Page 49

T he Castillo de Rasal was an imposing stone building rising high above the surrounding landscape, a fortress that made no bones about domination. Even as darkness fell, its silhouette towered darkly above them, blotting out the night sky and the stars.

Luke handed his card to the servant who answered the door.

Isabella had written something on the back.

Normally he preferred to travel as Senor and Senora Ripton—it was wiser not to let people know you were rich—but in this case, he brought out his title.

The servant took the card, asked them to wait, then glided away.

This was not like Isabella’s former home; Castillo de Rasal was ancient, but far from shabby.

Everything that could be polished gleamed, the entrance was lit by flaming torches, the light catching on rich tapestries and precious metals and flickering over gilded frames surrounding glowing works of art.

Generations of wealth were represented here.

They did not have to wait long. The marqués himself came to greet them, saying, “Isabella, my dear, dear child, what a delightful surprise. We thought you were forever lost to us. And now, look at you, all grown up and the image of your dear mother.”

He was more than sixty, a tall, spare, handsome man with silvering dark hair, a scimitar of a nose, and a small goatee. He embraced Isabella, kissing her on both cheeks and giving her a warm hug, before turning to greet Luke.

“Isabella’s husband? How very pleased I am to meet you, dear sir.” He gave Luke a searching look. “You have a treasure here, Ripton, I hope you know.”

“I know it, sir.” Luke glanced at Isabella, who was looking flushed, glowing, and, to Luke’s eyes, utterly beautiful.

The marqués caught the exchange and smiled. He clapped Luke on the back. “Excellent, excellent, I’m glad to hear it. Come in, come in, dinner will be put back half an hour—no, no, you are not holding us up. My wife has been out all day and has only just returned.”

“Your wife , Tío Raul?” Isabella exclaimed.

He smiled. “Yes, my dear, I remarried several years ago. An old fool, you might say, but wait till you meet her. She has just gone up to change and is never speedy in these matters, so there is plenty of time for you two to wash and prepare yourself. And no need to dress for dinner. We shall be quite informal here tonight, en famille .” Quite disregarding the fact he was in formal satin knee breeches, silk stockings, and a beautifully cut coat.

“Now, run along with Pedro here. He will show you to your rooms and see to your every need.” He beamed.

“Little Isabella, all married and grown up. Such a pleasure, my dear.”

Alone in the sumptuous bedchamber allotted them, they changed out of their riding clothes.

Looking far too delicious in her chemise, corset, and stockings, but entirely unaware of her effect on him, Isabella brushed out her hair, while Luke shaved in his underwear.

They’d handed her red dress and silk shawl and Luke’s coat and shirt to Pedro for ironing.

Luke wished they’d had an hour before dinner. What was it about that corset?

“I wonder who Tío Raul married? He’s been a widower as long as I can remember.”

Luke wiped the last of the lather off his chin and dried his face. He had little interest in the new marquésa .

Isabella started to rebraid her hair in her customary coronet. It framed her face perfectly. “He fought Napoleon, you know. When Papa died, the marqués took command of Papa’s guerrillero force.”

Luke was surprised. “Those guerrilleros led a hard life. It couldn’t have been easy for an—”

“Don’t dare say an old man.” She laughed. “He’d never forgive you. Particularly with a new wife, who from the sounds of things might be quite a bit younger.”

Their clothes came back pressed and immaculate, and they quickly dressed and went downstairs.

“Come in, come in,” the marqués greeted them. “My wife sent a message that she will be a little delayed and that we must start without her.” He turned up his hands in a helpless male expression. “Women, never on time. Let us go in.”

He ushered them into a large dining room where the walls were encrusted with gloomy painted ancestors.

The first course was brought in, a dozen different dishes, all looking and smelling delicious.

“Eat, eat,” he urged. “You will be hungry after your long journey.” They needed no further encouragement.

“I understand you are traveling on horseback. You were an intrepid horsewoman as a little girl, but now…” He paused delicately. Wondering if Isabella’s husband was a careless brute or simply strapped for cash, Luke decided.

“We’re in a hurry,” Isabella told him. “My husband has an important engagement in England, and it is quicker to travel on horseback than in a carriage. Besides,” she flashed the marqués a quick grin, “I enjoy it. For too many years I was shut up in a convent, and the one time my husband made me travel in a carriage I was so bored. I cannot tell you what a joy it is to gallop over the hills in the fresh air.”

And the cold and the wind and the rain, thought Luke. Without complaint.

The old gentleman laughed. “You haven’t changed, dear child. Now, tell me, how did you two meet? I can’t say I approve, an Englishman taking my little Isabella out of Spain.”

Isabella stilled, her face suddenly pale. Did she really imagine Luke would tell her beloved marqués the dreadful circumstances that had brought them together?

“It was a chance encounter,” Luke said easily. “One of those things. One meeting and that was it. My fate sealed.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realized how she would take them. He hadn’t meant that, not at all. He’d meant it to sound romantic.

The marqués nodded. “It was like that for the marquésa and me. We met a year ago, in Madrid. She’d had a terrible war, poor girl. Lost every one of her family, as with so many of us.” His glance embraced Isabella in acknowledgment of her own loss.

He lifted his wineglass. “But we must rebuild, must we not? To Spain, and to rebuilding.”

They drank the toast.

“Toasting me? How kind,” purred a sultry voice.

A woman in her midthirties glided in, dressed in a dark red dress cut low to frame a magnificent bosom, cinched tight at a narrow waist, and sleek over voluptuous hips.

Hair, black as a raven’s wing, was drawn back in an elegant coiffure, highlighting perfect skin, delicate cheekbones, and full, rouged lips.

No secret why the marqués had married her.

The scent of roses emanated from her perfect body.

Luke’s gorge rose.

“Ah, my dear.” The marqués rose to greet his wife, and Luke rose with him, jerkily, shoving his chair back so roughly that it almost fell. A servant caught it.

The marqués performed the introductions. Luke barely heard a word.

He couldn’t think. His skin grew clammy. From the other side of the table he heard Isabella give a meaningful cough. He didn’t so much as glance at her.

“Delighted to meet you, Lord Ripton.” The marquésa held out her hand to him. Luke made no move to take it. He stared at the elegant, outstretched hand as if it were a cobra.

The lustrous dark eyes widened, then narrowed. They caressed his face, drifted down his body and up again, then came to rest just below his right shoulder. The rouged lips curved in a tiny smile.

She laughed, a rich contralto chuckle. “So delightful that I can still have that effect on a young man.”

Luke stiffened. She was toying with him. Incredible. She had no fear he would denounce her.

Did that mean the marqués knew who his wife really was?

“Isabella, we’re leaving,” he snapped.

“ What? But Luke—”

“Now!”

“No. It’s the height of incivility—”

In English, he said, “It’s her, the person I told you about.”

“What person? What are you talking about?”

“The one who did this.” He touched his shoulder.

Her eyes widened. “La Cuch—?”

“Don’t say it,” he cut her off sharply, keeping a wary eye on the marqués and marquésa. “Do not say the name,” he repeated, still speaking English. “There is danger here, and you must get away.”

It took her a moment to absorb what he was telling her. “It was this woman who did that frightful thing to you? I cannot credit it.” But though she was incredulous, he could see she believed him. She stared at the marquésa in horror. “But we must tell the marq —”

“No! He knows. Now do as I tell you and get up and leave the table, quietly and quickly.”

She shook her head. “You’re wrong. I’ve known him all my life and he is a man of honor. He cannot possibly have knowingly married La Cuchilla.”

Damn! She’d said it. Now the fat was really in the fire.

“La Cuchilla?” the marqués exclaimed. “What is this about La Cuchilla?” He rose to his feet, his brow furrowed with confusion. Or was it apparent confusion? Luke wondered.

In two strides Luke was beside his wife. He pulled her to her feet and pushed her behind him. “We’re leaving now,” he told the marqués. “Don’t try to stop us.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear fellow,” the marqués said, holding up his hands pacifically, “but I have no idea what you’re talking about. What’s all this about La Cuchilla?”

Luke glanced from the man to his wife and back again.

Was it an ingenuous effort to lull him into a sense of safety?

Could the man really not know? No, a Spanish patriot who’d commanded a guerrilla force would surely know La Cuchilla.

And that being so, he’d have every reason to kill anyone who knew it.

“Isabella, come,” Luke said, taking her arm and keeping himself between her and the marqués .

But Isabella was having none of his protection. She stepped forward and said to the marqués , “My husband recognizes your wife, Tío Raul. The marquésa was once a French agent known as La Cuchilla. She tortured young men for pleasure.”