Luke said nothing. The people they’d just been talking to might not love Ramón the way they loved Isabella, or respect him as they did her late parents, but neither did they give the impression they thought him a vile bully or a thug.
The carriage drew to a halt in front of the graceful line of archways. Isabella wiped damp palms on a handkerchief. “Do you have your pistol?”
“He’s not going to shoot me out of hand,” Luke assured her.
“You don’t know that.” She picked up her cloak, whichshe’d already folded in a bundle, and clasped it to her chest.
“I’ll take that.” He took the bundle from her arms, felt between the folds, and removed the pistol he knew would be there.
“But—” she began.
“You will not call on the sister whom you haven’t seen for eight years with a pistol in your hand.”
“But what if Ramón—”
“Leave Ramón to me.” He handed her the cloak and returned the pistol to the concealed hollow in the armrest.
Servants ran out and put down the steps to the carriage. Luke descended first then turned to hand Isabella down. She descended the steps like a young matador entering the ring.
As she stepped into the sunlight there was a gasp from the waiting servants. It was a repeat of the earlier scene, with tears and exclamations of “Little Master!” and “Señorita Isabella!” She greeted them by name, hugging some, having her hands kissed by others.
“Where is Marta?” she asked, looking around for her old nurse.
“Marta has not lived here for years,señorita.”
“And her daughter, Carmen?”
“Married a man in the next valley. Marta lives with them.”
As Isabella caught up with all the news, it became clear that many of the beloved old house servants she remembered no longer worked at Valle Verde. She gave Luke a significant look.Ramón.
And then a sudden hush as the servants fell silent and drew back as a tall, grave young woman glided into the entrance.
No need for introductions; it was obvious who this was, even though there was not much of a resemblance between the sisters. Half sisters.
Perlita was tall and stunningly pretty, with red gold hair smoothed back in an elegant chignon and gray green eyes fringed with long, sooty lashes.
Luke stepped back. Isabella’s big moment; the reasonthey’d come here. He waited for the joyous reunion.
Nobody moved.
There was a long silence as the two young women eyed each other. No long-lost reunion here. Luke was reminded of two cats circling each other, hostile and wary, each one waiting for the other to pounce first—only these two didn’t move. What on earth was going on?
The people of the estate edged closer, craning to see, to hear. They would have known about these two girls from the day each was born. The daughter of the mistress, now in charge of the house. The daughter of the house, now a visitor.
Perlita snapped her fingers and issued rapid orders for the carriage to be taken around the back and the horses seen to. All but the house servants melted away. Perlita was very much at home here, Luke saw; very much mistress of the house. Isabella had said her sister was nineteen, but only in years was this girl younger than Isabella. She seemed altogether more experienced, more sophisticated, and it wasn’t simply her clothing.
And she did not have the manner of a helpless innocent needing to be rescued.
Perlita had Papa’s eyes. Bella stared at her half sister, close-up for the first time in her life. Not just Papa’s eyes, but his long lashes, and there was also something in the way she held her head that reminded her of Papa, too. It was an almost physical pain, seeing the resemblance. Why should she have Papa’s eyes and not—
No. Bella pulled herself up. She would not think such thoughts. She was here to help her half sister, not wallow in old resentments. Perlita’s looks were not her fault. Besides, having Papa’s eyes only proved their relationship.
But oh, did she have to be so very beautiful? Bella could see the way Luke was looking at her. Perlita was dressed in a sophisticated green dress that exactly matched her eyes. The dress was fashionable, cut low and tight to display a lush bosom, a tiny waist, and an hourglass figure. She wore no jewelry; she didn’t need to. Like her mother, she was beautiful.
Beside her Bella felt small and plain and ill-dressed. She thrust the thought aside and drew herself up. Looks didn’t matter, she told herself. Character was what counted.
Hollow comfort.
