my life.”
He had as much trouble speaking as she. His eyes traced her features, then fastened upon her lips again. “My pleasure. ’Twould have been tragic to lose you.”
The words were simple, and such as any courteous man would have said. But spoken as they were in that richly accented voice, Celeste felt her heart trip. She didn’t want to leave the comfort of his arms. She wanted to pull him closer, wanted his warmth to enfold her. The thought was so powerful it frightened her.
“Are you not weary of holding me?” she asked. “Perhaps you should put me down now. I’m sure I could stand. The fright has passed, I think.”
A strange expression crossed his face, almost as if he winced. His eyes became the deep, deep blue of stormy seas, filled with something akin to regret. He dutifully eased her to her feet.
It took a moment for all the details to register. Her eyes were reluctant to leave the rugged beauty of his face.
Soon enough the realization came.
He stood before her in naked splendour, his body tall and finely sculpted. His shoulders were broad, his chest firm, his waist and hips trim, his legs straight.
He was beautiful, so beautiful, with the austere and spartan beauty of a man, with angles sleek and chiselled, with every muscle defined. To look at him made her ache at the careless majesty of his form. He watched her eyes, standing motionless beneath the scrutiny. His own dark azure eyes held concern.
Her first impulse was to step forward, to place her palm against his chest, to feel his heart thudding against her fingertips, to touch him. And then, because the impulse was so natural, so strong and so exquisite, she turned and she ran.
“Wait!” she heard him call. “I can explain! Wait!”
She looked back only once; he’d found a towel and was trying to wrap it around himself to follow her. But she knew what her wicked heart had desired of him, and that such a desire could never be. And, because she knew that, she bent and lifted her sodden skirts over one forearm and ran as if her virtue depended upon it.
Chapter Two
Even with Celeste’s best efforts, it was some while before she found her way back through the forest to where the others waited with shifting feet and worried expressions. She hurried towards them. Hettie turned and cried out in dismay. “Lord, child! What have you done? Your beautiful clothes—they’re all wet!”
“I fell into the river.” Celeste brushed aside the concern, but Hettie fretted over her like a mother hen, plucking at her sleeve and pulling back the heavy curtain of her hair.
The maid clucked her tongue at the ruined gown. “And just now, when we’re about to make it to that gentleman’s encom… encom…”
“Encomienda,” supplied Padre Francisco. “Or, if you cannot remember the word, you might call it an estate, like in England.”
“Aye, that,” Hettie said. “It distresses me that my lamb will meet the owner looking such a pathetic sight. Though perhaps seeing a lady in distress will make him more disposed to offer lodging.”
“He’d better offer lodging,” muttered the priest. “We’ve a letter in the name of the King of Spain from Cardinal Cisneros himself. One look at that and if the man has any wit in his brain he’ll offer up even his own fine bed.”
“Nay,” Celeste said. “We’re not here to inconvenience him, only to find Diego Castillo.”
“Let’s move along, then,” Barto said. He raised the reins and the mules started into motion again, the cart lurching forward over the uneven ruts of the narrow road.
The encomienda of Don Ricardo Alvarez was not a grand one, but it had many things to commend it. The location was excellent, with the home of the master well-built and overlooking a valley that was lush, its well-tended fields a testament to the owner’s diligent oversight and the hard work of his slaves.
The man himself was another reason to give thanks. Although their appearance was unexpected, he welcomed them graciously, offering them lodging and food even before they’d explained their purpose and shown him the letter with the royal seal. Only once, upon their first enquiry concerning Diego Castillo, had Celeste seen a flicker of discomfort, but as it had been so subtle and so brief she imagined later that she’d let her overactive fancy get the better of her.
Now, as Celeste stripped off her sodden clothing in the comfort of the hacienda’s guest room, she sighed and stretched out upon the bed. Blue-green eyes came again to her mind, and she shivered with the wickedness of the fantasy she could not forfeit. Who was he, that tall stranger who’d plucked her from death, only to plunge her squarely into forbidden desire? What evil lay within her heart that she could have such lustful imaginings even while Damian Castillo’s betrothal ring encircled her finger? God help her, she was a sinful wench!
She bounced up upon the edge of the bed, calling to Hettie.
Soon she was gowned, her sleeves tied on, her hair secured in an elegant coil and veiled, hiding the fact that it still had not dried completely. “There,” the maid said with satisfaction. “Nobody would guess what a poor sight you were. You look an elegant lady now. What do you mean to do now?”
“I’m going to confession. There’s a small chapel on the premises, built of stone. If I can find a priest there, and if that priest can speak my tongue, I’d like very much to say shrift.”
Hettie looked dubious. “You’ll not likely find an English-speaking soul anywhere on this island.”
An unbidden thought came to Celeste, that of a stranger with warm skin who spoke rich English into her ear. She shivered with delicious feeling, then shoved aside the memory. “Priests spend many years at their education, Hettie. Padre Francisco speaks our tongue—and French and Latin besides. At least I’ll attempt it. I’ve not been shrived since I left for Spain.”
“Why the need for confessing, all of a sudden?” Hettie studied Celeste, frowning slightly.
“Oh, I know not. Perhaps in this wild land I feel more strongly the want of it.”
“Would it not suffice to say shrift to Padre Francisco?”
Padre Francisco? Saints preserve her! She’d rather die with those sins unrepented than tell the Castillo family priest about her faithless heart!
“Nay, I think not,” Celeste said. “I’ll seek out the priest who serves this encomienda, and if he speaks no English…well, so much the better.”
Hettie smiled at Celeste’s weak jest and busied herself with straightening the room. Celeste pushed open the heavy door, blinking as she crossed into the brightness of the flower-filled courtyard. The church stood nearby, and she hurried towards the peace she hoped to find there.
Padre Diego Castillo heard the soft tinkle of the bell and groaned inwardly. He’d placed the tiny bell on the door of the confessional chamber so he could work in his private room without missing any penitent who came. Yet he’d begun to dread the sound.
Of all his priestly duties, this one came hardest. It was never easy to hear the sins of other human hearts. He could never feel peaceful about leading others to absolution when he had so much of the world left in his own soul.
He knew the importance of his work, knew as well that all sinned and none stood perfect before God, but yet…how it disturbed him to be made aware of his own black heart, over and over, each time he closed the door of the confessional.
Even so, he was never hard on those who poured out their transgressions, often amid agonizing tears. Their guilt was his own. Empathy kept him seated, still and contrite, while they sobbed out their shame. Empathy made him return to the tight little box again and again, listening through the small latched door, crying his own guilt silently while they cried theirs aloud.
He closed the door and sat down, drawing his robe into a comfortable position