Loving Lies. Tina Donahue
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unless she forced herself to resist.
Determined to ignore him, she failed miserably, the seductive melody sweeping over her with as much power as his warm hands, the gentle brush of his fingers, his impassioned kiss. She sighed. “Must you hum?”
She needed a moment away from his voice and touch to collect her thoughts, harden her resolve.
His grip remained firm. He finished the tune and began another, the rich sounds more delightful than earlier as he scanned the surroundings, always the warrior, ever alert for danger. Except for the noise he made.
“Shouldn’t you be quiet?”
He stopped and turned to her. “Were you addressing me?”
“Who else?”
“How would I know? Did you use my name?” He lifted his chin and looked down his nose at her. “I think not.”
She conceded. “Have it your way. You should be quiet as a mouse, Fernando. We are attempting to escape, Fernando. Do you want to be caught, Fernando?”
“By the Moors or by you?”
His sensuous smile blurred her thoughts. She turned away and studied the trees in the distance, sweat breaking out on the back of her neck. “The Moors.”
“We left them behind. Although there are always perils here and wherever one goes, we face none at the moment.”
How he lied. Isabella knew the peril of his fingers gently caressing hers. When she chanced a glance at him, her heart knew the peril of having his gaze still on her. “Should you be watching me instead of our surroundings, Fernando?”
His eyes glittered with arousal. “I like how my name sounds on your lips.”
She regarded his sculpted mouth, as perfect as the rest of him.
He resumed walking. “What would you have me call you?”
Her step faltered. Fernando’s did not. He pulled her along as though nothing were amiss, even though it was.
Not once had he used Sancha’s name, and now he wanted to know what he should call her. Because he had no idea what his betrothed’s Christian name should be? What else? Although disturbing on its face, Isabella sensed his failure to recall Sancha’s name might play to her advantage.
“You refuse to answer me?” he asked.
She feigned confusion. “What was the question?”
He narrowed his eyes. “What would you have me call you?”
“My name is Isabella, as you already know, and I insist you address me as such.”
“As if you were the Queen.” He grinned. “I shall call you my queen. A fitting title for one who owns such delicious arrogance. Do you like it?”
“I do. And you will be—”
“Your King. Lord. Husband.” He released her hand upon reaching the stream. Branches canopied the gently gurgling water. A balmy breeze whispered past, bringing the rich scents of vegetation and earth. The day was quiet, the location secluded, his expression aroused. “Come now, my queen, your lord demands you remove your robe and scrub away the grime so he might see what lies beneath.”
Isabella tightened her fingers on the garment.
* * * *
Fernando suppressed a sigh at her maddening modesty but grew even more determined to change it.
As the second son of a count, he’d never had anything come easily to him. Whereas his eldest brother Enrique could court the maiden of his choice, Fernando had to rescue his betrothed to discover he genuinely desired her. With Enrique inheriting all of their father’s wealth, Fernando and his younger brothers had to prosper on their own by becoming soldiers, risking their lives in battles for the Crown and by wedding women they didn’t know or want. After such a harsh past, coaxing Isabella to his side was one struggle he would certainly enjoy and have no chance of losing. All he had to do was use his ample charm, beginning now.
He captured her free hand and caressed her fingers.
She flinched at his gentle touch and lifted her face to watch a plump cloud drift across the sun. As shade swept over the stream, Fernando drew lazy circles on her palm. Her breathing picked up, but rather than look at him, she followed the flight of two birds.
He suspected she wanted to be as free as those creatures were and was beginning to feel as captive with him as she had with the slaver.
He wasn’t going to explain how fortunate she was to have him at her side or what would have happened if he’d failed to rescue her. First, her captors would have secured a metal bracelet around her ankle to tell the world she was now the Sultan’s property. Once in the harem, she would have received an Arabic name and been forced to renounce her religion and culture. Her beauty would have made her suitable for the Sultan’s carnal use and damned her to the life of an odalisque, a concubine, forced to deliver her flesh and bear his sons. For the rest of her days the harem walls would have imprisoned Isabella. Their scent would have always been a part of her, invading her hair, coating her skin, killing her hope.
No, he wouldn’t relay any of those horrors. He was a warrior, not a brute, and was determined to conquer this maiden’s heart. He kissed her fingers and released her hand. Having already checked the surroundings to ensure their safety, he dropped his robe to the side then removed his sword, dagger, pouch, and belt. Next, he sank to the ground, tugged off his boots and looked up.
Isabella stared at his legs and groin. She pressed the soiled robe closer to her throat.
He rested his elbows on his knees. “Remove your garment. You surely cannot bathe in it.”
Her hold on the cloth remained. She looked about.
“There is naught to fear.” He removed his hose, linen braies, and shirt. “This area is rarely traveled. Others remain on the road past the trees to your left. Before the juncture and after a field of untended wheat, we have supplies for our use. We also have a mule, as an Arabian might tempt too many who have thievery on their minds.” He pushed to his feet. “Come, we have no time to waste.”
He padded to her.
* * * *
Isabella stared. He was nude and quite unashamed of his state, even though his shaft had stiffened and his lightly furred sac tightened with arousal.
Heat stung her throat and cheeks. Her caution warred with desire and curiosity, with the latter winning out. She drank him in, unable to look away.
Prominent veins snaked the length of his member rooted in a nest of dark curls. His legs were long, muscular, and dusted with hair the same as his broad chest. He had the form of an athlete, his belly flat, hips narrow…and the marks of a warrior with scars on his torso and legs. Some were quite old, the skin puckered and white. Others were new, the flesh so red it seemed raw. Poor man. Brave warrior. The filthy Moors had injured him repeatedly in battle, yet he had survived.
He had thrived.
She studied his hard shaft. The silky crown was reddish with need, turgid with lust. Her cleft grew damp, her thoughts feverish.
He stood before her. “Come now. Remove your robe.”
He meant to have her. If not now, after their bath. An increasingly exciting prospect rather than frightening. She found herself desiring their passion as much as he did, yet what of their intimacies? If they didn’t create a child the first time, they would in their subsequent couplings. What then? Their child wouldn’t secure her father’s estate for Fernando. It would obligate him to her, a fraud.
She couldn’t bring herself to do such a thing. With no sound argument to sway him or lies to deter his passion, she withdrew a step and simply shook her head.
He smiled gently. “You must disrobe. Once you do, I can wash the grime from you, and you can wash—”
“I