Spanish Lullaby (2 page)
"I shall invite every eligible woman possible.” Mary speared a small bite of chicken and tried to look bland. “You are twenty-five. It is time to look for a wife."
"I'm only twenty-five,” Carlos corrected, reaching for his glass.
His hand wasn't quite steady. Surely a good sign.
"It can't hurt to take stock of what is out there."
"Good God, woman, you make it sound like gazing at a herd of cows,” Gerald grumbled. But there was a gleam of humor in his eyes as if he knew exactly what she was doing, even though—
like all men—he could be extremely obtuse at times.
"Juliet is engaged,” she pointed out in a matter-of-fact tone. “To Lord Drake, who is quite the catch."
"So you wrote and told me.” Carlos took a very long drink of his wine. He glanced across the table at the young woman sitting there picking at her food. “I believe I failed to offer my congratulations earlier when we met at the stables."
"Thank you.” Juliet snapped out the response and lifted her chin.
"Of course. Naturally, I am very happy for you.” It was smoothly said, but there was just the slightest edge to his tone.
Like bloody hell, you are.
"Naturally.” Juliet echoed the sentiment in a sardonic voice.
Oh yes, she needed to meddle at once
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The smell of crushed grass filled his nostrils, coupled with the fragrance of her hair, so sweet
and fresh. In the aftermath he lay barely balanced on top of her slender voluptuous body, his
pulsing cock still held in the tight sheath of her vaginal passage, his breathing ragged. In post-orgasmic bliss he felt a sheer contentment he'd never experienced before because in his heart
he'd always known it was meant to be.
This woman, this exquisite pleasure, this monumental feeling of possession...
Carlos lifted his head finally and gazed into her face. Framed by a halo of golden hair, her smooth cheeks were flushed, her eyes still closed, her soft mouth parted and damp from his kisses. His hips were nestled between her open thighs, the warm cradle perfection.
He stroked her shoulder. “Juliet?"
Long lashes fluttered and lifted. Eyes of pure sapphire blue stared at him. “What did we just do?”
she whispered.
He teased her collarbone with the tip of one finger, tracing the graceful arc. He could feel the pliant weight of her bare breasts against his chest, the soft cushion more than erotically pleasing, erect nipples pressing against his flesh. “We were a little reckless, I suppose, but if you haven't always known this would happen sooner or later, I have."
"We ... we shouldn't have."
She looked so adorably chagrined he couldn't help but laugh. “No, probably not. But,” he added with a wicked grin, “you liked it."
A vivid pink blush crept upward into her face. “It wasn't what I expected."
"Hmm.” He leaned down and kissed her, taking his time, savoring her taste and the feel of her in his arms. His mouth traced a path to her ear and he asked in a low whisper, “What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Not ... that."
She'd climaxed. He'd felt it, heard it, triumphed in it. The ripple of her inner muscles around his cock made him go straight over the edge with her. “Apparently you doubted my word it would be like nothing you've ever experienced.” He teased the delicate junction of neck and shoulder with his tongue. “Shall I show you again?"
"I don't think we should, I mean..."
"Let me convince you. After all, the damage is done, sweetheart."
He began to move, his erection returning in record speed, never having really faded even after
that explosive orgasm. Slowly he slid backwards and thrust into her wet, tight heat, hearing
every moan, every pant, every feminine sigh with pure male satisfaction, with acute sexual
hunger, with the feeling his life had changed forever...
* * * *
Jesus, he was hard as a rock, his erection making an embarrassing tent in the blankets, like he was some adolescent boy and not a grown man.
All because Juliet was in the same house, asleep only a few doors down, pale and gold in the filmy light, as untouchable as if she resided on the brilliant moon in the velvet night sky.
She hated him. Even though she'd told him as much the day he'd left four years before, he hadn't believed it. But truth be told, he was starting to think it was true.
Of course, what gave it away, you damned fool? The fact she told you flat out, the unread letters
you poured your soul into, or is it because she's engaged to another man?
It was ironic to think this was his reward for four years of deprivation. Of battle after bloody battle, of seeing horror he'd never imagined existed, of sacrificing every waking moment to a cause he knew was worthy, was honorable, yet one she didn't understand at all.
Both his countries—Spain and England—had needed him.
The price was that now Juliet did not.
Bloody fucking hell.
He lay back down against the pillows, staring blankly at the ceiling. No matter what she'd said, he'd expected her to wait. What a selfish ass. What an arrogant idiot.
At least it had been a good dream.
Not that he would go back to sleep anytime soon. With a sigh he got out of bed and pulled on his breeches, wandering out onto the long balcony to take in a lungful of night air. Still half-erect, his cock bulged against the material so he adjusted it with a grimace, and then leaned against the balustrade, looking out over the gardens in abstract contemplation.
It was a beautiful night with only a velvet breeze and the muted sound of insects in the trees.
England was a world away from Spain, so lush, green and fertile, though he also loved the rocky slopes and picturesque valleys of his homeland. He could almost smell the bivouac campfires, hear the sound of distant cannon fire, taste the half-boiled weak tea he was grateful to have at all.
The music also, the plaintive melodies of a people besieged but not conquered, ballads of war, of pain, of lost love...
Very softly, he began to sing,
"
Fare thee well, sweet maiden
Off to war I go
I will think of thee in these cold nights
Sweet maiden, fare thee well.
"
"
So long I loved
So long you have known
Our dance as old time
You've taken the hand of another now
Sweet maiden, fare thee well.
"
There was more, but he really couldn't remember the words and maybe that was just as well. He let the last refrain trail off and stared morosely at the shadowed depths of the spreading paths and neatly tended beds of blooming plants. After his mother's grand party maybe he should go back to London.
Maybe even back to Spain eventually. His estates there needed his attention.
* * * *
The man had a lot of infernal nerve to dare to sound melancholy. She was the one left behind as he rode off to war, to possible death. No one forced him to go, he chose it, chose to leave her. It was more complicated than that in his mind, she knew—but when it came down to it, the simple truth was he'd chosen honor over love.
And she had loved him. She'd always loved him from the moment her mother had brought her to Chedwick to live after her father's untimely death. She'd been four and Carlos eight, and in retrospect, he'd been pretty good-natured to let a little girl follow him around like an adoring puppy. When the time came for him to go off to school she'd been despondent, and his holidays home always a highlight. Naturally, as he'd grown older, he spent more time away from the estate—for any handsome titled young man with significant wealth London held more appeal than the countryside.
Juliet had also gone off to school, so they'd rarely seen each other. She hadn't thought too much about it, as when their paths crossed, their relationship seemed to pick up where they'd last left it, so comfortable it felt like breathing. So easy. He would tease her, she would laugh and point out his myriad flaws, the banter familiar. They would go for morning rides together, reminisce over mutual childhood adventures ... in short, they were friends.
It would be forever branded into her memory the day she'd realized her feelings for Carlos were not simple sisterly affection. She was sixteen, just old enough to be included in adult functions.
Carlos had been home from university, and Lady Braxton, one of the guests at a dinner party, had most certainly noticed his presence. At a guess in her early thirties at the time, the woman in question was a raving beauty with auburn hair and aqua eyes, her voluptuous figure shown to advantage by a daring gown. Apparently Lady Braxton had an appreciation for handsome young Spaniards for she shamelessly flirted with Carlos the entire evening. Juliet had realized to her amazement she was extremely put out.
Jealous, in fact. Very much so.
Everything changed at that definitive moment.
She began to notice ... certain things. The width of Carlos’ shoulders, the length of his lashes over those seductive dark eyes, the straight line of his nose, and most of all, the quicksilver charm of his smile. It was as if the fact he was male and she was female suddenly occurred to her and there was no possible way she could conceal completely the change in her attitude.
"She's at that age, of course."
"So is he. Carlos is well aware she's too young, don't misunderstand, not that he talks to me
about it but he and Gerald have spoken. Notice he is careful to stay away as much as possible."
"Avoiding temptation is best, I suppose. Next year she'll be seventeen and he'll be finished at Cambridge. I expect we'll see a great deal of him then."
"Oh, my dear, from the way he looks at her, I would most definitely say you are right. I will be
delighted, of course, to have Juliet as a daughter-in-law."
The accidentally overheard conversation between her aunt and mother a few days after that fateful dinner had left Juliet open-mouthed with astonishment. They both seemed to think that Carlos would one day wish to marry her.
Juliet straightened her shoulders, shaking off the ghosts of the past. It wasn't going to happen after all. She was going to marry Frederick Drake, who was good-looking, charming to a fault, and rich as well.
The day Carlos told her he was going to join Wellington in Spain he'd crushed whatever feelings she had for him. Destroyed her love, shattered her future, and even severed a lifelong friendship.
It was over. For four years their romance had been ashes, every last spark dead.
Juliet turned with the intention of going back to bed. At that moment, he began to sing again, in the same lilting mesmerizing voice, the words barely a whisper, the sound drifting on the night breeze. Damn him to hell, did he think she could sleep with that racket?
On this wing of the house, the balcony off the set of bedrooms ran the entire length. Without thinking she jerked open the French doors and stormed outside. A figure leaned against the stone rail, limed by the moonlight, the gleam of raven hair unmistakable even if it didn't take great deductive powers to know the source of the song.
The man was half-naked.
She didn't expect that. Unfortunately, he'd heard her emerge from her bedroom and straightened, going silent. They stood there, half the long length of the balcony between them, and simply stared at each other. Then he said in a very ordinary voice, “I'm sorry. Did I disturb you, Jules?"
The nickname did not help her composure. “Quite naturally not every evening is there a man singing on the balcony by my bedroom.” Her voice was not quite even and she cleared her throat.
"What? No serenades from your prospective bridegroom? How unimaginative of him."
"Frederick is a gentleman...” Her voice trailed off as she took an involuntary step forward so she could see better, her gaze riveted on his bare upper body.
Dear God, he'd lied to her.
A bold-faced, blatant lie.
"Carlos.” His name was barely a whisper as she took in the number of scars. One, two, three, four ... the one bisecting his left shoulder was at least five inches long, silvery and jagged in the moonlight. There was another, lower, just above the top of his breeches beneath his ribs, and on his upper right arm an angry red mark that could only have come from a bullet. Even to her inexperienced eye she could tell it was not yet healed. “You said you stayed at the back of the line."
His smile was humorless. “A jest. I was a colonel, Juliet. We lead the men, not follow them."
"You've been wounded."
"A few times. It happens in war for your information."
"You never told us ... your letters..."
His brows elevated. “And worry my mother? I think not. No matter what you think of me—and it clearly isn't much—you know I would never cause her pain or distress if possible."
"What if you had been killed?” Juliet realized her hands were shaking in a shameful way and she dropped them to her sides, willing a calm she couldn't quite seem to summon. “Did you ever once ... just once, think of that? Of how we would feel here, helpless and worried, not knowing if each day you even got up in the morning, if you breathed, if you lay in some foreign grave?"
"If I were buried in Spain, it would not be a foreign grave, Jules."
She was going to cry. The stinging behind her eyes horrified her, made her swallow hard and desperately seek control. “You were raised here. At Chedwick."
"My title is Spanish. My name ... this.” He lifted his hand and touched his face, a faint sardonic smile curving his mouth. “I know you can't understand, but it is part of me, and part of why I joined the war. The British were there fighting for another country because they knew if Bonaparte wasn't stopped, England could be next. Imagine a man who belongs to both places, who owes allegiance to two countries, not lifting a finger to aid the cause. My conscience could not allow me to stay here and do nothing, even if it meant leaving you. Had I died there, the cost could not be greater to me, but I would do the same thing again."
