Here, everything conspired to remind him, to stir up memories he’d tried to obliterate; the jagged lines of the high harsh mountains, the scent of wild thyme and oregano, and of the wind blowing through the juniper pines, the sight of a cluster of whitewashed, red-tiled houses perched on a hillside, the clank of bells on sheep and goats—even the taste of wine, warm and squirted straight into his mouth from a leather flask, and the aroma of a bubbling stew, rich with tomatoes and peppers and garlic.
Each carried the essence of Spain. Each tasted bitter to him now.
But it wasn’t the war, wasn’t the slaughter in the olive grove or any of a dozen or more ghastly incidents he’d witnessed in his years at war.
Luke was under no illusion: this was a purely personal antipathy, and he knew exactly where it originated. And with whom. He hoped the bitch had long since received her just deserts.
T he sun was sinking low in the sky, casting long shadows from the mountains and streaking the high threads of clouds with lilac, pink, and touches of gold. Luke was despairing of finding his wife before dark, when a movement on the road far below him caught his eye: a small figure on foot, leading a black horse with one white foot. Thank God.Thank God.
Luke rode down the mountainside as fast as he dared, crashing through the scrubby undergrowth, ignoring the whippy branches that smacked him in the face and body, stinging and scratching him. He didn’t care; he just wanted to get down to Isabella and see for himself that she was all right.
But when he reached the road that wound along beside the river at the base of the valley, there was no sign of Isabella, no sign of anyone at all.
He scanned the way in both directions, but the road was silent and empty. Not even any raised dust to show if someone had raced away. Where the hell was she? He was certain the small figure leading the horse was his wife.
Then, “Oh, it’s you!” a familiar voice exclaimed from behind a clump of beech trees, and Isabella emerged, leading his horse.
Luke swung his leg over the pommel, leapt to the ground, took two long strides, and seized her by the shoulders.
She stiffened, bracing herself for whatever was to come.
Luke, having rehearsed the Speech to an Errant Wife a dozen times, honing it to withering perfection, found himself unable to recall a single word. He stared down at her, gripped by uncharacteristic indecision. He didn’t know whether to hug her, shake her, or strangle her.
Or kiss her.
There was a long pause.
She tilted her head and looked up at him. “You mastered the art of the sidesaddle very quickly. The speed with which you came down the side of that mountain wasveryimpressive. I don’t suppose you even fell once, did you? I mean this morning.” The minx sounded almost hopeful.
“No,” Luke ground curtly. Not the slightest speck of guilt or even apology in her voice or attitude.
Her eyes were a clear honey brown and thickly fringed with short, dark lashes. They seemed to draw him closer. He carefully loosened his grip on her and stepped away. It was imperative that he establish and maintain control of this situation, and he couldn’t think straight when she was looking at him like that and he was touching her.
The moment he released her, she shook herself, like a little cat who’d stepped in water. She gave him a tentative smile. “I thought you were a bandit at first.”
He wrenched his gaze from her mouth, stepped back another pace, and found himself staring at her long legs and slender female curves.
Perhaps it was the artlessness of her response, or perhaps it was that she was perfectly safe and well when all day he’d been imagining her facing some disaster.
Or perhaps it was the sight of her standing in the middle of a public road clad in nothing but a pair of buckskinbreeches, boots, a white cotton shirt, and a leather jerkin. Easy—and tempting!—bait for any blackguard who happened upon her.
“Where the devil is your skirt?” he snapped.
“In my bag. I thought it would be safer and more convenient to travel as a boy.”
“As aboy?” She couldn’t possibly be that naive.
“Yes, a boy traveling alone is much less remarkable than a lone woman.”
“You don’t look the least bit like a boy.”
She smiled. “Not to you, perhaps, but then you already know I’m not a boy.”
“God give me strength!” he muttered. “You look nothing like a boy.”
“But I do. I’ve worn these clothes for years, and nobody has ever suspected I was anything but a boy.”
“Traveling in the land of the blind, were you?”
