“She is,” Luke said. “She tortured and killed dozens of men.”
“La Cuchilla did, yes,” themarquésagreed. “But not my wife. La Cuchilla operated in the north, and was seen back and forth across the border, but I met my wife in Madrid. The first time she had ever been this far north was when she came here, on our honeymoon.”
“So she said,” Luke said.
Themarquésdrew himself up. “Sir, you are offensive. A case of mistaken identity is forgivable, but to insult my wife, in my own home…”
“It’s not a case of mistaken identity, Tío Raul,” Isabella intervened hotly. “My husband was himself tortured by La Cuchilla. Do you think he would then mistake another woman for her?”
Themarqués’s dark brows snapped together over his beak of a nose. “You were tortured, sir?”
“I was,” Luke said stiffly. He loathed admitting it.
“And yet you survived,” themarquésasaid softly. “An odd kind of murderer, this La Cuchilla.”
Luke stared at her. Was he meant to be grateful she’d spared his life?
Isabella flung her a look of hatred. “Show him, Luke.”
Luke tried to hush her with a look, but she ignored him and pulled open the neck of his shirt. “There,” she said, exposing the carved rose.
There was a hiss of intaken breath as themarquéssaw the design. He gave his wife a troubled look. “Rosa?”
“Show me.” Themarquésasauntered over and reached for Luke’s shirt with a single polished fingernail.
He stepped back, rigid with loathing. “Touch me again, you witch, and I’ll kill you.”
She swiveled to face her husband and gave a helpless feminine sigh. “I don’t know what he’s talking about, my dear, and if he won’t even show me the pretty design…”
“Pretty design?You knowexactlywhat he’s talking about! You carved that vile thing in my husband’s flesh!” Isabella said furiously. “You think you can wriggle out of it because Tío Raul and my husband are too gentlemanly to put a woman to the test. But I’m no gentleman!” And snatching up a carving knife from the table, she grabbed themarquésaaround the neck and placed the blade against her cheek.
“Isabella!” Luke and themarquésexclaimed in unison.
“Put the knife down.”
“Isabella, child, this is madness. Rosa is my wife!”
“Raul, help me! She’s insane!”
Isabella ignored them all. “Now,marquésa—tell us the truth, or I’ll carve a ‘pretty design’ on your cheek. Of course, I’m not an artist like you, but perhaps I could manage a B for ‘bitch,’ or an M for ‘murderer’…” She pressed the cold edge of the blade against the smooth damask cheek.
The woman shrieked. “Raul, Raul, I beg of you!”
Themarquésmade a halfhearted move to help her, but Luke grabbed him by the arm, murmuring, “Leave it. Isabella won’t hurt her, but if you interfere, someone really will get hurt.” And it might be Isabella.
Themarquésheard him and made no further move.
Themarquésaheard him, too, and braced herself to fight.
“Make no mistake,” Isabella murmured in her ear. “I’ll happily carve your cheek into mincemeat.”
The rouged lips curled in a sneer. “You haven’t the guts, little sheltered bud of the aristocracy.”
“Oh, haven’t I?” Isabella said silkily. “I might not be old like you, but I lived through a war, too—and I killed three men. Now I know that’s nothing by your standards—they were all vile pigs who were attacking a convent—but believe me, I would have no trouble at all killing a vicious she-wolf who tortured and maimed my husband, murdered his friend, and”—she glanced at themarqués—“deceived a kind and noble patriot who deserved better. Why wouldn’t I carve my initials into your face?” She pressed the blade against the smooth cheek. “Now talk.”
Themarquésasaid nothing.
“That poor woman who was hanged in your place, was it a lucky case of mistaken identity?”
