Tempted By Innocence. Lyn Randal

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ “Our lovely redheaded guest is the lady of whom we speak?”

      “Aye, she is the one.”

      “So there’s the rub.” Ricardo shook his head. “You still must face her. Oh, you’ll be a bit embarrassed. She’ll be quite a lot embarrassed. But it happened, and now it’s in the past. She’s got to understand that even priests can be men occasionally, and curse it all, she interrupted your bath. It isn’t as if you tried to seduce the girl. You didn’t try to, did you?”

      “Of course not. Whatever my past sins, I’ve been faithful to my vows since I spoke them.”

      Ricardo gestured with the glass of Madeira. “So let the girl see that robe, Padre. She’ll get over the shock. She’ll cry herself to sleep because her blue-eyed piece of masculine flesh has a higher call than marriage, but she’ll get over it.”

      “Well, there’s more.”

      “Damn. There always is.”

      “She came to shrift this afternoon and…well, I couldn’t let her know that the priest to whom she was confessing her lustful feelings had…uh….”

      “Been guilty of the same lustful feelings?”

      “Aye, some such thing as that.”

      “So now she’ll know you deceived her.”

      “And there’s more.”

      Ricardo shook his head. “More? Sweet blessings, Diego! For a priest, you get into the most confounded messes.”

      “It seems our unexpected encounter moved her deeply, so deeply that now she doubts she can feel the same for her betrothed.”

      “Her betrothed?” Ricardo glanced up into Diego’s face and found it far too grim. “Oh, dear heavens,” he said. “Don’t tell me. Not…your brother?”

      “My brother.”

      Ricardo sat down abruptly. “Hell. Hell and damnation.”

      “Ricardo, those curses—”

      “It’s like the last time all over again, isn’t it? You and Damian and Leonora.”

      “Nay, Ricardo. It is not like the last time. I’ll not let it be. I’m under my vows now.”

      Ricardo shook his head. “Sins of the flesh, sins of the mind. Cuidado, amigo. They are not too far apart.”

      The muscle tensed in Diego’s jaw. He said nothing.

      Ricardo breathed in deeply. “You can’t run, Diego. You must face our guests, including the señorita. Come, dine with us this evening.”

      “She’ll be angry when she discovers who I am. What I’ve done.”

      “Let her be angry. Let her vent her spleen and hate you. It will be the simplest way.”

      Diego nodded.

      Ricardo walked across the room. He looked back from the doorway. “And, by the way, her name is Celeste.”

      Celeste, Diego thought when he sat alone in the quiet. Well, it would have to be. Everything about her, even her name, was heavenly.

      And that made him feel like hell.

      Chapter Three

      Celeste dressed for dinner early and, having time to spare, decided to explore the lush gardens of the courtyard and beyond. They were lovely past anything she’d seen before, even though the sisters in the convent where she’d studied had kept beautifully tended gardens of herbs, with captivating masses of English roses thrown in for sheer beauty. Sister Maria Theresa had smiled once when Celeste expressed delight over a particular bloom. “The Lord gives us all things to enjoy,” the nun had said. “He means that we find communion with him through the wonders of his creation.”

      Now Celeste pondered that. She could see how the beauties of blossoms and butterflies and birds, of mountains and rivers and trees, could lead her heart towards a sweet communion with the Almighty.

      But the most magnificent beauty she’d seen of late had been the etched muscle of a man, a man with long hair of tawny-gold and eyes of turquoise-blue. And that beauty, she had little doubt, would only lead her further from God’s virtuous path.

      She thought again of the priest’s words. She must put the man from her mind. To think on him would lead to folly.

      Yet she didn’t want to put thoughts of him aside. She’d never known desire, not until today. Oh, she’d let a suitor or two kiss her lips, and then had wondered what was so wonderful about it that lovers would brave discovery, the displeasure of their families, and even death itself, to experience the wonders of love. Kissing had been distasteful, to say the least.

      After trying it, she’d had little interest in more intimate matters. Such things had seemed vulgar and common. So she’d come to the age of nineteen with her virtue intact and little knowledge or concern for what occurred between a man and a woman in their coupling.

      Even when she thought of being married, she never considered the actual act of consummation. Marriage meant running a husband’s home, directing his servants towards profitable enterprises and seeing that his children were well trained. That was the role of a woman. Celeste hadn’t imagined actually lying with Damian Castillo.

      She fingered the bright fuchsia blossom of a vine which covered the wall, and then sank miserably down onto the bench beside it.

      She tried to remember Damian’s face from the one time she’d met him, just prior to their betrothal ceremony. She wanted to think him handsome, but the leer in his eyes and the sneer of arrogance that turned his lips had made him less than attractive. She couldn’t imagine he’d be tender or gentle with her inexperience.

      And yet the priest had told her she’d feel desire for him, that she must concentrate on him until that desire came.

      The only thing she could imagine coming was a deepening disgust.

      Now Celeste admitted her truest feelings. She was not uninterested in love or carnal matters, nor had she ever been. She knew—had somehow always known—that there would some day come one whose touch would stir her passion.

      That man had come along this very morn, a man with eyes so warm she’d wanted to fall into their depths, with a form so tall and lean she’d wanted to memorize every hard angle of it. She envisaged herself kissing him and quivered with the imagined taste of him on her tongue.

      When she thought of that man, she knew she couldn’t do what the priest asked. The priest was wrong. She wanted to know that man, not forget him.

      She arose, a new plan forming. She would ask in the village for a tall, golden-haired Spaniard with eyes sometimes blue and sometimes green, a Spaniard with a knowledge of English and a voice rich and deep. She’d find him.

      A soft clearing of a throat behind her made her shift around on the bench. “Barto,” she breathed. “It’s you.”

      He moved forward СКАЧАТЬ