by Gayle Wilson
“Only to the cemetery, I suppose. And you lost your cloak. A pity. You might have worn it tonight instead of having the bother of getting dressed.”
She shook her head, feeling more and more as if she had stumbled into a nightmare from which she couldn’t awaken. The Englishman was in her bedchamber, and he was demanding she go with him so that he might kill Julián. The danger that he might be discovered increased minute by minute, yet he continued to bandy nonsense about lost cloaks and graveyards.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What cloak?”
He picked up one of the garments he’d laid on the stool and tossed it toward her. It was the jacket of her riding habit, she realized, as she automatically caught it, clutching it protectively to her breasts.
“Are you waiting for me to avert my eyes?” he asked.
“I am waiting for you to tell me why you are here.”
“I have told you. I’m here to take you with me.”
She tried to think what she could possibly say to him that she hadn’t already said. Of course, one didn’t reason with a madman.
“I’m not going,” she said instead. “I can’t.”
She expected argument. Another accusation. Something. Instead his eyes simply considered her face, his mouth still arranged in that mocking half smile.
“You profess to fear your guardian,” he said. “Yet, when given the opportunity to escape him, you refuse to accept it.”
“Because I know we’ll never be allowed to leave the grounds,” she said. “He has guards everywhere.”
“Most of whom have just ridden out with him. As for the rest, with their master gone, I should imagine they are even less diligent than the one outside your windows was.”
She hadn’t been sure he was aware Julián wasn’t here. And of course, he couldn’t understand the implications of her guardian’s absence. Contrary to what he was suggesting, security around her would be increased rather than lessened.
“Even if we did get past the guards—”
The soft knock on her door cut into those words of protest as sharply as a knife. Her eyes, widened in shock and fear, met his. Removing a pistol from beneath his cloak, the Englishman reached out to grasp her wrist as he had in the garden, pulling her toward the window.
Dropping the jacket he’d thrown at her, she pushed ineffectively at the fingers gripping her arm like an iron band. It was the only form of protest she dared with someone standing outside her door.
Inexorably the Englishman’s strength overcame hers as he dragged her toward the open shutters. Desperate, she struck at his face with her free hand until he averted it, protecting himself from the blows by hunching his shoulder to provide her less of a target.
As she struggled, she worried that the sound of those slaps might alert whoever was outside. Then, finally, she realized she was losing the silent battle. They were almost at the window and in only a few seconds—
He straightened, no longer forced to avoid her flailing hand. Without releasing her wrist, he looked over his shoulder, surveying the patio beyond the window before he turned, meeting her eyes.
Seeing what was in them, she realized that he wouldn’t be denied. If he had to, he would carry her out of the house, and the only protest she could possibly make—
She raised her free hand, clenching it into a fist. With her closed hand, she struck him as hard as she could in the nose. At the same time, she gave one last desperate jerk of her captured wrist, panic lending her strength.
Her hand came free, but it happened so unexpectedly that she stumbled backward even as he grabbed for her again. As she staggered, off balance, her foot became entangled in the folds of the riding jacket she had dropped.
Arms flailing in a vain attempt to right herself, she knew she was falling, and yet there was nothing she could do to stop it. Almost as soon as the realization formed, the back of her head struck the footboard of the high bed.
There was a fraction of a second during which the impact registered before blackness closed around her like fog. The Englishman’s shocked face, his hand still outstretched toward her, was the last thing she remembered.
Chapter Five
Awkwardly shifting the burden he held in his arms, Sebastian raised his right fist, hammering it against the heavy wooden door. With Ferdinand’s soldiers guarding the front entrances of the house that had been provided for the English envoy’s stay in Madrid, this was a last resort.
He turned, his eyes searching the darkness behind him. Despite the knock on the door of Pilar’s bedroom, no alarm had been sounded as he’d carried her out of Delgado’s house. And so far he had seen no sign of pursuit. That had seemed a stroke of incredible luck, since he’d had no destination in mind when he’d started this.
When he’d made that spur-of-the-moment decision to use the girl to lure Delgado to come to him, he had never considered that he might have to take her by force. He had thought she would welcome the chance to escape her guardian’s control.
He still believed he would eventually have been able to convince her if they hadn’t been interrupted. At least that’s what he had told himself, fighting the guilt he felt over this abduction, a guilt that increased with each passing minute. Especially when he looked down to consider the pale face of the girl who still slept in his arms.
After she’d hit her head, he had rushed to her side, realizing immediately she was deeply unconscious. The knock on the door had sounded again, accompanied this time by a woman’s voice calling Doña Pilar’s name.
Without much thought about the consequences, he had bent, picking the girl up and settling her across his shoulder. It was the same method he had used innumerable times to carry a wounded comrade.
Once outside, he had somehow managed to hold on to her and mount the gelding he’d hidden behind a neighboring house. Then, as he had guided the horse through the dark, twisting streets of Madrid, he had held the girl before him, her body frighteningly still and limp.
During the course of the journey, she had drifted briefly into consciousness. She had turned her head to look up. Her eyes had appeared almost dazed, and after only a moment they had closed again.
Despite the time that had passed since then, she had not regained consciousness. Apparently the impact to her head had been more severe than he’d realized at the time, and anxiety roiled in his gut.
“Who is it?”
Although the voice was muffled by the thickness of the wooden door between them, Sebastian recognized it with a prayer of thanksgiving. At last, something had gone right.
“Sinclair,” he said. Then, realizing his name might not be sufficient identification for the speaker, he added something that he knew would be. “The man with the scarred face. I need your help.”
There were no more questions, but it seemed an eternity before he heard the sound of the bar being removed from the inside of the door. When it opened, the figure of the fat cook who had served as translator between Harry and the fishmonger was revealed.
Sebastian already knew the man was amenable to bribes. And tonight he was ready to offer him anything for his help.
Due to the lateness of the hour, the cook had already donned his nightclothes, including a long, almost comical night cap. In one hand, he held a candle, which he raised to verify Sebastian’s identity.
Without giving him time to speak, Sebastian put his shoulder against the door, pushing it open widely enough to allow him to carry the girl inside. To his credit, the cook didn’t try to block his entrance. Instead, he shut the door quickly after them, and, setting down his candle, lifted the bar and placed it back in its place.
“I need a bed and some mulled wine,” Sebastian said. “You’ll be well paid for your trouble.”
Despite the fact that he was at this man’s mercy, he did what he knew Dare or Wellington would have done in the circumstances. He assumed command. If you did that convincingly enough, his eldest brother had always said, people usually responded exactly as you wis
hed them to.
“Is she dead?” the cook asked, holding the candle so that its light fell on the girl’s face.
Her eyes were still closed, fine blue veins visible under the fragile skin of the lids. She lay so still that for a heartbeat Sebastian feared she might be. Then he felt, as he had since he’d lifted her from the floor of her bedroom, the rise and fall of her breasts, moving tantalizingly against his chest as she breathed.
“If she were, I should need neither of the things I’ve asked you to provide. Since she isn’t—”
He inclined his head, raising one brow in the same autocratic manner the earl used so effectively, and pinned the cook with a look that demanded action. Surprisingly, it worked as well for him as it always had for Dare.
“This way,” the cook said, turning to lead him through the dark kitchens, his solitary candle lighting the passage.
Drawing a breath in relief, Sebastian shifted the girl in his arms so that his hold was more secure. He glanced back at the outside door, verifying that it was again impregnable, at least for the time being. Then he, too, turned, following the wavering light of that single candle.
“Drink this. It will help your head.”
Pilar opened her eyes to find the English soldier, in full uniform now, stooping beside her. He slipped his arm beneath her shoulders to raise her upper body as he placed the rim of a cup against her lips.
She had a vague recollection, almost like something from a dream, that he had done this before. It had been night then, the only light in the room a candle. And every time she had opened her eyes, she remembered now, he had been beside her.
Once he had put his hand against her forehead, as if feeling for fever. As she had looked up at him then, he had laid his palm against her cheek, the motion almost a caress.
His fingers had been cool on her heated skin, seeming to soothe the throbbing in her skull. She’d had to resist the urge to turn her face into them, rubbing against them like a cat.
“Drink it,” he said again, his tone this time more commanding.
Obedient as a child, she opened her mouth, taking a tentative swallow of whatever the cup contained. Some kind of infusion, she decided. The taste was slightly bitter. Medicinal. Despite that, just as his hand against her cheek had been last night, its coolness was welcome against the incredible dryness of her mouth.
When he began to remove the cup, her lips followed, clinging to the rim. Only now did she realize how thirsty she was. And there was still a dull ache at the back of her head, although that was not so bad as when she had awakened before.
“More?” he asked.
At her nod, he tilted the cup, and she drank from it greedily. When she signaled that she’d finished, he eased her down on the pillows once more. Then he turned to set the cup on a table beside the bed, where the candle had been last night.
Daylight revealed their surroundings. The room was small, with only one window, thinly curtained against the morning sun. The light that filtered through revealed furnishings that were both primitive and sparse.
“Where are we?” she asked, her eyes returning to his face.
The angle of that diffused sunlight seemed to emphasize the cruel line of the scar. It didn’t detract from his looks, she decided. Without it, they might even have been too refined. Too much the proper English gentleman.
The mark added a certain dangerous appeal to the classically handsome features. She knew, of course, that her assessment of its effect would not be the same as his. Even if the man were totally lacking in vanity, the manner of the scar’s acquisition would guarantee it would be despised.
“Someplace where you’ll be safe,” he said. “At least for the time being.”
Safe? Safe from… ? Julián.
At the realization that her guardian would surely be looking for her, she put her hands against the mattress, pushing up too quickly. Then she lowered her head, closing her eyes as she fought the resulting flood of vertigo.
Sebastian’s arm came around her, offering support. For the moment, she was forced to accept it, leaning weakly against his chest, too disoriented to do anything else.
As soon as the worst had passed, she straightened, pushing away from that impersonal embrace. He released her immediately.
“Why did you do this?” she whispered, searching his face. “Why did you bring me here?”
“I told you,” he said.
Despite their color, his eyes seemed dark and very cold. But then, his purpose in taking her was both. He had told her last night exactly what it was.
I need you, he had said. To lure your guardian to his death.
“When I’ve killed him,” he went on, “I promise to convey you to your family.”
“I have no family,” she said bitterly. “Julián has already seen to that.”
His eyes narrowed. She could almost read his horror in them. “Are you saying that your guardian—”
“I tried to tell you,” she interrupted, feeling her anger build again because he hadn’t listened. Now, when it seemed he was willing to, it was far too late. “You refuse to believe what he’s capable of.”
There was a small silence, and then he broke it, his tone completely different. As biting as hers.
“Believe me, I know what he’s capable of. The day after the king’s reception, your guardian set a trap. It was intended for me, but one of my friends stumbled into it instead.”
The day after the reception. Which meant that whatever Julián had done was the result of her foolish escapade in the garden.
“I should never have left the ballroom,” she whispered. “If there is one thing I’ve learned—”
She stopped because it was painfully obvious she had not learned, despite Julián’s repeated attempts to teach her, the uselessness of rebellion. Instead, she had dared to slip away from the reception, enjoying what she had convinced herself would be a brief, harmless interlude.
She should have known that nothing like that moment of freedom could ever be harmless where she was concerned. After all, Julián had done everything in his power to teach her.
After her father’s death, he had tightened his control over every aspect of her life. Eventually her pride had rebelled against his restrictions.
That had led to her attempted escape. The one during which she had met this man and discovered that, even if she were willing to die rather than surrender to Julián’s control, she was incapable of sacrificing anyone else to that goal.
When she had thought her disobedience would cost the English soldier his life, she had begged Julián for it. Since her guardian had enjoyed seeing her reduced to the role of supplicant, Sebastian Sinclair had not died that day.
Now, again because of her foolishness, another man had. That was the triumph Julián had been taking such delight in the past two days, she realized. Someone had paid the ultimate price for her disappearance from an overcrowded ballroom. And this time she had not been given a chance to beg Julián to spare that life.
“What did he do?” she asked, not because she wanted to know, but because each piece of treachery painted a clearer portrait, if she needed one, of her guardian’s soullessness.
“Your maid delivered your message through a peddler who calls here as well as at Delgado’s.”
“My message?” she repeated. She had sent no messages. But of course, Anna would do anything Julián told her to do. Any of the servants who worked for him would. “I promise you that I never—”
“It was meant for me,” he continued, without allowing her to complete the denial, “but to protect me, my friend intercepted it. He went to meet you in my stead.”
“In…a cemetery,” she guessed, finally making sense of the accusation he’d thrown at her last night. “I knew nothing about that, I swear to you.”
“Someone was there when he arrived. Someone wearing a woman’s cloak.”
Anna? The maid had asked for permission to go to confession the day after the reception. Pilar had never though
t of refusing.
“Given this,” Sebastian said, long fingers lifting to touch the scar Julián had slashed across his face, “it must have become obvious at some point that Harry wasn’t his intended victim. Your guardian killed him all the same.”
Another death that might be laid at her door. Just as Sebastian Sinclair’s would eventually be.
“No life but Julián’s has value to him,” she said. “If he wants something, he is absolutely ruthless in the acquisition of it. God help anyone who gets in his way.”
“Is that what happened to your family? They got in his way?”
It was, of course, but she hadn’t realized that until much later. And unless Julián chose one day to taunt her with the knowledge, she would never know if her father had understood why he had to die.
“My mother died when I was born. Despite a great deal of pressure from his family, my father never remarried.”
None of them could understand that refusal, but none of them had witnessed, as she had, his profound and lifelong grief. She believed he was still grieving the loss of her mother on the day he’d died.
That was the only thing that had given her any peace when Julián had told her about her father’s death—the idea that they would at last be reunited.
It was that thought alone that had kept her sane when she had finally realized what Julián had done and why he had done it.
“My father had dedicated himself to ridding Spain of the French domination. That’s how he became involved with Julián. Given their positions, their paths would never have crossed, except for the war.”
“Their positions?”
“My father was a grandee. The Conde del Castillo. Bonaparte abolished the designation, but he couldn’t abolish the years of power and influence behind it. Julián was a minor hidalgo. Only in the cause of independence would they have ever become friends.
“They did, because my father admired him both as a soldier and a patriot. He didn’t suspect the kind of man Julián was or he would never have brought him to our home. When Julián saw me, he decided that I would make the perfect wife for him. My father… didn’t agree.”