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 around his long legs. “I am here for you, my child.”
A woman’s voice answered. “Padre, do you speak English?”
Diego’s chest tightened. It couldn’t be. Not her.
“Aye,” he answered, letting his accent come out thick and gruff, knowing the fear that as he’d recognized her voice, so she’d know him by his.
Or should he let himself be known? Should he open the latched door that separated them and let her view his face? Would that not be the honourable thing to do—now, before she said another word, before she bared her soul?
What would her reaction be? Diego tried to imagine it.
She would die.
She’d been held in the arms of a naked priest, a priest whose eyes must have shown the lust that had flamed within him. And even if his eyes hadn’t, the rest of him surely had. Oh, dear heavens. He was as trapped as he’d ever been. He couldn’t reveal himself. Listening to her confession was the only way to avoid savaging her dignity and destroying whatever semblance of decency remained to him.
“Father, I have examined my heart and am come to make my confession of sins to thee.”
He concentrated on the words, on their form, comforted by the movement into familiar ceremony. His response was sure. “You have prayed, then, and sought God’s leading?”
“Aye, Padre, prayed to know the true state of my soul.”
“And our Lord has led you to knowledge of your sins?”
“Indeed, and I fear what I’ve seen. There is lust in my heart, Padre. Lust, and unfaithfulness to one who believes me to be true.”
Diego could scarcely speak. “You’ve been unfaithful to a husband?”
“Nay, Padre. I have no husband.”
“In what way, then, unfaithful?”
“I’m betrothed to a nobleman in Spain. I hardly know him, but I’ve spoken vows of betrothal and am to wed him as soon as ’tis possible to do so.”
Diego had no words. She paused, expecting his response.
“Padre, are you there?” she asked finally.
“Aye.”
“Did you hear me well?”
“Yes. There is more?” Diego knew there would be more, and he did not wish to hear it.
Her voice took on a frantic edge. “Oh, Padre, I’m so ashamed of my wayward heart! I can’t control my feelings, though I wish to be upright, to be the fine wife Damian Castillo wishes of me.”
Shock impaled Diego’s heart.
His next words were stammered, tumbling out before he could hold back. “Damian Castillo? Damian Castillo?”
“Aye.” She paused. Diego envisaged the way she looked, the sharp way she tilted her head, her furrowed brow. “Padre? You don’t know him, do you?”
“I…the name is irrelevant, my child. Only your repentance is important now. Tell me more. In what way have you been unfaithful to your betrothed?”
“I felt lust for another man. He was a stranger to me. I don’t even know his name. But he rescued me from drowning. And I…I was overcome by a feeling I’ve never known before.”
“Perhaps what you felt was not lust, but some other fierce emotion. Gratitude at being saved, perhaps?”
“Nay,
