Praise for Lyn Randal

WARRIOR OR WIFE

‘…a highly sensuous tale of courage and enduring love set in the splendour of ancient Rome. Lyn Randal’s WARRIOR OR WIFE is an absolute must-read for those who love gladiators!’

—Award-winning author Lyn Stone

‘A stunning debut… From the blood lust of the gladiatorial arena to the silken sheets of a Roman senator’s couch, Lyn Randal’s story weaves a powerful and ancient magic.’

—RITA® Award winner and bestselling author Gayle Wilson

The priest before her was Diego Castillo.

He was also the naked stranger who’d rescued her from the river, the man whose warm eyes and warm skin had awakened her to passion. The one whose voice made her insides quiver with sensual feeling. The one she’d heard in the confessional chamber.

And the one who’d also heard her. All about her.

Lyn Randal grew up on a farm in rural Mississippi, where long, hot summers away from school and friends meant entertaining herself with books and her own imagination. Now, years later, she lives on a farm in rural Alabama, where long, hot summers mean entertaining herself with—you guessed it!—more books and an even bigger imagination. She considers herself rather fortunate that her husband, two children, two cats and one dog have all become quite accustomed to her strange writing habits, hardly noticing that she mutters odd lines of dialogue while doing household chores or disappears to take over the computer for hours on end, sometimes even managing to avoid huge mountains of laundry in the process.

Lyn especially enjoys the research that goes into writing historical novels, and she loves hearing from her readers. Contact her by visiting her website: www.lynrandal.com

Another book from Lyn Randal:

WARRIOR OR WIFE

Author Note

Of all the stories I’ve written, this one you’re holding in your hands is my very favourite. Its theme of sacrificial love resonates very deeply in my soul, though I didn’t know when I began the story that this would become so important. As Diego taught it to Celeste, he was also teaching it to me.

In addition, it was incredibly challenging to write a hero who was a priest, sworn to celibacy, and to have him face true-to-life temptation without being corrupted. There was a very fine line there, but Diego turned out to be a wonderful and noble man, whose story involved me so completely that I actually cried as I wrote a couple of the scenes in the latter part of the book. I’m not prone to such tears, so I knew this story was tapping into a rich and deep emotional vein, and I suspected that what moved me would be enjoyable to readers as well.

Please do let me know if this story touches you as profoundly as it touched me.

Blessings.

TEMPTED BY
INNOCENCE

Lyn Randal

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Prologue

Seville, Spain

May 17, 1517

Alejandro Castillo knew this thing he did was shameful, that it was a travesty and an outrage. Worse, he realized the others knew it, too, from the looks cast towards him as he sat in his special box in the Castillo family chapel.

Some of those looks were pitying glances, forgiving him even as they whispered his guilt. But others were hot with censure, and he deserved it. He was Judas Iscariot, leading an innocent to the slaughter.

He didn’t look anywhere but forward, not even when his wife squeezed his hand. If he looked around, Anne’s green eyes would be his undoing.

She, of all the others, knew the struggle he’d endured, how hard he’d tried to quiet the voices of his royal ancestors. She understood that he wanted to do the right thing for his sweet palomita, too—for Celeste, the little English dove who’d be betrothed to his son Damian this day—and how he despaired that he couldn’t avoid sacrificing her.

He stared straight ahead. The lawyers droned on, clarifying the points of the betrothal, detailing the financial aspects of Celeste’s dowry and the gifts of both the English and Spanish kings. Occasionally they asked him questions. Alejandro answered in a voice so flat he was amazed it was his own.

It was almost unmanly, the way he felt. He wished he were able to stride to the front and rip the gaudy clothes from his son’s back, snatch that horrible ring from the girl’s hand, proclaim everything a mistake.

But his kinsman the Spanish King, and Celeste’s kinsman the English King, had decided upon alliance. And kings made no mistakes.

Alejandro thought of past sins and the judgement of God. Maybe his withered legs and acts of penance had not been enough. Maybe he must now suffer this guilt to expiate the blood that stained his soul.

Alejandro stared straight ahead and tried to find comfort in the familiar smell of ancient stone and burning wax. He would make it up to her. He damn well would do that. Celeste would bear his family’s noble name.

Small comfort, that, but maybe soon there’d be a child with her dark eyes and copper curls, with her fiery spirit and affectionate heart. And he, Alejandro Castillo, would make sure that whatever his son Damian might do, the young wife and child would never need a single thing.

Only when he thought of that could he endure the scene before him—the rigidity of Celeste’s delicate shoulders, the shaking of her fingertips when she reached for the quill, the way her eyes looked—too wide, too dark, too solemn.

Padre Francisco had scarcely pronounced the official words of betrothal when the chapel doors were flung open with a loud crack, startling Alejandro from his uneasy thoughts.

Midday sun flooded the dim sanctuary, harsh and hurtful. Men rushed in—large men, burly men, a cadre of men whose faces were partially covered and who brandished weapons towards the startled people sitting motionless in carved pews.

“Don’t move, any of you!” shouted one who strode to the front. “We’re here to prevent this damnable alliance with that filth-ridden vermin who calls himself King of England! There are still men in Spain—men, I tell you—who’d rather slit their own throats than ally with ill-begotten English refuse!”

Alejandro heard Anne’s gasp, and knew her eyes flashed fire to hear her English countrymen so defamed. He looked around and gave her a warning frown, knowing it would help but little.

He wheeled his chair forward, ignoring the swords which immediately swung in his direction. “What is your purpose here?” he demanded.

The leader laughed, a grating and unpleasant sound, and moved towards Damian. Another minute and the tip of the brigand’s sword pressed into the richly brocaded vest his son wore. Damian winced at the pain, his eyes narrowing.

Alejandro knew fear then.

“What would you do?” he asked again.

The man gestured. Damian was surrounded by men with weapons. Their leader lowered his sword. His lips twisted; one brow lifted above eyes that mocked. “I’m doing what I must.”

He turned to Celeste and bowed. “I almost regret, little English señorita, that I deprive you of both your lover and your wedding.”

As if in a dream, Alejandro saw the sword being raised behind his son’s back.

He pushed his chair forward before he thought, his hands jerking at the wheels, his callused palms hissing against smooth wood. Men rushed towards him like a wave, their features a blurred turning of hard lines and bared teeth, their words lost in the explosion and flash of pain behind his eyes, and he was falling, tumbling into darkness…

Chapter One

Don Alejandro Castillo had wicked eyes. Pirate eyes. They were blue, like the Mediterranean, and intense, like the Spanish sun. They could skewer a soul on the keen edge of a cutlass.

In real life, those eyes always softened when they looked at Celeste Rochester, but in her dreams the night before they had not.

“Don’t fail me, palomita. Find my son,” he’d said, his eyes dark with intensity. “Find Diego and bring him home to me.”

“I will,” she promised, knowing how great was the need. She sincerely meant and sincerely believed every word.

Such was the power of the dream.

It was harder to have such faith in herself now, released from the night’s magic and staring across a smooth expanse of blue sea towards the isle of San Juan Bautista in the Spanish Indies.

This was her destination. Somewhere on that island was the man she sought. Diego Castillo, her betrothed’s identical twin.

A shadow fell across her and she looked up. “Barto,” she breathed, her hand involuntarily moving to her chest in surprise.

Her companion bowed slightly. “I frightened you. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

Celeste smiled at him. He was a bit frightening—or at least he had been when she’d first met him. She supposed his fearsome aspect was the point, however, since this old friend of Alejandro Castillo had been charged with her protection.

Celeste never doubted Barto’s ability, not after having seen him. He was African, a Moor converted to Morisco, a man black of skin and firm of muscle and probably the largest person Celeste had ever seen in her nineteen years. His voice thundered; his arms and thighs fairly strained the seams of his clothing. He handled a variety of weapons with the ease of long practice. Yet, for all his great size, Barto’s face usually held a pleasant, almost amused expression whenever he looked at her.

He turned that expression towards her now as his hands rested lightly on the ship’s wooden rail. “Are you all right, señorita? There is a scowl between your brows that gives me pause. I almost feared to break into your reverie.”

She smiled at his gentle humour. “As if you’d have aught to fear from me, Señor Gigante.”

She nodded towards the isle they could see in the distance. “I confess to feeling anxious. Tomorrow we will go ashore and, God willing, we shall find Diego Castillo. I worry that he won’t be easily convinced of our need. I worry that I won’t be successful.”

Barto turned to face her, taking both her hands into his and raising them, one at a time, to his lips. “Ah, señorita,” he said softly as he lowered them again. “If I were you, I’d be far more worried that I would be.”

Celeste hardly slept that night, so nervous was she over the task she faced the following day. Instead, she slipped quietly on to the deck and listened to the crew from the shadows as they laughed over their games. She would write down snippets of their conversations in the journal she kept for her six-year-old brother, Jacob. She felt guilty about her months away from him, and writing had become her way to share all she’d seen since leaving England for Spain four months before.

She’d already sent him one book filled with the daily stuff of her life. It contained her early days with Alejandro and Anne Castillo, pleasant days for her, as they’d awaited the return of her betrothed from sailing aboard one of the vessels with which his family’s fortune was made.

Now she walked the decks of La Angelina and wrote of far more adventurous things, wanting Jacob to experience with her the taste of lemons and salt seaspray, each glorious sunrise with its chant of morning prayers, and the mournful song of the guitarra beneath a dark sky full of stars.

She didn’t write of her fears when the fresh morning dawned. Instead, Celeste tried to ignore her emotions as they rowed in towards the first Spanish settlement on the isle.

Caparra. Even the settlement’s name sounded exotic, the Rs rolling deliciously against her teeth like waves rolled against its beaches of white sand.

Captain Jones had smiled when she’d said as much. “Nay, señorita,” he’d said with a shake of his head. “You must harbour no romantic illusions about this place, even if the name is a hopeful one, for it means blossoming. This isle is fair, to be sure, but the living conditions are primitive. The settlers are men of adventure, busy mining the wealth of this land. They are second sons, my lady.”

He’d noted Celeste’s puzzled expression. “Second sons. The younger sons of the hidalgo. Unable to inherit the fortunes of their fathers, they strike out to achieve their dreams by whatever means necessary. And some of those means have been brutal. Nay, señorita. This land holds promise, but for now little comfort.”

Celeste had seen that for herself once they entered the settlement. The buildings were wooden, with roofs of thatch, even the miserable building that advertised itself as the inn and tavern, where they now headed to make enquiries.

As they waited outside for the Captain to conduct their business, Celeste looked about with growing discouragement. Everything was dirty and in poor repair. Roads were few and of thick, dark mud, rutted from the hooves of horses and wheels of carts. The sparse shops had the same tired aspect as the rest of the settlement. Celeste could only imagine how poor their selection of merchandise must be.

Only one building was constructed of stone and stood out from the rest. “The home of the Governor,” Barto said, leaning close. “Governor Ponce de León had it built well, for he anticipated problems with Diego Colón, son of the Admiral. They both laid claim to the title of governor.”

“Has there been trouble?” Celeste asked.

“Aye, a bit, though the Crown kept violence from erupting by choosing Ponce de León over Colón. But the ill will lingers between the two men yet, or so I hear.” Barto made a sweeping gesture and faced her with a sardonic grin. “And all for this nondescript mudhole where the mosquitoes will either kill you or make you wish for death.”

Padre Francisco joined in, his lean, ascetic face animated. “Ah, but the mud glitters here, Barto, don’t forget that. The promise of gold has made many an old friend into an enemy.” He shrugged. “Though that promise, too, has proved a disappointment. Little gold has been found, despite the blood spilled for it.”

Celeste nodded, wondering about Diego Castillo and his reasons for coming to this land. It couldn’t have been the desire for gold, not with all his parents’ great wealth. But he’d come. Why?

She had far too many questions about Diego Castillo. It had seemed odd that she’d lived among the Castillo family for months and had never heard of this twin brother until Damian’s abduction. Even then, his parents had seemed strangely reluctant to talk about this mysterious twin.

Ten years. He’d been gone for ten years. What kind of man would not return to his family once in ten long years? She feared the answer to that question.

The Captain soon returned with good news. “The Saviour has seen fit to bless us today, my friends,” he said. “One within knew our man. Diego Castillo lives on an encomienda nearby. You can find your way there before nightfall.” A look of pleasant surprise passed between Barto and Francisco.

Celeste nodded, tension strumming through her gut. He was here. She’d found him. Even before sunset of this very day she might have met Diego Castillo and explained her need. She prayed he’d be willing to help, already half afraid that he would not. And yet she had to convince him. There was so much at stake. She’d try anything, promise anything. Almost anything.

The narrow streets of Caparra were primitive, but Celeste soon realized things could be worse. The rutted courses of mud which passed into the countryside made even the puddled streets of the town seem decent by comparison.

Now the cart had stuck again. This was the third time they’d halted to push the cumbersome vehicle out of sucking mud. Celeste climbed out with a groan of frustration, lifting her skirts nearly to her knees without care for propriety. Padre Francisco took up the reins while Barto eased his way through the muck to put his strong shoulder to the back of the conveyance. “Hettie,” Celeste said, turning to her maid. “While the men push the cart out, I need to relieve myself. There in the forest. Nay, don’t climb down. You’ll soil your skirts. I won’t go far.”

Hettie nodded. “Be careful, love. And hurry. It shouldn’t take long to get the wheels on solid ground again.”

Celeste entered the gloom of the trees with trepidation. This island was so lush that she expected to find herself in a tangle of underbrush. Surprisingly, the trees grew tall and the forest floor was passable. She sought out a sheltered place to answer nature’s call, then looked around at the beauty, so different from the forests of England, even more vastly different from the dry plains that surrounded Seville. Curious, she eased farther into the wood, smiling at the coolness, enjoying the heady fragrance of vividly coloured tropical flowers. She breathed in deeply, comforted by the scent of vegetation, of rich, moist earth and…water?

She moved forward and soon heard the roar. Moments later she stood on an outcropping of rock, looking down at a froth of rapids below. She sighed with disappointment. She’d wanted to cool her skin, wash her face. But the water was too far down and much too rapid.

She held her place for a moment, mesmerized. As she turned away an exquisite blossom nearby caught her eye, vibrant pink with streaks of peachy orange. She thought of Jacob. He loved flowers. He’d often picked bouquets of daffodils for their mother.

Jacob needed beauty. The physicians had said so. He could have it if she pressed this unusual bloom for him. Maybe she could reach it. It grew on a vine only slightly above her head. She swiped at it without success.

She tucked her lower lip between her teeth and tried again. Her fingertips grazed the delicate blossom, but it remained stubbornly out of reach. She jumped, then jumped again, realizing just as she snared her prize that the earth beneath her feet had shifted, carrying her towards the edge of the cliff on a rolling wave of pebbles. The blossom was crushed, then lost in a nightmare of blurred motion. She sought anything to grasp—vines, roots…nothing! There was no solid earth beneath her feet, only the tumbling of slippery rock and the edge, the very thinnest edge, of the cliff overlooking the water.

She fell in slow motion, her arms winding like fragile windmills, her body tipping forward even as her mind screamed. No! Oh, dear God, no!

She saw water beneath her before she plunged into the soundless depths of it. For a moment she hung within it, then rose again into sound and air. Down, up again, constantly shoved between the deep green-blue of the river, the green forest, the blue sky.

The current caught in the heaviness of her skirts. She was hurled forward into white froth, then dragged below into dark silence.

She bobbed up, gasping. Stones slammed against her ankles and her elbows, and scraped roughly against the tender pads of her fingertips. She screamed as she was flung towards a huge boulder. Somehow she managed to avoid it. She was sucked backwards into the eerie silence of water, then just as quickly rushed forward towards turbulence again, helpless to stop herself from hurtling downriver.

I will die and no one will know. Oh, God, don’t let me die.

Then, as if God had truly heard the petition, someone was there, someone of flesh and blood with strong arms. Someone made of warm muscle and sinew. Those arms lifted her, pulling her through the noiseless depths and through the froth, pulling her up into air and light and sound. Masculine arms closed tightly about her.

They reached the bank, dripping. Celeste could only cling to him, burying her face into the throbbing pulse of his neck—shaken, trembling, aware now of a thousand chaotic sensations. The tendrils of her hair clinging to his skin. The prickling of scraped places. The heavy breathing that meant she lived. And the breath of her rescuer, hot and harsh against her neck.

He spoke to her in Spanish, in between gulps of air. “Está bien?” he asked.

She could not answer, not yet.

He shifted her slightly in his arms so he could see her face. “Está bien?” he repeated, the tone more worried, more forceful.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gasping. “I don’t speak much Spanish.”

“Are you all right?” he asked, in her English tongue, the enunciation clear but accented in a heavy, sensual way that made something burn within her. Or maybe it was the voice. So deep. So rich with concern.

“Aye, I’m fine,” she managed to say between gulps of air. She pushed her hair out of her eyes.

Celeste wasn’t sure what she noticed first, whether it was the rigid planes of his jaw or the clear blue-green of his eyes—eyes that could have been made of river and sky and trees. Eyes filled with a kindness that made her ache, that seemed somehow familiar, though she couldn’t recall 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 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 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, Padre. I’m familiar with gratitude. What I felt was an uncommon lust. I think I would have lain with him, I wanted him so badly.”

Diego closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat, his throat tight.

“I don’t know why I was affected by him. Something in his eyes held my heart. I couldn’t look away. Now I can’t forget the magnificence of his body. He held me and our eyes met and something passed between us, something intense and beautiful. In that moment I wished to know him as a man. To be known by him as a woman. I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted to lie with him there in the forest, with green around us and blue above us. Perhaps he wanted it, too, for he—”

Diego cleared his throat. “That’s enough. It’s not best to dwell further on those images. Memory should serve judiciously. If aught reminds you of lustful feeling, it would be best to put such behind you.”

“I know, Padre. There’s the coil. I don’t wish to forget him.”

“Why wouldn’t you? The man’s a stranger. He means nothing to you. You’re already bound by sacred oath to another. You must forget this nameless man and find happiness with him who would be your husband.”

Diego heard her sigh. “Your suggestion is the proper thing,” she said, “and yet I doubt I can feel for my husband what I felt today. Nor am I sure I want to.”

Diego wanted to groan. “In time you’ll come to feel the same passion for your husband.”

She didn’t answer.

“Listen, my child. What you felt today was a natural thing, given as a gift by a loving God for his divine purpose, to lead mankind to couple and beget children. It’s a natural and beautiful thing, but meant to be enjoyed between man and wife. Not corrupted by—”

She cut him off with a low growl of frustration. “Corrupt? No, it was not. Were I to have lain with that blue-eyed man, there would have been something loving between us, something of warmth and care, something transcending all vows. Our souls seemed to entwine.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Padre, I’m not an immoral woman. Nineteen years old am I, and yet do I remain a virgin. Never have I wanted to make love with a man, not any man ever. But what happened today was wondrous. In my heart, I know our coupling would have been a thing of beauty. It felt good and right between us.”

Diego drew in a shaky breath. That much he could not deny. It had been wondrous. It had felt good and, yes, even right.

He bit back his first impulse, that of agreement. Instead, he did his duty. “There’s never a time when sin can be right. Had you lain with him, you’d be guilty of fornication. You might have conceived a bastard child. I know you don’t wish for such disgrace.”

Diego looked up at the ceiling of the small chamber, realizing how exquisite his own tension had become. “You must close your mind to further fantasies. To continue with them is to lead yourself into a world of folly.”

“Aye, Padre.” She was near tears.

“Pray God to keep your soul pure and your body untainted until you wed. You must pray this.”

“I will.”

She cried now. Tightness made his own chest ache. “Put aside your guilt, and with sincere heart seek the will of God. In this way, you are forgiven.”

The bell tinkled as she slipped away.

When he was sure she had gone, Padre Diego Castillo bowed his head and prayed for her soul…and his own.

* * *

Ricardo Alvarez looked down at his drink and then up at Diego, who paced the floor of terracotta tile in agitation. “I didn’t give your presence away to them, you know. But neither can I pretend I know you not. They’ve a letter with the King’s seal, Diego. I dare not lie and tell them you aren’t here.”

“What do they want with me?” Diego asked, stopping to riffle his hair with lean fingers.

“This I do not know. Could it be your father has…departed? That you’re the recipient of an inheritance or something?”

Diego halted for a moment, considering that, then shook his head and resumed his pacing. “That doesn’t explain the presence of the girl. Who is she? What does she want with Diego Castillo?”

“I’d hoped you might answer that question.”

“My father’s not been ill,” Diego reasoned, as if to himself. “Doña Elena Ponce de León sends me news of Seville. Her last letter came but two weeks ago and she said only that my brother was…that he is…”

Ricardo looked up sharply and frowned. “To wed, Diego.”

“He is to wed. There, I’ve said it.” Diego stopped and shook his head. “And at the time all I could think was, ‘God bless them both,’ but that was before…”

Ricardo cocked his head, but Diego only frowned at him. Ricardo frowned back, nonplussed. Diego had been his friend for years, and nothing, not even the priest’s ill humour, could dissuade him from their deep friendship.

Ricardo let Diego pace awhile, then cleared his throat. “You must meet them, Diego, and find out why they’re asking for you. They’re to dine with me this evening; you might as well attend.”

Diego stroked his chin. “You could discuss the business with them and tell me of it later. That way—”

Ricardo stood abruptly. “You’re the damnedest, you know that? The damnedest! Truly, I’ve never known you for a coward, but—”

Diego’s lips twitched. “And you’re probably the only Spaniard I know who gets away with cursing his own priest.” He shrugged. “I’m no coward, Ricardo, but there’s more to this tale than you understand. I have reason to be loath to meet them. The English señorita in particular.”

“Well, enlighten me. What’s a reason so good that you can’t at least discover their business, especially if accompanied by a fine meal and good wine?”

Diego raised his eyebrow in such a rakish way that it almost offset the pious formality of the priestly robe he wore. “This morning I went to my bath at the river, heard a feminine scream, and before I knew what was happening, had pulled a woman from the water.”

“That makes you a gentleman, Diego. What of it?”

“Well, something passed between me and the girl as I held her in my arms.”

“Something like physical attraction, Diego? Well, it happens. Even priests are men.”

“I’m not supposed to let it happen to me.”

Ricardo snorted. “Carnal temptation. As long as nothing comes of it, you’ve not sinned. There’s no ill done.”

“Except that I stood naked with the girl in my arms, Ricardo. And then became aroused…by her…beauty.”

“Tsk. Tsk. Where is a towel when you need one?”

Diego frowned. “This is no laughing matter. I couldn’t hold her in my arms all day, and when I put her down… Well, she saw…everything…’ ere she fled from me.”

Ricardo threw back his head and laughed. Diego scowled at him.

“And let me guess,” Ricardo said, still grinning. “Our lovely redheaded guest is the lady of whom we speak?”

“Aye, she is the one.”

“So there’s the rub.” Ricardo shook his head. “You still must face her. Oh, you’ll be a bit embarrassed. She’ll be quite a lot embarrassed. But it happened, and now it’s in the past. She’s got to understand that even priests can be men occasionally, and curse it all, she interrupted your bath. It isn’t as if you tried to seduce the girl. You didn’t try to, did you?”

“Of course not. Whatever my past sins, I’ve been faithful to my vows since I spoke them.”

Ricardo gestured with the glass of Madeira. “So let the girl see that robe, Padre. She’ll get over the shock. She’ll cry herself to sleep because her blue-eyed piece of masculine flesh has a higher call than marriage, but she’ll get over it.”

“Well, there’s more.”

“Damn. There always is.”

“She came to shrift this afternoon and…well, I couldn’t let her know that the priest to whom she was confessing her lustful feelings had…uh….”

“Been guilty of the same lustful feelings?”

“Aye, some such thing as that.”

“So now she’ll know you deceived her.”

“And there’s more.”

Ricardo shook his head. “More? Sweet blessings, Diego! For a priest, you get into the most confounded messes.”

“It seems our unexpected encounter moved her deeply, so deeply that now she doubts she can feel the same for her betrothed.”

“Her betrothed?” Ricardo glanced up into Diego’s face and found it far too grim. “Oh, dear heavens,” he said. “Don’t tell me. Not…your brother?”

“My brother.”

Ricardo sat down abruptly. “Hell. Hell and damnation.”

“Ricardo, those curses—”

“It’s like the last time all over again, isn’t it? You and Damian and Leonora.”

“Nay, Ricardo. It is not like the last time. I’ll not let it be. I’m under my vows now.”

Ricardo shook his head. “Sins of the flesh, sins of the mind. Cuidado, amigo. They are not too far apart.”

The muscle tensed in Diego’s jaw. He said nothing.

Ricardo breathed in deeply. “You can’t run, Diego. You must face our guests, including the señorita. Come, dine with us this evening.”

“She’ll be angry when she discovers who I am. What I’ve done.”

“Let her be angry. Let her vent her spleen and hate you. It will be the simplest way.”

Diego nodded.

Ricardo walked across the room. He looked back from the doorway. “And, by the way, her name is Celeste.”

Celeste, Diego thought when he sat alone in the quiet. Well, it would have to be. Everything about her, even her name, was heavenly.

And that made him feel like hell.

Chapter Three

Celeste dressed for dinner early and, having time to spare, decided to explore the lush gardens of the courtyard and beyond. They were lovely past anything she’d seen before, even though the sisters in the convent where she’d studied had kept beautifully tended gardens of herbs, with captivating masses of English roses thrown in for sheer beauty. Sister Maria Theresa had smiled once when Celeste expressed delight over a particular bloom. “The Lord gives us all things to enjoy,” the nun had said. “He means that we find communion with him through the wonders of his creation.”

Now Celeste pondered that. She could see how the beauties of blossoms and butterflies and birds, of mountains and rivers and trees, could lead her heart towards a sweet communion with the Almighty.

But the most magnificent beauty she’d seen of late had been the etched muscle of a man, a man with long hair of tawny-gold and eyes of turquoise-blue. And that beauty, she had little doubt, would only lead her further from God’s virtuous path.

She thought again of the priest’s words. She must put the man from her mind. To think on him would lead to folly.

Yet she didn’t want to put thoughts of him aside. She’d never known desire, not until today. Oh, she’d let a suitor or two kiss her lips, and then had wondered what was so wonderful about it that lovers would brave discovery, the displeasure of their families, and even death itself, to experience the wonders of love. Kissing had been distasteful, to say the least.

After trying it, she’d had little interest in more intimate matters. Such things had seemed vulgar and common. So she’d come to the age of nineteen with her virtue intact and little knowledge or concern for what occurred between a man and a woman in their coupling.

Even when she thought of being married, she never considered the actual act of consummation. Marriage meant running a husband’s home, directing his servants towards profitable enterprises and seeing that his children were well trained. That was the role of a woman. Celeste hadn’t imagined actually lying with Damian Castillo.

She fingered the bright fuchsia blossom of a vine which covered the wall, and then sank miserably down onto the bench beside it.

She tried to remember Damian’s face from the one time she’d met him, just prior to their betrothal ceremony. She wanted to think him handsome, but the leer in his eyes and the sneer of arrogance that turned his lips had made him less than attractive. She couldn’t imagine he’d be tender or gentle with her inexperience.

And yet the priest had told her she’d feel desire for him, that she must concentrate on him until that desire came.

The only thing she could imagine coming was a deepening disgust.

Now Celeste admitted her truest feelings. She was not uninterested in love or carnal matters, nor had she ever been. She knew—had somehow always known—that there would some day come one whose touch would stir her passion.

That man had come along this very morn, a man with eyes so warm she’d wanted to fall into their depths, with a form so tall and lean she’d wanted to memorize every hard angle of it. She envisaged herself kissing him and quivered with the imagined taste of him on her tongue.

When she thought of that man, she knew she couldn’t do what the priest asked. The priest was wrong. She wanted to know that man, not forget him.

She arose, a new plan forming. She would ask in the village for a tall, golden-haired Spaniard with eyes sometimes blue and sometimes green, a Spaniard with a knowledge of English and a voice rich and deep. She’d find him.

A soft clearing of a throat behind her made her shift around on the bench. “Barto,” she breathed. “It’s you.”

He moved forward until he looked down upon her, his expression soft.

She extended a hand. “Sit down here with me. I wish to talk with you.”

Celeste paused, thinking back over their voyage. At first she’d been wary of the big man, of his size, of his fierce demeanour. But he’d shown her his true self when she’d become seasick, along with Hettie and Padre Francisco and nearly half the crew. Barto had shown incredible gentleness with her then, holding her as tenderly as a child while he forced ale down, one swallow at a time.

When she’d recovered, he’d sensed her boredom and brought out books. Her eyes must have widened with anticipation, for he’d laughed. “Not all of these are in English, señorita. There are some in Spanish, too, so you might learn the tongue of your betrothed’s homeland.” Barto had seemed to enjoy her squeal and excited hug.

A few days later, when the books in English had all been read and the struggle to learn Spanish had begun to weary her, he’d brought out another gift, a simple tunic top and a pair of zaragüelles, the wide trousers worn by the sailors, sewn small enough to fit Celeste’s petite frame.

Celeste remembered Barto’s grin when she’d emerged from her quarters a short while later dressed like a seaman, her hair in a single braid down her back. “No mariner ever looked as good in those breeches as you do now, m’lady. The boatswain will have a hard time keeping the men’s minds on their duties today.”

But he’d introduced her to José Lorca just the same, and the boatswain had soon begun letting her perform duties with the rest of the men, although she’d suspected they saved only the easier tasks for her. She had grown proficient at knowing the workings of the ship, the names of its complicated machinery, and the tasks of the sailors. While Hettie had complained that no proper lady should become as golden brown as Celeste was becoming, Celeste had enjoyed the sun and the salt and the smell of the sea.

Barto seemed to know her heart, her very heart, and she gravitated towards his company. Barto was patient, and let her tag along behind him. He taught her how to knot ropes. He taught her how to play poque. He taught her sea ditties, even though a few were so ribald that she couldn’t sing them for laughing. Padre Francisco had censured him for that, but Barto had merely grinned at Celeste. She’d smiled back. A friendship had been made.

So now, as Barto took his place beside Celeste on the bench, she knew she could ask him the questions that burned in her heart. “I want to talk, Barto,” she said. “There are things I need to know, and I trust you to tell me.”

Barto raised an eyebrow. “What things?”

“I want to know more about the Castillo family. I sense…I don’t know. Something amiss, perhaps.”

Barto didn’t reply.

“I grow uneasy, although I can’t say why. On the surface, naught seems out of place. And yet…”

“Don Alejandro was right in what he said about you, that you possess a keen intelligence to go with a lovely face and exquisite form. He cares for you. You remind him of his own dear Englishwoman, his beloved Anne. Like her, you are warm, emotional, the kind of woman he’s always wanted for his son.”

“He said that?”

“Sí, señorita, he did. And, coming from Alejandro, that’s a compliment indeed. In all the years I’ve known him, he’s never been one to carelessly give affection. Anne won his love and she’s worthy of it. But you…you’ve won his heart in a different way altogether.”

Celeste smiled. “I like Don Alejandro. When I came to Spain I was anxious about what I would find, whether I’d be welcomed by the Castillo family, and whether I’d find my future husband an old man, plagued by gouty legs and a pox-kissed face. But Don Alejandro and Doña Anne were kind, and Damian…well, he’s not old and not gouty, and if his face has been kissed, then ’twas not the pox which did it.”

Barto laughed. “You’re pleased to marry him, then?”

“I suppose.” Celeste shrugged a delicate shoulder. “Our two kings favour the match.”

“Aye, but you still have the final decision. No man, not even a king, can force a maiden to wed. With your wealth, you could remain unmarried if you so chose.”

Celeste toyed with a blossom. “I need this marriage, Barto.”

Barto met her gaze. “The Castillo family needs you, too. Alejandro and Anne long for a grandchild. An heir.”

Celeste sighed. “So this marriage will be done and the alliance made, if we’re successful in this venture.”

Barto frowned. “I don’t think we will be. I doubt Diego will be aboard our vessel when we return.”

Celeste’s breath caught. “Is he such a churl, then?”

“Nay, no churl. Not he. He’s the most upright of the Castillo family. I doubt he’ll be party to the deception, whatever the cause of it, whatever the worth of it.”

“Upright? More upright than even Don Alejandro?”

Barto laughed, the sound booming across the courtyard and down the covered porticos. “Especially Don Alejandro! You don’t yet know Alejandro Castillo well enough.”

“No?”

Barto grinned, crossing his massive arms in front of his chest. “Let me clarify. Alejandro’s a good man. He always has been. But he’s also been…unorthodox at times.”

“He doesn’t seem so to me. Quite the opposite.”

“He’s changed. Most men do over the years. Today he’s upright in his dealings, gives faithfully his alms to the poor and his tithes to the church, serves God and country with zeal, turns away from sin. Such was not always the case.”

“That’s often the way of a man in his youth. My own father was a rake until he met my mother.”

Barto smiled. “Ah, but there are rogues, and then there are rogues. And Alejandro was definitely one of the latter. Aye, and worse than a rogue.”

He faced her squarely, one eyebrow lifted as if he challenged her. “He was a pirate. A corsair of the Barbary coast, preying on foreign vessels and making his wealth from the misfortunes of his victims.”

Celeste’s eyes met Barto’s and saw the truth in them. He studied her carefully, waiting for indignation or outrage. She gave him neither.

She knew. Somehow she’d always known. There was something about Don Alejandro that spoke of fierceness, of boldness, of a wildness never tamed.

She looked away, plucking at the petals of the bloom in her hand. “A pirate. Did he kill people?”

“Only such as needed killing.”

Celeste frowned, trying to resolve her conflicting images of Don Alejandro. “Then the accident which left him crippled… It was not an accident, was it?”

“Nay, señorita. He was injured in a fight for an Italian nao loaded with rich cargo. We won the vessel, but our good captain lost his legs, injured by the blade of a scimitar against his spine.”

“We, Barto? You were there?”

Barto bowed slightly. “Aye, Pirate Barto at your service, m’lady. I was steward aboard Alejandro’s vessel, chosen as much for my size and the fierce aspect of my countenance as for my ability to read and cipher. Who among Alejandro’s seamen would question the quality of the rations if I’d purchased them? What man dared question his share of the captured loot if I meted it out?”

Barto thumped his chest. “I was—and am—loyal to Alejandro. He lives today because I fought my way to his side before a hideous, pockmarked Italian could finish the job of killing him. Yet I do try to be an honest man, señorita, and will not portray your future father-in-law as anything but what he is, a sinner struck down as a man in his prime, humbled by fate or Allah or God, or perhaps by whatever wickedness led him to such a vocation in the first place.”

Celeste pondered that. “Doña Anne told me not to feel sorry for him.”

“I agree. Alejandro was humbled, but he wasn’t debased, for he’s a man of intelligence and energetic will. He’s not one to bemoan his tragedy. Indeed, I doubt he gives much thought to it today.”

Celeste studied the huge Negro’s face. “You admire him, don’t you?”

“I do. There’s much about him which is admirable. Even as a pirate he was never without honour.”

There was companionable silence for long moments, each staring at the soothing fall of water in the fountain, or the riot of blooms or the shifting patterns of shade beneath the trees.

Celeste finally broke into the quiet. “Tell me about the sons. Give me the truth, plainly spoken. I’m convinced there’s much I’ve not been told.”

“What were you told?”

“That they were twins of like appearance.”

“They are similar in looks. Or at least, they were. What Diego’s appearance is today, I cannot know.”

“Are they similar in their personalities as well? Damian seems…” She struggled to express her fleeting impression. “He seems well-mannered.”

That much she could say in truth. He had been outwardly courteous, attending flawlessly to minding her chair, even though she suspected he’d used it as an opportunity to view her bosom from above.

Barto laughed, but the short sound was almost bitter. “Wellmannered,” he said dryly. “Aye, he’s well-mannered. Anne would have seen to that.”

“You don’t like him very much, do you?”

“I despise him. And now that I’m fond of you, I would that you weren’t pledged to him.” Barto quirked an eyebrow. “That’s the truth, plainly spoken.”

“Why do you dislike him?”

“Dislike? I didn’t say dislike, señorita. I said I despise him. I’d almost say I hate him, and not merely for what he did to Diego—”

Celeste held up a hand. “Hold there. What did he do?”

“It’s past, and not my story to share. For now, I’ll say merely that your novio, señorita, is a self-centred fool who’s cared for naught but wealth from his youth. The injustice is that he was firstborn and thus the heir, for he’ll never become half the man that Diego was without even trying.”

Celeste looked down. The jewels of her betrothal ring glittered in the filtered sunlight, mocking her. Tears sprang to her eyes. All her reasons for marriage suddenly seemed weak and illogical. “This man is to be my husband?”

Barto frowned. He took her hand into his larger one. “Don’t despair. He’ll not do you harm. There are those of us who love you. We’ll insist he treat you kindly, even if he’ll never love anyone but his own miserable self.”

“I don’t wish to marry such a man. Help me, Barto. Help me know what to do. I’ve learned to trust you in spite of what Padre Francisco tells me of your heathenish ways.” Her mouth quirked up. “Or perhaps because of them.”

Barto smiled and rubbed her knuckle with his thumb. “I’m honoured to have earned your trust. And now trust me in this. Alejandro and Anne already love you. They’re growing older and deserve an heir to carry on the Castillo lineage. Theirs is a very noble, very honourable name, and your children will do well to receive it. For their sakes, and for the peaceful union of our two countries, you will marry Don Damian and you will get an heir by him. But once that is done you can forget the bastard even exists.”

“Is he so awful, then?”

Barto looked away. He didn’t answer for such a long time that Celeste wondered if he’d heard the question.

He turned finally, with an expression both tender and sad. “A heathen I may be, my lady, but even heathens know when the time comes to pray. And I will pray for you that God might intervene and grant you happiness. If anyone deserves it, you do.” He dropped a kiss upon her forehead and left her alone to ponder in silence, staring past the gentle fall of water into the shadows beneath the trees.

Don Ricardo Alvarez was a generous host. Celeste could hardly believe the great quantity of food and drink he’d placed before them. She smiled at the thought that even Barto’s great hulk must claim satisfaction after such a meal, and Padre Francisco would probably need to ask forgiveness for succumbing to gluttony.

Not only was the fare ample and delicious, but Don Ricardo was an excellent host. He had appeared early to escort Celeste to the table, his doublet and hose of silver contrasting nicely with his tanned skin, blue eyes and black hair. He spoke to her in English, though very poorly, and, since Celeste had learned but a little Spanish, they managed to converse in awful broken phrases heavily punctuated with much laughter.

They strolled through the garden on the way to the large, well-furnished dining hall, and Celeste told him with mispronounced adjectives how lovely the flowers were. Don Ricardo obliged her by picking some of the more exotic blooms and giving her the bouquet, even taking one and tucking it behind her ear. Celeste might have thought the attention flirtatious, except that with Don Ricardo it didn’t seem so. Instead, he seemed friendly and kind.

The others had not yet arrived, so he took her into the kitchen and introduced her to Maria and Pablo, a Taino Indian couple in their mid-thirties. He explained in slow, careful English that Maria was his hostess and Pablo his overseer.

“Their names—no Maria, no Pablo—no true. I call this, for names true are words of Indians, words hard, hard to say,” he explained.

Maria smiled shyly and pointed to the blossom in Celeste’s hair with a chuckle. Ricardo then spoke in Spanish. He’d learned that Celeste understood it much better than she spoke it, and he was obviously tiring of his losing struggle with English.

“Maria smiles because I’ve placed a blossom in your hair,” he said. “I hope I did it right.”

“Did it right?”

“Aye. There’s a very old custom of flower courtship here on this island. If the flower is placed on the right, it means one thing. On the left, it means another thing. In the centre, something else entirely.”

Celeste reached up to feel the bloom. “It’s on the right. What does that mean?”

“Ah, now, there’s the problem. Being a man, and not the romantic sort, I can never remember the details. It either means you’re available to become someone’s lover or it means you’ve found a lover and look no further. I hope I put it on the correct side.”

Celeste laughed. She couldn’t resist the mischief in his expression. “Which do you think would be the correct side, Don Ricardo? Do I need a lover? Or have I already found one?”

He studied her with amusement. “You’re far too attractive not to be pursued by lovers already, doncella. However, if you should some day find yourself without someone to call your own, then I stand ready to take up the task.”

“Don Ricardo,” Celeste said with a smile, admitting that, as he was probably only around thirty years of age and handsome, he had undoubtedly practised his courteous phrases on many a willing maiden. “I see you’re a rascal, and a flirtatious one at that.”

He laughed and raised one eyebrow. “Rascal? The word hardly does justice to my misdeeds, señorita, but I’ll let it pass since you don’t yet know me well enough to have learned of them. But come, our other guests are arriving. Shall I escort you to the table?”

Now, as they attended the meal, Celeste listened to the lively banter around the table, most in Spanish too quickly spoken for her to follow. Occasionally, however, Don Ricardo sensed her boredom and, like a worthy host, slowed his speech or changed to her tongue to include her in some particularly comical story.

Celeste noted, however, that beneath his polished mien and jovial manner he seemed uneasy. He kept glancing towards the door as if expecting someone. Indeed, another plate had been placed on the table but had so far remained unused.

They were nearing the end of the roast suckling pig with its glazed fruits when Don Ricardo stood suddenly, looking past the open door into the corridor. “It’s about time you got here,” he said, not pretending to hide his displeasure.

A shadowy figure moved closer to the entrance. “I’m sorry, Ricardo, but the Indian couple who live down near the river bridge lost their baby this afternoon—an early birth, the child too small to live. I went to comfort them and to offer prayer and last rites. I was necessarily delayed.”

Don Ricardo’s displeasure softened. “Well, come in and eat,” he said, gesturing, and the priest entered the room.

Celeste had been looking down at the food on her plate, but when the man entered she raised her eyes to greet him. Her heart stopped beating. It couldn’t be. Not him.

Ricardo looked around and raised his hand towards his guests. “Nay, don’t get up. I can make the proper introductions without hindering our meal. Permit me to introduce the priest who serves my encomienda. He’s also my good friend. For you, though, he’s the end of your quest—the gentleman you seek, Padre Diego Castillo.”

Celeste could not breathe. She looked around at the others, only to find soft amusement on Barto’s face and a startled, almost pained expression on that of Padre Francisco.

Her eyes travelled over him quickly. No wonder he’d seemed somehow familiar. He was her betrothed’s twin. They had the same height, the same hair colour, the same blue eyes. But there the resemblance ended. Her betrothed had short hair and a full beard. Diego’s hair was long and streaked by sun, his tanned face cleanshaven. He lacked the arrogant stance and ostentatious clothing of his brother, and his eyes were far kinder. And, of course, when she’d first seen Diego he’d been thoroughly wet and completely nude, and her mind had been in such disarray that she hadn’t been able to put the facts together.

Even now she could barely register them all—that the priest before her was Diego Castillo, the other son of Don Alejandro and Doña Anne. And that he was also the naked stranger who’d rescued her from the river, the man whose warm eyes and warm skin had awakened her to passion. The one whose voice had made her insides quiver with sensual feeling. The one she’d heard in the confessional chamber.

And the one who’d also heard her. All about her.

She sat very still, letting the facts settle. He remained in place across the table from her, watching her with that same concerned expression he’d had earlier.

“Sit down, Diego,” Don Ricardo said in a firm voice.

Diego did not sit. He stared at her, willing her to look up at him. Celeste felt his eyes, felt their odd intensity.

She did look up, but only to focus her attention on Ricardo. “I wonder if I might be excused,” she said. “I suddenly feel unwell and need a little air.” Then, without hearing a reply or waiting for one, Celeste escaped the room.

Diego caught her just outside the doorway, capturing her slender wrist with a firm male hand. “Don’t run away from me,” he said.

Celeste, startled, looked up into his face. It was determined and firmly set, his blue gaze intently fastened upon her face. Her throat went instantly dry.

“We must talk,” he said quietly. “Come with me. The chapel is nearby and will give us the privacy we need.”

Celeste looked back towards the open door of the dining room and saw that every pair of eyes in the room had fastened with interest on them. Don Ricardo’s face held slight humour. Barto and Padre Francisco’s a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “I would be unchaperoned,” she stammered. “That would not be proper.”

Some of the intensity fled Diego’s face, replaced by a hint of amusement. “Perhaps not proper if I were a handsome gallant bent on your seduction. But I think a maiden might visit a priest at any time without fear of ravishment.” The corner of his lips gave in to the temptation to smile. “Wouldn’t you agree, my lady?”

It was difficult to answer him coherently. Her mind had snagged on the word ravishment. That word, mixed with his nearness and the intense blue of his eyes, had set her nerves to quivering. There was too much between them, even here, with every gaze turned in their direction. Too much heat. Too much fascination. Too much desire.

There was desire. Oh, yes. Celeste knew she wasn’t supposed to feel it, or even be comfortable with it, but at this moment she didn’t care. She’d always been far too headstrong and impulsive, had always had to labour to contain her natural urge towards spontaneity.

But now, standing in the corridor with Diego’s warm fingers capturing her wrist, the wildness in her soul reasserted itself, and she plunged headlong into feeling.

“Come with me,” he repeated. “Tell me why you’ve come from Spain to seek me out.”

Celeste nodded absently, trying to remember again exactly why it was she had come. She’d practised a speech to deliver to him, one that enumerated all the reasons he should return with her. She’d known it by heart only an hour ago, but now could not remember one single word.

She vaguely heard Diego make their excuses, and just as vaguely heard Ricardo’s reply, before Diego led her away through the heavy carved doors and into the courtyard.

Her senses were suddenly alive. The short trip across the paved courtyard became a dream of sensation. The night air was cool and a bit damp, heavily scented with the fragrance of flowers…and man. Diego’s warm, soapy essence was new to her, and more pleasant than she’d anticipated. His hand left her wrist and moved to the small of her back as he guided her towards their destination. He touched her lightly, courteously, but her entire body vibrated to the warmth of those elegant fingertips. She’d never been so aware of anything as at this moment, with primitive energy humming through her.

And he was a priest. She reined in her madness and focused on that, on the coarseness of his dark robe, on the glinting of his silver crucifix in the moonlight. Diego Castillo was a priest.

But, goodness, he was an attractive priest. The maleness of him called out to her, made her flush with desire, made her wish… No, she would not consider any such thing. She was already bound by oath to another, and this…this was utter madness. Her mind coiled around her fascination and captured it. She was here for one purpose and one purpose only: to convince her betrothed’s twin to return to Spain. Only then could she procure the marriage she needed. She needed this marriage.

That thought sobered her. By the time they entered the heavy doors to the chapel her limbs had ceased their trembling. Her mind had calmed. Maybe now she could concentrate on the business at hand.

The chapel was lit by one single candle near the altar which threw golden glints of light up towards the wall where a silver Jesus hung on his silver cross. The edges of the room were cloaked in comforting shadows. Celeste glanced up at the ceiling’s thick hewn beams, and breathed in the familiar smell of wax and incense.

Their footsteps seemed too loud in the quiet, as if she and Diego somehow intruded upon the serene and sacred.

Diego seemed not to notice. Instead, he led her down the aisle to a carved pew bathed in the golden circle of light.

Good, this is good, Celeste thought, glancing around. Surely being in a holy place would help contain the giddiness of her emotions. Surely the nearby death throes of the Saviour and the close presence of the Virgin Mother would remind her of all she’d ever been taught of honour and purity.

But she swallowed hard when Diego swung with lithe grace into the pew beside her and seated himself so near that their thighs almost touched.

She knew the most intense urge to cross herself.

Mercy. God, have mercy.

Odd how she’d never thought of blue eyes as being warm before. But now she felt bathed in concern, baptized in compassion, heated from the inside out by this man’s green-blue gaze.

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “I should have made myself known to you in the confessional this afternoon. I’m sorry I did not.”

Heat flooded her face. Her gaze fled from his direct appraisal.

He took her hand in a gentle gesture of reassurance. The contact burned her skin, so that she almost gasped at the touch. “I considered it, you know, not wanting to hear your secrets, but…well…” Celeste felt rather than heard his sigh. “You had seen me as few others have.”

At the hint of amusement she thought she heard, her eyes darted back to his face. The corners of his lips twitched, and she knew he laughed inwardly at himself.

She suddenly wanted to taste those lips, those handsome lips. He would taste so good. Almost she could taste him now. His manly fragrance was all around her. She inhaled it with every breath. He would taste like that smell, that warm and erotic smell, like soap and sandalwood and male, clean and elusive.

Celeste breathed in deeply and forced her gaze away from that slight smile. The lace on her sleeve became suddenly fascinating. It was quite intricately wrought, with such painstaking handiwork…

Diego waited for her to speak. She sensed his rapt attention on her face, felt his amusement slowly change to concern. His thumb began to stroke her knuckle, an unconscious act of comfort on his part, but to Celeste an eroticism almost unbearably intimate. She pulled her hand away from beneath his, and felt his frown deepen into a scowl.

“You are angry with me?” he asked.

She shook her head, not quite trusting her voice.

“You feel betrayed, then?”

She drew in a deep breath, regretting it immediately when his gaze fell to her breasts as if she bade him there. He caught himself and looked away quickly, but not before she’d seen the blue gaze deepen to the darker azure of desire.

“Nay, not betrayed by you,” she said. “You did only that which was required to preserve your dignity and my own. If I have been betrayed, then it was by my own wicked thoughts. I did not know you were sworn to God. I would never have… I would not… Oh, sweet merciful Jesus! To know I felt such things…and for a priest!”

She buried her face in her hands.

There was silence. It stretched between them, long and rife with tension.

She lowered her hands, but could not meet Diego’s gaze.

“I have sinned against God and against you. Please forgive me, Padre.”

He did not answer immediately, but startled her by rising from the pew abruptly. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be back. Wait.”

He was gone only a short while. When he returned, Celeste saw that he was no longer in his robe, but dressed as any ordinary man in the simple fustian tunic of a common labourer, the garment loosely belted over hose and boots of soft leather.

The clothing was coarse, but clean. Simple, but attractive on him. It made his shoulders appear broad, his hips narrow, his legs long and powerful. His hair was casually rumpled, palest gold where the tropical sun had kissed it, more honeyed where it lay against his collar. His skin was dark, his teeth startlingly white against the bronzed glow of his face. He was cleanshaven and his chin had a cleft.

He was so handsome it hurt.

She almost wished he’d put the robe back on, so she could think of him as a priest and not be so aware of him as a man.

He took his place once again in the pew and smiled at her. “There now. Let’s forget for the moment that I’m a priest. Could you and I not talk more freely if I were merely Diego Castillo?”

She nodded.

He turned so that his body faced hers. “Then, as Diego Castillo, I must be completely honest with you. What happened between us at the river…that was an uncommon thing for me. Not your rescue, my lady. I don’t mean that. I speak of the emotion which passed between us, and of the carnal feeling that accompanied it.”

Celeste’s face grew warm, not from the embarrassment which should have met his words, but from the provocative memory of his beautiful body.

Diego saw her face redden and immediately halted. “I’m sorry. I am too bold.” He drew in a ragged breath and raked lean fingers through his hair. “Yet I know of no other way to make this right. Will you give me leave to speak forthrightly? My in tentions in doing so are honourable.”

“I doubt them not.”

Diego’s gaze found hers, intense and beautiful. “You freely confessed your sins. As Padre Diego, I was denied the opportunity to do the same. But please understand this, Lady Celeste. If you sinned in that moment on the riverbank, you were not alone in it. I reacted purely as a man. My thoughts towards you were wicked and impure. I wanted—”

He broke off and looked away, the muscle in his jaw tightening. “You wished to lie with me as I would have lain with you?”

Diego closed his eyes. “Yes. Forgive me. I repent such thoughts.” He opened his eyes and met her gaze. “I do repent them.”

Celeste nodded.

In truth, she repented nothing. Not one moment could she regret; it had been a wondrous thing. But she understood Diego’s need to do so.

She also saw that they must put that moment of pure lust behind them if she were to accomplish her other aims. Should Diego think for one minute that passion could flare between them again, he would never board a ship bound for Spain and spend weeks of sailing time in her near presence.

She smiled, meeting his anxious expression with gentleness. “I cannot claim to be a scholar of the Holy Word as you are,” she said softly, “yet I know that carnal temptation is not sin until consummated. We were created man and woman, Don Diego, and our bodies whispered this obvious truth to us in a moment of weakness. But naught came of it, so let us not consider it again.”

Diego studied her for a moment, his intelligent gaze taking on a new admiration.

He lifted her hand to his lips. Celeste tried not to shiver visibly beneath the onslaught of fresh desire. “You are as wise as you are beautiful, señorita, and I am in deep gratitude of your kindness towards this humble priest.” He lowered her hand, though Celeste continued to feel the warm brush of his lips across her skin.

There was a brief silence. Celeste studied the ornate carvings behind the altar, acutely aware of Diego’s large body beside her, and of his thoughtful expression.

She was startled by low laughter.

“Forgive me,” Diego said with an amused lifting of one eyebrow. “But it occurs to me that perhaps I am taking myself far too seriously. I don’t believe you came to this isle for the express purpose of falling into a river so that I might rescue you.”

She smiled. “No. I did not plan that.”

He stroked his chin and feigned a serious look. “No? A pity. Such a startling introduction, and, alas, none can take credit for it!”

At her answering laughter, Diego abandoned his sombre expression and grinned. “You did, however, come to this island in search of Diego Castillo. Tell me why.”

Celeste’s stomach did an urgent roll. She’d come to the moment of decision. Success or failure would be met in a matter of moments.

“I came to ask you to return to Seville with me.”

Diego’s face registered momentary surprise, quickly contained and changed to a certain wariness that she sensed rather than saw. “Return to Seville? Why?”

She’d prepared for this. She’d practised a speech. But where was it now?

“Because I need you.”

It was a pitiful argument, and she should have expected a snort of disdain or disbelief. Instead, his expression softened the slightest bit. “You need me, señorita? Ah, and I am such a heartless beast if I can refuse your winsome face. Please explain.”

“Your brother and I were to make a marriage of alliance, arranged on behalf of the Kings of Spain and England by Cardinal Cisneros himself.”

“And have you met my brother?”

“Yes, but only briefly, just before our betrothal ceremony. He was at sea during most of the three months I lived with his parents—your parents—prior to that time. I cannot claim to be well acquainted with him. He was taken before we had further opportunity to learn of one another.”

“Taken by whom?”

“No one knows for certain. There are several factions in Spain who resist the efforts of your king to establish friendly relations with England. They are growing stronger, gaining strength all the time. The fear is that their constant agitation will ultimately lead to war.”

Diego frowned. “The situation is a grave one, then.”

“It is, indeed. Your father is anxious that these criminals should not appear victorious. They would gain further support from the people. For now, his gold has bought secrecy. Few are aware that Damian has been taken and the proposed alliance delayed, but the secret cannot be held indefinitely.”

Celeste met Diego’s gaze. “We need you. If you return to Spain and play your brother’s part, the intent of Damian’s abductors will be foiled. It’s even possible the charade may secure Damian’s release. If the marriage is accomplished, with you standing proxy, they will no longer have reason to hold him.”

“This is why my father sent you?” Diego’s scowl did not bode well. Celeste wanted to plead with him, already hurting over the rejection she anticipated.

“Yes,” she said. “He feared the dangers, but I begged him to let me come. My desire to wed is great. I trusted the outcome to no other.”

Diego’s gaze sharpened. “What does this marriage mean to you?”

She drew in her breath. She hadn’t expected this question.

Everything. This marriage meant everything.

But how could she explain? The story had begun so long ago, and had grown so convoluted. Even she didn’t understand all the intricacies and intrigues of it.

Her father had been a kinsman of King Henry. In younger days the two men had shared deep affection and similar notions of what was best for the country, but gradually their ideas had diverged, until finally they had been in sharp disagreement.

Those who were kind and thoughtful of Celeste and her younger brother, Jacob, called the carriage accident that had taken their parents’ lives a tragic misfortune. Those less respectful bandied about the words murder and traitor—though in her heart, Celeste would always believe her father had acted on his highest principles, heedless of possible consequences.

That belief had enabled her to endure the subtle ostracism of society. Believing that had led her to stand over the newly turned earth of her parents’ graves and vow that she would somehow restore the honour of her family, for Jacob’s sake. For Jacob, and for his earldom, and for the name Rochester, which he would always carry, she hadn’t protested when King Henry had made Thomas Rochester’s orphaned children his own wards. Later, when an alliance had been proposed, she’d sensed how dear it was to King Henry’s heart, and for Jacob’s sake she had agreed.

Certainly she didn’t want marriage for herself. Her father had left her half of his great wealth, so she would ordinarily have been in a position to choose for herself the ultimate course of her life. She could have remained unmarried, and probably would have done so. But there was Jacob, and the doctors said…

The doctors. So many doctors. And all in general agreement as to the cause and cure of Jacob’s malady.

Her brother had not spoken one word since his parents had died.

Time had passed, the grief had dissipated, but his tongue had not been loosened. Jacob, with his sweet angelic face and golden halo of tousled curls, still remained locked in his own world, unable to find his way out.

The doctors were convinced he needed the kind of life he’d known before the accident. He needed beauty, and peace, and the love of a family to free him of his fear and insecurity.

Celeste had hoped marriage to Damian Castillo might be the means to provide those things.

But now Damian was gone and she needed Diego. Without his help there would be no marriage and no family and no secure, happy life for Jacob.

Diego watched her face, awaiting her response.

“This marriage means everything to me,” she said simply.

His eyes narrowed. “Is it money?” he asked. “Do you lack wealth and seek marriage for that reason? Because if it is—”

She 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.

Chapter Four

In his dream he was a man, and not a priest. Diego looked down and the robe was gone. He felt for the heavy weight of the crucifix. Gone, too. He saw his bare feet, his wiggling toes against cool leaves, then his knees and thighs, and realized with delight that he was naked.

The water he entered was still and cool, but she was there, her skin warm against his. She slid against him and his breath caught. “Celeste,” he said. “Don’t. It will only make matters more difficult.” He closed his eyes, already aware of the tingling heat of his loins.

She was a water nymph, a spirit as free as time, as warm as earth. She was a fairy with coppery locks that wrapped around him and pulled his body against hers.

Then he kissed her, tasted the carnal innocence of her mouth and groaned. “I want you, Celeste. I want you,” he said against her wet lips, and felt his manhood push aside the water, push aside the flesh, push into her tight, hot sheath…

Diego awoke just as his body betrayed him.

He closed his eyes and let the forceful spasms subside, let his breathing return to normal and his tense muscles relax again.

It had been a dream. Just a dream.

He groaned, feeling shame even though he knew it was irrational. Feeling he’d betrayed his priestly vows.

Even though a priest was a man.

That was the problem. He was a man—a virile, healthy specimen, with all a man’s innate drive to pursue, to conquer, to mate. A man who’d kissed his brother’s betrothed for reasons he couldn’t begin to understand, and who had liked it enough to want more. God help him, he did want more.

Diego smoothed his hands down the front of his robe and sighed. It was good to feel like a true servant of the Lord again. The events of the previous day, the disturbing dreams of the preceding night—what were they compared to the coarse, familiar feel of this robe? Especially when, like today, he had work to do—important, satisfying, soul-cleansing work.

The family of Juan Carlos awaited him in their tiny peasant hut on the far ridge overlooking the valley. His prayers were urgently needed; Juan Carlos was desperately ill. Diego also had coin from the poor box to relieve the hunger of the wife and four small children. Beyond prayer and food, he could do no more. Miracles were still the realm of God.

But when he stood before their dwelling he found there was more he could do. The small garden Juan Carlos had planted was neglected and sadly overgrown. Not only that, but the family’s lone milk goat helped herself to it freely, her eager mouth nipping the tender tops off of whatever poor, struggling plants remained.

This was charity he could do. He set to work clearing the weeds from the small plot. This was charity to benefit their most urgent needs—aye, and his own as well. The hard labour would drive the sinful folly of the previous day from his mind.

Here, sweating in the escalating heat, he could even imagine that the raw desires of yesterday had been but a strange aberration. His life would now return to normal, with his days spent in service to the people of Ricardo’s encomienda and in the prayers and study that strengthened the soul.

It was peaceful, his life, if somewhat predictable, with time measured from Mass to Mass and from each holy day to the next—and if in his inmost being he sometimes found himself longing for something more, he reminded himself that he’d chosen this course for his life, no one but he. He concentrated on its rewards, like the gratitude he’d seen in the face of Juan Carlos’s wife, and the timid smiles of admiration on the faces of their dark-eyed children. Or the satisfaction he’d felt as he’d left them, looking back at the neat rows of plants, cleared now of strangling weeds and surrounded by a fence he’d contrived of sapling poles lashed together with vines.

By the time he left them it was well past midday. He was tired from his labours, and hungry. He’d grown hot and dripped with sweat.

Plunging into the river would go a long way towards refreshment, even without soap or towel, and he headed for it.

It helped his body feel cooler, but also brought to mind the disturbing images he’d worked all morning to set aside. Celeste, warm and womanly in his arms. Celeste the water nymph, her ripe curves sliding provocatively against his own. Celeste the innocent, her lips moist and pliant beneath his kiss.

He left the river with a growl of frustration, shaking wetness from his hair. A large, flat rock nearby usually held his towel, but today he’d have to let his skin dry by sun and wind. Even out of the water, his thoughts had no respite, for as he looked down at himself, sprawled naked upon hard stone, he saw again the admiration in Celeste’s face when her eyes had traced his form.

What madness had seized him? It was insanity, most surely, and he’d come too far to let himself be waylaid by it.

It helped to think of this as a moral test. Lust had been his downfall before. Now it was being presented to him again. His faith was being tested, his resolve tried by the carnality of his flesh. When he thought of that, he was strengthened in his determination to subdue his impulses and conquer his own baseness.

It was only when he thought of Celeste that the whole image fell apart. She was not the brazen temptress it demanded. She was, instead, refreshingly innocent, with scarcely any knowledge of what occurred between a man and woman. A virgin just awakening to the beauty of her own sexuality.

Awakened by him.

And, because he had absolutely no idea what to do about that, he climbed down from the rock, donned his still-damp robe and his sandals, and headed for his tranquil cell. Spending his afternoon in prayer might quiet the confusion and provide the way out of this maze.

Padre Francisco came in the late afternoon. Diego heard his sandalled feet shuffling against the stone floor and raised his eyes from his books just as the elder priest slipped into the seat beside him.

“I knew I’d find you here,” Francisco said.

Diego studied his face. The man had aged, but his grey eyes were as gentle as always. “Aye, a priest should spend time before the altar of God,” he answered. “I learned much from you, Padre.”

“You must have, Diego. I was rather surprised to see the priestly garment upon you last night. I didn’t know.”

“No more surprised than I was at seeing you and Barto. It was rather a shock to have my past so suddenly become my present.”

Francisco chuckled. He gestured with a slight wave of his hand. “You look good. Healthy.” He motioned towards the book Diego held. “Studying, I see. That’s good. Don Ricardo says you’ve been a fine priest.”

Diego shrugged. “Ricardo’s a good man and a faithful friend. He makes sure I have all I need. This land is primitive, but there are many opportunities to serve. The native people here knew nothing of the Lord Jesus, and nothing of Spanish ways. Sad to say, they’ve suffered at the hands of some of our countrymen. The friars and priests here try to mitigate the evil. Perhaps it’s helped. I hope so. I long to give something of value back to the world.”

Francisco was quiet for a moment. “Is that why you entered the priesthood? Do you serve God to undo the deeds of the past?”

“What do you mean?”

Francisco studied the younger man’s face. His expression was compassionate. “Diego, my son. For ten long years you’ve wandered in the wilderness.”

The words—so quiet, so gently spoken. Yet they sliced Diego’s heart. He closed his eyes.

“All the service you render, all the masses you say, all the good you do… It won’t bring her back.”

“I know, Padre,” Diego answered, his voice sounding odd. He raised a hand to cover his eyes.

There was a long silence. Francisco leaned near, his voice not much more than a whisper. “Diego, listen to me. All have sinned. All men fall far, far short of God’s standard. And we can’t any of us make it up by our deeds.”

“I know. I preach this to the people. I know these things.” Diego drew a deep breath and looked away. “I know them.”

“Yet you’ve not trusted in them.”

Diego’s head jerked round. “I’ve not trusted in them? Good Lord—I’ve given my life to them!”

Francisco shook his head. “Youpreachthegraceof God. You teach of his compassion towards repentant sinners. Yet you…you walk in the guilt of the past. This is not trusting, Diego.”

“You don’t know this. You don’t know me. For ten years, ten long years, I’ve been as one dead. You didn’t know where I was or how I fared or even if I yet lived.”

“I didn’t know where you were, that’s true. Yet in my heart I knew you lived, that you prospered. I believed in my own answered prayers, perhaps.”

“You knew a boy of eighteen years, Padre. You don’t know the man he became. You’ve not seen me, haven’t spoken with me. Yet you come here, sit beside me now, and tell me I don’t belong in the priesthood?”

“Aye. Though it sounds strange to your ears, Diego, I don’t think you do.” Francisco rubbed the tension from the back of his neck with a large hand. “You wanted to be an artist. Do you not remember that? You had the talent. No one had the same eye as you, the same hand as you, the same ability to put ink to paper and create a world of feeling that never existed before.”

“That was long ago. My life changed. It had to.”

“Aye, some things had to change. But, Diego, God never meant you to live with unresolved guilt. I told you this when you came to me, when you confessed your sin.”

“Leonora was dead.”

“Aye, she was.”

“And my child with her.”

“I know, Diego.”

“And all my tears and a few Pater Nosters wouldn’t undo the evil I’d done.”

“Diego, their deaths were not your fault.”

“Oh, the hell you say!” Diego stood abruptly, his fists clenched. “I didn’t kill them, no. Not directly, not with this—mine own hand!” He wheeled and faced away, struggling to breathe, struggling to think, struggling not to race down the aisle and slam his palms against the weighty oak door on his way to somewhere else, anywhere else.

After a moment of deep breathing, he managed to sound calmer. “No, I didn’t kill them outright. But it was my sin, Padre. My sin!” He turned and crumpled into the seat. “How could I have done it?”

“You were young, Diego. She was young.”

“I loved her.”

“Aye, and she loved you.”

“She was betrothed to Damian.”

“But she loved you.”

“I took what was not mine to take.”

“The sin wasn’t yours alone. She gave you the right to take it.”

“And she paid for it, Padre. How completely and utterly she paid for it.”

“And you didn’t?” Francisco’s brow creased with such compassion that he was nearly in tears. “Diego, what have you been doing for ten long years if not paying? Sweet merciful Jesus, what are you doing now if not paying?” He waved his hand towards the robe Diego wore, towards the cross on the wall. “What is all this if you aren’t still paying, paying for a sin that’s already been forgiven?”

“You don’t understand.”

“I do, Diego. I do. More than you know.” Francisco looked off, as if his thoughts travelled far beyond the walls of the small sanctuary. “Do you remember the night you came to me?”

Diego swallowed hard. He’d tried to forget Leonora’s message, the wild ride that had followed, the realization that he’d come too late. He’d tried to forget the blood, the sight of Leonora lying still and lifeless, the silence—and, in it, the rending of his heart.

How he’d got back to the chapel… He could never remember that part, only the strong arms of the priest catching him as he fell, the truth tumbling out over shuddering lips, the violence of sobbing, both his and the Padre’s. The rest, a blur. His parents, their faces pale. Their hands trembling as they placed the purse of gold into his and their voices telling him to go, to ride, to wait until they knew Damian would not kill him.

He’d tried, tried to forget that night. And for ten years it had haunted his dreams, had breathed the poison of sadness into every moment of joy. Oh, how he’d tried to forget.

And now, sitting here so quietly with the Padre, all he could say was, “Aye, I remember.”

“I told you my story, that I knew your pain. For in my youth I also sinned. I have a son, Diego. Unlike your child, mine was born, but he was not whole. He was…is…crippled. Helpless, his mind feeble. The child of my lust.” He turned a look of patient understanding towards the younger man. “And it’s taken me years to realize the truth, that I joined the priesthood to ease my guilt because my son, my poor son, carried in his marred body the penalty of my sin. In some deep part of my soul I needed to do penance, I wanted to suffer.” He held out his arms. “This robe, this crucifix of silver about my neck, my vow of chastity—these were my self-imposed punishments, although I didn’t see that at the time. Nor has it helped, Diego. It hasn’t helped.”

He reached out and plucked at Diego’s garment. “I see the same struggle now within you, and I must tell you, before you get too far down this road, that this is not the way.”

“Leave me alone, Padre.”

“Guilt is a brutal gatekeeper, my son. I know.”

Diego looked away, his jaw tightening. “Leave me alone, Padre.”

“There’s a better way, Diego.”

Diego’s head jerked upward; his eyes narrowed. “What do you know about it—or me? Perhaps I enjoy what I do, perhaps I find peace in it, perhaps—”

“Aye, you’ve found some comfort in it; I doubt it not. But you’re not completely at peace, are you? There are times when that robe chafes, times when that crucifix feels like a prisoner’s chains. You can’t fool me, Diego, not me.”

Diego drew in a sharp, exasperated breath. “Blessed Mother of God!”

“You still long for home, for resolution. You miss your parents and you grieve over the broken relationship with your brother.”

That cut to the bone. Beneath the swift stroke into tender flesh Diego could not speak, only stare, his eyes burning.

Francisco cleared his throat. “’Tis time you made those things right. Return with me to Spain. Do as your parents have asked.”

“That would be deception, Padre. To pretend to be my brother? To wed the girl in his name? A lie. It seems wrong to me.”

“Nay, Diego. What is wrong is you here, far from your home and family, an exile from all you ever held dear. What is wrong is you here, wearing robes of the priesthood for reasons that demean the sacred. What is wrong is bearing the guilt—”

“And there wouldn’t be guilt from this action, too? That girl…and Damian? Just to think of it makes me writhe. She’s young, her innocence a fragile thing.”

Diego raked his fingers through his hair. “Padre, you know Damian. He’ll not treat her kindly. He’ll not love her. Will this marriage be good for her? Nay, it will not! How could I feel anything but guilt over my part in it? I cannot do this.”

Francisco drew in a long, deep breath. “In some things you’ve changed, Diego, but in this you have not. You yet think with your heart. It’s why I love you, why Leonora loved you.”

Francisco stroked his chin with a thin finger. “I shouldn’t question the ways of God, but sometimes I do wonder why Damian was born the heir and you were not.” He shook his head. “It’s true that Damian is unworthy of the girl. She is beautiful and full of goodness. She’s loving, kind towards others, exuberant and joyful. She has much that would please a normal man—a keen mind, a sharp wit, and a form…ah, a wondrous form for a man to touch. But Damian won’t cherish those virtues. I know that. His taste is too vulgar. Whores, harlots, and worse, for now there are boys—”

Diego held up a hand. “Enough. Tell me no more.” He turned abruptly to face the other man. “What I need to know is this—how can your conscience be at ease with the thought of giving her to him?”

“Because I’m thinking of your parents. They suffered great pain when you left. They’ve suffered daily ever since.”

The muscle in Diego’s jaw tightened. “I know. It grieves me yet.”

“They know what Damian does, what he is. They’ve little hope he’ll ever change and be worthy of his fine lineage. Their hope now is for the future.”

“They want a grandchild.”

“Aye, they do. Their hope of redemption.” Francisco drew in a long sigh. “Is that not God’s way, my son? That even in the darkest evil there’s always a remnant of virtue, a seed of hope for the future? The seed of your parents’ hope lies with Celeste. They’ve come to love her, Diego—for her virtue and her pluck, for her loving heart and her kind ways. They hope that a child of her womb might have her qualities, rather than those of his sire.”

“I’m not convinced Celeste wants Damian.”

“I doubt she does. She’s intelligent enough to sense the evil in him. Yet she has little choice. Her kinsman is the King of England and he’s committed her to this course.”

Francisco crossed his arms before his chest, his gaze solemn. “Diego, she will wed Damian, whether you aid us or not. Your help only hastens the enterprise and eases the hearts of your parents. Should you choose against it, the nuptials might be stayed, but they will not be stopped. You do understand this?”

Diego nodded, but said nothing.

“Damian will be found—indeed, might have been ransomed already for all we know. We might return to Spain only to find the entire voyage unnecessary. However, your intention to do this for him, for your parents, will restore you to your rightful place within the family. It will show your brother your sorrow for the past.”

Diego snorted. “As if he’ll appreciate that. As if he’ll forgive. How am I to know he won’t make good his threat to kill me?”

“Ten years have passed. His anger has cooled. He has no reason now to feel threatened by you. He has the title, he has the wealth, and he has the girl. He has it all. What have you, Diego, beyond this robe you wear and this vow you’ve made? Indeed, he’ll view you with disdain…with pity, even. But he’ll let you be.”

Diego breathed in deeply. “I’ll think on all this, Padre. I promise you nothing but that.”

Padre Francisco smiled. “That is enough for now, Diego. ’Tis enough.”

Celeste knew Barto had probably thought her request odd, but still he complied. By the time he’d received her message and met her at the stables, she had horses saddled and ready.

Barto’s expression was a mixture of curiosity and bemusement as she handed him the reins. “Here,” she said. “I chose this gelding for you myself. He’s large and powerful, but his disposition is one of gentleness. Rather like you, Barto.”

Barto grinned, pulling his large frame up into the saddle. “I don’t know about that, señorita. Few others have found me tame, but when it comes to you, I’m foolishly twisted around the crook of your smallest finger.”

Celeste smiled up at him, then mounted her own horse, a smaller black mare. “The crook of my finger? I doubt that. Yet I do thank you for coming to ride with me. I need your advice.”

Barto glanced at her sideways. “My advice? You wouldn’t rather have that of good Padre Francisco?”

“Nay, Barto. Padre Francisco would likely shake his head and censure me for my honest questions. You, on the other hand…”

“I, on the other hand, have no room for censure, is that it? Most interesting, this, if it’s my heathenish advice that’s warranted.”

“I need to talk, Barto. I have questions, but no father and no mother from whom to solicit advice.”

“You have Don Alejandro and Doña Anne.”

“Aye, and most especially I could not say these things to them.”

Barto raised an eyebrow. “This must be serious indeed.”

“Aye. I know not how to ask even you. I shall have to be direct. Surprisingly so, I fear.”

“I guessed as much,” he said with a sigh. “You’ve questions such as any maiden would have, considering her tender state of pending matrimony.”

Celeste’s cheeks flamed, but she nodded. “You are wise, Barto. Or else I am too easily read, like a book whose plot is overly familiar.”

“Nay, there’s nothing wise about me or overly familiar about you. Yet truly hath it been said that the most necessary things of life are air to breathe, water and food for subsistence, and a lover with whom to sport. Since air is not your problem, and you eat little more than a cat, I figure the worry in your eyes has mostly to do with the lover, or the sporting, or both. Do you grow disturbed about becoming wife to Damian Castillo?”

“Aye. I do not much cherish the man and dread all I must perform.”

“You’ve no wish for him to bed you?”

Celeste nodded.

“Well,” Barto said. “’Twill not be the most awful thing you’ve ever done, certainly. And, like I said, you can forget him and all further intimacies once an heir is born.”

“I can’t do it, Barto. He’ll find me dreadfully inept. I know so little.”

Barto smiled. “I promise you, it won’t be a problem. A man prefers that his wife be inexperienced. Indeed, most men relish the thought of such tutoring as that would require. Trust me. What happens between a man and woman is not too difficult to figure out. It won’t seem uncommon or strange at the time.”

“I want you to explain it to me. In detail, if you please.”

“Doña Anne will do it when you return, doncella. She’s a much better choice than I.”

“I want to know now. I want to know how a child is made. I know that kisses, even passionate kisses, cannot cause a woman to conceive. But how—?”

“Oh, Lord,” Barto said. “Lady Celeste, I cannot tell you these things.”

Celeste frowned. “You can. You’ve lain with women. I heard the Padre say you’ve—”

Barto groaned. “I can’t deny that, but neither can I explain it. Not to you.”

“Aye, Barto, you can.”

“Sweet heavens,” Barto said. “Sweet heavens. I can’t—”

“If I wished to arouse a man, how would I do it?”

Barto shook his head. “I promise you, señorita. With your fair looks, your husband’s arousal won’t be a problem.”

Celeste frowned and chewed at her lip. “What I most want to know is…how far must one go before a child is conceived?”

“One must go…rather far.”

“How far? Will I conceive if I am touched by him…there?”

“Señorita, please. I think, if you must know these things now, that I will find an older woman who—”

Celeste’s scowl was fierce. “I am asking you, Barto, and don’t pretend you do not know! Just how intimate will I have to be with this man before I conceive his child?”

“Oh, no,” Barto groaned. “Oh, no.”

“Will he have to touch me in private places?”

“Aye.”

“And will he…?” Celeste took a deep breath. “Will he have to do more than that?”

Barto nodded. “Aye, if a child is to be made.”

There was a long silence.

Celeste saw it all. She was not sure of all the intricacies, but her imagination provided her with enough understanding for now.

“I cannot marry Damian Castillo,” she said quietly.

Barto looked worried. “Señorita, I know that here in the harsh light of day the act of which we’re speaking sounds unspeakably unpleasant.”

Celeste wanted to scream. No, no, it wasn’t the act that sounded unpleasant, only the man. In fact, were she to lie in such fashion with the… Oh, sweet merciful heavens, he was a priest!

“I know it sounds unseemly and crude,” Barto said. “In reality,’ tis not the way. It can be nice. Very nice. You’ll see.”

They rode in silence for a while. Finally Celeste spoke. “In Spain, I never thought much about being a wife in those ways. I thought marriage was what I wanted. But I’ve come here and now I shudder at that which I must do.”

Barto glanced at her. “Perhaps when we return to Spain all will right itself. Your time here will seem distant then, like a dream.”

“Perhaps.” Celeste looked down, her eyes misting. “Perhaps my discontent is merely due to this island’s loveliness, to the softness of the moonlight here, to the warmth of its nights. It makes me…”

“It makes you long for love.”

Celeste sighed. “I suppose. I do long to be loved.” To admit that sounded strange, but it was true. She hadn’t felt loved since her parents had died. Maybe that was why she understood why Jacob never spoke, why happiness never touched his eyes. Maybe that was why she felt so compelled to make a family for him again. She looked away quickly, and wondered if Barto saw her tears. “I want to be loved,” she repeated softly. “Now I wonder if I shall ever know it.”

Barto looked down. He said nothing.

Celeste remained silent during the rest of their ride. She could not admit, even to Barto, that she ached for a man with blue-green eyes and tawny hair. A man she could not have.

“I can’t imagine why you’re going to do this,” Ricardo said as he clipped another lock of hair with shears and laid it on the table.

Diego met his gaze. “Do what? Cut my hair?”

Ricardo held up a thick shock of gold. “Maybe I should save these curls, Diego. That way, if you’re ever canonized, people will make pilgrimages from all over the world to see the relics of my humble little shrine. Could be a worthy way to make some money.”

Diego shook his head. “You’re forgetting something. Most of those saints had to be martyred or some such thing before they were so honoured.”

Ricardo sighed and clipped at another curl. “True, true. Though I wonder if you aren’t hastening towards your cross with desperate speed.”

Diego frowned.

“I can hardly believe you’ve chosen to return to Spain. Did your brother not say he’d kill you if ever your paths crossed again? And did he not attempt it once before?” Ricardo pushed at Diego’s jaw to tilt his head, then drew his hand back sharply. “Ouch!” he said with a grimace. “Damn at the whiskers! Two days of not shaving and you’re as woolly as a lion!”

Diego shrugged. “Damian has a beard. I have to look the part, don’t I?”

Ricardo grunted. “I don’t suppose you’ve considered how dangerous it could be to play his part. A bastard like your brother has probably made his share of enemies. His enemies, your enemies… And yet you’re going back into harm’s way, all because some little snip of a wench asked it of you?”

“I’m not doing it for Celeste. In fact, I don’t think she much favours the match.”

“Not if she’s a sensible girl, and she does seem to be.” Ricardo clipped and combed, stepped back to look, then clipped again. “So why are you doing this?”

“I owe it to my brother.”

“Like hell. You don’t owe that idiot anything. If he’d treated Leonora like a gentleman should—”

“It wasn’t his fault that she…that we…”

“I say it was. She was betrothed to him long before she met you. If he’d been kind and loving, there wouldn’t have been room for you.”

Diego frowned. “Forget it, Ricardo. The past is done. But perhaps I can make up to him what I did then…make it up to my parents.”

“And what of Celeste? She seems much too dear to be so cruelly sacrificed.”

Diego was silent.

“That bothers you.” Ricardo nodded. “Well, maybe it should.”

“It does. I can’t deny it.”

“Then you need to listen to the voice of God or your conscience or whatever it is that’s telling you not to do this.”

“I’ve tried. But there are other things to consider. My father, my brother’s life, and Celeste’s own wishes. She says she needs this marriage. She needs it.”

Ricardo nearly dropped the shears, causing Diego to rise in his chair. “Cuidado, amigo!” he cried out. “You could unman me with such carelessness!”

Ricardo shook the shears at him. “You’re a priest, Diego. You’ve little use for all your parts, even if you should lose a few.”

Diego sat down again, shaking his head. “When I’ve finished this masquerade, I’ll find another position where I’m not so abused.”

Ricardo laughed. “I do abuse you sorely, I know it. Yet you’ll deserve all of it and more if you help marry the sweet doncella to Damian. But you say she needs the match? Whatever for? I can hardly see our little Celeste as the sort to desire gold at the expense of her happiness.”

“She says wealth is not the object. I would be disappointed in her if it were.”

Ricardo worked on in thoughtful silence, finally snipping through the last tawny curl before handing the looking glass to Diego. “Are you disappointed that she’s marrying him, or disappointed that she cannot be yours?”

Diego studied his hair, rubbed a hand through it and across the coarse stubble of his new beard. He stopped upon hearing the question, his eyes narrowing, and stared at Ricardo’s reflection in the glass. “What sort of question is that?”

“The sort of question only a friend would dare ask.”

Diego lowered the looking glass. “I don’t want her to marry Damian. But she certainly couldn’t marry me, now could she?”

“There are other roads besides marriage, Padre. And sometimes even priests tread them.”

Diego scowled. “Ricardo, if you weren’t my friend I’d lay you out cold for that, priest or no.”

“Then you won’t mind if I try to bed the girl?”

Diego stiffened, unable to control the involuntary reaction even though he was mindful that Ricardo watched him with a relentless stare.

“I cannot, as your priest, condone such immoral behaviour. And she is to wed my brother.”

“Aye, she is.” Ricardo sighed. “That’s what’s so tragic, Diego. Such a fair little maiden, never to be loved by a man, never to be pleasured until she loses herself in ecstasy. Merely a container for your brother’s seed. God, what a waste.”

“I agree. Yet she has chosen the path herself.”

“One of us should love her. Just once. So she’ll know the joy of true passion.”

“Ricardo…”

“I know she’s virtuous, but I doubt not that if it were put to her right she’d lie with one of us.”

“I should geld you for these things you speak.”

Ricardo laughed. “Ah, you do well, Padre. You hide your feelings well. They were but the palest glimmer in the dark, dark blue of your eyes.”

Diego stood, rubbed the tension from the back of his neck, and studied his friend. “You talk foolishness, Ricardo.”

“Nay, I do not. Were you not bound by your vows, you would have already made love to her.”

“She is betrothed to my brother.”

“And yet you have already come to love her.”

Diego snorted. “Love?” he said, brushing hair from the front of his robe. “Love doesn’t come in a moment. Nor in three days. And that is all the time I’ve known the girl.”

“Well, desire, then. Hard-driving, gut-wrenching sexual desire. You do already feel that for her.”

Diego was silent.

Ricardo laughed again, the sound rankling. “You don’t have to admit it. I know well enough. I’ve seen it in the way you tense when she enters the room, in the way your eyes follow her—and in the way jealousy flitted across your face when I suggested bedding her, even though I did it only to see your reaction. Aye, you want that girl, Diego, priest or no.” His lips twisted as he held up the shears. “Are you sure you don’t want me to complete the job I almost began with these? It’s a long, long voyage to Spain, my friend, and the quarters aboard the vessel far too close and conducive to passion.”

“There will be others aboard the ship. Celeste will be well chaperoned. Trust me, I’ll not let history repeat itself. If she wishes to wed my brother, then wed him she shall. With her maidenhead intact for him to enjoy.”

Ricardo looked unconvinced. “Sins of the flesh, sins of the mind. Cuidado, mi amigo. They are not too far apart.”

Chapter Five

Diego was avoiding her. That was the only way Celeste could explain it. The ship was no large place; their paths should have crossed by now. But they hadn’t, not since they’d boarded a fortnight past. Did he think her a wanton who’d seduce him without respect to his vows?

She wandered the deck aimlessly this morning. Here and there a seaman nodded at her, then furrowed his brow when she hardly seemed to notice. Too late, she’d come out of the daze and mumble a greeting, usually to the man’s departing back. It wasn’t like her to be so distracted, gazing out with distant eyes over the shifting horizon and sighing as if she’d lost something inestimably precious.

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