relieved at having something to do, Jack nodded. ‘Right away, my lord.’
He and Concha exchanged glances and then hurried off. Elena watched them depart and then turned to Harry.
‘I don’t know how I can begin to apologise to you.’
He surveyed her steadily. ‘It is not you who should apologise.’
‘I dragged you into this business and, but for me, you would still be a free man.’
‘But for you I might have been a dead man.’
‘You are generous.’
‘It’s the truth,’ he replied, though remembering the don’s cold smile he knew that superintending this marriage had always been the man’s intention.
‘Your life has been turned upside down because of my folly.’
‘You did what you felt you had to do at the time. Would you rather have gone to the convent?’
She shook her head. ‘Never that.’
‘Things could be much worse, then.’
‘They are bad enough, I think.’
‘You do yourself too much disservice.’ His gaze held hers. ‘I know that from now on I shall be the subject of much envy among my fellow men.’
She could detect no trace of irony in his tone or any note of disdain. It intensified her guilt. In many ways it would have been easier if he had given voice to his anger and berated her soundly. This quiet and gentlemanly conduct was unnerving. Was he waiting for a less public place in which to vent his wrath? After all, he could do anything he liked now. Officially she had become his property. As the ramifications of that loomed large her unease increased.
Fortunately Jack returned a few minutes later with the intelligence that suitable accommodation had been secured.
‘It’s not t’finest inn I’ve ever seen, my lord, but it’s clean and seems to be well-run.’
Harry smiled faintly. ‘Good. At least we can look forward to a decent meal and a comfortable bed, then.’
Elena’s stomach lurched.
The inn was just as Jack had described it: unpretentious but clean and well-run. The food, though equally unpretentious, was good, home-cooked fare. At any other time Elena would have enjoyed it. As it was, she had no idea what she ate that evening. All she could think of was the man sitting opposite, the man who was now her husband. Apart from one brief interlude in the library at her uncle’s house, this was the first time she had been alone with him. Once she would not have found that a displeasing prospect. Now it filled her with dread.
They were sharing a private dining room but, since the food required their attention, conversation was minimal. Elena’s appetite had fled but she forced herself to eat, taking her time, trying not to think about what must inevitably come. Several times she shot a glance at her companion but his face gave nothing away. Nor did his appetite seem in any way diminished by recent events. She watched him put away a bowl of soup and a manchet of bread, a generous portion of pastel de puerros and then follow it up with patatas bravas and a bistec that must have come from the largest steer in all of Spain. Moreover, he ate it with ease. How could he be so calm when her stomach was in knots? She took another drink of wine to steady herself. She noticed that he drank sparingly, consuming only two glasses of wine over the entire meal. He intended to keep a clear head, then. That thought was no more reassuring than the rest. Unable to bear her own thoughts she grasped at distraction.
‘I take it we shall resume our journey tomorrow.’ She was surprised to discover how steady her voice sounded.
‘Yes. I need to be in Seville as soon as may be.’
‘Have you been there before?’
‘No.’
‘Nor I but I’ve heard it’s a fine city.’
‘So I believe. When my business is concluded we might explore it if you wish.’
‘I’d like that.’
To her ears the conversation sounded stilted, but it was better than silence. Nor was he unwilling to follow her lead and thus the conversation remained safely on neutral ground until the meal was done.
She saw him lean back in his chair, stretching his legs in front of him, to all appearances quite relaxed. He poured a little more wine and sipped it slowly, surveying her steadily. Under that quiet scrutiny she felt more than ever aware of her appearance. In the years since Badajoz her masculine attire had been a useful defence in many ways. When she had dwelt among the guerrilla force she had carried herself with the same show of outward confidence she saw in the men around her, adopted the same faintly arrogant swagger in her stride and looked them straight in the eye when she spoke to them. Such stratagems had served her well, being as they were the antithesis of everything feminine. Now, a part of her regretted the gowns she had left behind in Madrid. To be found so lacking by this English lord was mortifying. How far removed she must be from his notions of ideal womanhood. Perhaps the closest she had come was during those brief hours in Madrid when she had at least looked like a woman. Once or twice she had thought there was admiration in his regard, but it was so fleeting she couldn’t be sure. A Spaniard would have made it plain; Englishmen on the other hand concealed their feelings behind a barrier of cool reserve. Of course, if he thought her attractive that would be downright dangerous. It was like being caught in a cleft stick.
In fact, she would have been startled to know what was going through the mind of the English lord just then. It had not escaped him that Elena had barely eaten anything this evening or that her unease was almost tangible, and he thought he had a pretty shrewd idea as to the reason. She might put a brave face on things but underneath she was terrified. Her vulnerability had never been more evident. Nor had her beauty which was rendered all the more artless by her present attire.
For the first time full realisation began to sink in that this lovely and exotic creature was now his wife, that she belonged to him. It created a gamut of emotions, not least of which was guilt. He hadn’t looked at another woman since Belén and nor had he wished to. The society beauties in London had no power to attract him: compared to her they had seemed cold and colourless, lacking the inner fire that she had possessed in such measure. The same fire he glimpsed in Elena. In her it was contained, he might even have said suppressed. It excited his imagination and aroused his curiosity, as that brief chaste kiss had aroused him earlier—an effect that had been quite unexpected. It put paid to all thought of the nun.
He tossed back the rest of his wine and, pushing the chair back, stood up. Then he held out his hand.
‘Come, my lady. It’s time to retire.’
Somehow Elena got to her feet. Her heart was thumping so hard she felt sure he must hear it. Obediently she placed her hand in his, felt the pressure of his fingers on hers. Their touch seemed to burn now. He led her to the door and thence to the upper floor where their bedchamber was situated. He paused on the threshold to let her precede him, then closed the door behind them. The room was spacious though sparsely furnished, and dominated by the large bed opposite. Elena shivered, her gaze travelling thence to the man standing just feet away. He had always been physically impressive but now he seemed bigger than ever. Moreover, that lithe frame was powerfully muscled. Her strength would be no match at
