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Miguel and the donkey ran along beside them for a short while, waving, whooping, and wishing them even more fine sons, until Isabella called to Luke, “My mare is a little fresh and needs a run. Shall we canter?” Without waiting for Luke’s response, she shouted a final good-bye to Miguel and urged her horse into a canter. She had an excellent seat.

Luke followed, and in a few minutes they were alone on the narrow, winding road, heading down the mountain, leaving the convent and the village far behind.

After a while the track broadened and Isabella slowed to a walk. Luke brought his mount alongside her mare so that the horses were walking side by side.

“Not finding it too tiring?”

She gave him a surprised look. “Not at all.”

They walked on in silence for a while. To Luke’s surprise she didn’t seem to feel the need to fill the silence with aimless chatter. Of course, it could be shyness, in which case it was incumbent on him to converse. Only he couldn’t think of anything to chat about.

He pulled out a flask of cold spring water and passed it to her. She unstoppered it, drank, and handed it back to him with murmured thanks.

He was about to drink, when a question occurred to him. “What did you tell Miguel about the donkey?”

She gave a little huff of amusement. “Just that it is an English tradition for a bridegroom to give a male donkey as a gift…” She added with a glimmer of mischief, “To ensure a son, you understand, donkeys being… well endowed.”

Luke, in the act of drinking from his flask, choked. She gave a gurgle of laughter and rode ahead. His demure convent bride.

More and more he was looking forward to the night.

T hey rode all morning, stopping occasionally to rest and water the horses and for Isabella to stretch her legs. Not that she really needed it. Her mare had a beautifully smooth gait, and the saddle fit her horse well and was comfortable.

The joy of being on a horse again, breathing in fresh, pine-crisp mountain air, did much to soothe her bruised spirit, and the narrow track forced them to travel in single file most of the time, which made conversation difficult.

Far from being disappointed or bored, it gave her the luxury of being alone with her thoughts, without anyone saying, “Isabella Ripton, are you daydreaming again?”

Not that she was letting herself daydream anymore. She’d given that up. Or was trying to.

But she would have to broach the matter soon with him. She was not going to tamely accompany him to England. She had to go to Valle Verde first. But it was not a discussion to be had while on horseback.

And then there was the small matter of a wedding night. It occupied her thoughts a great deal.

“We’ll stop here for luncheon,” Lord Ripton said, turning off the track into a small clearing. It was a peaceful-looking place, with a stream burbling between the rocks and patches of green grass dappled by sunlight that filtered through oaks and beech trees.

Lord Ripton dismounted and went to assist her, but she slipped to the ground before he reached her. “I’ve brought food from the convent,” she said, reaching into her bag.

“And I have food from Miguel’s mother.”

They made a picnic on the grass, with bread, cheese, olives, and some slices of rich, pungent sausage. Tiny birds hopped in the grass, twittering hopefully from a distance. Finches? Sparrows? She wasn’t sure.

“This place reminds me of the first time we met,” she said, nibbling on the crusty bread.

“I passed that place on the way here.” He glanced at her and added, “We will not revisit it.”

She crumbled some of the bread and scattered it for the birds. He produced an apple and sliced it neatly into eight pieces, removing the core. He cut a sliver of cheese, placed a piece of apple on it, and passed it to her, balanced on the blade of his knife. “Eat.”

She took it and nibbled. It was very good, the richness and saltiness of the cheese contrasting with the sharp crispness of the apple. “Lord Ripton, I wonder, did you notice if—” she began.

“I told you to call me Luke.”

He waited.

“Luke,” she repeated obediently. “I was wondering about the grave. Did you see it?”

“There’s no sign of it,” he told her. “I stopped there briefly on the way to the convent. There is no sign of anything—only grass.” He passed her another slice of cheese and apple.

“I often think of that day.”

“Then stop it,” he told her firmly. “It’s in the past and should remain there. There is nothing to be gained from looking backward. Look to your future, think about children.” He passed her another piece of cheese and apple.

He meant heirs, Isabella thought darkly, taking the proffered food. He was probably feeding her cheese and apples to fatten her up for the purpose. Like a prize mare.

She wanted children, of course she did, but first she had to settle her affairs in Valle Verde.

And he was wrong about the past. It was important. You couldn’t just bury it like a body and hope grass would grow over it and make it disappear.

The past shaped who you were. It wasn’t healthy to dwell in it, but you had to learn to live with it.

Sister Mary Stella, the Irish nun who’d taken young Bella under her wing when she first arrived at the convent, had taught her that.

“Bad things happen,” she would say, “but it does no good to pretend they never happened. If you do, they will fester and grow, and the more you try to hide them away, the more they’ll rule you in secret. ”

Young Bella knew that was true. The nightmares came every night.

“So pull out the bad things after a bit and give them a good seeing to. Expose them to sunshine. Imagine if they happened to someone else. I promise it will look different. Then, mebbe you can let it go, and forgive yourself—yes, I know you did nothing wrong, but you can’t tell me you don’t blame yourself for letting it happen. ”

She was right. Bella did blame herself.

“We all blame ourselves, lovie; don’t worry.

But put the past in proper perspective and you leave the guilt behind, too.

And look to the future without fear or regret.

” And Sister Mary Stella would squeeze Bella’s hand and say, “And I just know you’re going to have a lovely future, Bella me love. I can feel it in me waters!”

Lord Ripton gave Isabella the last piece of apple and carefully wiped the blade of his knife clean. “Now, if you’ve finished…” He stood and held his hand out to assist her to rise.

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t,” she said and leaned back on her hands.

“Still hungry?”

“No, but we need to talk.”

“Talk? Can’t we do that on the road?”

“No.” She waited, and eventually, humoring her, he sat down again.

“Before we go to England I need to go to Valle Verde.”

“Not this again. I thought I made it clear—”

“You did, but apparently I did not make it clear enough to you. I have to go to Valle Verde because—”

“You feel a responsibility to your father’s people, I know, but trust me, there is no point in your going. If you don’t own the estate any longer, you cannot rectify their situation, and even if you did—”

“I could send an agent to do that job?”

“Precisely.”

“Well, you’re wrong.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“You think I want to go and play Lady Bountiful to my father’s peasants? I do not. Nor have I any intention of interfering with Ramón’s running of the estate. Knowing Ramón, it would only make him angry and, being Ramón, he would take it out on someone else.”

“So, is it something you left behind?”

“In a way.”

“Then we can send someone to fetch it.”

“No, we cannot.” She swallowed. “It is not a thing.” She met his gaze squarely. “It’s a sister.”

“A what?”

“My half sister.” There, she’d said it.

“I thought you were an only child.”

“I am. The only legitimate child. Perlita, my half sister, is the daughter of my father’s mistress.”

He frowned. “Your father did not make provision for the child and her mother?”

“He did.” She swallowed. It was harder to admit than she’d thought. Up to now, only Father Alvarez knew her sorry tale, and that was under the seal of the confessional.

“Then what—”

It all came tumbling out then, the dreadful thing she had done.

“When Papa was dying he sent the message for me to go at once to my aunt’s convent.

He told me to take Perlita and her mother with me, but I didn’t.

His message was clear, but I pretended I didn’t understand it.

And so I left them behind. And that was why I was attacked on the road. ”

“What?” He stared at her. “What possible relation could there be between leaving your father’s mistress and child behind, and you being attacked?”

“I disobeyed Papa and abandoned my half sister to her fate, and that’s why it happened.”

“What nonsense.”

She shook her head. “It’s not nonsense. The men who attacked me knew about Papa’s message. I told you they were after jewels.”

There was a short silence as he considered her story. “What did your father’s message say?”

“That I was to go at once to my aunt at the Convent of the Broken Angel—it is not the correct name of the convent, you understand, but what those who know it call it—and to take his jewels with me.”

“His jewels?”

“It is what he called Esmerelda—his mistress—and Perlita. An emerald and a pearl—his jewels.”

“Are you sure he didn’t mean actual jewels, your mother’s jewels, for instance?”

She shook her head. “No, for then he would have written ‘your jewels,’ because Mama’s jewels belonged to me. In any case, we sold Mama’s jewels to raise money to equip Papa’s army.”

“You sold your mother’s jewels?”