Sweeter Than Sin (4 page)

"
Deciduo
." Gazing up at the skies, Rafael added an oath in Spanish. "
Diablo
! What is the English word—dessi... dessa... desser...?" he demanded of the hawk circling overhead.

The bird's effortless flight seemed a mocking reflection of his struggles with language. With a lazy flap of its wings, it soared higher, then disappeared in the mist of the distant moors.

On the morrow, he must remember to bring a dictionary. As well as another notebook and extra pencils. Glancing at the unruly piles of paper spread over the stone slab, he heaved a sigh. The task was proving even more daunting than he had first imagined. Though his English was usually flawless, he was out of practice. So he was having a devil of a time translating of Dona Maria's notes on the different varieties of her beloved beans.

"
Cacao theobroma, Theobroma sterculiaceae
," he muttered, looking down at the note in his lap. "What do you call such bloody trees?"

"Deciduous." The reply seemed to come out of nowhere.

His head jerked up. "What?"

Straight ahead, the marble columns stood silent. Rafael looked to the lake and saw only a ripple of wind stirring the placid waters. Ghosts. In both word and pictures, he was surrounded by vivid reminders of the past. Was it any wonder that his imagination was playing tricks on him? Chiding himself for such flights of fancy, he forced his attention back to the spidery script.

And yet, the scuff of steps sounded very real. He whipped around to catch sight of a dark flutter between the trees.

"How do you spell that?" he demanded, giving silent thanks to the heavens there was no one around to see him shouting at shadows.

Hearing naught but the rustle of branches in reply, Rafael shook his head. His father had often told tales of Devonshire's mystical roots. Such childhood memories were provoking odd—

"D-E-C-"

He shot up from his seat, spilling the pencil and papers from his lap. "Who is there?" he called, taking a tentative step toward the forest. "A druid? A fairie?"

As if by magic, a figure materialized from among the tree trunks. "A very ordinary passer-by."

Rafael stared in openmouthed surprise. The hooded cloak and muslin gown were indeed unremarkable. But the young lady herself was a vision of ethereal beauty. Slim as a shaft of sunlight, with a delicate face pale as the morning mists. He blinked, half expecting the apparition to disappear in a puff of smoke.

She was still there, however, and eyeing him askance. "Shall I go on? Or have you decided you do not wish to write it down?"

He quickly retrieved his pencil and notebook.

Her voice still soft as the lakeside breeze, she spelled out the rest of the letters.

"Thank you." He looked up from the page, still unsure whether he was awake or dreaming. "As you have witnessed, my English leaves much to be desired."

"As does my Latin," she replied slowly. "
Theobroma cacao
? It sounds familiar and yet... "

"You know it as chocolate."

"Chocolate." Her expression was inscrutable, though he thought he saw a small spark of interest light in her eyes. They were, he noted, a deep leafy green, with flecks of gold that mirrored the cluster of curls framing her face. "That explains why I did not recognize it right away. I know most of the local flora by heart."

"Are you interested in plants?"

The young lady shrugged. She slanted a glance at the notes spread across the stone stab, but without further comment turned to the trees.

"Before you go, might I ask your help on one more word?" he asked quickly, loath for her to leave just yet.

She looked around.

"
Lanza,
" he said in Spanish. "A shape of leaf, I think." He added, sketching a rough outline in the air. "Like so."

"Spear."

"Just so." Rafael scribbled it down in his notebook. "Gracias, mea lady," he murmured, the languages becoming hopelessly entangled in his head.

She hesitated, then ventured a question of her own. "Are you a botanist?"

"No, I am a..." He surveyed the scattered scribblings. "I am a fool, to think I could take on such a project. It would take a magician to turn all of this into a coherent book."

"A book on what?"

"Chocolate."

"Interesting." However, the arch of her brow added a touch of skepticism.

"Actually, it is," he replied. "My grandmother was quite an expert on the history and lore of the cacao tree. She spent a good part of her life collecting all manner of fascinating stories and tidbits." Grabbing a paper at random, he smoothed out the creases. "Here let me read you an example of ancient Aztec legend..."

"Intriguing," she admitted, when he had finished the short passage. "However, might I make a suggestion for rewording the last sentence? As it is, it sounds a bit awkward."

He made a note of her corrections.

"Do you pass by here often?"

She shied back, a look of wariness clouding her gaze.

"That is," he added quickly. "I thought perhaps you might consent to hear some other chapters and offer your criticisms."

She shook her head.

"Can I tempt you to change your mind? The book will also include a mouthwatering selection of her recipes." Rafael added a smile, hoping to soften her solemn expression. "Dona Maria's true genius came to light in the kitchen. In her hands, chocolate lived up to its name as 'Food of the Gods.' You have never tasted anything so sublime as her breakfast blend of the beans. Fragrant vanilla, peppery chilies and cane sugar from the island of Barbados."

Her reaction was not at all what he expected.

A splash of color darkened her cheeks and her lips puckered. "I—I don't care for hot chocolate."

He could not quite believe his ears. A lady who didn't love chocolate? "What do you favor?"

"A sip of black tea. Or nothing at all. I'm not very hungry in the morning."

"
Madonna
," Rafael let out a low whistle. "No wonder you are thin as a wraith. My grandmother often spoke of how cacao is considered a medicine by many physicians who use it to nourish the ill and the infirm—"

She gasped and spun around.

"Wait! I did not mean to imply—"

Too late.
Like a flicker of quicksilver she had already melted into the sun-dappled foliage.

"Damn." Pursuit was pointless. He would only end up hopelessly lost in the wooded moors.

He kicked at a pebble and watched it skitter across the terrace and fall into the water. In both Spanish and English, his linguistic skills seemed to be sunk beneath reproach. He had not only appeared a stuttering idiot, but a clumsy oaf to boot. After all, he had just put his foot in his mouth.

Dona Maria's notes on chocolate suddenly took on a bittersweet taste. Deciding he had done enough work for the day, Rafael fell to stuffing the papers into his satchel. After a last look at the forest, he slung it over his shoulder and set off on the long walk home.

* * *

Kyra hurried along the leafy path, but her thoughts lingered on the mysterious stranger.

A corsair.
He reminded her of an engraving she had seen in a book on the Barbary pirates.
Dangerous.

A shiver ran down her spine. Unlike the polished perfection of Lord Matherton, the stranger's features were rugged, scuffed by sun and wind. His olive skin added to his raffish look. As did his black hair, which fell in devil-may-care curls that grazed his shoulders. Chas affected a tumble of curls, too. But somehow the effect appeared artfully arranged, as if he had spent hours in front of the mirror.

And then there were the stranger's eyes—a deep ocean blue, their depths dark as midnight sin.

Sin.
Kyra bit her lip. All men could go to the devil. She had learned her lesson about Spanish coin. Flatteries which lost their luster. Promises whose glitter proved false once they had bought what they wanted.

No, she would not be seduced into thinking the Spanish stranger was nice, simply because he had a sweet smile and self-deprecating sense of humor.

Nor would she think of chocolate, though the engravings she had seen of the cacao tree made it appear an appealing subject to paint. The fruit looked to have a variety of sizes and textures, with colors that ranged from ripe orange to lush purple. There was something exotic about it.
Enticing.

Shaking off the wicked, wanton tingle in her fingertips, Kyra paused by a thicket of gorse and carefully clipped a sprig of the prickly blooms. She would stick to less fanciful flora. Sweet dreams, like dark-haired strangers, could only lead a young lady into trouble.

* * *

"Your wood sprite was most likely the Duke of Pierpont's daughter. A sad story, by all accounts." Hendrie shook his head. "Rumor has it Lady Kyra is no better than she should be."

Rafael could not quite puzzle out his uncle's meaning. "Sir?"

"A wayward lass."

"Wayward?" he repeated. "But she seemed quite sure of where she was headed."

A ghost of a smile fluttered on Hendrie's lips. "Forgive me, Rafael. Your English is so good, I sometimes forget you may not know the nuances of the language. In plain speaking, what I meant is that the young lady is said to have surrendered her virtue. 'Ruined' is yet another way of putting it. But however it is said, the meaning is the same—she is now an outcast from Society, a shame to her family." The earl sighed as he swirled his brandy. "Pierpont must be devastated, with this tragedy following so closely on the heels of the other."

"What other tragedy, Uncle Aubrey?"

"The duke's younger daughter was killed in a riding accident. A midnight race over dangerous ground, instigated by her sister over some trifling wager. Lady Kyra has always been known for her wildness."

Rafael saw the earl's expression shade with sorrow. "And yet, you speak as if you are fond of the young lady."

"I am." Hendrie stared rather wistfully into the fire. "Jack thought her a great gun. Said she had more spirit and courage than most lads. If I recall, there were several times when she outrode him in some rush to adventure. And outfoxed him as well, leaving him to take the blame for their mischief."

"She must be a clever lass to have bested Jack at his own game." Rafael, too, watched the flames lick up around the logs, feeling an odd sort of sadness for the young lady. A female who showed a spark of fire ended up getting burned, while a man was cast in a much different light.

"It seems unfair," he said slowly. "Jack enjoyed the favors of many a
señorita
in Spain, and was only thought the better for it by his peers. Yet a young lady gives way to a moment of passion and she is ruined forever."

The earl looked shocked at such sentiment, then thoughtful. "It has always been thus."

"That does not make it right." Rafael frowned. No wonder she had shied away from his smiles. "After all, for the young lady to have erred, she must have had a partner. What is said of him in English Society?"

"Oh, he is definitely considered a cad," assured Hendrie. "But from what I hear, Lady Kyra refuses to name the fellow."

Steadfast loyalty, however undeserved, took courage, especially in the face of overwhelming odds. Rafael found himself liking her even more.

His uncle looked slightly abashed at being privy to gossip. "It is not that I seek out such scandalous talk. But my housekeeper's sister serves in the same position at Pierpont Manor, and Mrs. Ganton does like to chat during our morning meetings." He sipped at his brandy. "In truth, I pay little attention to the details of Lady Kyra's disgrace, but I am pleased to hear that she is recovering from her own injuries."

"She was hurt in the accident?"

"A broken leg, which is nearly healed. But as for her spirits, it seems she is a mere shadow of her former self. She barely eats or speaks, and spends most of her hours alone in her workroom, painting botanical watercolors. When she does venture outside her own quarters it is only to gather specimens for her paintings."

A sketch of an idea took form in Rafael's head. "Does Mrs. Ganton say what sort of subjects the lady favors?"

"Why, er, I believe she has mentioned wildflowers, though I wouldn't know a larkspur from a holly bush." Hendrie turned slightly, the light from the hearth accentuating the hollows under his cheekbones and the deep cut lines that gave his eyes a downcast look, even when he essayed a smile. "Forgive the melancholy musings of an old man. At my age, it is so very sad to hear of the bloom fading from one so young, and so full of promise. But let us turn to a more encouraging subject."

He rose and gathered up several books from the reading stand. "I have found some very interesting volumes on the New World that may prove useful in your research."

* * *

A dashing soldier, decorated for bravery.
Kyra thought about what her maid had told her that morning about the Earl of Hendrie's visitor. So, the handsome Spaniard was an even more romantic figure than a corsair. Still, she could not help thinking of him as a pirate, a dark and dangerous specter come to plunder her peace of mind.