LITMIR.BIZ

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his lips, and whose presence Isabella enjoyed, wanting still more, despite him being Sancha’s betrothed.

      Could this be any worse?

      It could. Twice Isabella had tried to tell him who she was and failed because she simply couldn’t betray Sancha. Her gentle sister longed to live out her days at the convent, to be free of marriage so she could indulge her curiosity about potions and poultices as the nuns did. Sancha was a healer, a dangerous undertaking for an unmarried woman who might face the Inquisition unless she used her skills within a religious order. Sancha wanted only to help others rather than being used to birth heirs. Fernando de Zayas, on the other hand, was fully prepared to wed and bed Isabella because he mistakenly believed she was Sancha. And why not?

      Many years had passed since he and Sancha had been in each other’s company. During their one encounter, Sancha had said she’d fought tears while he never once looked at her.

      As far as Fernando was concerned, Sancha was merely the eldest of the Lopéz de Lara siblings, all females, each with varying shades of reddish hair. Past those considerations and until this day, Isabella sensed he hardly cared about particulars, which would have caused him to ask, “Is my Sancha still demure?” She was. “Is my Sancha even more beautiful now?” Of course. “Is my Sancha the only woman in the world for me?”

      Hardly.

      Once Fernando wedded and bedded Sancha to produce an heir he’d flee to other women as husbands always did, whether they were Spaniards or Moors. Scant difference to Isabella’s way of thinking. In Granada, men had multiple wives and the Sultan had his harem. In Spain, men had their mistresses. Males ruled each kingdom, so Fernando was no different from the rest unless he wasn’t Fernando.

      Her heart caught. She’d never laid eyes on Sancha’s betrothed and didn’t know if this man’s claim of being Fernando was true or if her uncle Don Rodrigo had sent him here. What if Don Rodrigo had learned she’d taken Sancha’s place? If he’d ordered her rescue in order to torture her into revealing Sancha’s whereabouts, she’d die before revealing anything.

      The man who called himself Fernando stopped and looked over.

      She weakened at his potent masculinity before her unease returned. Even if his manner was noble, was he also honorable? His eyes caressed and aroused, but did they belong to a man who was truly kind? Did his sensuous lips ever offer the truth? She was afraid to linger and find out. She twisted her arm, trying to free her wrist.

      He tightened his grip and glanced at the orange. “I told you to eat.”

      “Why? Is the fruit drugged?”

      He blinked, obviously surprised, unless he was acting with the same skill he’d used when posing as a fakir.

      “You taste it first.” She shoved the fruit at him. “Better yet, eat it all. I want none.”

      “Who would if it was drugged? Tell me, why would I drug your food?”

      To render her helpless. During her abduction, Isabella’s captors had forced her to drink a foul-tasting liquid to put her to sleep. By the time she awoke, she was in Granada, stripped, women preparing her for sale. Perhaps this man meant to violate her before bringing her back to Don Rodrigo. “You tell me.”

      “How could I drug an orange you have yet to peel?”

      “Perhaps you put the potion on the peel.”

      “Are you always this disagreeable?”

      “Don Fernando would know.”

      He stared and shook his head. “Very well, you are disagreeable and probably always have been. Eat the orange on your own, unless you want me to feed it to you.”

      “If you force me to eat it, your plan must be to drug me, as I want none of what you offer.”

      His gaze dropped to her traitorous belly as it growled for any food, even his. “What a liar you are.” He took the fruit. “If I release you, will you promise not to flee?”

      “Will you promise not to pursue me if I do?”

      His smile was slow and filled with raw male lust. “I would run you down to the earth in a moment and take my pleasure with you.”

      She went dizzy at the images his words created, ones she’d overheard married women discussing. His powerful body pressed against hers. His long fingers stroking her bared flesh. His stiffened shaft plundering and arousing. She flushed with excitement and fear, while prudence warned her to respond with casual indifference. “I give you my oath not to flee.”

      He tapped his foot and, at last, released her wrist. Once he’d peeled the orange and separated the slices, he ate the first piece, no doubt to prove he hadn’t drugged the fruit, then slipped the next between her lips.

      “Eat.” He drew his forefinger over her bottom lip where juice had spilled.

      Her mouth tingled beneath his skilled move. She stopped chewing as he brought his finger to his lips and licked the tip slowly. Quite seductively.

      “You must eat.” He ran his other forefinger beneath her chin.

      Her throat quivered, his touch sending waves of delight clear to her scalp. She forgot to chew, swallowed fast, and inhaled deeply as he slipped the next slice between her lips. After she’d finished the piece, he licked the corners of her mouth, catching stray juice. Her lids slid down. His tongue was wonderfully hot, his breath so sweet she had to bite back a moan. She parted her lips inviting him to slip the next slice inside her mouth. Once she’d eaten it, he offered the next slice, and the next, pausing only to stroke her cheek and throat.

      His exquisite touch and playful attitude made her want far more. How she hoped he wasn’t her uncle’s agent. How she wished he wasn’t Sancha’s betrothed. As one or the other was the only possibility, the moment the last piece was in her mouth and he recaptured her wrist, she refused to move forward.

      “What now?” he asked.

      After finishing her bite, she ran the back of her hand over her lips.

      He grinned. “Such a lady.”

      Isabella pulled her wrist away and retreated several steps.

      “Ah, so now you intend to flee.” He planted his hands on his lean hips. “Excellent. After I capture you and pull you beneath—”

      “How can I believe you?”

      “—me—what?” He shook his head. “Believe me concerning what? Capturing you? Pulling you beneath me? Enjoying you? Having you enjoy me?”

      Her head swam with wicked images of their legs entwined, naked bodies nestled together, their lewd cries. She nearly moaned. “Your claim to be Don Fernando. How can I possibly believe you?”

      He frowned. “Have you forgotten the day of our betrothal?”

      Her cheeks warmed. “You expect me to recall someone from so many years in the past?”

      “Someone?” He huffed. “You find me forgettable?”

      She regarded his rich mouth and glorious eyes. She recalled his rumbling voice. Only death would make her forget him or this day. “And what of me? Am I memorable?”

      He glanced past her and made a great show of looking around, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

      The weapon would protect him from intruders but not the truth. He had forgotten what little he knew of Sancha, unless he had never met her. “You claim to be Don Fernando. Prove it.”

      He squared his shoulders. “What other man would be mad enough to risk his life to save a young woman as headstrong, obstinate, and disobedient as you?”

      Isabella curled her upper lip. “Your insults and flawed logic hardly sway me. I followed each of your orders in the marketplace and led you through the tunnel to safety.”

      “Led me? Could I have trusted you to follow?”

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