cut him off with a low growl. “No. That is not my reason.” She drew in a deep breath. “Will you help me?”
Everything in Diego recoiled at the simple question. Everything about this felt wrong to him. But Celeste’s eyes were so anguished, so dark with secrets she would not share with him. He couldn’t explain why, but he was reluctant to hurt her with blunt refusal.
He gently turned aside her question with one of his own. “What is my brother’s appearance now?”
Celeste’s face grew hopeful, and he could have cursed at himself for his carelessness.
“His hair is short, not long as yours is. Where you’re clean-shaven, he wears a full beard and moustache. His clothing is ostentatious, costly and elaborately embroidered, and he favours the codpiece, after the English fashion.”
“He would.”
Diego was silent for a while, his mind churning and yet feeling strangely numb. “My father knows I hate deception.”
His hands clenched and he made a harsh sound. “But he also knows I owe a debt. Dear Lord God, he knew I’d have to do this.”
Celeste looked relieved. “You’ll return with me?”
Diego turned, studying her face. Did she not understand? Did she not care? What he was being asked to do went against all he knew, all he felt. And he felt too much in this moment, too much pain, too much guilt, too much desire.
Celeste did not meet his gaze; he wondered what was in her thoughts. What did she want? What did she feel?
As if to connect to the mystery that lay behind her veiled eyes, Diego took her hand. The contact was so potent it burned him, a sweet living hell, her fingertips trembling against his.
“I know not what is best,” he whispered. “I don’t want Damian to have you. Not you.”
Their eyes met. Diego couldn’t look away. Her lips were close. He could almost taste her breath. He watched in helpless fascination as her lips parted. Her tongue flicked out to moisten them.
“You don’t?”
“Nay,” he said softly. “I don’t.”
She waited for more, but he could say no more. How could he tell her what he knew—that it would be a savagery to put an innocent like her into the lair of the wolf? Damian would take her without mercy, use her up, bend her to his will by deceit or by force, whichever served best. He would show no concern for her.
Even without words, Celeste must have discerned his thoughts. Her eyes filled with tears.
Diego was surprised by the feeling that came over him then, a fierce protectiveness, something primitive and feral.
Her eyes—so warm, dark as night, dark as the secrets of a man’s soul. He stared down into them, feeling a decade of anger rip him apart like a wolf’s claws.
He gave in to his darkness, drew her into the pain. He pulled her across the pew and into his arms. He kissed her.
Her mouth was as sweet as he had known it would be, as tender and hungry and eager. As innocent as Eden and as wicked as sin, all at the same time, and worth every moment of the guilt he knew he’d feel.
He tasted her long and deep before he finally pulled away, his body throbbing with what he’d done.
He stared at her, consumed by darkness and guilt, willing his breath to come again, and wishing he wore his robe still, so he could hide the effect of his desire.
He ran his fingers through his hair and looked away, towards the silver crucifix which adorned the wall above the altar. “I’m sorry,” he said, without looking at her. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
Then he stood and walked out.
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