Page 4

He whistled, and in a moment his horse, Brutus, appeared. He kept a small spade in his pack—it was useful for fires and digging trenches around his tent on wet nights.

From the corner of his eye he saw the girl scoop up his shirt and bend over the man. Checking for herself that he really was dead, Luke supposed. He didn’t blame her.

He found a gully on the opposite side of the clearing and began to enlarge it, digging a hole big enough to bury a man in.Not a man; a beast.

After a few minutes, he noticed the girl edging toward the stream, watching him all the time. Good. She would feel better when she was clean.

He scraped and dug until the sweat rolled down his body. The thin mountain soil was hard and stony. A shallow grave was all this bastard deserved.

He paused for a moment, glad of his bare torso and the breeze that cooled him, and glanced toward the stream. She was taking a long time about that wash. She sat with her back to him, waist deep in the cold mountain stream, scrubbing herself vigorously.

A prickle of unease ran over him as he watched her, and without knowing quite why, he found himself quietly approaching the stream.

His shirt and coat lay neatly folded on the riverbank, and beside them lay the deserter’s wicked-looking knife, the blade now clean of all blood.

Ye gods, she must have pulled it out of his body.

She was scrubbing herself with coarse river sand, grabbing handfuls of the rough substance and rubbing it into tender skin, hard.

“Stop it, nina ! Stop it!” Luke took a step toward her, hesitated because she was naked, snatched up his shirt from the bank of the stream, and waded in, boots and all.

Her fists flailed at him blindly, but he dropped his shirt over her head, wrapped the sleeves around her tightly, and lifted her from the water. And held on.

She fought him like a little wildcat, writhing, kicking, and trying to bite him, but he’d expected that, after seeing her under attack before, and he’d made sure to wrap his shirt around as much of her as he could in an attempt to swaddle her.

He simply held her tight, murmuring soothing words in a mixture of English and Spanish. Slowly his words penetrated her panic, and she seemed to realize he was making no attempt to hurt her. Gradually her struggles became less violent, and eventually they ceased.

His grip on her eased. She turned big golden brown eyes on him, glittering with exhaustion.

“You must not punish yourself, nina ,” he said softly. “It was not your fault. It was not your fault.”

She stared into his eyes for a long moment.

“All trace of him is gone from you,” Luke told her, hoping like hell it was true.

She bit her lip and looked away, then gave a long, shuddery sigh. And suddenly her desperate brittleness crumpled and she was a little girl, weeping inconsolably in his arms.

“Hush now, little one. It’s all over,” Luke murmured helplessly, over and over, rubbing a soothing hand over her back and wishing to hell there was another female here who would know what to do.

Female tears always unmanned him, and these were not even the easy tears he was used to from his sisters. Each sob came hard won, wrenched, scalding from her. The bony little body shuddered against him as she fought her tears.

He held her tight and made soothing sounds. After a while she gave a long, quivery sigh, stilled, and became quiet.

“Thank you, senor . I apologize for… my outburst,” she said politely in a cold little best-manners-at-teatime voice that contrasted almost shockingly to her situation. “You may put me down now.”

His coat lay bundled on a patch of soft grass next to the bank. Luke set her down beside it. “Stay there and rest,” he told her. “Put the coat on to keep warm, and spread the shirt out to dry. It won’t take long in the sun. I’ll finish the grave.”

He resumed digging. A little later he heard a sound and glanced up. His horse was grazing quietly on the soft grass near the stream. The girl approached Brutus, murmuring softly and holding out her hand as if there was food in it.

Brutus stretched his neck out curiously, then, as the girl came close, shook his head and trotted skittishly out of reach.Luke grinned and returned to his digging. That game could go on all day. Luke had trained his horse to come only to him.

Luke had nearly finished the grave when he heard a movement behind him and turned.

She wore his shirt. It hung to just below her knees, crumpled, still damp. She had long legs, skinny rather than slender, gawky like a newborn filly. Her small feet were bare and dusty. Her damp, dark hair was plaited tightly and inexpertly in a crooked coronet around her head.

He ached for her vulnerability. Over his shirt she wore his coat fastened tight to the throat. It was a short coat, cut to finish at his waist. On her it reached below her nonexistent hips. The shoulders bagged, and she’d rolled the sleeves back as best she could. A little girl playing dress-up.

Only the set look on her battered little face said otherwise.

Even without the marks and swellings from the brutal blows of her attacker, she was an odd-looking little thing; a mismatched collection of features with those big golden eyes, a mouth too wide for her face, a pointed chin, and the sort of strong, bold nose that was the legacy of some ancient Roman ancestor.

With her crooked hairdo, split, swollen lips, a bruised cheek, and a rapidly blackening eye, she looked downright tragic, like something new-hatched and vulnerable fallen from its nest.

Luke had been rescuing fallen hatchlings and strays all hislife.

“Feeling better now, little one?” he asked gently. The pinched face tightened. Stupid question—of course she wasn’t. He gave her a reassuring smile and took a step toward her.

“Don’t move, senor ,” she said and pointed a pistol at his heart.

The deserter’s pistol. She must have hidden it in the folds of his coat. Spent, but she wouldn’t know that. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”

In answer she cocked the pistol. With casual expertise.

He raised his brows. “I see you have some familiarity with pistols. But that one isn’t loaded.”

“ Sí , it is.”

“No,” he explained. “The ball was spent when he fired at me. See, he grazed my neck.” He showed her the place that still burned.

“I know. I saw him shoot you. I reloaded the pistol.”

“You what ?”

She jerked her chin in the dead man’s direction. “I took the shot and powder from him.”

His jaw dropped.

“He is dead,” she said defensively, as if he’d accused her of stealing.

“I know. I was just surprised that you know how to load a pistol.”

She shrugged as if it was nothing special. “My father taught me to use a pistol when I was a child.”

When I was a child . As if she were a child no longer.

“I must leave this place now,” she said, darting a glance down the mountain. “Get your horse. I cannot catch him.”

Luke smiled. “There’s no hurry.”

“ Sí , there is.” She hesitated, considered him for a moment, then explained. “There are men chasing me. If they catch me—” She swallowed and jerked her chin at the grave. “My cousin Ramón will do the same thing to me as that pig!”

“Your cousin ?”

“ Sí . Oh, he will marry me first, even though he hates me and he knows I hate him. He will say it is because he is a man of honor !” She spat out the word. “But the truth is, it is the only way he can get—” She broke off.

The jewels? Luke wondered. Was she some kind of heiress?

“And after he weds me, to make sure of me, he will… do that .” There was a flat note of despair in her voice.

“No, he won’t,” Luke said firmly. “Not if I can help it.”

“You will help me?” she said incredulously.

“I will.” He laid his hand over his heart. “My word of honor as an English gentleman.”

“English?” She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t sound English.”

Luke shrugged. He was dark haired, dark eyed, and spoke Spanish like a native. It was why he’d been sent on this mission. “Englishmen can speak Spanish, too.”

She snorted. “Not like that. You sound nothing like an Englishman. That’s an Andalusian accent.”

She had a good ear. “I spent the summers of my childhood on a relative’s property in Andalusia,” he admitted. He and the younger of his two cousins had been sent there by his uncle, the Earl of Ripton, to learn the wine business. He’d loved Spain in those days.

She frowned, unconvinced. “You don’t look English. Englishmen have red faces and blue eyes.”

Luke smiled, amused, despite the situation. “Not all of us, I promise you. I truly am English. Lieutenant Luke Ripton, special dispatch rider under the command of General Sir Arthur Wellesley himself, at your service.” He saluted.

The suspicious look didn’t fade, nor did the pistol waver. “Say something in English, then.”

“You’re an extremely suspicious girl,” he told her in English, “but I can’t say I blame you, not after all you’ve been through.” She didn’t respond, and he felt a bit foolish.

“So, now I’ve told you my name,” he resumed in Spanish. “What’s yours?”

“Isabella,” she said eventually.

“Well, Isabella, we’ll leave this place soon, but first I must bury this fellow.”

She muttered something in a low stream of angry-sounding Spanish.

“I know, but it must be done,” he said firmly.

The next time he glanced up, she’d put the pistol away. She stood watching him, rocking slightly and hugging herself as if she were cold. It wasn’t a cold day.

Finally the hole was big enough. Luke dusted off his hands—he had a few new blisters now—and dragged the body to the grave. He rolled it in.

“Now, a few words.”

She gave him a burning look. “He deserves no words, nothing!”

Luke turned to the grave. “Lord, here lies a cur who, among other things, betrayed his country and brutally attacked a child. May he receive your divine judgment.” He glanced at Isabella and added in English, “And may this courageous young girl receive your blessing and heal in body and spirit. Amen.”