Loving Lies. Tina Donahue

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ paused. “You hardly realize how filthy you are. From the tip of your nose”—he kissed it—“to the soles of your feet.”

      Her lids fluttered. “The same as you.”

      He grinned and straightened. “How true. So you do see the wisdom of bathing together. After I wash you, you can wash me.”

      “No.”

      His smile faded. “Enough of your maidenly modesty. No one else is here. As your future husband I expect you to bathe.”

      Again, she tugged her hand from his. “I will never wed you. The truth is I—” She stopped.

      When she failed to continue, Fernando crossed his arms over his chest and quelled his growing annoyance at how she insulted him. “You will never wed me? The truth of it is you, what? Go on, finish what you intended to say.”

      For once, she appeared at a loss for words. She lowered her gaze and whimpered. Her robe had parted, once more revealing her nudity. Covered again, she turned her back to him.

      Was she going to weep now because he’d seen her flesh, or because he wanted to see even more of it? He held back a sigh and considered his next move. She needed to know all was well, only how to convince her, especially after her cruel words about never wedding him? As though she had a choice in the matter when their fathers had struck the deal long ago, or as if she was unable to endure such a transaction with a Spanish knight after she’d yielded to his kiss while he’d disguised himself as an aged fakir.

      Fernando sensed she enjoyed the man he was. The way she’d stared when he’d taken off his disguise was quite clear. Yet, she refused to remain at his side for a lifetime.

      What had happened in the days after her abduction and before her arrival at the slave market? He knew the Moors had prepared her for sale. Her parted robe had revealed evidence of their work. What else had they done to her?

      Before he allowed himself to consider the matter further and added to her distress or his, he uncrossed his arms but kept his distance to put her at ease. “When did you last eat?”

      She hesitated before facing him and looked even warier. “When I ate is of no consequence.”

      “Your growling belly says otherwise.” He pulled an orange from one of the hidden pockets in his robe. “Here.” He tossed the fruit.

      She caught the orange easily, looked at it rather longingly, yet extended her hand. Wanting him to take it back?

      He regarded her. “The orange is ripe, no?”

      “I suppose.” She still offered the fruit.

      He didn’t take it. “I expected my betrothed to be a lady, though not too pampered to peel an orange. You need me or a servant to do the work for you? Ah, señorita. You must learn the task quickly. After we wed I want you to peel all my oranges for me and feed them to—”

      “I can never feed you as I can never—” She threw the orange.

      It bounced off the trunk of a mulberry tree and rolled across the ground.

      Again, he considered her abduction, what might have happened to make her behave this way. Although it wasn’t likely anyone had taken her virginity, since no slaver would attempt such a thing with valuable merchandise, men found other ways to enjoy a woman’s flesh. Ways in which her virginity remained intact while causing her to feel unworthy of the man who had a claim on her.

      If such a thing had occurred, he’d hunt down the men who had dared defile her and bring them great pain before taking their filthy lives. For now though, she was safely back in Spain and on her way to being his bride no matter what she claimed. It was all he allowed himself to consider.

      He turned to her. “Food is not to be wasted.” With his hand clamped around her wrist, he brought her to where the orange had fallen, retrieved the fruit, and slapped it in her palm.

      “Eat. Then we bathe. Afterward, we journey to your papá’s castle for our nuptials. Say no more on the matter.”

      He gripped her wrist and led her toward the stream.

      Chapter 2

      This was madness.

      The fakir was actually a virile Spanish knight who could juggle hot coals without burning his flesh, breathe fire without blistering his lips, and whose presence Isabella enjoyed, wanting still more, despite him being Sancha’s betrothed.

      Could this be any worse?

      It could. Twice Isabella had tried to tell him who she was and failed because she simply couldn’t betray Sancha. Her gentle sister longed to live out her days at the convent, to be free of marriage so she could indulge her curiosity about potions and poultices as the nuns did. Sancha was a healer, a dangerous undertaking for an unmarried woman who might face the Inquisition unless she used her skills within a religious order. Sancha wanted only to help others rather than being used to birth heirs. Fernando de Zayas, on the other hand, was fully prepared to wed and bed Isabella because he mistakenly believed she was Sancha. And why not?

      Many years had passed since he and Sancha had been in each other’s company. During their one encounter, Sancha had said she’d fought tears while he never once looked at her.

      As far as Fernando was concerned, Sancha was merely the eldest of the Lopéz de Lara siblings, all females, each with varying shades of reddish hair. Past those considerations and until this day, Isabella sensed he hardly cared about particulars, which would have caused him to ask, “Is my Sancha still demure?” She was. “Is my Sancha even more beautiful now?” Of course. “Is my Sancha the only woman in the world for me?”

      Hardly.

      Once Fernando wedded and bedded Sancha to produce an heir he’d flee to other women as husbands always did, whether they were Spaniards or Moors. Scant difference to Isabella’s way of thinking. In Granada, men had multiple wives and the Sultan had his harem. In Spain, men had their mistresses. Males ruled each kingdom, so Fernando was no different from the rest unless he wasn’t Fernando.

      Her heart caught. She’d never laid eyes on Sancha’s betrothed and didn’t know if this man’s claim of being Fernando was true or if her uncle Don Rodrigo had sent him here. What if Don Rodrigo had learned she’d taken Sancha’s place? If he’d ordered her rescue in order to torture her into revealing Sancha’s whereabouts, she’d die before revealing anything.

      The man who called himself Fernando stopped and looked over.

      She weakened at his potent masculinity before her unease returned. Even if his manner was noble, was he also honorable? His eyes caressed and aroused, but did they belong to a man who was truly kind? Did his sensuous lips ever offer the truth? She was afraid to linger and find out. She twisted her arm, trying to free her wrist.

      He tightened his grip and glanced at the orange. “I told you to eat.”

      “Why? Is the fruit drugged?”

      He blinked, obviously surprised, unless he was acting with the same skill he’d used when posing as a fakir.

      “You taste it first.” She shoved СКАЧАТЬ