Loving Lies. Tina Donahue
Читать онлайн книгу.
opened her mouth to protest, which allowed him to slip his tongue inside and kiss her longingly, patiently. Warmth rolled through her. He ran his fingers over her cheek. Her belly fluttered, her legs growing weaker.
He trailed his fingers down her throat, creating a burst of heat more surprising than the last, then slipped his hand inside her robe and cupped her breast. Her nipple tightened instantly against his calloused palm. His skin was dry and hot, his movements unhurried as he used the soft globe. Was he mad?
She tore her mouth away and shoved him back with all her strength. It wasn’t a fraction of his, but she’d caught him unaware.
As he struggled to regain his balance, she hurried around the tree.
He followed and smiled.
His playfulness stirred Isabella beyond reason, the same as her memory of her peaked nipple rubbing against his palm. Her breasts ached for more. The breeze responded, hot and caressing, pushing the robe against her. The cloth was a poor substitute for this man who wasn’t deeply lined and was quite strong even though he sported a white beard and brows, making him ancient enough to be her grandfather.
Not understanding any of this, she rushed around the trunk, retreated several steps and lifted her hand to stop his advance.
At last, he kept his distance, though unfulfilled need hooded his eyes. “Come now, is your manner befitting a woman who will soon be my wife?”
Again, he spoke of an absurd union. “Are you mad?”
He arched one eyebrow. “Mad? No. Dismayed? Certainly.” He inhaled deeply before opening his arms. “Return to me. I have yet to satisfy myself with you, though I shall.” He smiled.
It was quite beautiful, the same as his eyes. Never had Isabella seen such male beauty especially on one who was supposed to be old. “Satisfy you? Wed you?”
“You enjoyed our kiss, no?” He grinned. “You did. You cannot deny your response as easily as you pretend to be offended now. I felt your lips part to mine and your tongue caress my own.”
She frowned. “What manner of holy man are you?”
He laughed as if she were mad and finally settled on an amused smile. “You must forgive me.”
“Must I? Then you must wait an eternity for such grace.”
His smile faded. “I am not a patient man.” He shrugged. “In my haste to taste the sweetness of your lips I forgot my own appearance. For doing so, I request your forgiveness.” He pulled off his turban.
Dark brown hair, shiny and thick, tumbled in waves over his forehead and around his ears. Before Isabella could recover from such a pleasant surprise, he used the turban to wipe the stain off his face, revealing bronzed, not brown, skin. He peeled away the white eyebrows. His own were the same dark shade as his hair. Next, he removed the white beard and mustache. Dark stubble dusted his firm jaw, cheeks, and upper lip. Beneath his robe, he wore a white linen shirt, dark woolen hose, a leather belt with a sheathed dagger, arming sword, pouch, and the high boots she’d already noticed. His legs were long and muscular, his chest broad, his form virile and youthful, his coloring and features those of a Spaniard, not a Moor.
She hardly trusted her eyes. Was this more magic as he’d performed in the market? It must be. She advanced until she was able to touch him. With her fingers against his cheek, she ran the pad of her thumb over his upper lip. His flesh was firm and warm, his coming beard bristly, his youth and masculinity quite evident.
Smiling, he turned his face into her hand. Isabella pulled away before he pressed his lips to her palm.
Despite his frown, his expression was playful. “Again, you deny me?”
“I shall always deny you.”
He looked doubtful at her promise.
Perhaps if she hadn’t sounded so uncertain and was able to understand this. How could he merely pose as a fakir, yet still breathe fire and handle hot coals without singeing his skin? She took his hands and turned them over. No blisters or marks of any kind marred his palms.
“Who are you?” She released his hands and danced back before he could pull her closer. “What manner of devil are you?”
“Devil?” He frowned, though it was still on the mischievous side. “I risked my hide to save you and for my efforts you call me a devil? Keep behaving in such a manner, keep denying me, and I may turn into a devil or worse.”
“Do what you must. I shall always deny you and certainly do not belong to you.”
“Oh, but you do.”
He seemed so certain, Isabella could only stare until he advanced. She retreated several steps. “I was prepared to effect my escape when you came upon the scene.”
“You were about to be sold and I rescued you.”
“And you believe having done so gives you the right to take me as your bride?”
“Of course. However, you also belong to me as your papá wisely chose me to be your husband, Señorita Lopéz de Lara.”
She stared. He knew who she was? How? She wasn’t betrothed. Only her eldest sister Sancha was.
Isabella went hot then cold.
Sancha should have been in the slave market today, not her. As sole heir to their late parents’ estate, Sancha was the one keeping their vile uncle Don Rodrigo from the wealth. He’d ordered her abduction to make certain she never wed and produced heirs with her betrothed, who she’d been promised to since childhood, hadn’t seen since, and wanted not at all. She kept threatening to flee if he ever came to claim her.
This man couldn’t be Sancha’s betrothed. If he were, Isabella would have taken her sister’s place to thwart their uncle’s plans only to face this new trouble.
The world seemed to spin as the warrior in front of her bowed slightly and offered a dazzling smile. She was quickly lost in it.
Desire filled his eyes. “I am, you see, your betrothed, Fernando de Zayas.”
* * * *
He expected her to be weak with relief and melt into his arms so he could enjoy another kiss. Instead, she looked unpleasantly stunned, leaving Fernando uncertain whether to be alarmed or offended by her response.
As her surprise dissolved into pensive reflection, and what appeared to be dread, Fernando was offended. From the moment he became a man, women had pursued him. Never had he lacked a female’s comfort. When it came to this woman, his betrothed, he rather expected it. She was the girl his father demanded he wed despite Fernando’s resistance to any union. He knew what marriage did to a man. How it subjected the poor fool to a wife’s endless nagging or tears. It was better to die in battle.
Or so he’d thought before rescuing her today.
Despite her current behavior, her courage was refreshing, her beauty undeniable. Her milky skin, blue-green eyes, and those auburn tresses would bewitch any man, even a poor eunuch. Especially enticing was the promise of her ripe breasts hidden beneath the robe she clutched to her throat.
How demure and disturbing. Fernando recalled her reluctance to expose her flesh to an aged fakir who she’d kissed readily, opening her mouth to his. Now that she knew who he was, her kiss and continued modesty were beginning to worry him. Would wedding her prove to be a trial? Would she secretly crave other men? Would she actually refuse him in his bed? Was such a thing possible? How could it be? A woman refusing her husband would be against the laws of God, nature, and man. She simply needed some wooing. With little effort, he could teach her exactly what pleased him and only him, she could teach him the same about herself, and they would be drunk with happiness.
Until such time it would help if he could remember her Christian name. He’d heard it during their betrothal ceremony years before. The first and last time she was in his presence or thoughts. During the following years, he’d been busy with his own activities,