when she’d ever seen eyes so warm before.
Or perhaps it was his hair, tawny gold and so long it touched his shoulders, or his warm breath against her wet lips. Maybe it was the strength of the arms that cradled her, the thudding of his heart, the firmness of his muscle against her body… She wasn’t sure which impression struck her first and most vividly—or if all of them were there simultaneously…as if, in the aftermath of surviving, she could only sense and feel and exult.
It made no sense, the emotion that flooded her. She wanted to reach up and twine her fingers into his long hair, to pull his lips to hers and taste him, to hear him moan inside her mouth and to feel his lean body press itself against hers. It made no sense, what she felt for this man who seemed familiar but wasn’t. No sense at all, but yet…it was there.
She made no move, said nothing.
She only let herself breathe and feel his breathing, too, until finally the strong rhythm of lifeblood ebbed and she could speak without gulping at air. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t swim well.”
“Certainly not in all these clothes.”
He’d not meant the words to be provocative, but, cradled as she was in his arms, his chest bare and warm against her cheek, she felt such strange stirrings. She couldn’t contain the heat which speared her, beginning a burn in the pit of her stomach and igniting a fire that flamed in her cheeks.
As soon as he’d said the words, lust bolted through Diego. He hadn’t meant to conjure the image of her as a forest nymph, sliding naked against his skin in sensuous water, but that image had somehow been there, full-blown. Dear God, what had he done?
He looked down at her—a girl, he’d thought her at first, for she was quite petite. But, no, she was a woman. An ethereal woodland fairy with rounded curves outlined by wet, clinging garments. A fantasy, with delicate features and long, long tendrils of coppery hair. With eyes large and dark and warm as earth. She was glorious, and he couldn’t halt the desire that savaged him. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t needed it or wanted it, but it had come.
And—God help him—she must soon know of it, for he could not hold her cradled in his arms for ever. When he put her down, her dainty feet to the forest floor, she would see then that he wore nothing. And all his explanations about his interrupted bath, all his apologies that his linen towel waited on the rock behind them…none of that would explain the swollen heat of his loins, the arousal she could not avoid seeing. Lord, have mercy.
The woman looked up at him and their gazes locked.
For the moment, she couldn’t seem to find her voice. She could only lick at lips moist and inviting. She seemed to concentrate on words—such poor, poor substitutes for the nebulous something other they both truly wanted.
Words. Think. Words. He could see her struggle to find them.
Words finally came, forming themselves slowly into coherence. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You saved 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
