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L uke tried to resist, to get away from the vile thing, but he was tied hand and foot, trussed like an animal for slaughter, and all he could do was thrash his head and spit defiance.

Arrgh! The blade bit again, searing hot, icy cold. He clenched his teeth against the scream that threatened to burst from him. The smell of blood mingled with the stench of roses.

Roses, always roses, whenever she was here. La Cuchilla. He’d lost track of how long it had been…

“Don’t struggle, my pretty.” Her voice, so warm and caressing. “Give yourself over to the pain. Find the pleasure in it.” She leaned over him, frowning in concentration. Her breasts in the low-cut gown were inches from his face.

Exquisite agony with each slow, deliberate slice of her blade, the blade for which she was named: La Cuchilla. “It’s art,” she told him. “You should thank me. Your friend was not so lucky.” She smiled as she sliced into his flesh.

“Michael? What—” He bit down. The intense pain took him to the edge of fainting, but he would not… give in… Not… give… her the satis… faction…

“Stubborn boy, aren’t you, my love?” The husky tones were almost seductive as she carved another slice in his flesh.

“Where’s Michael?” he managed to gasp.

“Dead.”

Dead? He gave her a wild look and she smiled. “Yes, pretty boy, you failed. Your friend is dead. It was all for nothing…” She leaned back and examined his shoulder, then nodded. “I think that will do. This one is good, n’est-ce pas, René?”

“ Sí, Rosa.” A man’s voice.

Rosa. La Cuchilla. Luke tried to fix it in his swirling brain. It might be important. If he survived this.

She took a handful of something. Black… sand? He squinted at it in the dim light. Some new torture?

She saw him looking. “Salt and ashes, dear boy. Nothing but salt and ashes. It is the final touch. I like to leave my favorites with a little gift, a small memento.” She applied a handful of the blackened salt to the open cuts on his chest. “Something to remember me by.”

The salt bit into his lacerated flesh, and Luke’s scream finally escaped…

“L uke? Luke, wake up! You’re dreaming, Luke.” She held him by the shoulders. The scent of roses filled his nostrils. “Bitch!” He shoved her away as hard as he could and—

Woke, gasping to the gray light of dawn.

His wife was sprawled backward on the bed where he’d thrown her.

He groaned and closed his eyes. Black tentacles of the nightmare still twined through his consciousness, clinging, pulling him down.

His heart was thumping, his palms cold and sweaty with fear.

He took deep breaths and tried to calm himself.

“Luke?”

He opened his eyes. She knelt at the foot of his bed, watching him anxiously.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked. “It was just—”

“A nightmare, I know.” And before he knew it, she had her arms around him, murmuring softly that it was all right. And reeking of roses.

“Sorry,” he said, and pushed her abruptly away. He shot out of bed.

“What is it?” She got out of bed and followed him.

“No! Don’t come near me!”

She stopped dead, her eyes dark with worry. “Why? What’s the matter? What have I done?”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Nothing. It’s just… the smellof roses.” He shuddered. “I don’t like it.” More like can’t bear it.

She gave him a puzzled look. “I see. Would you like me to—?” Her eyes widened when she noticed the rose-scented soap gone from the dish. She glanced at the open window. “I see. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Her brow wrinkled in concern. “Did you hurt yourself?”

He realized he was rubbing the spot just below his left shoulder and snatched his hand away. “No.” Noticing her arms were wrapped around her body, he added, “You’re cold. Get back into bed.”

“I’m all right,” she said quietly. “The question is, are you?”

“Yes, of course, it was just a stupid dream.” He spoke brusquely, but he couldn’t help himself. He hated having exposed himself to her like that. “Now get back into bed before you freeze.”

She straightened the bedclothes and climbed onto the bed. “Are you coming, too?”

“No.” He pulled on his breeches and boots. “Go back to sleep. I’m going for a walk.” Grabbing the rest of his clothing, he let himself out of the bedchamber.

He stamped his way through the quiet streets, soft and whispering with morning fog. He was embarrassed to have caused such a fuss. How much had she heard? Futile to wish she’d never witnessed it. And now that she had, she’d be asking questions. It was what women did, he thought bitterly.

W hen Isabella came down to join him for breakfast later that morning, Luke noticed damp tendrils of hair clinging to her nape and temples.

“I had another bath,” she explained. “Our landlady thinks I am mad.” She dimpled. “That or she suspects you did something truly strange to me last night. I asked for her plainest soap. Is this all right?” She extended her wrist for him to smell.

He sniffed. Plain soap and scent-of-Isabella. His senses stirred pleasantly. He gave a gruff nod, touched by her simple acceptance of what must appear to be something ridiculous. “Perfect, thank you.”

A pot of chocolate and a basket of pastries arrived. Isabella shook out her napkin, picked up a pastry, and said, “Who’s Michael?”

“Nobody.” A sharp jab of guilt caused him to correct himself. “No, not nobody. He was our friend. He’s dead.”

“He died in the war?”

“Yes.” Luke addressed himself to his breakfast.

For a few minutes they ate and drank in silence. Then, “You said, ‘our friend.’??”

“We were at school together—Gabe, Harry, Rafe, Michael, and me. And we all went to war together, too.” He sipped his coffee, strong, hot, and black, just the way he liked it. “Gabe, Harry, Rafe, and I came back.”

“And you were dreaming about Michael’s death this morning?”

“It sometimes happens,” he said curtly. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

She waved his apology away. “I didn’t mind. I have nightmares, too, sometimes. They moved me out of the dormitory and into a cell of my own because I kept waking people up.”

He remembered her telling him, but discussion of nightmares had already made him uncomfortable enough, and he had no desire to extend the conversation. That business was in the past, where it belonged. He changed the subject. “I hired a carriage.”

She looked up in surprise. “To take me to Valle Verde?”

He nodded and finished the last of his ham. “I didn’t know if your sister rides as well as you. Easier if you do find her to take her away in a carriage. It’s ordered for half past nine. You said it would take two hours to get there.”

Her eyes lit up. “That’s a wonderful idea, Luke—thank you. And yes, two hours, more or less. And I’ve askedthelandlady to change all the bedding so there will be no smell in the room if you want to take a nap while I’m at Valle Verde—”

“What do you mean? I’ll be there with you.”

She frowned and looked perturbed. “No, no, you can’t go. I have to go alone.”

“You’re not going anywhere alone, and certainly not to Valle Verde.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you trust me? Do you think I’ll run off on you?” Two pink spots appeared in her cheeks.

He shrugged, deliberately provoking her. “For all I know you might make a habit of it.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” She glared at him, opened her mouth to argue, and glanced around the room at the other diners. “We will discuss this upstairs.”

“We won’t discuss it at all,” he told her. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

She made a frustrated sound but refused to say another word in public. He could tell from the expressions that flitted across her face that she was marshaling various arguments to convince him.

She had a snowball’s chance in hell. But it would be quite entertaining to watch her try.

“You know it’s too dangerous for you to go to Valle Verde,” she told him the moment they returned to their room and shut the door. “I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn about it.”

The bed had been stripped and the bedclothes removed. Luke sat on a chair by the window, crossed his legs, and leaned back. “Whither thou goest, I will go.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Ruth was a widow, not a husband. Husbands don’t follow wives.”

His lips twitched. “What a very short memory you have, my dear.”

She flushed. “Be serious. You know I have to go. It’s important.”

“And I haven’t forbidden you to go. But nothing you have told me of your charming cousin Ramón—”

“Second cousin. Twice removed. And he’s not charming; he’s horrid.”

He said flippantly, “Clearly whoever removed him didn’t do a very good job. And an improperly removed horrid second cousin is not someone I will allow you to visit alone.”

“But I must—”

He made an impatient exclamation and sat up. “You told me your father told you to flee from Ramón; that he was a brute, a bully, and a thug.”

“He is. He’s a vile beast.”

“And you imagine I’d let you visit a vile beast on your own?” Luke snorted.

She wrung her hands. “But if he sees you, Ramón will want to kill you.”

He sat back and returned to flippancy. “Doesn’t like visitors, eh? Too bad. I’m going.”

“You don’t understand. Ramón will do anything to get his hands on my fortune. He’ll kill you to make me a widow.”

“Will he now?” Her anxiety on Luke’s behalf was quite touching.

“Yes! And then he will force me to marry him!”

He raised a lazy brow. “Really? He could do that? I’m impressed. I’ve been able to force you to do very little. You’re quite remarkably stubborn.”

She stamped her foot. “Oh, will you be serious? You can not come to Valle Verde with me. I utterly forbid it.”

He smiled. “You forbid it?”

“I do. Because if you go to Valle Verde, he’ll kill you.”

Luke yawned. “He is welcome to try.”

I sabella glowered at Luke from the seat opposite. She’d been jumpy and nervous and bad-tempered the whole way. She peered out of the window of the carriage for the hundredth time and said, “We’re almost there. Just over the next hill.”

Luke nodded.

“It’s not too late to change your mind,” she told him.