Sweeter Than Sin (2 page)

"But the way leads close by the river. Mr. Talley says the recent rains have made the banks treacherously unstable—"

"Lud, don't be such a stick in the mud," she muttered under her breath.

Alexandra's expression turned even grimmer on seeing Kyra lift her skirts. "Oh, surely you can't mean to ride
astride
!

"And why not?" Lord Matherton waggled a brow as he looked into the stall. In the flickering lantern light, his hair gleamed gold though his face was wreathed in shadow. "Your sister shows an exceedingly lovely ankle."

"Which a gentleman ought not to encourage her to expose," replied Alexandra sharply.

"Oh, come now." Matherton flicked a bit of straw from his coat. The navy superfine clung to his shoulders, accentuating the slope of muscle and breadth of his chest. "As an engaged couple, we are allowed to bend the rules just a touch, don't you think?"

Kyra felt a lick of heat as his gaze ran up the length of her legs.

Alexandra's lips thinned.

Ignoring the silent reproach, she slid the flounced silk a bit higher. "Have you come to wish me luck, Chas?"

He caught her up in his arms and kissed her full on the mouth. "I know how well you ride a stallion, m'dear." A wicked gleam lit his eye. "But be warned—I shall claim a forfeit if you lose."

"And what is that?" she teased.

Matherton nipped at the lobe of her ear. His breath was hot, the spice of her father's aged brandy still lush on his lips. "Oh, I think you can guess."

Her face began to burn. Thank god her sister could not see her flaming cheeks or the press of the viscount's thighs against hers.

"You like playing with fire, don't you, sweeting?"

"Oh, yes," she whispered, fisting at the fastenings of his shirt. His jaw was smooth as marble. Like a Greek God. A paragon of sculpted perfection. And in another two months, he would be her husband. Surely it was no so very wanton to take pleasure in the passion that sizzled between them.

Forbidden pleasures.
There were rules, of course, about passion. But rules were meant to be broken.

"So do I, Kyra." Her fiancé's eyes were heavy-lidded with desire. "So do I." Hands hard on her waist, he swung her up to the saddle. The stallion shied at the flapping fabric, but Matherton gripped the bridle.

"Harry has already saddled our mounts." He was no longer whispering but his voice still held an intimate note. "I trust you don't mind if we come along for the ride?"

Kyra set her slippers in the stirrups. Her thigh, bare but for stockings, gripped the cool leather. It was shockingly sensual, like Matherton's grin.

"Are you up to the challenge?" he continued. "I dare—"

"I'm coming, too." Alexandra turned abruptly and pulled down a sidesaddle from the stable racks.

"Lexy, I don't need a..." Kyra hesitated, unsure of what she meant to say.
A guardian? A conscience?

"The more, the merrier," drawled Matherton. His hand touched lightly to the curve of her knee. "But let us hurry, before one of your father's grooms raises a hue and cry."

"They are well used to me rebelling against my father's rules." Kyra laughed. She was no longer a child, but a woman on the verge of marriage. One last kicking up of her heels could do no harm. "And seeing as he won't return from Town until tomorrow evening, no one will grass on us."

Out in the stable yard, a pale sliver of moon afforded little light. Kyra gathered her reins, giving thanks that she knew the way by heart.

"On the count of three!" called Harry, snapping his pocketwatch shut.

A slap of her crop sent the big bay thundering past the paddocks. Leaning low, Kyra cut across the open field and headed for the cart path. Neck and neck with Matherton's mount, she angled for the opening in the copse of trees. Branches whipped at her face and legs. Above the pounding hooves she thought she heard her gown rip.

She laughed, giddy with the thrill of throwing all restraint to the wind. Her heart was racing, echoing the wild delight pulsing through her veins.

The world seemed to stretch out before her. She felt so utterly, gloriously alive.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Matherton grinning like the very devil. Lud, his looks still took her breath away. She knew she was the envy of every young lady in Town. His polished charm and angelic looks more than made up for a modest fortune and title. After all, her family's prestige would open any doors, and her dowry was enough to keep them living in splendor for half a dozen lifetimes.

As for his skills at lovemaking...

Her hands tightened on the reins. She had heard rumors of his rakish exploits, but all young gentlemen were wont to be wild. He had promised her that he was reformed.

"Slow down, Kyra!" Alexandra's cry was nearly drowned by the rush of water.

But she was not about to heed the appeal. Matherton was already a length ahead of her and gaining ground.

The path dipped sharply, threading through gorse and heather before taking one last turn at the river's edge. She peered ahead. A narrow straightaway, then a short climb to the crest of the hill.

A flick of her crop urged the lathered stallion to greater speed. She could pick up a precious second or two—

"Kyra!"

Suddenly, the earth began to crumble beneath the flying hooves. Panicking, the big bay tried to rear, only to have its back legs buckle in the slippery mud.

A scream—not her own.

Kyra tried to kick free of the stirrups, but her skirts had become too tangled in the tack.

A searing pain.

And then everything went black.

Chapter 2

Rafael spun the
molinillo
between his palms. The wooden whisk, darkened to a rich patina by melted chocolate, seemed so much smaller than he remembered.

He set it aside and picked up the small ivory miniature of his grandmother. Ah, but Dona Maria would always seem larger than life. A ghost of a smile played on his lips. Earthy yet otherworldly. Imperious, yet impish. Her penchant for black only added to her aura of mystery—midnight silks and lace mantillas, ebony hair combs and jet jewelry. He suspected she relished her reputation among the local peasants as a sorceress with healing powers.

"Chocolate," she replied, when he had once asked her the source of her magic. "Indeed,
querida
, Aztec legend has it that the god Quetzalcoatl descended from heaven on a beam of the morning star, carrying a cacao tree stolen from Paradise."

Rafael stared out the window. When he had repeated the tale to his father, John Richard Greeley had sighed and warned him that he must take the dowager contessa's stories with... a grain of salt. Greeley was English, of course, his cool reason and fair good looks a marked contrast to Dona Maria's Spanish fire and smoky beauty. The two were warm friends, yet elementally different.
Sugar and spice.
Even as a child he had sensed it.

He caught his own reflection in the mullioned glass. His raven locks and olive complexion had come from his Spanish mother, while his ice blue eyes and square jaw bespoke his Anglo Saxon heritage.

Two opposing natures?
He made a wry face. Was it any wonder that he felt conflicted about a great many things these days?

Paper crackled as Rafael took a bulging portfolio from his grandmother 's trunk and untied the ribbons. Skimming the top page, he smiled again.

Combine two measures of sun dried criolla beans with a handful of trinitaros. Grind to a fine paste on a heated (very important) metate, adding sugar from Barbados, nutmeg from Martinique and the dried seeds of one vanilla bean. (Use only those from Madagascar! They are far more flavorful than the Mexican variety...

Recipes. A peek inside several of the other matching cases showed copious notes on the cacao plant. Dona Maria had devoted much of her life to collecting information about her beloved beans. Lore, legend, historical fact—each new tidbit was meticulously transcribed in her spidery script.

Chocolate was her passion, and she had always intended to write a book on the subject. As Rafael read over her instructions for making a breakfast beverage, he couldn't help thinking,
Lud, what a volume that would have been.

But war had ripped through Spain, tearing such dreams asunder. Her powers, however magical, could not halt the advance of the French army. Nor could they keep the mountain cart path from crumbling under the wheels of the family carriage as it sought to pass over the Pyrenees. He pressed the paper to his cheek, breathing in the faint traces of her perfume. She had perished in the crash, leaving him with naught but bittersweet memories.

Smoothing at the scrap of paper, Rafael was unashamed of the tears clinging to his lashes. English gentlemen were forbidden to cry, he knew. It was considered unmanly to express emotion.
A stiff upper lip.
His grandmother had clucked in disapproval at the English notion of
sang froid
, saying it was harmful to feelings bottled up inside. He had been twelve years old when his parents had succumbed to an epidemic of influenza. Dona Maria had held him in her arms that night, saying it was only natural to give voice to his sorrow and fears. Come morning, the two of them had shared a soothing cup of her special chocolate.

She had taught him much about life...

After a moment, Rafael put the portfolios back in the trunk and carefully refastened the silver clasps. The past was the past. However grim the future appeared, he must not look back.

The present was difficult enough to face. His gaze strayed to the smaller wooden box. Duty demanded that he deliver his cousin Jack's personal effects to his uncle in Devonshire, along with a first hand accounting of the young man's heroism. Like himself, the elderly earl was now the sole survivor of his immediate family. And though the two of them had met only occasionally, Rafael felt compelled to offer more than an impersonal letter.

His leg nearly buckled as he rose. The saber cut had healed, but there were still shards of shrapnel embedded in his flesh. However, physical discomfort was the least of his concerns. The pain of the coming journey was going to pierce far deeper into flesh and blood.

Sighing, he marked an
X
on the lid of Jack's trunk. The carters would soon arrive to take his luggage to the ship. His grandmother's papers would be left behind in a warehouse, along with other items rescued from the family hacienda. He was leaving on the evening tide. Maybe one day...

As he turned away, the chalk slipped from his fingers. It bounced off the silver hinge of Dona Maria's trunk, spun in a slow circle through the air and fell back against the ebony wood, somehow inscribing identical intersecting lines across its surface.

Rafael swore and leaned down to erase them. But at the last instant, something held him back.

On second thought, given his unsteady gait, he was likely to be cooped up for much of the sea voyage in his cabin. Reading through the notes certainly would help pass the hours. She had accumulated a wealth of arcane knowledge... like the fact that ancient Aztec warriors drank chocolate in order to fortify their stamina during battle.

Strength from chocolate?
A fanciful notion.

But then, his grandmother had a fanciful imagination. Her presence, if only in pen and ink, would be a soothing balm for his aching spirit.

* * *

"Surely there is something you can do!" The duke's appeal was perilously close to a shout.

"You are understandably upset, Your Grace."

His scowl deepened, but he looked more harried than angry.

Poor Papa
. Kyra slipped a step closer to the half open door. No wonder he appeared on the brink of despair. She had been a sore trial to him ever since she was in leading strings. Little arms and legs tugging, tumbling in every direction. Tying things in a terrible tangle. Even back then, she had chafed at any restraint on her actions.

She had always thought of herself as high-spirited rather than willful. Bold rather than reckless. It was only now that she understood the dangers of self-deception.

"I've consulted every blasted specialist on Harley Street," continued the duke. "They are all charlatans! I might just as well have spent my blunt on the traveling quacks who peddle elixirs from their pushcarts." He drew in a harsh breath. "But you, Professor McTavish—your credentials are above reproach. The University of St. Andrews is known for its excellence in medicine."