Dangerous to Hold

Spain, December 1812

She made an arresting picture, seated at the small table in front of the fire, completely absorbed in her task. Marcus lay unmoving on his pallet and feigned sleep while he watched her dip pen into ink and begin to write. If he blocked out the drip of rainwater that fell through gaps in the roof and ignored the scorched walls, he could almost imagine that he was in England. It was a reverie Marcus had evoked many times when the pain from his wounds had made sleep impossible.

The small priest’s cell would be a lady’s parlor, and the woman at the table would be at her escritoire, catching up on her correspondence, or answering invitations to various functions. They would be at Wrotham at this time of year, to celebrate Christmas. There would be dinner parties and balls and beautiful women in pale, transparent gauzes, with fragrant hair and soft skin. But as lovely as these fair English girls undoubtedly were, none could compare to the woman at her escritoire.

The steady stream of rain on the tiled roof became a torrent, and the pleasant reverie faded. This was not home. This was not England. This was a burned-out, godforsaken monastery in the hills overlooking the border between Portugal and Spain. He was behind enemy lines, and fortunate to be alive, rescued from a French patrol by
El Grande
and his band of guerrillas. And the lady who was so intently writing at the table was, in all probability, keeping a tally of the ammunition her group of partisans had expended in their pitiless war against the French.

She was a guerrilla, and was as dangerous as she was
beautiful. The pistol lying on the table by her right hand was no empty threat, nor was the sharp dagger that was thrust into the leather belt at her waist. These women fought side by side with their men, and their savagery to their enemies knew no equal. Fortunately for him, the British were her allies.

Catalina.
He liked the sound of her name. He liked the sound of her voice. He didn’t know how long he had been cooped up in this place, slipping in and out of consciousness, but he knew that he had her to thank for nursing him back to health.
Catalina.
When her hands touched his body, he couldn’t think of her as a soldier. She was soft and womanly, and he wanted to get closer to her warmth.

Still feigning sleep, he moaned, not because the wounds in his shoulder and thigh were giving him more pain than usual, but because he wanted her to come to him. She wouldn’t approach him when he was fully awake. If he called for her by name, she would leave the room, and a few moments later, her place would be taken by Juan.

He felt her cool hand on his brow and he allowed his lashes to lift a little so that he could get a better look at her. This woman was worth looking at. She had long dark hair and strong, regular features in an oval face. Her eyes were deep-set and shadowed by long black lashes. She wore a man’s shirt and divided skirts, something Marcus had seen only on partisan women. Her masculine attire did not detract from her femininity, but only emphasized it. He had known many beautiful women in his time, but none with this woman’s allure. When he looked at her, something moved in him, something entirely masculine and primitive that made him want to reach out and take.

The thought amused him. If he as much as laid a finger on her, she would make short shrift of him in his present weakened condition. She would think nothing of slipping that sharp dagger between his ribs. And even if he could prevent it, one cry from her would bring Juan storming through the door, and he would finish the job
for her. In Spain, a man risked life and limb if he dared take liberties with a virtuous girl.

Hell! When had that ever stopped him?

She was examining the wound on his shoulder, checking the bandages for blood and pus. He groaned softly. “Isabella?” He knew perfectly well that the woman’s name was Catalina.

She stilled for a moment, then sensing he posed no threat to her, she made soothing sounds and drew back the sheet, draping it to preserve her modesty before she checked the dressing on his thigh. Marcus almost smiled.

He moved his hands as casually as he could manage and rested them on her waist. His eyes remained closed. “Isabella,
querida.
Kiss me.”

Evidently assuming that he was half delirious, she reached for the tin cup of water that lay on the floor beside his pallet. With one arm supporting his head, she brought the cup to his lips. Marcus sipped slowly, very slowly. The soft contours of her breasts brushed against his chest, and beneath his hands her waist felt slim and supple. When he finished the water in the cup, and she made to leave him, he tightened his hold and raised his head. Surprise held her immobile, and he quickly kissed her. It wasn’t the way he wanted to kiss her. It was no more than a chaste peck. Even so, he braced for the slap that was sure to follow. When she didn’t slap him, he drew back and gauged her expression. Her eyes were heavy lidded and uncertain. Blue eyes, and that surprised him.

“Catalina?” he said hoarsely, forgetting the part he was playing.

Then, she slapped him. When he groaned, this time in earnest, she pushed out of his loosened hold and quickly put the distance of the room between them.

He grinned, and raised carefully on one elbow. “My apologies, señorita. I mistook you for someone else.
¿Comprende?
I thought you were Isabella.”

Hands on hips, she let fly at him with a spate of Spanish. When he shrugged, showing his confusion, she took several long breaths and started over in broken English.
“Madre de Dios!
This is
España. Spain
, señor. If my
brother … if
El Grande
… you must never touch me, never kiss me.
¡Jamás!
If you do, you will be punished.
¿Comprende?”

Marcus was well aware that
El Grande
was a man to fear. Though he was hardly more than a boy, he’d become a legend in his own time. Some said he was the son of a Spanish nobleman, others that he had been a poor student at the university in Madrid when the French invaded Spain. His exploits were a source of pride to the Spanish peasants. In Marcus’s opinion, however, the stories that circulated about the young man became exaggerated in the telling. No man could be that barbaric. What he knew for a certainty was that
El Grande
was tireless in his war against the French, and sometimes extreme. One French commander had tried to clip his wings by ordering Spanish hostages shot whenever
El Grande
attacked his soldiers. The guerrilla leader retaliated by executing four Frenchmen for every Spaniard shot. It was the French commander who eventually backed down.

He eased himself to a sitting position and gave her his infectious grin, but it did not soften her. “
El Grande
will kill me. Is that it?”

He wasn’t taking her seriously, and that made her temper boil over. “He will do a lot worse than that.”

“Torture? I hardly think so. It was an honest mistake.”

She was silent for a moment, then said, “Worse than torture.”

He detected the mockery in her tone and decided to take the bait. “What could be worse than torture?”

“Marriage, señor. Does that not frighten you?”

“One needs a priest for that, señorita.”

She smiled a slow smile.
“Sí.
A priest. Our
padre
is playing cards with Juan. Shall I fetch him for you?”

Marcus did not return her smile. “Point taken, señorita.”

Her eyes searched his face and after a moment, she began to gather her writing materials together.

“No, don’t leave me,” Marcus protested.
“Por favor.
Stay. Talk to me.” He searched his mind for the few Spanish words he knew, but most of those he’d picked up
from the whores who followed the army and those words were of no use to him with a virtuous girl. What was the Spanish for “talk”?
“Parler,”
he said. It was a French word, but he hoped it would do.

She hesitated, then slowly seated herself. “What do you wish to talk about?”

“Well, your brother for a start.”

“¿Sí?”

“I wish to thank him for rescuing me.”

“El Grande
is not here. He is … how do you say?… making war on our enemies.”

“When will he return?”

“Soon, very soon, when the rains stop. The rivers …” She shrugged helplessly. “It’s too dangerous to cross.”

“Then who is in charge here?”

She frowned at him. “Who … ?”

“Who is your captain?”

“Ah. Juan.”

He said incredulously, “Juan? My nursemaid? Is he the only man here?” Juan was seventy if he was a day.

Her eyes were downcast and he had the strangest impression that she was laughing at him, but when she lifted her head, she was unsmiling and her eyes were clear. “There are the women soldiers, señor, and the
padre
, and the other English.”

“What English?”

“Soldiers, like you.
El Grande
rescued them too.”

“How many?”

She held up six fingers.

“So many? Who are they? Where are they?”

“I cannot say. I do not talk with the English. My brother forbids it. I shall send Juan to you. He will answer your questions.”