Loving Lies. Tina Donahue

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      “To safety. Ask no more, lest someone hears you.”

      No one was around. Even the guards had given up their chase. The only sounds were wind rustling foliage, their feet scattering fallen leaves, their breaths rushing out.

      Good sense told her to fight him. She worried her struggle might make matters worse.

      She tried to see the fakir’s face. He held her so tightly she caught only brief glimpses of his beard and cheekbone as he scanned the area. They continued for what seemed an eternity. No village appeared through the countless trees. Did he expect them to walk forever? Fatigued and disheartened, she pleaded. “I must stop.”

      After a short distance, he helped her to a massive mulberry tree gnarled with age. Panting, she slumped against the rough trunk with him in front of her, his body huddled close.

      Too close. His breathing slowed, his shaft stiffened, pressing against her thigh.

      Her heart skipped several beats. She twisted to get away. He tightened his arm, trapping her.

      She pushed against him. He didn’t budge. She frowned. “Release me.”

      He looked at her.

      Her mouth went dry. His face wasn’t lined as it should have been for an ancient man. His eyes were even more striking than she’d realized, lushly lashed, the color of honey, an inner heat burning within them that imprisoned her…until he casually stroked her hip. Blood drained from her face. Her robe had parted, revealing her nudity. She yanked the fabric over herself and tried to pull away. He wouldn’t allow her any freedom.

      She spoke through her teeth. “I demand you release me.”

      His beautiful eyes seemed to smile, while his embrace remained strong with none of this making sense. Although his beard and brows were filthy from the tunnel, they were still white. Yet, he wasn’t bent as he’d been in Granada. He stood at his full height, with it being considerable. Thinking back to their escape, Isabella realized when he’d spoken to her, he’d never sounded frail. His shoulders were broad beneath his robe, the look in his hooded eyes unmistakable. He was aroused.

      She pressed against the trunk. “Who are you?”

      His sensuous lips curled up in an unexpected and decidedly amused smile. “Your future husband.” His voice was rich and deep with a young man’s needs. “The man you will always yield to as a wife should.”

      Before she could comment on such madness or scream, the fakir lowered his mouth to hers. She froze. He brushed his lips over hers, tempting, coaxing, not yet demanding. She whimpered and ordered herself to flee but couldn’t. He remained gentle and relentless as he teased the seam of her lips with his tongue.

      She opened her mouth to protest, which allowed him to slip his tongue inside and kiss her longingly, patiently. Warmth rolled through her. He ran his fingers over her cheek. Her belly fluttered, her legs growing weaker.

      He trailed his fingers down her throat, creating a burst of heat more surprising than the last, then slipped his hand inside her robe and cupped her breast. Her nipple tightened instantly against his calloused palm. His skin was dry and hot, his movements unhurried as he used the soft globe. Was he mad?

      She tore her mouth away and shoved him back with all her strength. It wasn’t a fraction of his, but she’d caught him unaware.

      As he struggled to regain his balance, she hurried around the tree.

      He followed and smiled.

      His playfulness stirred Isabella beyond reason, the same as her memory of her peaked nipple rubbing against his palm. Her breasts ached for more. The breeze responded, hot and caressing, pushing the robe against her. The cloth was a poor substitute for this man who wasn’t deeply lined and was quite strong even though he sported a white beard and brows, making him ancient enough to be her grandfather.

      Not understanding any of this, she rushed around the trunk, retreated several steps and lifted her hand to stop his advance.

      At last, he kept his distance, though unfulfilled need hooded his eyes. “Come now, is your manner befitting a woman who will soon be my wife?”

      Again, he spoke of an absurd union. “Are you mad?”

      He arched one eyebrow. “Mad? No. Dismayed? Certainly.” He inhaled deeply before opening his arms. “Return to me. I have yet to satisfy myself with you, though I shall.” He smiled.

      It was quite beautiful, the same as his eyes. Never had Isabella seen such male beauty especially on one who was supposed to be old. “Satisfy you? Wed you?”

      “You enjoyed our kiss, no?” He grinned. “You did. You cannot deny your response as easily as you pretend to be offended now. I felt your lips part to mine and your tongue caress my own.”

      She frowned. “What manner of holy man are you?”

      He laughed as if she were mad and finally settled on an amused smile. “You must forgive me.”

      “Must I? Then you must wait an eternity for such grace.”

      His smile faded. “I am not a patient man.” He shrugged. “In my haste to taste the sweetness of your lips I forgot my own appearance. For doing so, I request your forgiveness.” He pulled off his turban.

      Dark brown hair, shiny and thick, tumbled in waves over his forehead and around his ears. Before Isabella could recover from such a pleasant surprise, he used the turban to wipe the stain off his face, revealing bronzed, not brown, skin. He peeled away the white eyebrows. His own were the same dark shade as his hair. Next, he removed the white beard and mustache. Dark stubble dusted his firm jaw, cheeks, and upper lip. Beneath his robe, he wore a white linen shirt, dark woolen hose, a leather belt with a sheathed dagger, arming sword, pouch, and the high boots she’d already noticed. His legs were long and muscular, his chest broad, his form virile and youthful, his coloring and features those of a Spaniard, not a Moor.

      She hardly trusted her eyes. Was this more magic as he’d performed in the market? It must be. She advanced until she was able to touch him. With her fingers against his cheek, she ran the pad of her thumb over his upper lip. His flesh was firm and warm, his coming beard bristly, his youth and masculinity quite evident.

      Smiling, he turned his face into her hand. Isabella pulled away before he pressed his lips to her palm.

      Despite his frown, his expression was playful. “Again, you deny me?”

      “I shall always deny you.”

      He looked doubtful at her promise.

      Perhaps if she hadn’t sounded so uncertain and was able to understand this. How could he merely pose as a fakir, yet still breathe fire and handle hot coals without singeing his skin? She took his hands and turned them over. No blisters or marks of any kind marred his palms.

      “Who are you?” She released his hands and danced back before he could pull her closer. “What manner of devil are you?”

      “Devil?” He frowned, though it was still on the mischievous side. “I risked my hide to save you and for my efforts you call me a devil? Keep behaving in such a manner, keep denying me, and I may turn into a devil or worse.”

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