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Authors: Anne Gracíe
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trying to look interested. Where the devil had the girl got to? He wanted to get this over with, meet her, make the arrangements, and then leave this blasted country as quickly as possible. He found himself rubbing the spot just below his left shoulder and stopped.
“I do hope you are not expecting exquisite embroidery from your wife.”
“Exquisite embroidery?” Luke repeated blankly.
“The convent is famous for its embroidery,” she said with gentle reproof. “World famous.” As if he should know who was whom in the world of embroidery.
“Congratulations,” he said politely. Where was the chit? Dragging her heels?
Had she other plans? A marriage to some Spanish fellow, for instance.
No, she couldn’t have met anyone stuck here in the mountain fastness with a bunch of nuns.
Although the Spanish did tend to arrange such things…
“Isabella, alas, was never able to acquire the skill of fine sewing.”
“It’s of no interest to me whether she can sew or not,” he said bluntly. Right now he was wondering if she could walk. Where was she?
If he didn’t know better, he might think he was nervous. But that was, of course, ridiculous. There was nothing to be nervous about. It was a done deal. They were married. No way out of it. Firmly leg-shackled.
If he was feeling mildly jumpy, it was nothing to do with meeting his wife after eight years, and everything to do with being in this blasted country again. He needed to leave. Immediately.
“It’s to be hoped you will take an interest in what your wife does do well,” she said severely. Luke was reminded of being back in the nursery. She went on. “Showing an interest in a woman’s daily concerns is a way to strengthen a marriage. A neglected wife is an unhappy wife.”
Bloody hell. He was being lectured on marriage by a
nun
.
“Isabella’s taking rather a long time to get here,” he observed coolly. “Is there a problem?”
She gave him a thoughtful look then reached for her little bell, but before she could ring it, there was a knock on the door.
Luke jumped as if it were a gunshot. He straightened his neckcloth, ran a hand over his chin, and smoothed back his hair.
“Enter,” Reverend Mother said, and the heavy oaken door swung slowly open.
A small, thin girl in a fussy, frilly dress entered, her hair twirled into an elaborate nest of curls and draped with a lacy mantilla. Her face was made up, pale with some kind of powder, her lips brightly rouged into a tiny bow, her cheeks glowing with the same color. She curtsied and darted him a shy glance from huge golden eyes. He remembered those eyes. This, then, was his bride.
Luke politely rose to his feet, hoping his disappointment didn’t show.
Four
T his, then, was her husband. Isabella tried not to stare.
He was even more beautiful than she remembered. Eight years ago she’d seen him with a child’s eye, and he was her savior and, she had to admit, she’d confused him in her mind a little with the angel of the statue. She had, after all, only known him a day.
But she was a child no longer, and he was… he was breathtaking. Tall, dark, his skin burnished with the sun, a rich dark gold flush along his cheekbones, and such fine cheekbones they were. His nose was a strong, straight blade; his mouth, severe and beautiful. And his eyes, dark, so dark they looked black, but she knew from before they were the darkest blue she had ever seen. There was no sign of blue now.
All those nights dreaming of him… and now. He was not the same.
She remembered him as very tall and strong with a loose elegance of movement. Now he seemed bigger, more… solid, his shoulders broader, his chest deeper. A man, ratherthan a boy, with a soldier’s bearing—no, a hunter’s bearing. Alert, tense, wary.
She could see other changes in him, now that she looked. The brightness, the resilience of youth had been burned away, leaving the hardness of bone and bitter experience behind. And cynicism, she
“I do hope you are not expecting exquisite embroidery from your wife.”
“Exquisite embroidery?” Luke repeated blankly.
“The convent is famous for its embroidery,” she said with gentle reproof. “World famous.” As if he should know who was whom in the world of embroidery.
“Congratulations,” he said politely. Where was the chit? Dragging her heels?
Had she other plans? A marriage to some Spanish fellow, for instance.
No, she couldn’t have met anyone stuck here in the mountain fastness with a bunch of nuns.
Although the Spanish did tend to arrange such things…
“Isabella, alas, was never able to acquire the skill of fine sewing.”
“It’s of no interest to me whether she can sew or not,” he said bluntly. Right now he was wondering if she could walk. Where was she?
If he didn’t know better, he might think he was nervous. But that was, of course, ridiculous. There was nothing to be nervous about. It was a done deal. They were married. No way out of it. Firmly leg-shackled.
If he was feeling mildly jumpy, it was nothing to do with meeting his wife after eight years, and everything to do with being in this blasted country again. He needed to leave. Immediately.
“It’s to be hoped you will take an interest in what your wife does do well,” she said severely. Luke was reminded of being back in the nursery. She went on. “Showing an interest in a woman’s daily concerns is a way to strengthen a marriage. A neglected wife is an unhappy wife.”
Bloody hell. He was being lectured on marriage by a
nun
.
“Isabella’s taking rather a long time to get here,” he observed coolly. “Is there a problem?”
She gave him a thoughtful look then reached for her little bell, but before she could ring it, there was a knock on the door.
Luke jumped as if it were a gunshot. He straightened his neckcloth, ran a hand over his chin, and smoothed back his hair.
“Enter,” Reverend Mother said, and the heavy oaken door swung slowly open.
A small, thin girl in a fussy, frilly dress entered, her hair twirled into an elaborate nest of curls and draped with a lacy mantilla. Her face was made up, pale with some kind of powder, her lips brightly rouged into a tiny bow, her cheeks glowing with the same color. She curtsied and darted him a shy glance from huge golden eyes. He remembered those eyes. This, then, was his bride.
Luke politely rose to his feet, hoping his disappointment didn’t show.
Four
T his, then, was her husband. Isabella tried not to stare.
He was even more beautiful than she remembered. Eight years ago she’d seen him with a child’s eye, and he was her savior and, she had to admit, she’d confused him in her mind a little with the angel of the statue. She had, after all, only known him a day.
But she was a child no longer, and he was… he was breathtaking. Tall, dark, his skin burnished with the sun, a rich dark gold flush along his cheekbones, and such fine cheekbones they were. His nose was a strong, straight blade; his mouth, severe and beautiful. And his eyes, dark, so dark they looked black, but she knew from before they were the darkest blue she had ever seen. There was no sign of blue now.
All those nights dreaming of him… and now. He was not the same.
She remembered him as very tall and strong with a loose elegance of movement. Now he seemed bigger, more… solid, his shoulders broader, his chest deeper. A man, ratherthan a boy, with a soldier’s bearing—no, a hunter’s bearing. Alert, tense, wary.
She could see other changes in him, now that she looked. The brightness, the resilience of youth had been burned away, leaving the hardness of bone and bitter experience behind. And cynicism, she
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