Loving Lies. Tina Donahue
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Benita? Or perhaps Juanita? None of those names seemed to fit. What had those who’d requested today’s rescue called her besides the señorita? Carmen? Maria? Hortensia?
As Fernando began to consider every name he knew, she edged closer. “Why were you in the marketplace? How did you juggle hot coals in your hands? How did you avoid burning yourself? How did you breathe fire from your mouth? Why were you in the marketplace when I—”
“You already asked the question.”
“And you failed to answer.”
“You never gave me the chance.”
She lifted her chin. “You were upon the scene at the moment I was to be sold. Why? What was your purpose there?”
“I was informed of your dilemma and came to rescue you, what else?”
“Dressed as a fakir? Acting as a fakir?”
He sobered at her wary tone. “It was the only means I had of rescuing you and spying for Spain without being murdered in the bargain.”
Her lips parted in apparent dismay.
Perhaps she did care. “I use my knowledge of the fakir’s magical tricks and my ability to speak Arabic, Turkish, and Latin to learn of the Moors’ military strategies. Others do the same. The merchant whose shop we escaped from is one of our own, as are the men who dug the tunnel we used. In time we shall rid ourselves of Granada’s useless Sultan, the cursed puto you were to be delivered to if not for my daring and successful rescue.”
“I had planned to escape.”
He smiled. Until today’s events, Fernando had always considered a woman to be no more than a means of physical release to a man. Whether as a shrewish wife who had to deliver her body and children, or as a willing mistress who would offer the most sensuous of pleasures.
He now knew better.
Here was a woman who’d shown remarkable courage in the marketplace, even though she’d been unaware of his plan to rescue her and was about to be sold as an odalisque. What other female was as resolute? To his way of thinking every other Spanish lady would have dissolved into tears and begged for mercy. Not this woman. She’d held her head high while searching for escape. She’d followed his orders with little pause, crawling through the stinking tunnel, running until her legs refused to carry her. As far as he was concerned, she was as fearless as any man. For the first time in his life, he’d met a woman who deserved his full respect. She was quite the prize, and she was his, whatever her Christian name was.
No matter. He would delicately approach the problem and soon learn how to address her. First, though, he needed to fix their sorry state, refusing to travel through the day’s heat with them covered in grime.
He lifted his robe and approached. “Come.” He took her hand and led her toward a stream in the distance. “You need a bath to wash the dirt and blood from you.”
She held back and made a face at the brownish stains on her robe, then touched her cheek where blood had splashed her.
He nearly smiled at the face she made. “No need for alarm. The blood belonged to a lamb and will wash away easily. Come.”
Again, she held back. “As I bathe, what will you do?”
“Assist you, of course.”
She yanked her hand free.
Despite her rude move, he refused to be offended. She simply needed more wooing. He easily reclaimed her hand and kissed her fingers. “Come now, señorita. As my betrothed, I fully intend to have you stripped bare at some point, so it may as well be now. And a bath is what you need.”
“No.”
He 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
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