Her Dearest Sin. Gayle Wilson
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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 certainly 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