward the palace rather than away from it. She stopped the barrage of ineffectual blows, trying to make sense of both that destination and his words.

  By the time she had realized they were too reminiscent of that terrible reality to be coincidental, he had already accomplished what he had brought her so dangerously near the palace to do. The light from the torches on the balcony above them flickered over his face, revealing the scar Julián had slashed there almost a year ago.

  “We meet again, señorita,” he said. “And this time, I believe the advantage is mine.”

  Chapter Two

  There was a definite satisfaction in watching the slow dilation of her eyes as she recognized him, Sebastian decided. It was not enough to make up for what she had done, but it was something.

  “Who are you?” she whispered, her tongue moistening lips that had not seemed dry as they responded to his kiss only seconds before.

  Kissing her had been a mistake. One he freely admitted. He had never been able to determine in his own mind what he would do if he found this girl. After the sensation of her mouth trembling beneath his, carrying out any of the punishments he’d devised during the past eleven months would be an impossibility.

  “Sebastian Sinclair, señorita. I would add ‘at your service,’ but considering what happened the last time I attempted that…”

  He deliberately let the sentence trail. Her eyes again traced the line of the scar, and he felt the muscles of his stomach tighten as he was forced to endure their scrutiny.

  “I never meant that to happen,” she said.

  “His name,” Sebastian demanded.

  Her eyes found his, searching them.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Someone will tell me.”

  “Let them. Then, if you aren’t a fool, you’ll hear the name and let it disappear from your memory. What he did—”

  “Requires retribution,” he interrupted softly.

  “If you attack him, you’ll disgrace your king, and Julián will still kill you.”

  “Julián?”

  “Colonel Julián Delgado.” Despite her avowal that she wouldn’t tell him, she enunciated the name deliberately, almost defiantly, as if it had weight and substance. “A man more powerful than you can possibly imagine.”

  “A man,” Sebastian mocked. “Nothing more and nothing less. He’ll bleed and then he will die. Like any other man.”

  He fought to control the same rage he had had to conquer when he’d seen her making her way across the ballroom. He had followed her out into the darkness because, once he had found her, this confrontation was inevitable.

  He had sworn he would know the name of the man who had disfigured him. Now that he did…

  “He isn’t a man,” she said, the words low enough that for a moment he believed he must have misheard them.

  The silence, broken only by the music from the palace above them, expanded as he considered what she had said. And, far more troubling, the tone in which she had said it.

  “Then…what is he?” he asked, touched, in spite of his long-held anger, by an almost superstitious dread.

  A sudden noise from the balcony above their heads caused them both to turn. Three men, one carrying a t
orch, were descending the steps that led out into the garden. The flame streamed behind them like a banner. At the sight, the girl shrank back into the shadows of the building, drawing Sebastian with her.

  “You mustn’t be found here. Not with me.”

  “I’m not afraid of him,” Sebastian said.

  He wasn’t, despite that almost preternatural chill her characterization had created. Finding this man was something he had thought about every day since the bastard had laid open his cheek.

  “You should be,” she said. “If nothing else, be afraid of what he will do to me if he finds you here.”

  “Whatever tenderness I once harbored for damsels in distress was destroyed the day you allowed him to do this,” he said, touching his cheek with the tips of his finger. He could feel the rough texture of the scar beneath them.

  “I allowed?”

  “Your intervention made it possible.”

  “My intervention allowed you to escape with your life.” She corrected his version of those events vehemently.

  “Your intervention allowed him to escape.”

  His eyes tracked the path of the torch as it was carried through the garden. Although what he had told her was true—he wasn’t afraid of the man she called Julián—he also wasn’t stupid enough to be caught off guard by him.

  Occasionally the searchers would call her name, but they were careful to keep their voices low so that the sound wouldn’t carry to the palace. Apparently, her guardian had no desire to call attention to her disappearance.

  “Whatever you choose to believe about that day…” she began.

  The pause brought his eyes back to her face, long enough to realize that hers were again examining the scar.

  “Whatever I believe?” he prompted caustically.

  “You must never doubt that Julián would have had no compunction about killing you. To him, you are far less important than the stallion you shot.”

  “And what are you to him?”

  “He is my guardian. And soon…soon he will become my fiancé.”

  For some reason, the word created a sickness in the pit of his stomach. Almost the same reaction he had felt that day by the river when he’d considered the possibility that the horseman might be her husband.