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  When he thoughtfully paused to let her adjust to him inside her, it brought tears to her eyes. She turned away to hide them.

  Misunderstanding her sudden shyness, he began to caress her below. “Ah, cariño, it will get better, I swear.” He branded her neck with kisses, his mustache tickling her. “For me, it is . . . indescribable. You are as warm as the Galician sun. I could lie here inside you forever.”

  “Forever?” she choked out.

  He pulled back to give her a haunted smile. “Well . . . at least all night,” he amended, his beautiful black hair falling over his damp brow.

  Lifting himself a little, he began to move again. He slid in and out, his expression intent, his eyes eating her up as if staking his claim, though she knew he did not want any claims put on him.

  Determined to mark him as hers, she looped her arms about his neck and dragged him down for her kiss, pressing her breasts up against him, letting her body envelop him as he’d enveloped her. He would never forget this night—not if she could help it.

  His breathing grew labored. His kiss grew savage, his thrusts deeper. When he tore his mouth from hers to pant, she used her lips and hands to fondle every inch of him, wresting a guttural groan from low in his throat.

  “Mi dulzura . . .” he said hoarsely. “Ah, mi querida . . .” Fluid Spanish flowed from his lips, words she only half understood.

  She could have sworn he said, “You are mine now, mine and mine alone.” But that wasn’t possible. Still, the thought heated her blood, adding to the heat he roused with his hand between her legs, stroking and rubbing and turning her wild.

  Then he pulled her leg up to settle her more firmly against him, and she went insane. The thrum that had begun low in her belly grew into an insistent pulsing, vibrating through her, making her see spots behind her eyes.

  “Vixen,” he accused as he pounded into her. “Beguiling witch . . . must you take . . . my soul . . . too?”

  “Yes.” He’d taken hers; why shouldn’t she take his? “Yes . . . yes . . .” she repeated, the vibration growing to a roar inside her head.

  Suddenly, the spots exploded into a wild array of light and color, so brilliant and intense she thought she might swoon.

  “Yes!” she cried, straining against him.

  He gave a hard thrust that drove him in to the hilt. Then, with a hoarse cry, he shuddered violently against her.

  For a moment, they remained frozen, so intimately joined she could feel the spasms as he spilled himself inside her.

  And in that moment of exquisite pleasure, she knew how grossly she’d erred. Foolish, foolish girl. She could never protect her heart from him.

  She might have won the skirmish, but he’d won the war. And now she would reap the bitter fruit of her defeat.

  Chapter Twenty

  Dear Charlotte,

  I took the liberty of having Mr. Baines speak to Mr. Pritchard about his tenant, only to find that he was as oblivious to the Spaniard’s true purpose as any of us. What does the colonel say? Has he arrived in London yet?

  Your concerned cousin,

  Michael

  Lucy awoke hours later to the most blissful sense of contentment she’d ever felt. She lay there with her eyes closed, savoring the feeling of being a woman.

  Of having a lover. A lusty, amazing lover. She felt well and truly used, slightly sore, but sated and happy.

  Nettie had been wrong—a man could indeed take a woman more than once in a night. The second time had been an hour after her deflowering. It had started with him washing her, so gently it had made her want to cry.

  But soon his ministrations had become something else—kisses, caresses, wild and heady temptations. She’d never dreamed a man could be so passionate. He’d brought her to release over and over until he’d had her begging, just as he’d promised. Begging to feel him inside her. Begging to see him lose his restraint again. And when at last he did, it gave her as much of a thrill as before.

  She ought to be appalled by her shameless behavior. Why wasn’t she? Because it was Diego, who’d taken her innocence with the tender care of a husband.

  She sighed. This might be their only night together. Sobered by that thought, she opened her eyes and turned toward him to memorize the face that had become so dear.

  The bed was empty. She sat up in a panic, only to be arrested by the sight of Diego in drawers and trousers, standing at the table with his head bent as he examined something in the light of the oil lantern.

  Her sketch pad.

  “Find anything of interest?” she asked.

  He started but didn’t look at her. “This drawing you did of me is very good. You are quite talented.”

  “It’s not finished, actually.” Heartened by his praise, she pulled the sheet up to tuck beneath her arms. “I had no time to add the final touches when I was in England, and now I can’t. No pens or ink or charcoal.”

  “Ah, I shall have to remedy that.” He turned toward the bed, then dragged in a sharp breath, his gaze growing hungry as he took in the sight of her.

  Oh, but didn’t he look luscious without a shirt, all sculpted muscle dusted with dark hair? Her gaze skated down to where his trousers began to bulge, and she smiled, feeling the full power of being a woman he desired.

  She let the sheet slip enough to bare one breast. “Come back to bed, Diego. It’s still early.”

  With a low curse, he tore his gaze from her and went to put on his shirt. “Not that early, cariño. The watch changed an hour ago. Before long, Rafael and the first mate will be stirring, and I would rather they not find me gone from the cabin.” He fastened his shirt buttons. “We must preserve your reputation as best we can until we reach Spain and can be married.”

  “Married!” Her heart soared. “But you said . . . I thought . . .”

  “I took your innocence. I am not so dishonorable as to leave you ruined.”

  The emotionless statement stopped her heart in mid-soar. “But what about your property? You said my grandfather won’t give it to you if we marry.”

  “It does not matter.”

  He said it so curtly that she knew it mattered very much. “But Diego—”

  “I am not like Hunforth,” he ground out as he picked up his cravat and tied it about his neck. “Taking a woman’s innocence levies certain obligations on any decent man— and I always honor my obligations.”

  Her temper flared. She didn’t want to be his obligation. “I seduced you. Don’t make it sound as if you ravished me against my will.”

  “Did I not?” He turned to look at her, his expression softening. “Come now, querida, I could have left whenever I wished. All I had to do was ignore your lovely body, crawl under the bed, and find the key. Which, by the way, I just did.” He held it up. “Your pretty tactics would not have kept me here long if I had not chosen to stay.”

  “You didn’t choose to stay.” Guilt gnawed at her for how she’d convinced him. “You did it because I threatened to give myself to another and blame my lack of chastity on you.”

  He arched one eyebrow. “I called your bluff, remember? You did not leave to go to anyone else’s bed. And if you had tried, I would have locked you up for the rest of the voyage. I would not have let another man have you.”

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “For the same reason I first kissed you—because I wanted you in my bed. I wanted to ravish you from the moment I saw you in that orchard.” He looked almost angry, as if the words were torn from him. “I want to ravish you now.” He took a step toward her, halted, then pivoted away to finish dressing. “But that must wait until we marry.”

  Silently, she watched him sit to pull on his boots. She should be glad, ecstatic, that he’d decided to marry her. It made everything easier. So why couldn’t she shake the feeling he did it against his will?

  It wasn’t just his refusal to speak of love. After all, she hadn’t mentioned love to him. But that word “obligation” rang in her ears. He’d fought so hard to fulf
ill his promise to the marqués and gain his property, yet now he was ready to abandon it? Simply because he’d taken her innocence?

  “Diego, I . . . I didn’t expect you to marry me when I set out to seduce you.”

  “I realize that.”

  “I just didn’t want to end up forced into marriage with some stranger.”

  “Yes,” he said tightly. “You explained that perfectly well last night.”

  “I certainly didn’t want you to give up this property you seem to—”

  “Arboleda! It has a name!” He whipped his head around to glare at her. “And it is not just any piece of property. It is . . .” He trailed off as he saw her wounded expression. “It does not matter. What is done is done.”

  A hollow hurt settled in her chest. After last night, she wanted nothing more than to marry him, but not like this, with him stiff and formal and unhappy.

  He rose to walk to the door. “When we reach Spain, I will take you to your grandfather and ask for permission to marry you. I owe him that courtesy, at least. If he refuses, we will elope. But one way or the other, we will be married.”

  When he unlocked the door, she leaped from the bed, dragging the sheet with her. “Wait, Diego—”

  “Get some rest,” he ordered. “I will send Nettie to attend you.”

  Then he left.

  She stood gaping at the door. He’d just announced in his high-handed manner that they were to be married, and he actually expected her to rest?

  That was impossible now. She stared at her sketch pad with her heart in her throat. She hadn’t looked at the sketch since the day she’d drawn it. Now she could see that it was a terrible likeness. She’d done it when she’d thought him quite the devil, and she’d made his eyes far too cold, his mouth too cruel.

  While the Diego she had come to know . . .

  A sob caught in her throat. Too late she realized just how honorable he was, willing to give up everything to preserve her reputation. He didn’t love her; she wasn’t even sure he liked her beyond the bedchamber. Yet he meant to marry her?

  When the door swung open, she whirled toward it, praying Diego had returned. But it was only Nettie.

  The servant closed the door with a knowing glance. “Well? Did it work? Did he end up in your bed?”

  “Look at how I’m dressed,” Lucy said irritably. “What do you think?”

  Nettie chuckled as she picked up Lucy’s shift. “Was it everything you hoped?”

  Lucy blushed. “Was your night with Rafael everything you hoped?”

  With a dreamy smile, Nettie clutched the shift to her chest. “Oh, miss. You have no idea.”

  “Trust me, I have a very good idea. And there’s your answer.”

  Nettie laughed. “I told you them Spanish men ain’t so bad.”

  What an understatement. “Did Rafael guess what I was up to?”

  “Not at first.” Nettie straightened the room. “But when his friend didn’t return last night, he got a good idea. Didn’t seem too happy about it, neither. I thought p’raps he fancied you for himself, but he said no. Said his friend was fool enough to do the right thing by you, and that would mean trouble.”

  Because Diego wouldn’t get his estate?

  Lucy frowned. Surely he made an adequate living as a magician. His dress indicated a certain level of comfort, and he didn’t live as if money were his main concern. He didn’t cater to the whims of his rich patrons. Then there’d been the huge sum he’d given to charity at the breakfast.

  Perhaps she should find out how financially secure he really was. And why Arboleda was so important to him. If his family was dead, why did he care?

  He probably wouldn’t tell her, but his friend might.

  “Has the captain arisen yet?”

  “Aye. He was waiting for Don Diego when I left.”

  Hearing Diego’s name said with the Spanish honorific gave her a jolt. She often forgot he was a count, but the others clearly did not. With them, his position went far beyond his fame as a performer.

  Was that why he clung to his honor? Some men of rank took very seriously the responsibilities of their station. The obligations.

  Oh, how she despised being simply an obligation to him. “I have to talk to the captain alone. Do you think he and Diego will be together long?”

  Nettie laughed. “After the night you had? I doubt it. Don Diego will wish to sleep, and Rafael usually goes to the wardroom early for breakfast.”

  “Good. Help me dress. Quickly.”

  A short while later, she headed for the wardroom. She entered to find Rafael alone, hunched over his plate of fried bread and cured sausage.

  “If you’re looking for Diego, I’d leave him be. He’s in a devil of a temper,” he said.

  “Actually, I was looking for you.”

  He eyed her with suspicion. “Why?”

  She took a seat across the table, not sure how to begin. “I gather that you know . . . that you’ve guessed—”

  “That you and Diego spent last night doing the blanket hornpipe?”

  When she caught his meaning, she blushed. “He told you.”

  “Diego? The man who threatened to hang me from the nearest yardarm by my cojones just for kissing your hand? No, he didn’t have to tell me. He announced he was marrying you. That was enough. The only way he’d give up on regaining Arboleda is if he’d done something foolish.”

  She fought to appear calm. “Is the property worth so much, then?”

  “In money? Now? Hardly. After the way the soldiers ravaged it—”

  “What soldiers?” Sudden trepidation gripped her. “Where exactly is Diego from in León?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You don’t know?”

  She shook her head. “He never talks about himself to me. I didn’t even know he had an estate until this journey.”

  Rafael’s expression softened. “Ah, that explains it. I did wonder how you could be so cruel as to tempt him into losing everything for one night of pleasure.”

  “What makes you think I tempted him?” she said, momentarily nonplussed.

  “Because Señor Honorable wouldn’t bed you without extreme provocation. He’s spent most of his life trying to get Arboleda back, and he wouldn’t throw it away easily.”

  “Why is it so important? What happened with the soldiers? Please tell me. I have to know more before I begin a future with him. Perhaps you could start by explaining how you met?”

  “In the regiments.” Leaning back, Rafael regarded her consideringly, then let out a long breath. “I’m the bastard of an English soldier and a Spanish camp follower. Diego and I have been friends since he was thirteen and I fifteen. What little I know about his life before that he told me, or I gleaned from Gaspar and Diego’s mother.”

  “You knew her?”

  “Briefly. She died of a liver disease shortly after I met her. According to Diego, she was never the same after what happened to his family at Villafranca.”

  Shock gripped her. “Diego is from Villafranca?”

  “You’ve heard of it.”

  Oh, yes. Thanks to her reading, she knew more than she wanted about the horrors that had happened there. During the harum-scarum retreat through the mountains of northwest Spain to La Coruña, with the French nipping at their heels and their food stores depleted, the English soldiers had swarmed Villafranca like locusts. Maddened by hunger and cold, the worst of them had broken into Spanish storerooms, guzzling the wine, robbing and even murdering any civilian who tried to stop them.

  By the time the officers had reeled them in, the local Spanish populace had dubbed their “allies” malditos ladrones, “damned robbers.” And the French, who’d stormed through next, had finished off any Englishmen lying drunken in the streets, while behaving equally badly to the locals. Villafranca was left shattered, nearly razed to the ground.

  “You have heard of it,” Rafael said as he watched the play of emotions on her face. “Or even remember it. You and your supposed parents were ther
e, right?”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t yet five. All I remember is the cold and hunger. But years later, while trying to learn more about my parents, I read what occurred on the march.” She shook her head. “I had no idea Diego had lived there.”

  “Arboleda borders the road to La Coruña. His parents used to own a vineyard that produced some of the region’s best wine. The estate had been in his family for generations . . . until the soldiers came through.”

  Her stomach knotted. This was why he’d become a thief in the regiments. “The English soldiers?”

  “They were the first,” Rafael said coldly. “They ravaged his family’s wine stores. I gather that Diego’s father tried to reason with them, assuming that Spain’s allies would treat him and his family with respect. But drunken, starving men are no respecters of persons. They ignored him, bullying Diego and his mother, though Diego says little of that. All I know is by the time the soldiers stumbled on, the family was left with nothing to survive the winter or take to market.”

  “Good Lord,” she whispered.

  “The French arrived a day later,” Rafael said bitterly. “Diego’s father was so angry he met them with a blunderbuss. They shot him for it.”

  “They shot him!” she cried. “The monsters!”

  “Yes, and they set fire to the vineyards. As he lay dying in Diego’s arms, he made Diego promise to take care of his mother and keep Arboleda alive. The place had been in the Montalvo family for generations; it was everything to the old man, and he’d raised Diego to feel the same. Unfortunately, there was little left to preserve once the solders got done.”

  Stunned by the litany of crimes committed against Diego and his parents, Lucy stared at Rafael, appalled. To have his father die in his arms, to watch his inheritance destroyed. He’d have been only twelve, too young to fight but old enough to remember. The thought made her ill.