Wicked Whispers. Tina Donahue
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recalled, lushly lashed and expressive, the dark brown color unbearably warm. His brother had always boasted about Isabella’s blue-green eyes as the most beautiful on earth.
Unique, yes, but more exquisite than Sancha’s? Never.
Her cheeks grew rosy as they always did whenever he was near. If that wasn’t proof of her attraction, what was?
He had much he wanted to teach her. The delights of their carnal play, the pleasure of wedding him, bearing their many children, their future filled with enough joy to last a lifetime. She only had to agree to his plan.
She inclined her head. “Buenas noches, Señor Don Enrique.”
His stomach sank. Such formality when she’d already claimed his heart. She should take lessons from Luscinda, whose leg brushed his. He shifted in his seat to get away from her. She controlled herself for a moment, then slid her foot toward his. Their shoes touched.
Enough of this. He leaned toward Sancha to keep the others from hearing. “We must have a word after we eat. I insist.”
Rather than acquiesce or demurely turn away, she studied him without reserve, her inner strength and resolve showing through. “Why must we?”
Expressing himself when they were alone would prove difficult enough. Doing so in front of this crowd would be impossible. He lifted one eyebrow. “The matter is not one I intend to speak of here.”
Her cheeks darkened, but she didn’t draw back, apologize, or try to change the subject as another woman might have. He liked her bravery in facing him even though her spirit rankled at times. Like now.
She straightened even more. “You know a chaperone has to accompany us if we speak alone.”
If there were anyone else around, they would hardly be alone.
Isabella leaned down between them. “I will chaperone willingly.”
Enrique had forgotten she was behind them. He gave her a hard stare, wanting her to go to her husband.
Fernando had arrived finally, thinner than he’d been before his brush with death, but his complexion matched Enrique’s healthy bronze shade. They resembled each other closely, both tall with hazel eyes and dark brown hair. Only Enrique’s white forelock set them apart.
Fernando waved away his guests’ cheers and a servant’s assistance, but he did take Isabella’s arm. She led him to his chair at the head of the longest table. Rather than sitting at the other end, as custom dictated, she took the seat at his side, her full attention on her husband, father to the child she’d recently conceived.
Enrique wanted Sancha to treat him the same way and let him fill her with their babes.
After eating a bite of roasted pork, she peeked at him. A pearl of juice clung to the corner of her mouth. He longed to lick it away, then run his tongue over the seam of her lips, coaxing them to part.
“Dear Sancha.” Luscinda leaned over. “How wonderful to see you out and about despite what occurred. Are you feeling all right?”
He turned to Luscinda and pulled back quickly at how close she was. “If you mean her health, as you must, she was never ill.”
“Señor Don Enrique is correct.” Sancha remained composed as always. “I am quite well.”
Luscinda gave him a sweet smile, then looked around him and spoke to Sancha. “When do you return to the convent?”
“Tonight, surely.” Señora de Cortés heaped more mutton on her plate and took the last of the white bread near them. “Prayers are important and should never be put off.”
He drummed his fingers against the table. “Can she finish her meal first?”
“Of course.” Luscinda grew as serious as he had. “We want her to be happy.” She leaned past him again, her arm touching his, her breasts nearly falling out of her gown. “Eat, please. You have no reason to deny yourself now with your betrothal in the past. You can fatten up as widows do when they no longer have to worry about pleasing men.”
Enrique shot Luscinda and her mother a warning look to say no more.
Both women kept their tongues. Once they’d stuffed their mouths with food, not words, he ate a small portion of bread and cheese, his hunger hardly for tonight’s fare. He wanted what his brother had.
Fernando and Isabella held hands during their meal, sharing comments and quiet laughter, shutting out the rest of the world. Having witnessed what they’d gone through to come this far, including rogues intent on their destruction, Isabella’s unfortunate deception, and a murderous uncle, Enrique was happy for them and sad for himself.
Sighing, he reached for an orange. So did Sancha. Their hands touched.
Bursts of heat raced up his arm, his skin tingling, throat constricting with desire. Before she could pull her hand from his, he folded his fingers around hers. Their softness and warmth stole his breath.
Others laughed boisterously, leaned back in their chairs, or indulged in the food and drink. She stroked his thumb.
His blood thickened with hard lust and aching tenderness. She wasn’t like Luscinda and the other young women who flirted shamelessly, pursuing a man until they ran him down. A touch from her meant something.
He inclined closer to ensure no one heard them speak. “Will you join me after you sup? Please.”
She stopped stroking his thumb.
Crushed, he prepared to make his case, even if hundreds watched and heard. Words swirled in his mind, none perfect or even adequate to begin his pretty speech.
She caressed his fingers again, much to his surprise. A faint sound poured from her.
“What?”
“Sí.”
“To what?”
“Meeting you.”
The answer he’d waited a lifetime for. He had to keep himself from whooping in delight or hauling her onto his lap and kissing her senseless. Aware of how easily gossip could spread, he remained as close as protocol allowed to keep anyone from eavesdropping. “Are you familiar with the north balcony that faces the stand of olive trees?”
Sancha nodded.
“Meet me there as soon as you finish. But please, take the time you need for your meal.” Even if the wait killed him, he’d endure anything to be alone with her.
He released her hand and ate faster than he ever had, far less too, neither tasting nor caring about his meal. The moment a bite of fig or beef stuck in his throat, he washed the offending morsel down with a gulp of wine.
Sancha picked at her bread and mutton.
“Can I get you anything?” He wanted to give her the world. “A slice of fowl or more honey?”
She folded her hands in her lap. “I want nothing more.”
How wrong she was. They needed each other. “Leave this room when you feel you can. Then come to me.”
He was ready to signal Isabella, reminding her to chaperone Sancha, at least until they arrived at the balcony.
Luscinda rested her hand on his arm. “You must try this.” She offered an orange slice. “Its sweetness will stun you.”
“Thank you, no. I need air, not food.”
“Luscinda will accompany you.” Señora de Cortés bit off another piece of cheese, her mouth crammed with it. “She could use some cooling air too.”
The evening was as steamy as the room. “If she accompanies me, who will accompany her?”
Señora de Cortés smiled. “Her mamá, of course.”
How clever of her. If they claimed anything untoward happened, like stolen kisses or